by Julie Hyzy
Henry graced me with one of his “here comes a lecture” smiles. “You and I are President Campbell’s best. Today is the first day of important negotiations. It sets the right tone for him to bring us here, to show that he understands the magnitude of these talks. We are a symbol of the president doing his utmost, of offering the best he has.”
I nodded. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“And when we leave tonight, to return to the vital job of preparing for the state dinner, we will have imposed ourselves on the Camp David staff and on these two visiting chefs. Imposed,” he repeated, “in a very good, very powerful way. All remaining meals served during these negotiations will be seen as our progeny.”
“That’s heavy.”
He winked. “Heavy as whipping cream.”
IN AN UNUSUAL TURN OF EVENTS, WE CHEFS were called upon to serve courses in the Aspen dining room. Highly uncommon, but then again, the entire atmosphere at Camp David was different. Everyone was more relaxed here. It was as though serenity hung in the fragrant air, just waiting for us to take a deep breath and share it.
I tied on a fresh apron before meeting the First Lady and her guest. It wouldn’t do to have raspberry splatters all over my chest as I served the women their first course.
When I voiced my concerns about taking on the added responsibility of actually serving a meal, Henry waved a hand in the air as if to say this would be no trouble at all. I had two assistants: one Camp David regular and one Muslim assistant, both female. That was the primary reason we’d been tagged for service. Our waitstaff tonight was predominantly male, and we’d been given explicit instructions by Kasim to have only females serve the princess.
Fair enough.
Just before we served, the three of us stopped to give the food-laden cart another inspection. We’d begin with soup: a light combination of vegetables, lemon, and coriander, accompanied by an assortment of breads prepared without lard or milk.
I was particularly proud of tonight’s entrée, a roasted squab—boned by our Muslim assistant—stuffed with curry-coconut flavor–infused rice. I couldn’t wait to see if our menu passed muster with the princess. Still clad in the sky-colored robes, she sat erect, hands in her lap. Behind, the handmaidens sat, dressed in pale beige gowns and scarves that covered only the lower portion of their faces. Across the table from the princess, the First Lady smiled. Dressed more casually, in linen slacks and a plaid gauze shirt, she licked her lips twice before saying, “…and walking trails. Do you enjoy walking outdoors?”
One of the handmaidens blinked, tilted her head, then stood to translate in the princess’s ear.
The princess faced her handmaiden—or so I assumed, because it was impossible to tell through the fabric precisely which way her attention was turned—and whispered in return. The handmaiden said, “No. The princess does not,” before returning to her seat.
Mrs. Campbell’s smile didn’t fade. I gave her credit. In her position, I’d be wishing for a face-scarf of my own.
I smoothed my apron, gave the cart one more check, then grasped its stainless-steel handles. My assistants fell in behind me.
“Good evening, Olivia,” Mrs. Campbell said with obvious relief.
The princess immediately leaned back, then lowered her head.
I made eye contact with the First Lady, then turned to our guest. “Good evening, Mrs. Campbell, Princess Hessa.”
She didn’t acknowledge me, and I worried that I’d made some gross faux pas by addressing her directly. The First Lady didn’t miss a beat. “Thank you for preparing this lovely meal,” she said, with a smile powerful enough to banish my princess-addressing doubts, “This soup looks deli—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the princess stood. Her handmaidens rushed to her side. The two girls chattered in high-pitched foreign voices, until the princess quieted them with a raised hand. She gestured, and one of the assistants rushed to the door, summoning Kasim from outside.
He brought his face close enough to hear the handmaiden whisper.
I stood, soup bowl still in hand, unsure of my next move.
“I am sorry,” Kasim said a moment later. “The princess begs your indulgence to be excused.”
Mrs. Campbell had already come to her feet. Concern tightened her gentle features. “Of course,” she said. “Would the princess prefer to have dinner served in her own quarters?”
Kasim asked the handmaiden in their native tongue. Then he listened. The handmaiden spoke softly; I couldn’t hear her.
Facing us once again, Kasim said, “We thank you for you kind hospitality, but the princess is overheated and does not care to eat at the moment.”
Mrs. Campbell looked as puzzled as I felt. “I hope she’s not ill,” she said. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
Kasim thanked her. The two women left to escort the princess to her cabin. Kasim watched after them, looking confused. “I shall return to my cabin as well,” he said. “Good night.”
Mrs. Campbell said, “Good night,” to Kasim and then looked at me.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked as my assistants swept in to clear away the princess’s place settings.
“No,” the First Lady said, her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t understand what just happened.” She sat.
I placed the bowl of soup in front of her.
“Is there anything we can do for you?”
“No,” she said again, drawing out the word. “I made certain to familiarize myself with their customs, and yet…I couldn’t get her to talk with me. At all.” Her expression relaxed, turned almost despondent. “I hope I haven’t inadvertently done something to impede my husband’s efforts.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” I said.
She smiled up at me with a mixture of gratitude and regret. “Thank you, Ollie.” With a glance at her soup, she finished the sentiment she’d begun before the princess’s peculiar departure. “This does look delicious. Thank you.”
When I returned to the kitchen, enough of the waitstaff was back from Hickory, and I was spared further serving duties. I never minded pitching in. No one did. But the scene with the princess unnerved me. I didn’t want Mrs. Campbell to associate my presence with such a negative moment. Not when she still had her executive chef decision to make.
We cleaned up as the waitstaff hustled, and before long Henry and I were ready to go. Right on schedule. I smiled. If there was one thing White House and First Family staff members were good at, it was punctuality. Avram and Gaspar were scheduled to remain at Camp David for the duration of the trade talks, a prospect that delighted them both. Henry and I thanked them for all we learned, and we wished them well over the coming days and in the future.
The path back to the helicopter pad was much darker now that dusk had settled. I breathed in the damp greenery, again, and wished I could stay just another day. “It’s gorgeous here,” I said, throwing my arms out to encompass the expansiveness. “It’s so peaceful, so…calming. It almost makes me forget…”
“Forget what?” Henry asked.
I dropped my hands to my sides, remembering all that had transpired before my trip to this Shangri-la. Although the Chameleon was dead, and my fear of him now gone, I still had the stalking-weirdo issue to deal with. Not to mention my concerns about my future with Tom. If I had a future with Tom. Too much to burden Henry with, so I shot him a rueful smile and said, “Boy troubles.”
He laughed.
We were passing Birch, our footsteps making soft shuffling noises, when we heard it. Strange noises—coughing, crying, and gasped directives in a foreign tongue. The cabin’s front door stood open, and one of the handmaidens who had been approaching from the opposite direction rushed in, accompanied by a man I hadn’t seen before. The door slammed shut behind them.
We stood in the shadows, watching.
“What do you suppose that’s all about?” I whispered to Henry.
His lips drew into a line. “I have no idea.
”
BACK AT MY APARTMENT THAT NIGHT, I couldn’t wait to turn on the news, but I had one very important stop to make first.
Mrs. Wentworth answered almost before I finished knocking.
“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been worried.”
“Why, did anything happen while I was gone?”
She shook her snowy head. “Nope. All quiet. But you’re late.”
“I am,” I said. “Busy day. But I wanted to stop by and thank you again for what you did last night. I don’t know who the guy was, but I’m glad you were awake. I hate to think what would have happened if you weren’t.”
She wrinkled her nose and gave a sidewise glance, snorting. But I could tell she was pleased with herself. “Turns out there’s been a rash of break-ins.”
“There has? In our building?”
She shook her head. “Not just here. Nearby, too. Three in the complex across the street. All three in one night. Five more about half-mile away. They figure the fella who tried to break in here was expanding his territory.” She licked her dry lips. “Police called me today. Wanted me to look at some pictures. But I didn’t recognize the guy who was here.”
“Wow,” I said. I hadn’t been specifically targeted after all. Relief washed over me like an unexpected sun shower.
“Your boyfriend coming to stay tonight?”
“No.”
Feathery eyebrows tugged upward. “Why not? He should be here. To protect you.”
“I’ll do okay,” I said, then thanked her again and said good night.
“Oh, I get it,” she said as I made the short trek to my apartment door.
I turned.
She waved her cane at me. “You two better make up pretty quick. You never know if that creep will try again.”
“Good night, Mrs. Wentworth.”
“POLICE IN PARIS TONIGHT CONFIRM THAT the elusive assassin known as the Chameleon is dead.” The handsome anchorman averted his gaze slightly off camera—as though to direct viewers’ attention. On cue, the scene shifted and my television screen became the street just outside the Louvre. In the background, over the shoulder of the onsite female reporter, I could make out the familiar, I. M. Pei–designed glass pyramid, which served as the museum’s entrance.
My tape was in, my VCR was set on “Record,” and I sat forward, watching intently.
The American reporter fought to speak over the rain and winds that buffeted the Parisian avenue. She pushed damp hair off her face, and spoke with somber inflections. “It is here, at the world-famous Louvre, the largest museum in the world, that the Chameleon intended to wreak havoc on not only his target, French President Pierre La Place…”—the network cut to a stock photo of the smiling world leader, hand raised in greeting—“…but on priceless history, art, and innocent bystanders as well.
“Other than the Chameleon, whose true identity is being withheld until further notice, no one was injured in yesterday’s gunfire. Authorities from Interpol are not commenting on how they learned of the Chameleon’s plans in time to protect the president, but there is much celebration tonight as a mysterious killer’s long reign of terror comes to a bloody, and final, close.”
The anchorman provided a few more details about the shooting, and explained why Interpol had delayed announcement of the Chameleon’s death. Apparently he’d been such a master of disguise that they hadn’t been immediately certain that the man shot at the scene was truly the Chameleon. According to reports, and “respected sources,” there was no doubt at all that the French gendarmes had rid the world of this terrible assassin, once and for all.
The scene shifted again, and there, big as my twenty-seven-inch screen would allow, was an artist’s rendering of the Chameleon’s face. Had they drawn this picture after he’d been killed? I didn’t know. What I did know was that he didn’t look at all like the man I’d seen at the merry-go-round. He was darker skinned, with dark hair and dark eyes. I waited till the segment came to a complete end, before stopping the tape, rewinding, and freezing the man’s face to study it.
I pulled out the artist’s rendering.
Not the same man. But then again, this was an individual who made his living occupying other identities. The broadcast hadn’t said a word about his height or build. From the drawing onscreen, the face was slim enough to be right. The cheeks slightly concave, the shape of the face narrow, though not long.
I stared at the screen, then at the drawing in my hands. Then back at the screen.
Maybe. But it was a stretch.
I already knew that the prospective suitor at the range and the potential intruder at my door couldn’t have been the Chameleon. Not possible for the assassin to have been here and in Paris at the same time. But the merry-go-round guy…that was another story. That man had murdered Naveen. I’d seen it happen—it was a scenario that would play before my eyes again and again for the rest of my life.
Tom and the rest of the Secret Service had assumed the killer was the Chameleon. I’d assumed so, too. Comparing these pictures made me second-guess that assumption.
With a sigh, I folded the paper and put it away again. I didn’t know who killed Naveen. Maybe I never would.
IN THE WHITE HOUSE KITCHEN ALL THE NEXT day, we were at full staff and would remain so for the duration. Tomorrow a slew of temporary help would descend upon us to prepare for the dinner, just over forty-eight hours away.
The most important consideration in preparing a meal of this magnitude was the preparation. And not just food preparation: The timing of pre-work, the organization of manpower, the boiling point of both water and tempers, all had to be taken into account when preparing for such an event. Which meant that until this dinner was over, I needed to put my personal issues aside. Tom hadn’t left any messages. Hadn’t stopped by to visit, either.
I’d expected him to call last night, when word of the Chameleon’s demise hit the news. But, nothing.
It was time for me to face facts. To put things into perspective. Right now, nothing was more important than our upcoming state dinner and the trade agreements in the Middle East it might represent. This state dinner, perhaps the most important one we would ever experience, was Henry’s swan song, his crowning glory—the meal that would be talked about for years after his retirement.
I sighed. This might be my swan song, too. But for a whole different reason.
Jamal, the maître d’, would be in charge of Wednesday night’s event. He and I stood over the large gray bins that held different varieties of china that the White House possessed. We anticipated a full house, 140 guests, seated at tables of ten in the State Dining Room.
“I suggest the Reagan china and the Wilson china,” Jamal said, as he scrutinized his records. The Campbells hadn’t yet decided on their own style of dinnerware for their White House legacy and we were often required to combine settings when entertaining a large group of guests. “Both are elegant, yet understated. Or—”
“No, unfortunately,” I said, interrupting him. “Both of those,” I pointed, “have gold in the design. Since many of our guests are male Muslims, we have to take into account that they are not allowed to consume food served on silver or gold.”
Jamal nodded. “Serving trays, too, then?”
“Yep.”
We had several options open to us, but I knew we needed to make a decision quickly if we were to move forward. “Surely we aren’t the first administration to welcome Muslim guests to our table,” I said, “so let’s take a look at what serving pieces were used the last time the kitchen faced this situation.”
Jamal said he would take care of it, and left.
Peter Sargeant took that moment to drop in. His eyes scanned the whole of the storage area, then focused on the china before me and announced that I needed to be aware of our Muslim guests’ requirements before making snap—and uninformed—decisions that could easily ruin the negotiations that President Campbell was so tirelessly working to facilitate. He then began a lecture, atte
mpting to inform me of the Muslim rules.
“We know the protocols,” I said crisply. “That’s why Jamal and I were here. We’ve already dismissed these.” I pointed to the bins. As I continued, my voice rose. “We were already coming up with alternatives before you arrived.”
He blinked, evidently surprised by my “Back off, bucko,” attitude. It took mere seconds for him to recover. “You’re wasting your time, here,” he said. “I’ve already seen to that.”
“You have?” I was curious. “Which china did you choose?”
“Since when do I answer to you?”
Like I’d been slapped, I froze—speechless. Grasping for composure, I decided to face this bully once and for all. “Mr. Sargeant,” I began, “we apparently got off on the wrong foot, somehow.” I didn’t add that our “wrong foot” was a direct result of him targeting me for harassment. “I’d like to rectify that.”
If he’d been taller, he would have looked down his nose at me. “I see no need.”
“You see no need?” I repeated his words, disbelievingly. “And why is that?”
“Ms. Paras, you may not want to hear this, but since the truth is always the best approach, I will tell you, for your own good, that I believe your days here are numbered. Specifically, I see your tenure at the White House coming to a close immediately after Laurel Anne is named executive chef. I see no need to cultivate a ‘relationship’ with you if you won’t be here next week.”
When he said Laurel Anne’s name, he smiled. Like a teenager with a bad crush.
“Well then,” I said, fighting the sting of his words. “I will leave you to your china choice.” I brushed past him.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he said.
I turned.
“I just came from informing Henry. You should know, too. The atmosphere at Camp David did not agree with the princess. She is back at Blair House with her assistants. Her chef remained at Camp David with the prince, so our kitchen may be called upon to assist with meals.”
I nodded acknowledgment.
“Kasim will act as liaison between the White House and Blair House.”
