Blinding Light

by Paul Theroux

  “You putz,” he said, and he bantered, pretending to be hurt because he had not been invited. Then he urged Steadman always to remember to call him “Mr. President,” and not to bring a camera, and to observe protocol. “It’s ground zero. It’s the center of the world.” Wolfbein then became concerned. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great. I can see through walls and around corners.”

  When he put the phone down he was aware that Ava was behind him, leaning away, in a posture of disapproval.

  She was silent on the way to Boston, silent on the plane to Washington, and it was only when they arrived at Reagan Airport that she spoke.

  “I see the Jordans.”

  Vernon and Ann Jordan approached and said hello. They had just arrived from New York, en route to the same dinner party.

  “How’re you doing?” Vernon demanded in his hearty direct manner, fixing Steadman with a smile.

  “X-ray vision,” Steadman said, tapping his dark glasses.

  That pleased Vernon, who laughed loudly, his muscular body radiating light and health and humor. He was a man who smiled easily and whose casual manner masked a shrewd intelligence and fastidious discretion. Yet he was genuinely friendly, and near him Steadman felt that he was in the presence of a man of power, a smiling sorcerer who remembered everything he saw or heard.

  “You know my wife,” Vernon said, and turning to Ann, said playfully, with a little bow, “Hello, wife.”

  “I know you from the hospital,” Ann said to Ava. “We are all so thankful to you for your wonderful work.”

  “Can we offer you good people a lift?” Vernon asked.

  They accepted the ride with gratitude, feeling rescued, for they had traveled in silence and had arrived in Washington bewildered. And now, having been swept into the limo, they were treated to Vernon’s running commentary about the landmarks they were passing—the Pentagon, the Jefferson Memorial. He narrated tactfully, describing their beauty, using his enthusiasm for detail as a way of hiding the fact that he was doing this for a blind man.

  “And here we are at the Willard. We’ll see you folks later.”

  The formalities at check-in were brief and efficient, questions asked and ignored by Steadman, who brushed at his watch face with his fingertips and said, “We have to get a move on.”

  He had taken a dose of the drug in the morning. He took another one in the hotel room after he changed into his tuxedo. Ava sat apart from him in the cab to the White House; she was remote, she disapproved, she was sorry she had come. A shadow of unease lay across her features, while Steadman’s were bathed in light.

  After they were dropped at the side entrance, following the instructions on the map, they showed their IDs and were escorted (“This is the East Room”) to where there was a receiving line and drinks being served. Steadman was aware of a glazed and shimmering room filled with excited strangers.

  “I’m right beside you,” Ava said.

  “I know,” Steadman said. And then, “Do you believe this?”

  The smells of fresh flowers and floor wax and new paint gave the place a hum of something venerable, the glory of an old hotel restored to luxury. All this with the contrasting odors of perfume and aftershave lotion and polished leather. But more conspicuous than anything was the insinuation of decay beneath the sweaty faces and the glitter, the corruption and the untruth, like the decrepitude that stank under the White House timbers—Steadman could smell it all.

  The discomfort, the awkwardness, was palpable, too—bumped shoulders, loud greetings, the hyperalertness of strangers. But though no one seemed at home there—the whole gleaming structure was like a stage set—they were all energized by simply being in the place. With an intensity that was like a fever of madness, the guests seemed to Steadman like heavy animals in unnatural postures, tottering on their hind legs. They were clumsy, they were eager, they chattered and bantered in a way that made them seem skittish and tickled. Their attention was brief but vibrant, glittering for an instant and then flashing elsewhere, as they roved—the men especially—swinging their arms, shouldering forward, glancing sideways. Steadman was reminded first of ungainly athletes and then of greedy goodhearted apes.

  Approaching the receiving line, Steadman was cued to the keen attention—gestures more obvious than murmurs—of people making way for him. They stood aside and let him pass, no one touching him, until the large warm arm of the president rested on his shoulder. With a firm fond hug, the president held on.

  “So glad you could make it. And you, too, Doctor,” the president said, gripping Ava’s elbows. Then he turned and said, “This man is truly one of my favorite writers. And I can tell you, he’s a hero. Slade Steadman, this is His Excellency...”

  But Steadman was grasped again, and the chancellor said, in a slight accent that made him seem kindly and precise, “Yes, in Germany as well. So good to meet you.”

  He heard the soft bubble-burst of camera flashes and felt his face warmed as his picture was taken. He knew the others were smiling, he could tell by a tightness in their voices, but he did not smile. He tried to look serene and untroubled, indifferent to the cameras, for he knew these pictures would travel.

  “You’ve probably been to Germany.” The voice was unmistakably Vernon Jordan’s. And Steadman was hugged and Vernon said, “How you doing now?”

  He took the muscular hugs and the bantering to be reactions to his blindness. The making way, too—silence, pity, confusion, bewilderment, and head signals and hand gestures. He smiled at eliciting these reactions, and none were kinder than the president’s.

  “Beautiful paintings,” Ava was saying as they left the receiving line.

  No sooner had a waiter put a drink in Steadman’s hand than the president caught up with him and steered him to the other guests and introduced him. He insisted on including Steadman in every conversation—“the author of Trespassing’— and he held on to him with a gentle guiding hand. The president was being a big brother, a defender, an explainer, a benefactor, taking personal charge of him.

  Twice, Steadman overheard people saying variations of “I wish my mother were alive, so I could call her and tell her where I am. She would be so proud.”

  He heard voices with a clarity that kept the words in his memory, and the guests had the urgency of people trying to remember everything that was happening. They spoke in a mannered and self-conscious way, as though rehearsing what they would later report to their friends.

  But with the words, the particular accents, he recognized the chief components of people—their lips, their ears and noses, their nervous hands and shuffling feet, the physicality of the guests standing in the room, the fleshy strangulatory handshakes, the way they kept patting him on the back, the fragrant iridescence of the women—was it their mascara?—the heavy faces of the men, the way they used their jaws in speaking, always aware they were conspicuous. The bulk and heft of their bumping elbows, the suggestion of sinew and fat, their long greedy arms, their impatient feet in heavy shoes. He was continually reminded of the density of their flesh, and aware of them as restless contending animals.

  Although they made room for him when he moved, when he stood to talk they always seemed to be crowding him, backing him up, standing a bit too close, speaking a bit too loud, as if he were not blind but slow-witted.

  Among themselves, in their odd unhesitating talk and movement, he saw the guests as wishing to be in agreement, all on the same side, all rooting for the same team, all delighted to be there in the White House. They were all in step, a great hairy hovering party, full-throated in solidarity and especially emphatic in their marveling bark-like laughter.

  Steadman knew that the pretense of unanimity was a polite deception, and he felt only pity and condescension for these people. He was glad—proud, beaming, blind. But the roar of approval concerned him as much as the sweet perfume that masked the stink, for he could see it was the purest theater, the posturing and the falsehood, the insincerity, the fakery, the li
es. The guests were nervous and unsure and grateful; if the president had asked, they would have agreed to anything. Ape-like, he kept thinking, and they had the moral blindness of primates too.

  “We’re being summoned,” Ava said. “But I’m not sitting next to you.”

  They went into the next room for dinner, Ava steering him, and then he was shown to his seat. He knew he was being watched as he was served a glass of wine and as the first course was put before him.

  “Consommé,” he said, inhaling.

  “That’s a ten,” the woman next to him said.

  “No,” he said, feeling that she was patronizing him. “A ten for me is when it’s sashimi and I correctly guess maguro by the aroma alone.”

  “Liz Barton,” the woman said. He could tell she was small and sure of herself, very young, with a confident gargly voice. “I know who you are. My father was such a fan.”

  He swallowed his rebuke and said, “What do you do, Liz?”

  “I’m in the attorney general’s office. Overseeing adjuncts to the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

  “So I guess I’m not your first blind dinner partner,” Steadman said. “Not at all. I had the privilege of escorting Stevie Wonder when President Mandela visited.”

  “I can see him now, grinning all over his face, wagging his head and shaking his beaded locks in gratitude,” Steadman said, turning to the person on his right and gesturing to Liz Barton. “This young woman insists on flattering me.”

  By then the second course was being served. Steadman made small talk, realizing with disgust that this was required of him and already wishing to leave. He had shown up, he had presented himself to the president and the guests as the blind author, his picture had been taken. But he couldn’t leave, not yet, for the dinner was formal: there were toasts, affirmations of friendship between the United States and Germany, the repeated mention of a trade fair in Hannover.

  “I am so sorry my wife is not here to join us. As first lady, she is on an official visit to Africa with our daughter and sends you all her good wishes.” Before the president sat down, he added, “I want to say a special word of thanks to my good friend and a great American writer, Slade Steadman.”

  Snatching at his cane, Steadman rose and leaned on it and smiled, showing the room his dark glasses and his grim smile, and sensing the explosive puffs of air and flashes of light as cameras fired at him.

  Coffee was served and the president offered to show the guests more of the White House: the Truman Balcony overlooking the South Lawn, the Green Room where Jefferson had dined, the smaller family dining room, and some artifacts, including a Gutenberg Bible, which had been brought from the Library of Congress in the German chancellors honor.

  The crowd thinned, the women who had sat on either side of him had left, and Steadman was alone. As he wondered where Ava had gone, he felt a familiar hand massaging his shoulder and heard the president’s voice.

  “Slade, I’m so glad to have you here with us. I do hope you’ll come back,” he said, and then, obviously to Ava, “Hi, there. When am I going to see you on the Vineyard, girl?”

  “I hope it’s at the Wolfbeins’, Mr. President, rather than the hospital, where I usually spend my time,” Ava said.

  “That’s so great, being a doctor there. I could have used you when I twisted my knee.” But when the president spoke, Steadman could tell his mind was racing, always elsewhere, on something else.

  “I know your name,” the man said, another German accent.

  They talked of Trespassing, all the familiar remarks—the boldness of it, the danger, the originality, how it had inspired a TV show and a clothing line. Steadman mentioned his new book and hoped that, before long, Trespassing would be forgotten and his Book of Revelation would be the topic of discussion.

  But something else bothered him, for the president’s hand was still on his shoulder, and Steadman felt as he had back in the summer, that the president was a wounded man. A note of hurt and insincerity, of forced gaiety in his voice, a turbulence in his manner that appeared to be the opposite—such great poise that his equanimity could only be a pretense, the poise of someone with a secret, the grace and glibness of a man in pain, who wanted no one to know it, who hated most of all to be pitied, who never wanted his weakness, nor any of the many secrets humming in his heart, to be known.

  All this time, the president and the German dinner guest were speaking—about writing, about cultural exchange, about the American Institute in Berlin. Steadman found himself saying, “Yes, of course, I would love to visit when my new book comes out.”

  “You will be welcome,” the man said, and turned away to be introduced to someone else.

  The president said to Steadman, “I hope you’ll join us tomorrow in the Rose Garden for the joint press conference. There’ll be a lot of journalists there who’d love to see you.”

  He gave Steadman’s shoulder one last massage, the big brother grip of encouragement, and he moved away, into the throng of beaming guests who had lingered nearby, wishing to be noticed. Ava remained beside Steadman, her flank against his leg, and he knew by just this glancing touch that she was unhappy, inert, sullen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel so humiliated. How could you do this?”

  He said, “Why do you want to have a private argument in such a public place?”

  “I can’t help it. I feel awful. I should have stayed home. I hate being part of this charade.”

  “I am blind,” he whispered.

  “You’re not. It’s such a lie. And here you are soliciting all that pity. Is it that you need an audience?”

  “It’s not a choice. It’s who I am.”

  Ava was silenced but not convinced, even as they stepped outside to await their ride. He had to remind himself that he was facing the world from the North Portico of the White House. Ava was glum; she brought her dismay and her shame back to their room at the Willard, where she lay bluish and disapproving at the far edge of the big bed. They lay apart, miserable, another unhappy couple, one angry, the other ashamed. And lying there, he could not help but think of the president in his bedroom, equally disturbed by his own fictions, his own secrets.

  In the morning, Steadman drank datura with his breakfast, then said, “I’m going to the joint press conference.”

  Mortified, but claiming she had to pack, Ava said she would stay behind.

  Steadman took a taxi to the White House. He showed his pass, and as he was escorted to the Rose Garden a man fell in step next to him.

  “I’m from the Post. I’d love to do a piece about you.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  He heard the murmur of the press corps some distance off. His escort said, “We’ve got a seat for you down front.”

  The chair was at the end of the front row. He took his seat just as the president and the German chancellor emerged from the White House. Seeing him, the president approached and put his arm around him and said, “Great to see you here, Slade.”

  Steadman heard the sound of cameras, the hubbub surrounding his being singled out. He sensed this watching as a pressure on his physical being, and knew, as he had the night before, that he was being observed, the object of curiosity, with his white cane and dark glasses and Panama hat. That was his image now, no longer affectations but part of his public identity.

  He was considering this—I am a new man—when a stranger knelt next to him. But perhaps not a stranger. There was something familiar in the way the man crouched, the odors of his skin and stale hair. Steadman recognized people from a particular memory of what they ate, as though the residue of their diet seeped through their skin. This man represented familiar food, and the unseasonal warmth of this November day offered an exhalation of his sour shirt.

  “I know you,” the man said, and his accent gave the rest away.

  “Manfred.”

  “And I know your secret.”

  Steadman spoke again and then he was noticed, for he w
as addressing empty space. Manfred had crept away. Steadman reached out with a grasping, inquiring hand and said, “Wait.”

  “Did you lose something?” an urgent voice behind him said.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  But he had to admit—and it was a revelation—that though he felt anything but impaired, he had a blind spot, and Manfred had vanished there, dissolving into that crack. Concentrating hard, Steadman was deaf to the press conference: until that moment he had forgotten the existence of Manfred.

  In the taxi on the way to the airport, Ava said, “Did I miss anything?”

  He said no. He did not mention Manfred—how to explain? Ava had never liked the man, and from his tone—Steadman kept replaying And I know your secret —Steadman could not discern the man’s motive, if indeed he had a deeper one than simply teasing him.

  Steadman felt low and limited. The existence of a blind spot bothered him, like a previously undiagnosed ailment. And he had expected more from his visit to the White House. It was theater, with a large cast, on a vast stage, but his role was undemanding: just show up and be polite. Yet for him, singled out for being blind, it meant everything, a kind of dramatic debut. In his mind the president kept saying, I want to say a special word of thanks to my good friend and a great American writer, Slade Steadman— and as he rose, leaning on his cane, his dark glasses flashing, the loud applause that declared, as it continued with a sustained humility and praise, We see you. We approve. You are brave.

  Yet he was discontented—not undermined but made insecure by a wisp of shadow, a doubter, as though at the periphery of all this praise he had sensed a spider descending on a long thin thread of its own gray spittle, preparing to spin a web.

  3

  HE HAD GONE to Washington to step out of his seclusion and to present himself to the world as a blind man. The president himself had vouched for him. Yet his keenest memory of the White House visit, the detail that he went on suffering, was not the president’s praise but rather the needling accusation breathed into his ear by Manfred. And I know your secret. The statement grew more sinister in implication as the weeks passed. The heavily accented voice made the words clumsier, more hurtful, like a cut from someone using a crude knife, requiring the idiot force of a vicious thrust because the thing was so blunt. And those few words were all Steadman had. He wanted more. He needed to deal with the man.