The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  “She wanted him to be president?”

  Marsop offered a smile to correct Noy. “She wanted to be first lady.”

  “And she won.”

  “A landslide victory for both of them,” said Marsop. “He’d have the same kind of victory if he ran again. He’s immensely popular.”

  “Is he as hard on communism as I’ve heard?”

  “Almost every American president is. It comes with the turf. To defend the homeland against Communists who are out to destroy capitalism and democracy. That’s why you were invited to the White House. They want to fit you in—Lampang, actually—as part of their defensive ring in Asia against communism.”

  “I feel I’m going to be used.”

  “Not actually,” said Marsop. “After all, homegrown communism is a problem for you, too.”

  “True. Yet I’m willing to negotiate a compromise.”

  “I’m afraid the United States is not as trusting.”

  “Will he trust us? Will he feel I’m being soft on communism?”

  “He’ll just want to know you wish to make the world safe for democracy.”

  “But I do,” said Noy fervently.

  “Then tell him so.”

  “How can I make him believe me?”

  Marsop smiled. “By being yourself, Noy. Whatever Underwood and the others say, do not bend to them merely to please them.” Marsop paused. “Be yourself, Noy, from the first to the last minute you are with President Matthew Underwood.”

  The president and Chief of Staff Blake were at the mahogany sideboard in the President’s Dining Room on the second floor of the White House when the door opened and Secretary of State Morrison showed Noy Sang into the room.

  Immediately Underwood looked up from his Scotch and soda, and set the glass down as he watched Noy Sang proceed across the carpet toward him.

  Something about her surprised him. He tried to discern what it was. Probably her unexpected attractiveness and grace. He was familiar with beautiful women. After all, he had married a Miss America. But Alice’s beauty was technical, more professional. This woman from Lampang was utterly different.

  Underwood’s eyes held her. He had been prepared for a diminutive native type of woman. She was indeed small, delicate really. Her light brown skin was flawless. She had long black hair (a barrette held it in place at the small of her neck), a high forehead devoid of makeup, penetrating green almond-shaped eyes, a broad tilted nose, and full red lips set in an unaffected smile. Her approach toward him was fluid and graceful.

  She was wearing a gauzy soft yellow dress. He assumed she had worn the dress because of the heat outside. The dress disconcerted him briefly. It clung and highlighted every protrusion of her body—the full, gently bobbing breasts, and the wide hips above slender shapely legs.

  One word fleetingly passed through Underwood’s head, a word that had not been inside it for years: erotic. This woman exuded natural eroticism.

  How, he did not know, but it was there.

  Noy was before him, Secretary of State Morrison beside her.

  “The Honorable Matthew Underwood, the president of the United States of America,” Morrison announced. “Her Excellency, Noy Sang, the president of the Republic of Lampang.”

  To his surprise, and her own, Underwood took Noy’s hand, bowed, and kissed the back of it.

  “This is a pleasure, Mr. President,” Noy said.

  “The pleasure is mine, Madame President,” Underwood said. Then, releasing her hand, he laughed. “I’m afraid we’re going to be presidenting each other to death. There must be a better way.”

  It was Noy’s turn to laugh. “Everyone calls me Noy,” she said.

  “And everyone who knows me well calls me Matt,” Underwood said. “I hope today we will know each other well.”

  Underwood’s sidelong glance caught the secretary of state’s expression. It was one of pain at the breach of protocol.

  Underwood ignored his secretary of state and returned his gaze to Noy. “I know you arrived last night. Did you have a comfortable flight?”

  “Smooth, but I was unable to sleep. When we reached Blair House, I made up for it.” She added with enthusiasm, “What a wonderful guesthouse. I’ve never seen one as exquisite.”

  “It was originally two joined houses built before the Civil War. In 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt bought it for the United States government. Since then, two more houses have been joined to it.”

  “I slept in the guest bedroom on the second floor. The four-poster with the canopy was like being wrapped in a cloud. I know this was all prepared on purpose to weaken me for our meeting.” She searched behind her, and beckoned Marsop to join her, and then she introduced him around as her minister of foreign affairs.

  Turning on her heel, she took in every aspect of the President’s Dining Room.

  “How cozy and lovely this is,” she said.

  Underwood was quick to take her by the elbow and give her a closer view. The furniture, he pointed out, was Federal period, the hunt table was Hepplewhite, the wallpaper Scenic America. The pedestal dining table was Sheraton.

  Chief of Staff Blake took this as a cue to intervene. “Perhaps we can all sit down to lunch now,” he suggested, leading the way to the dining table.

  “Not before I ask Madame Noy—”

  “Noy,” she said firmly.

  “… yes, Noy, if I may mix her a drink.”

  “No, thank you. I can speak for Marsop in saying we’re both famished.”

  As the president stepped forward and drew out her chair for her, he indicated the inscription on the mantel at the east wall. “Can you read that? ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’ ”

  Noy squinted and nodded. “Yes, from your Commodore Oliver Perry after the Battle of Lake Erie.”

  Underwood was impressed. “You’ve been to the White House before?”

  “Once on a tourist visit, when I was studying in the United States.”

  They were all being seated now: President Undèrwood at the head of the table; Noy to his right, with Blake beside her; and Marsop to his left, with Morrison beside him. Once the two waiters had made the diners comfortable, they joined the white-capped chef at a second sideboard to begin serving the chopped salads.

  Underwood pursued Noy’s last remark. “You studied in the United States?”

  “At Wellesley College, near Boston in Massachusetts.”

  “Wellesley!” exclaimed Underwood. “I’ll be darned. What a coincidence. My daughter, Dianne, is an undergraduate there. Her major is political science. What was yours?”

  Noy was pleased. “I majored in political science also. I took everything from comparative politics to American politics and law to international relations.”

  “I’ll be darned,” Underwood repeated. “You must know more about politics than I do.”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Pres—Matt,” she said awkwardly. “I have not had your experience. But in history and theory I was an avid scholar. I even audited a course on Karl Marx.”

  “Karl Marx,” said Underwood, his eyes on Noy as he ate his salad. “Did you know that Marx once worked as a foreign correspondent from London for a New York newspaper?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I’ll tell you something that astonished me. I’ve been told that Lenin never liked Marx’s work. Couldn’t stand Marx the man, either.”

  “Is that true? I never heard that before.”

  “I think it’s true. There was more to Marx’s life than his books. Did you learn anything of his private life?”

  “A little.”

  “In London, I believe, he had an affair with his housekeeper and she had a child by him.”

  “I knew that.” Noy smiled mischievously. “Matt, you’re testing me. Now it’s my turn to test you. Did you know that after Marx and Engels had written the Communist Manifesto, when Marx himself later wrote Das Kapital he expected his ideas to be taken up in Germany? He never dreamt that Russia would become the
first Communist country.”

  “News to me,” admitted Underwood.

  Finishing her salad, Noy said, “I suspect that would have astonished him just as he would be astonished to learn that his ideas took root in Nicaragua and to some extent in Lampang in the South China Sea.”

  Secretary of State Morrison interrupted the exchange. Addressing Noy, he said, “We have some idea of your conflict with communism in your homeland. Is it as grave as our intelligence reports indicate?”

  Noy admitted that it was. “The Communists are guerrillas and they give us trouble from two outer islands, where they are entrenched with military aid and troops from Vietnam. I am seeking to undercut their appeal by vigorously pushing a land reform program, dividing the estates of the wealthy to give property and independence to the poor. Even the estate owned by my parents will not escape my reform.”

  “What does your father say to that?” Blake interjected.

  Noy laughed sweetly. “He suspects I’ve been won over to Communist ways.”

  “Have you?” Underwood asked quickly.

  Noy gave him a sharp look. “Of course not,” she said emphatically. “I will deal with the Communists, possibly compromise with them, but I will never give in to them. I will never let communism supersede democracy in Lampang. I’m a devout believer in Jefferson and Lincoln.”

  There was a brief silence while the waiters served the medallions of veal and asparagus.

  Matt Underwood’s eyes remained on Noy. “Jefferson and Lincoln,” he said. “Do you consider them our greatest Americans?”

  “No,” said Noy positively.

  “No?” repeated Underwood, startled. “Who, then, do you consider the greatest American?”

  “Thomas Paine,” Noy said without equivocation.

  “More than Jefferson and Lincoln?”

  “They were great men. Jefferson was the most brilliant among all the presidents before you to inhabit this White House. Lincoln kept the Union together at a terrible time in American history. But Thomas Paine gave it independence—”

  Underwood screwed his face in thought. “I always thought Thomas Paine unstable, a corsetmaker, a bankrupt who came over from England—”

  “More, much, much more,” insisted Noy. She turned to Marsop to enlighten him. “No American colonist was thinking of independence from England when Thomas Paine arrived on the scene. He wrote and himself published ‘Common Sense.’ One in every twenty Americans read it. Paine never saw a shilling for his effort. He gave half his profits to his printer and reserved the other half to buy mittens for the soldiers of the Continental Army. Six months after Paine propagandized for freedom, the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

  Those at the table were finishing their ice cream desserts by now when Morrison restlessly backed his chair away from the table. “Perhaps it’s time to move to the Yellow Oval Room,” he announced, rising. “We can have our coffee served there, and perhaps get down to business.”

  Matt Underwood pulled back Noy’s chair and, touching her arm lightly, he led the way into the corridor and toward the Yellow Oval Room, followed by the others.

  Entering the bright formal room, Noy held back a moment to take it in.

  “Even lovelier than the dining room,” she said.

  Underwood had her arm again as he propelled her past the flat-topped leather-inlaid desk to the yellow sofa facing the marble table that stood beside the white fireplace mantel. He directed Noy to the sofa, indicated a place for her among the cushions, and lowered himself a few inches from her. He waited for Morrison, Blake, and Marsop to be seated, and then he waited longer as the waiters entered, rolling a table that bore the coffee.

  Once the coffee was served, and the waiters had left them, Morrison came forward in his patterned maroon armchair.

  “Maybe it’s time,” he said briskly, “to discuss Madame Noy Sang’s business agenda for this meeting.”

  President Underwood had been sipping his coffee. He set his cup down. “Not so fast, Ezra,” he said to his secretary of state. “We have time enough. I’m eager to hear more from Noy about what she knows of our history and our democracy.”

  “Your Constitution,” Noy began. “I think it’s the best document of its kind in the world. In fact, my husband and I worked to improve our own Constitution in Lampang by following yours. That is not to say yours is perfect. I’ve often thought there were several ways yours might be improved.”

  Underwood arched an eyebrow. “You do? Tell us.”

  Noy immediately and fearlessly launched into a discussion of the American Constitution. “When we modeled our Constitution after yours, we made changes that were long overdue. We dropped the electoral college provision, which we considered obsolete. We added an equal rights provision, which you had rejected as an amendment. At first our Assembly was fashioned after your House of Representatives. It allowed members to be elected every two years, as yours still does. We knew that was wrong and changed it. Two years gives a new member just enough time to find his or her office and start running again. We changed that to four years. Most important, the great flaw in your Constitution is the presidency.” Noy smiled. “It should be abolished in the United States as we intend to abolish and change it on Lampang.”

  Underwood laughed. “You want to get rid of me?”

  “Not quite. We want to get rid of primaries and public elections. As I read somewhere, it would be wiser if the chief executive were to be elected by both houses of Congress and the leading party in each house. Each senator should have two votes, and each representative one. The chief executive elected would remain in office until his party loses a key vote in Congress. Key vote would be defined. Once defeated, the chief executive would resign and there would be a new national election for both houses. Once in place, they would vote for another chief executive all the more responsive to the people. There would be no vice-president. What do you think?”

  Underwood smiled. “I’m beginning to feel uneasy. You’re a radical, Noy.”

  “Just trying to improve democracy,” she said.

  Underwood pressed her for more ideas, and was intrigued by her originality and wit. He hung on to every word.

  The dialogue went on and time was passing.

  At the first interlude, Chief of Staff Blake pointedly held up his hand and considered his wristwatch. “Uh, Mr. President, if I may remind you of your schedule today.… In ten minutes you are due to pick up the first lady and take her to the Contempo Museum opening. You remember, you were written in to say a few words.”

  Secretary of State Morrison shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you go on, Mr. President. I can stay behind with Madame Noy Sang a little longer and get into the political agenda we wanted to cover.”

  President Underwood frowned. “Not necessary, Ezra. I’d prefer to handle the foreign policy matter myself.” He turned toward Blake. “You can take off now, pick up Alice, and accompany her to the Contempo Museum. Tell her I’m too tied up with our country’s affairs to waste my time on art contributors.”

  Noy touched the president’s arm. “Matt, if you are due somewhere else, please don’t let me hold you. I can carry on our business with Secretary Morrison.”

  “No, I prefer to do it directly with you. Ezra Morrison can take Minister Marsop back to his office at the Department of State and outline our thoughts on Lampang. Meanwhile, we can talk it out ourselves. Please go ahead, Ezra, and give the minister some background on our own needs.”

  Morrison reluctantly rose. “If that is your wish, Mr. President—”

  “It is my wish,” said Underwood firmly.

  As the secretary of state and Marsop prepared to leave, the president addressed Blake once more. “You just go ahead, Paul, scoop up Alice, and stand in for me at that museum affair. I’d like to carry on with Noy alone.”

  He watched Morrison depart with Marsop, and then waited for Blake to leave also.

  Swinging toward Noy, he said, “At last we’re alone. I prefer
privacy in meetings.”

  Noy smiled. “I feel privileged,” she said.

  Underwood considered her silently for a few moments. He was taken by her naturalness with him, and her artless manner of saying whatever was on her mind. He was totally captivated by her broad knowledge and her fearless habit of contradicting routine opinion, his own included.

  “There’s something else I’d hoped to discuss with you about America, Noy,” he said gravely, “before we get down to heavier business.”

  “Whatever you wish,” she said. “Please go ahead.”

  “Do you like American movies?”

  “American movies?” This was so unexpected that she burst into laughter. “You ask seriously?”

  “Of course. You can tell more about a stranger by learning of the movies they enjoy and the books they read than anything more serious. I want to know more about you.”

  She caught his mood and answered solemnly. “I adore American movies. In their way, they are a unique American art form. Recently I have been watching reruns of your old films on our television, and most are truly magnificent.”

  “For instance?”

  “A few weeks ago,” said Noy, “I sat through one of the best American films I had ever seen.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was called The Petrified Forest, with Leslie Howard and Humphrey Bogart—”

  “Ah, Duke Mantee.”

  “—and Bette Davis. It was a very meaningful film to me, an echo of how many in life are trapped.”

  Underwood agreed. “I remember seeing it three times.”

  “And you?” Noy asked. “What others have you liked?”

  “I still remember one of my favorites,” said Underwood. “A comedy starring Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable called It Happened One Night. I was so entranced by Gable smoking a pipe that I went out and bought one for myself.” He fumbled at a top pocket of his jacket. “I still have it, or one like it.” He withdrew a battered dark briar. “You see?”

  “I enjoy the smell of a pipe.”

  “Then I’ll smoke it.” He found his leather pouch, filled his pipe, and applied a lighter. “There. How’s that?”

  “Sweet and mellow.”