Overdrive

by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  I have several times reflected on something my old friend Frank Shakespeare once told me. He was then the head of the United States Information Agency, and I had agreed to serve as a member of its Advisory Commission. Frank took me to the Oval Office (my first view of it). Henry Kissinger was the fourth person there, with Nixon, and the exchange went on for about fifteen minutes when Dwight Chapin (appointments secretary and dirty trickster) entered discreetly and handed the President a note. I instantly inferred that this was the procedure by which guests were signaled to leave, and was therefore surprised when Nixon said to Chapin, "Tell him to wait just a minute," after which he resumed his conversation with me. Upon the termination of the point he was making, I rose, said the usual thing about how busy the President was, we all shook hands, and I left.

  Walking away from the White House, Frank told me that I had violated protocol. "The way it works is you never terminate a session with the President, he terminates it. As long as he says nothing abortive, it signifies that he wants things to continue as they are, and the tradition is that we are all there at the pleasure of the President." I can understand that. I mean, there are no intellectual difficulties here, are there? But I still think it makes it easier for a President, or for the King of Siam, if you initiate the motion to go. After all, there is nothing to stand in the way of his overruling you. Reagan, for example, could have said, "Hang on, there are a couple of other things I want to talk to you about. Do you think we should go to war against Libya?"

  In any event, I returned to my goddaughter. Governor Brown, who has been mixing gladly with the little crowd, is saying good night. We shake hands, he invites me to be his guest at the Kentucky Derby, and the technician is telling me that they are ready to shoot the commercials. There are four of them, all to the effect that contributions to WKPC, or participation in its forthcoming auction, make possible such interesting programs as "Firing Line." One filler has to be read a second time, "because [the stage director shakes his finger] you said the auction lasted six days, but it lasts eight days." I look at the script that had been handed me, where indeed it says six days, but what the hell, I go again. I bound then from the chair, and Warren and George are waiting, as is the car, so we say hasty goodbyes to everyone, and I sink back in the seat. Warren says we're in plenty of time. George is in the front seat. We discuss the shows, lightly. Soon we're at the airport, and while Warren lines up to check in at the ticket counter, I go to the telephone to speak with Pat to tell her we're at the airport, that I'll eat something here, never mind holding anything for me at Stamford. She says she will record the seven o'clock news for me, but she has forgotten: Is the videocassette antenna switch supposed to be off or on when one records?

  George and I sat in the little pizza-type restaurant and ordered for ourselves and for Warren, but before we were served a flustered Warren came with the news that our flight had been canceled. We held a quick summit, and the three of us separated, Warren to see whether there were means, via another city, to get another flight; George to make local overnight hotel reservations in case all else failed; I to go through the Yellow Pages and look into the possibility of a charter. Warren doesn't like little planes, and lately I've agreed with Pat not to fly in planes that don't at least have two engines and are pressurized. Sometimes (as in the Grumman) I waive the latter provision, but not the former. It takes me about twenty minutes to establish that it is not feasible, on such short notice, to arrange a charter at acceptable prices. It takes about the same time for Warren to establish that there is no acceptable way of traveling commercial so as to get to New York tonight, and to make fresh arrangements for the morning—and George has us booked at the Executive West Motor Hotel near the airport.

  I escort my bags to my room, phone Pat, and descend instantly to the dining room. It is quite unexpectedly posh, with a menu—including things like pheasant, snails, and pigeon—you'd expect at some of the Ritzes, or at Brideshead. Warren and I agree that it's always hell not to Get Back Home, but that if one absolutely has to be grounded, it is good to be grounded after the television shows have been recorded, when it is still early in the evening, when the next day is Saturday, and when you are booked on a nonstop the following morning. And so we while away an hour eating and drinking (though not bourbon, though this I must surely do when I go to the Kentucky Derby).

  I thought, on reaching my room just after nine, merely to read; to leave alone my wretched briefcase. I've already called Pat, and she has called Jerry to tell him what time tomorrow to meet me. I needn't use the telephone at all. I return to Gorky Park, dazzled by the familiarity the author shows with life and habits in Moscow; but my mind wanders.

  Exactly the same thing happened to me ten years ago; both were unprompted, although its having happened then makes less than unique its happening again now: I resolved here and now that I would experiment, once again, with a journal, a book-length work about the events of a single week as it unfolded. The present contract with my publisher calls for me, during February and March, to bring together another collection, something I have been doing every three years now for nearly twenty years. I don't know why I have so little appetite for doing a new collection this year—there is plenty of material. The last time I did a collection (A Hymnal: The Controversial Arts) I logged, roughly, the time it took me to assemble it, and was disagreeably surprised to find that editing a collection requires more time than I spend writing a novel or (most of) my nonfiction books. It wasn't that I resented the time, or wished to abridge it; rather I had a strong feeling that Cruising Speed, which chronicled the events of the first week in December 1970, had in my judgment succeeded in exploring an unusual device for autobiographical revelation —easier to execute and, in some ways, potentially more revealing than the more comprehensive conventional treatments.

  ("Don't you think it a bit much to write an entire book devoted to the events of a single week?" the TV interviewer had asked when Cruising Speed was published, to which I replied, "I don't know. John Keats devoted an entire ode to a single Grecian urn." Funny.) But I remembered that ten years ago in my mind I fashioned right away a set of self-imposed rules. I must look, when I am back in Stamford, at Cruising Speed to see whether I remember them exactly, but I think I do, think they were reasonable for that book, for this one, and for others that may come from other writers.

  One such ground rule was that there was to be no coyness in the matter of who-do-you-know. For instance, it would after all have been unusual if I hadn't seen a great deal of Ronald Reagan over the years. When I first met him he was heading up Democrats-for-Nixon, but actually was heading up a movement that evolved as the practical political counterpart of National Review—nice zeugma, that. There must be no concealment of our friendship, yet no exaggeration of our political relationship. I have asked him less than a half-dozen favors in twenty years, and most of these had to do with National Review. (One not in this category was that he consent to be interviewed by Truman Capote on the subject of capital punishment; they became friends.) Two remain confidential. And he has asked my direct help, or advice, only two or three times. I realize that the only way to handle Reagan in the book is exactly as is relevant during events of the week in question.

  A second rule: All correspondence mentioned must either have been seen, or replied to, during the week being written about. But where it clearly makes sense, flashbacks are okay. And finally, at a very important personal level, somewhere—right now, as a matter of fact—the point must be made that nothing can be deduced about people not mentioned, by the fact of mentioning those who are. My affection for and reliance on given human beings might be central to my life—and their names might not appear here, where anyone's appearance is circumstantial.

  All of this went through my mind in less than five minutes, and I was pleased at having made a fruitful commitment. But I decided not to say anything to anyone about it, not for a while, as it's always possible I'll change my mind, though unlikely. I won't say anything eve
n to Sam Vaughan of Doubleday, who is coming to lunch tomorrow. I go back to Gorky Park.

  Six

  SATURDAY

  I ordered breakfast at 6:45 and it came at 7:25, as I was starting out the door. I gulped down a piece of toast, left the coffee, and went to the lobby, where Warren and George were waiting, and into the commutation bus to American Airlines, scene of so much commotion just twelve hours ago. Aboard the plane, George is squirreling away the two tapes of yesterday's shows, Warren is reading a big fat novel, I sit with the Louisville paper and, before I am through with the first page, I am asleep. We are almost at LaGuardia by the time I wake.

  It's cold and gray, and as we arrive in the baggage area the familiar face of Jerry isn't there, and that is almost unprecedented. I go to the pay phone and dial the car's telephone. The receiver at the other end is picked up and answered by an excited monosyllabic Bukeeee—Jill's name for me. That means that Jerry is somewhere between the parking lot and where I am standing. It being a Saturday, he has riding with him his brain-damaged daughter Jill, age nineteen, who cannot verbalize, but who loves the company of her devoted father, and also loves Rowley. She is sitting in the car and has answered the telephone. Before I hang up, Jerry has materialized. We make the routine exchange: he gives me the keys to the car, and I give him the checks to my bags. Carrying my typewriter and briefcase, I say goodbye to Warren and George and cross the street to where the car is regularly parked.

  I greet Jill, who sometimes responds—always while looking out the window—insert the ignition key and turn it on, which activates my telephone. I dial Pat and she tells me that David Niven is already there (he will stay the weekend), and to hurry home. Jerry comes with my two bags and hands me a package of mail from Frances, and we head for Stamford. I raise the glass partition, Jerry turns on the radio, and I my tape recorder.

  A young lady who works in the White House news summary room is doing a report on "our President's leadership style" and wants an interview with me. "My roommate works for Jim Wright (Dem.) and when she starts gloating sometimes (like when Robb won the election [as governor of Virginia]) I just start reading National Review and everything seems to get back to the proper perspective. ..." I tell her to let me know when she's coming to town.

  The next business was a little tricky, but everything is a little tricky when you are dealing with artists.

  A few weeks ago I got the most awful news, from Tom Wendel in San Jose: that our friend Fernando Valenti had been told by the doctor that he had cancer, and that the affliction was terminal; indeed he had probably only six months to live, unless he consented to radiotherapy of some sort, in which case brief remission was possible, but not probable. I wrote instantly to Fernando, whose personal life has been very sad, and also passed the news along to a few friends. Fie and Rosalyn Tureck haven't been friends, exactly (it's "Dr. Tureck" and "Mr. Valenti"), but they respect each other.

  Fernando has played the harpsichord at our annual staff Christmas party every year for seven or eight years, and it happened last year in December that Rosalyn was in New York. I airily asked her one day if she would like to come to the party and she said sure. A day or two later I mentioned this to Fernando, and he said honest injun, he would rather she didn't come, but that he didn't want to tell me the reason. So, rather apprehensively, I asked Frances to call Rosalyn's secretary and gently to disinvite her.

  So why hadn't he wanted her there?

  Six weeks later he wrote her a letter from California giving the reason. "Just a brief note of apology for something that has been crunching on my mind for several weeks! It was indeed I who suggested to Bill Buckley that it might be more discreet not to invite you to our Christmas concert this past December 11. My thought was that, whereas Bill himself has unwaveringly exalted tastes in music and probably has a special record player piping the Goldbergs into his bathtub, the vast majority of the audience for these Christmas parties tends to feel seasonally festive and much more in the spirit of bourbon-and-soda than of Bach-and-Scarlatti. Of course, I have never been able to convince him of this, not in years and years. All six Partitas, forty-two Scarlattis, and the Chromatic Fantasia for an 'encore' are still his idea of the most jovial possible Christmas.

  "As a means of partially getting my own way, I contrived to play some rather clever (not as 'clever' as they could have been, however) arrangements, by an old acquaintance of mine, of folkloric and semifolkloric tunes (mostly Irish) into the movements of a suite (Allemande, Courante, etc.). For some reason, having always heard you at your best, I harbored the notion that such outright horseplay would be somewhat beneath you and I would rather have had you present when I was really going to tear into something. Later on, the implication of a total lack of sense of humor on your part struck me as unfounded and unchivalrous."

  The ending of the letter was as rococo as anything ever executed by Scarlatti: "Accordingly, I am writing you this note of apology. Please believe that it is I who have been the loser. By a misguided thought I deprived myself of the honor of your presence at our little concert, as well as the pleasure of seeing you again after so many years."

  Now on receiving this, Rosalyn wrote to thank Fernando for his "charming" note of apology. But, she said, what's this all about her not having a sense of humor? She didn't get that at all. "Therefore, it is beyond my imagination to guess what has led you to your comment, and would appreciate an explanation."

  In due course I saw Fernando out in California, and he mentioned to me that Rosalyn was "mad" at him, but that was life. I thought no more about it. But when I told Rosalyn about Fernando's illness, she told me she would write to him immediately, even though he had written her a very unpleasant letter after his Christmas concert. Now Rosalyn, I said, I am quite certain that Fernando would not have written you a very unpleasant letter. Absolutely positive.

  So now Rosalyn writes, "I enclose copies of a couple of letters that may interest you. These form the reason for my comment ... to you about Valenti." And she adds, "My heart goes out to him. I hesitate even to ask how he is, because I fear so negative a reply. However, I hope he is not suffering."

  So now I undertake to heal the breach and dictate: "Dear Rosalyn: I think it clear that you simply misunderstood Fernando's letter. What he intended was to communicate that he at first thought you might be embarrassed by one or two liberties he proposed to take in giving the staff a little horseplay on the harpsichord. On reflection he recognized that you would have entered into the spirit of the season and forgiven the levity. I thought the letter a tribute to the respect he feels for you. But enough of that. . . ."

  I tell you . . . After some experience, I think it's a good idea not to invite one artist to an event featuring another artist, at least not one held at home. It is simply embarrassing to elaborate on why this is so. So just take it from me.

  Senator Orrin Hatch wants to know whether I will write a column about his Community Home Health Services Act. "By the turn of the year 2000, the number of Americans sixty-five years and older will have increased by thirty-five percent." The problem of the aged simply hasn't been corporately addressed.

  In a book (Four Reforms, 1973) I proposed that all young people graduating from high school be encouraged to give a year's time to helping to care for the aged. The libertarian enzymes in me caused me to recommend that the custom be gradually institutionalized by the straightforward device of having leading private colleges refuse to accept entrance applications to freshman year except from students who had done one year's social work. I'm told the idea was actually taken up (however briefly) by the authorities at Harvard, but sank. To launch it, you would need four or five of the most desirable—or, more accurately, most desired—colleges to act together on the idea, so that the isolated college taking the initiative wouldn't simply lose out to the competition. If Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Cornell, Brown, and Dartmouth were to issue such a declaration, effective say for the freshman class of 1985, the idea would get off the ground.
. . . I promise Orrin Hatch to do the column.

  Gertrude Vogt, who was my secretary forever until Frances came (1968), and to whom I dedicated Cruising Speed, writes from San Francisco, where we recently visited. She complains that the New York Times arrives irregularly, and I urge her to complain directly to New York, as they are very good in these matters, no doubt animated by the sincere conviction that people who don't get the Times regularly simply don't function very well. It is a matter of patriotism, really, isn't it?

  A youngish man who wants to join the Council on Foreign Relations has one of those nice-type problems. You see, his roommate at Yale was the current president of the Council on Foreign Relations. But ever since Watergate and Abscam, things like this have to be handled with the utmost delicacy and regard for punctilio. So he makes an appointment to meet me, so that I can size him up, so that I can, after talking to him for twenty minutes, write a letter to the membership committee, which is, in effect, run by the president, so that I can inform the president of the Council on Foreign Relations what his ex-roommate is like. But I do the whole performance without cracking a smile, even though the president of the CFR is one of the most amusing, and easily amused, persons in the world. I manage to chronicle in my recommendation that "an index of [the candidate's] lovable perversity is that on leaving New Haven he turned right, rather than left." I think he'll be all right.