The Rake

by William F. Buckley

  “Well,” Henri said, “I’m glad you haven’t transported John here tonight. My interest in Buick cars is limited. I told you that Justin wound up choosing a Chevrolet?”

  “You told me that once, maybe twice. Justin told me about ten times. He was crestfallen that he couldn’t buy a Buick.”

  “You mean John was crestfallen.” Henri flipped open the current issue of Time magazine to an ad for General Motors. “Justin couldn’t buy much of a Buick for two thousand dollars.”

  “That was his limit?”

  “Yes. And, Amy, did he tell you he earned half of that himself? The hard way—hard labor on a construction site. If he ends up as a librarian lugging books, maybe he’ll figure he had good training while earning the money to buy the car.”

  As Henri went into the kitchen, Amy fiddled with the television dial and sipped from her glass of wine. After a few minutes she called out, “You weren’t supposed to come up with anything fancy for dinner.”

  “I haven’t. But I’m not going to give you a tuna-fish sandwich.”

  “Oh? I like tuna fish. Especially cheap tuna fish. Or is all tuna fish cheap?”

  Henrietta came back to join her while the oven did its work. She approached her own assignment. “Amy, you knew that I was born in Canada?”

  “Sûrement, madame.”

  “In a little town in southern Manitoba, Letellier. My mother married and conceived her baby—conceived me—there, in Letellier. She was a graduate of Saint Joseph’s, the convent school in Letellier, and she sent me there for my early schooling. The mother superior at Saint Joseph’s had been like a mother to her.”

  “Well,” said Amy with feigned zest. “Next time I’m in Manitoba I’ll make sure to visit Letellier.” She stopped suddenly. The subject being skirted was obviously no laughing matter for Henrietta.

  “You know that Justin drove off ten days ago?”

  “Yes, dear Henri. And I’ve missed him sorely. Since age fifteen, whenever he would come to visit Allan, he’d make sure to say hello to me. Often he’d seek me out to tell me a risqué joke.”

  Henri attempted a smile. “He told me he was leaving early in order to go fishing with a friend for a week before the term began.”

  “That sounds pretty innocent. Has he sent you a fish?”

  “No. But he sent me this.” She lifted it from the tray. “A postcard mailed from Letellier.”

  Amy began to take careful interest. “What does he say?”

  “He wrote, ‘Joli village, Maman, tu devrais le connaître!’ Do you understand that?”

  “Yes…. So he was sightseeing in what used to be your part of the world. I mean, your mother’s part of the world—”

  “Actually, my part of the world, too. I grew up there until my mother died and my father took me to France. And I went back to Letellier once when I was in college. I went there in 1969 to be married.”

  Amy spoke slowly now. “You never told me about your marriage with—I don’t even know what Lieutenant Durban’s first name was.”

  “Lieutenant Durban never existed. I made up that name when I reached Paris. It was easier to handle Father doing it that way. So of course the child was named Durban. The story I gave out, on which I never elaborated, was that the hypothetical Lieutenant Durban—‘Stephen’ Durban, by the way—was killed in Vietnam in late April 1970, just before Justin was born.”

  “Henri. You are telling me that you married someone else in Letellier?”

  “Hardly ‘someone else.’ There was only him. Lui seulement.”

  Amy put down her glass, got up from her chair, and sat down on the sofa next to Henri. “Do you want to tell me all about it, darling?”

  “I think so. It’s got to be that Justin now knows. He wouldn’t have written a message like that otherwise—about Letellier, and how I should go see it. He obviously knows.”

  “And now I’m to know. Trust me, Henri.”

  “I do.” She picked up her handkerchief.

  CHAPTER 38

  Washington, September 1991

  Reuben sat alone in his office. The letter on his desk was open. It was quaintly direct, almost informal. It sounded like the Rico Monsanto of old, not like Eric Monsanto, JD, counselor at law.

  Reuben always greeted Eric amicably when they came upon each other. But such encounters were infrequent, usually at meetings of solid North Dakotans pursuing nonpartisan goals. Eric was on the Northeast Regional Environmental Committee, and Reuben was a member of it, ex officio. There were thirty members, and they had convened in Fargo as recently as last spring. He searched his memory for any personal exchanges he might have had with Rico then, but couldn’t come up with anything of interest.

  Not quite right, he corrected himself. He had asked after the health of Eric’s mother. He couldn’t remember what Eric had replied, but he did remember that the conversation was brief, as they filed off for duty at their preassigned seats around the table.

  But this. All of a sudden this letter.

  He picked it up again.

  Dear Reuben:

  I have a client to whom I cannot respond properly without first consulting you.

  Did you, as I have been given to believe, marry Henrietta Leborcier? If so, when and where did you divorce?

  Yours,

  Eric

  Reuben stared at the tips of his fingers. What, actually, had he done at that old-fashioned rectory, other than try to appease Henri? Henri was truly adorable. We lost together our cherry / So be merry, dear Henri, be merry. He remembered murmuring that, nestled in the bedroll, the candle in the corner, sheathed by its glass cylinder, giving out dim illumination, the music from Eric’s portable cassette player seeping its melodies through the partition. Above all, he remembered the smile on her face. He’d have consented, that night, to be Henri’s slave for ten lifetimes.

  He didn’t know then that his ejaculate had burrowed down into her ovum. Or had it? Perhaps it was the load from the second engagement—was that at two in the morning? Or conceivably the conception had taken place at the third spasm, at five in the morning, when there was nothing, no candlelight, no daylight, no music from Eric, just her soft flesh and her kisses and her hands stroking his manhood, which came quickly alive.

  But now he needed to act. He could delay a few days in replying to Eric, but not much longer. The envelope was marked “Personal from Rico,” and Beatrice had dutifully passed it along, unopened. He would not want to dictate a reply, even in Aesopian language. The best thing to do was nothing. That was often the best thing for a senator to do—not to reply until ready. But he knew he had to get ready. He had eventually to reply. And there were things he needed to do first.

  How would he put it?

  Carefully. To which end he invited Bill Rode for a “working supper.”

  “Bring your notebook,” he said in the presence of Susan.

  They met at the little bistro on M Street. They shared a bottle of wine. The junior staff addressed him as “Senator Castle,” but he had told Rode to call him Reuben when outside the office, as the senior staff did. Rode said he would be happy to “try to do it” but couldn’t guarantee success. “You’ve been Senator Castle ever since I met you senior year, when you talked at UVA—a hell of a talk…Reuben.”

  This evening, once they had placed their orders, Reuben started right in: “I’ve got a personal problem. There was a girl. One of those…things that happen at college. But this girl got carried away and talked me into driving to Canada with her and going through some session with a priest there. The problem is, some people, if they got wind of it, would say that there was a marriage performed. Of course there was no such thing. But what I need to know—Bill, I trust you, and this is in great confidence—is what the parish records show about this, about me and the girl.”

  Bill nodded gravely. “You want me to go find out?”

  “Yes. Fly to Grand Forks, via Minneapolis. Rent a car. Drive to a town called Letellier, a dozen miles north of the Canadia
n border. Call on the parish priest—there’s only one Catholic church there, I’m sure. It’s a very small town. Give your name as Bill Thomas. You’re doing research for a thesis and you need to look at the parish records. Parish records are generally available to the public, as far as I can figure out. The priest is not going to say they’re private. Look to see if there is any record of a marriage ceremony in mid-November 1969.”

  “Just look for your name?”

  Reuben paused. Might he have been foresighted enough to use a different name?

  “My name. Or the name Henrietta Leborcier.”

  Bill Rode wrote the name in his notebook. “Should I call you long-distance from there, Reuben?”

  “Yes. Use my private line”—he scratched a number on a paper napkin. “If I don’t answer, try again at three P.M. I’ll make it a point—we’re talking about day after tomorrow”—he made a note in his appointment book—“I’ll make it a point to be there. No credit cards.” He removed $300 from his wallet. “Almost certainly a wild-goose chase. Priscilla is the only girl I ever married. But you never know what they’ll come up with. Bastards!”

  They finished the wine.

  CHAPTER 39

  Washington, September 1991

  At three-fifteen Reuben put down the telephone. Was there anything else Bill Rode should do?

  “No. I’m remembering now. It was kind of a lark. Fraternity stunt. The…page you looked at—loose-leaf, or part of a bound volume?”

  “Bound volume, sir.”

  “Any fuss about seeing it?”

  “No. But the priest said somebody was there just a couple of weeks ago looking for the same thing.”

  “A couple of weeks ago!…What do you mean, looking for the same thing?”

  “The guy was looking for Leborcier.”

  “He said it was a guy?”

  “Hm, no, he didn’t, Senator. He just said somebody. Anything else you want me to do, sir?”

  “No. Beyond keeping your mouth shut. You know, Bill, what people can do. It was nothing. I’ll call the guy who was head of the fraternity back then. He’ll probably know where the girl is. Forget it, come on back. But—”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “I’m thinking. Do you have a cell phone with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, then give me the number, and stay where you are until I call you back. I’ve got to sort some things out.”

  Forget it!

  Reuben Castle needed a lawyer. A Canadian lawyer. Shee-yit!

  The lawyer would need to be told certain things. Well, lawyers were meant to keep secrets—but he wanted not just any lawyer.

  He thought hard.

  Should he call Eric? Eric would have no trouble finding a lawyer in Winnipeg, a hundred miles way. But then Eric would be in on the whole story, the whole thing. But maybe he’s already in on it? He asks me if I married Henri. And if so, when did I divorce her. Jesus Christ. No. Better not call Monsanto till I have everything looked into that I want to look into. Who the hell—

  Of course! The U.S. ambassador. Reuben got his name and phone number from Harry, his young staff researcher. He put in a call.

  A half hour later he had three names. Three Winnipeg attorneys, all of them “distinguished.”

  He thought for a moment, thought of the implications in the situation…. Reuben—he sometimes addressed himself by name in his thoughts, when pondering vexed questions—Reuben, this is a big one. You’d better handle it yourself. He called Harry back in. Harry did travel research as well as other research. “Harry, I need to fly to Winnipeg. Tell me how to do that. Day after tomorrow.”

  He then started down the list of lawyers.

  Number one was away.

  Reuben began to give the operator the next name on the ambassador’s list but suddenly took thought.

  Three distinguished lawyers.

  That wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, come to think of it.

  Reuben, what you want is a hard-ass lawyer.

  Rode would find the right man. Reuben called Rode on his cell phone. “Bill, I’m looking for a tough lawyer in Winnipeg, one who has the reputation—you know. For getting things done. Call somebody at the newspaper. Find out who is the lawyer that people…that people in serious trouble get in touch with when they want…well, you know, difficult things to get done.”

  “I know what you mean, Senator. There’s always at least one of those in every major city. I’ll get back to you.”

  An hour later Reuben was put though to Henry Griswold. Meanwhile Harry had come in bringing a sheet with flight numbers and times.

  Reuben nodded, and Harry left the room. “Mr. Griswold? I’m United States Senator Reuben Castle and I need to consult with an attorney about the Manitoba marriage law. Is that something you are familiar with?”

  “Certainly. Is it a question I can handle over the phone?”

  “Well, I’d rather discuss it with you in person. I can be in Winnipeg tomorrow at”—he looked down at Harry’s sheet—“two-thirty. I mean, at the airport at two-thirty. Two-thirty plus whatever time it takes a taxi—…No, I appreciate that, but I wouldn’t want to put you out of the way. I would rather meet you in a hotel room than in your office. What’s the hotel in Winnipeg?…The Fairmont? Good. What you can do for me is book me a room there. This is personal; I am not going on government business. We’ll think then of four o’clock?”

  He started to phone Jim Stannard, North Dakota’s sole congressman. They had an agreement, not often invoked but sometimes very useful. By prearrangement, Stannard, an old personal friend, would call Reuben asking him to do Jim “a huge favor” and substitute for him as a “speaker”…“eulogist”…“debater” in Atlanta…San Antonio…Salt Lake City—or Winnipeg, this time around. That disposed of the Priscilla problem and often, even, of the problem of Susan, though it was usually just plain easier to proceed with life on the understanding that Susan Oakeshott knew everything, including the names of the ladies with whom Jim Stannard arranged emergency meetings.

  But he didn’t want Susan to know about this…engagement. All he would tell her was that he was taking a couple of days off to do some duck hunting near Winnipeg with an old buddy from North Dakota.

  CHAPTER 40

  Washington, September 1991

  By now Harold Kaltenbach didn’t care if he was spotted in the company of Reuben Castle. The hand of Kaltenbach was already visible to all the major Democratic players who could see, if not in the dark, then in very little light: the Kaltenbach group was lining up behind Castle for President.

  Accordingly, this next engagement to confer with Castle was made not in some remote corner of South Carolina, or on a boat, but at Kaltenbach’s suite at the Jefferson Hotel. It was September, the morning of a day quite beautiful, with that cool taste of fall ahead, but not yet overpowering the southern balminess of the District of Columbia.

  Riding in the elevator with Reuben, Susan Oakeshott wondered whether Hal Kaltenbach ever noticed the weather. Perhaps if he was snowed in in Omaha. What would such a man, so purposive in all matters, do when such a thing happened? Well, she reasoned, he would retreat to whatever shelter he had emerged from and do his work on the telephone.

  Susan had brought along, as instructed to do, her appointment book, and also the thick notebook in which she kept the names, telephone numbers, and addresses—plus other relevant details—of all those who had crossed paths with Reuben Castle.

  Kaltenbach was dressed in a blue gabardine suit, a soft white shirt, and a blue-and-yellow tie with, as always, the tiepin “1950.” That was the year the University of Nebraska won the conference title. All-American Harold Kaltenbach III was the running back.

  There was coffee in the handsome suite’s well-stocked bar. Kaltenbach sat behind a mahogany coffee table. Reuben and Susan shared a large sofa, a long low table in reach of them both.

  Harold chatted for a few minutes about the rapidly changing scene in Iraq. The United States�
� failure to apprehend Saddam Hussein and its failure to support the freedom movement of the Kurds were seeds of a considerable political offensive against the Republican establishment. “We need to put it just right, find the right language. We mustn’t sound like we’re regretting the whole Gulf operation. This is an opportunity for you.”

  Reuben looked up. “What it is is failed leadership. Can’t we call it that?”

  “Sure we can call it that. The listener has to be left thinking, ‘It was a good idea, we did it well going in, but now we’ve screwed up—because we don’t have the right people there to make the decisions.’

  “That’s the general idea. Work on the language, Reuben.”

  Kaltenbach turned then to concrete questions. “The main thing we’re here to settle is when to make the announcement that you’re running for president, and where to make it.”

  “It has to be in Fargo, doesn’t it, Hal?”

  “That would be nice, and it would be traditional, but we shouldn’t think of it as an iron rule. Going back, Reagan announced in Washington, though Los Angeles would have been more the homeboy place to do it. George McGovern is the most relevant precedent where you are concerned, and he announced from Sioux Falls. Jimmy Carter announced from Atlanta. Jerry Ford was in the White House, and obviously announced from there. Nixon announced from California. Johnson was in the White House in 1964, but when he announced in 1960, he did it in Texas. JFK announced in Washington.

  “Television makes the venue somehow arbitrary. You could announce from a submarine. Ha-ha. What it comes down to is whether you have more to gain from your odd-state connection or more to lose by drawing attention to it. We’re in this for ‘Reuben Castle, the Young Hope for America’—not ‘Reuben Castle, the Big Name in North Dakota.’ On the other hand, there is a certain singularity in relating the candidacy to North Dakota. It gives a sense of the unity of the republic. You see what I mean, don’t you, Susan?”