by Ward Just
Of course there were others at the table, strange characters from FDR's third term or Truman's first, a lawyer who had helped out at Nuremberg, an editor, and always a mysterious foreigner, a British M.P. or a French banker or Swedish diplomat, or the Israeli scholar, a geographer, it turned out, whose specialty was archaeological sites in the Sinai Peninsula and the Golan Heights, the sites in such proximity to Cairo and Damascus that you could see the glow of the cities after dark. Sylvia eavesdropped as Leila Berggren moved in, flattering him, inviting him to lunch at the Institute to give a presentation to her colleagues—and laughed out loud when he agreed at once, of course, dear lady, my fee is one thousand dollars. And for that I throw in certain neglected political questions, many of them thousands of years old.
The evenings began aimlessly enough but ended focused and fractious around the dinner table, cordials for the women, port for the men, and Courvoisier for Wilson Slyde. At the end of the evening the talk turned to the scandal or the war, sometimes both at once. The foreigners were tactful about the scandal, mostly because its details eluded them; and they admired Nixon. Wilson Slyde attempted to clear things up with the remark that all financial scandals were alike but a political scandal was political in its own way.
Sylvia always waited for Wilson to intervene with a theory, which he was careful to enunciate in a kind of purr, so seductive that listeners were not certain whether he was joking or serious or merely showing off. At the end he could be counted on to provide a little mathematical simile, as if to remind everyone that MIT was still part of his résumé.
This night he proposed that history unfolded like the books of the Bible, yet obvious that some books were more important than others. You could not have the Bible without Exodus, Ecclesiastes, and Job, though you could do without James or Deuteronomy. Without James and Deuteronomy the Bible would be a poorer book, an uncoordinated book, but still a great book. Job and Ecclesiastes were the Lincoln and Roosevelt administrations, years of great suffering and climactic decisions, momentous years without which the American Republic would be a very different republic. Yet it was only chance that had thrust Lincoln and Roosevelt forward at the propitious moment, unless you believed that the nation was under God's supervision, a proposition that he, for one, doubted. Wilson argued that Lincoln's great soul was present at all times, the pi in any discussion of circumference.
Naturally war was the greatest burden, and it always arose from oppression; there were no exceptions to this rule. The present war would have to be endured and its full consequences borne. The war was a burden on every back, though heavier on some backs than others. Indeed on many backs the burden was a feather, though the feather would grow with the years. In time it would become an intolerable weight.
Wilson's right, Ed Peralta said, much as I hate to admit it because he works for the damned newspapers, vultures ... This was a long speech for Ed, who had grown quiet lately, preferring to listen to the after-dinner arguments instead of participating in them.
In one itty-bitty town in Georgia fifteen boys died, Wilson said. Five of them were given the choice of the Army or the penitentiary so naturally they chose the Army because they'd never heard of Vietnam. They didn't know there was a war on. Didn't teach Vietnam in that one-room schoolhouse they went to, the one with the cracked blackboard and no chalk, and no maps either, so these boys didn't know there was a war on out there in that Asia.
Loyal boys, Harold Grendall said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. Patriotic boys; they served their country.
Wilson leaned forward and showed all his teeth, an expression somewhere in the vicinity of a smile. He picked up his Cognac and drained it, refilling at once. He opened his mouth to reply, then didn't. The subject was too serious. Just because the fish were in the barrel didn't mean you had to shoot them. Still, someone had to stand up for the troopers.
Wilson said quietly, That's horseshit, Harold. You shouldn't say it. You shouldn't even think it. You dishonor them.
The war is quiet now, Harold said. Our troops are out, mostly.
Unless he decides to reinforce them, Wilson said.
Impossible, Harold said. The plan was to cut and run, and that's what he's done.
Leaving the casualties on the battlefield, Wilson said.
It's late, Sylvia said. She looked at Willy.
Willy said blandly, Does anyone here know them?
No, no one at the table had ever met the Nixons, except for Wilson, who had interviewed him a dozen times, but that was different, a ritual dialogue, a dumb show.
Oh, Harold said, to shake hands with at some embassy function or the Alfalfa Club dinner or the Gridiron. The locker room at Burning Tree, Echo House for one of Axel's birthday parties, in and out in an hour, never drank anything. Thing about him is, he has this enormous head. Biggest head on a small man I've ever seen; you'd recognize him as one of the background figures in a Jan Steen tableau of Amsterdam burghers, his features unmistakably Dutch or German. You have to see him in person. He has specific gravity and draws your attention, and then you notice the head. And inside the head was a large brain, teeming with schemes and populated with his own repertory company of dead or forgotten souls, the Rosenbergs and Hiss and Harry Dexter White and Owen Lattimore, Whittaker Chambers, Jerry Voorhis, Helen Douglas, Checkers, and that bastard Cohn. Play the Nixon card, he'll lead you to trick after trick in every game that's been played in this town for the past twenty-five years. He's a phenomenon, all those suspicious characters crowded into this huge head.
Wilson was staring at Harold, waiting for him to continue. He had the beginnings of a column forming in his mind, something to do with slavery of the body and slavery of the mind, and the Nixon Court.
Go on, Harold, Willy said. This is fascinating.
Harold said, But I can't say that I've passed more than an hour in his company and I've lived in Washington for forty years. I suppose it's a political thing and a social thing, too, if I'm honest about it. He never cared for Yale men. Never cared for intelligence officers either. Maybe he was suspicious of people who knew more secrets than he did. He's been here forever but has never seemed permanent, as we are. He's always returning to someplace else, California or New York. He's always wanted to rule us but never wanted to live among us. He's an alien; he's a product of the West Coast. He brought his West Coast values to our city. He had a terrible mother, you know. He's an unhealthy organism in our midst. Really, he's an intruder. He's the one who breaks into your house and steals the family silver, and violates your wife on his way out. Willy, why are you smiling?
He's been here since nineteen forty-six, Willy said.
And never fit in, Harold said.
Congressman, senator, vice president, President.
It's amazing, isn't it?
I'd say—he fit like a hand in a glove.
Oh, you're wrong there, Willy. He's a low-life.
He's the glove, Willy said.
He wanted it so badly for so long and now he's got it, two terms of the presidency. But he's not satisfied. Of course the object cannot possibly satisfy the desire. It never does.
Sylvia said, Sometimes it does.
Harold said, Hardly ever.
Sylvia said, It would depend on the object, wouldn't it?
The head's too large for the body, Harold said.
Sylvia turned to stare into the cold fireplace. It would not be Steen, master of the decorous domestic life and the voluptuous after-hours, Steen's crowded surfaces: unbuttoned blouses and cracked oyster shells on the tavern floor, spilled beer and a lewd grin below glazed eyes. The wages of wealth, according to Jan Steen. The didactic Steen would be incapable of capturing the incongruity of Nixon's mighty head atop his light and awkward body. The head worked miracles of intrigue while the body lurched and stumbled, the effect that of a virtuoso striking all the right notes while mutilating the tempo. What a dreadful time the President must have had as a boy, to be so undersized and uncoordinated. Of course at schoolb
oy sports your head could carry you a far distance; the art of evasion was not for the timid or the slow-witted. But eventually the bigger and stronger boy would catch up and beat you senseless. Strength and speed were to an athlete what intuition was to an artist and foresight to a politician. Axel had told her once that a boy never forgot the lesson of the gridiron. Certainly Nixon never did. They used him for a tackling dummy. It would be wonderful to see what Rodin would have done with him, Nixon's head in bronze in the same gallery with Clemenceau and Balzac. Only the head, though. Rodin would leave the body to the viewer's imagination.
You'll be rid of him soon, Willy said.
Yes, Harold said. He's finished. He'll go back to California. That's the last we'll ever see of him.
Wilson Slyde said, The boys at the paper have him over a barrel, and he knows it. So you can argue that it doesn't matter what he does. He has no defense. He's incapable of telling the truth—what good has that ever done him? And it's unprofitable for him to lie. Nothing will change because no matter how fast he runs, the pack will run faster. I wonder if he can hear the baying of the hounds? I'll bet he sees the lynchman's noose in his dreams at night. With Nixon, everything's personal.
Well said, Harold said.
Very interesting, Willy said, his smile as broad as a Halloween jack-o'-lantern. He said, I have a theory; maybe you'd like to hear it. Nixon is Washington's Jew, despised and feared. He's never had full citizenship in the federal city. They don't like his background, altogether too cosmopolitan. They don't like his friends. If only they get rid of Nixon, Washington will be sound once again. They want him to put his pots and pans in his peddler's cart and move along to the next village, where they'll never have to see him or his like again; and his friends, too. Next thing you know, they'll want to pin a yellow star to his blue serge suit—
Oh, Willy, Wilson said. Superb!
7. Trust and the Perception of Trust
SYLVIA AND WILLY fled to Nantucket after Nixons resignation. Willy was revolted by the frenzy of self-congratulations, and Sylvia could not find the struggle so necessary to her work. The capital went suddenly flat, exhausted by the interminable crisis; and she was alarmed when she heard that Alec was somehow involved in the conversations between the White House and the various committees overseeing the impeachment process. Ever conciliatory, Alec was said to have invoked the precedent of General Grant at Appomattox Court House—unconditional surrender, but tell him he can keep his horses; he will need them for the spring plowing. All parties sought the most convenient exit in order that the long national nightmare be ended at last. Or, as Willy observed, things were getting a little too close to home.
Alec's role was mysterious; and it had to be said that Sylvia wanted to believe that he had no role at all and it was Axel meddling behind the scenes. Everyone wanted to have a piece of the scandal of the century. Not to have one would be like living in San Francisco in 1906 and sleeping through the earthquake. So the rumors persisted, one day Alec acting on behalf of the White House, the next on behalf of one of the congressional committees. Willy thought that Alec's natural role was to represent both at once, Alec a kind of corporation counsel retained by Washington itself, the authority that was here today and here tomorrow and the day after, Alec the nimble mouthpiece seeking to preserve confidence at a time of terrible uncertainty; put another way, he was a bankruptcy referee protecting assets. Alec himself refused to comment, except to observe in a general way that a citizen had a duty to be helpful. Those who lived in Washington had a special responsibility, because the capital was home, the place where you earned your living, where your children slept; you had a loyalty to it, and it to you. Question, really, of civic pride. So it was natural that any helpful activities would be private, removed from the destabilizing public glare. Don't we all want to think well of ourselves? Nixon's crimes were terrible, but a pardon was necessary.
Filled up with Scotch one night, Willy listened sullenly to yet another assault on Hannah Nixon and the rootless ambiance of Southern California and at the first pause in the conversation introduced the criminal mothers of tyrants past. Tamerlane and his mountain of skulls, Stalin's systematic starvation of ten million Ukrainian peasants, among other horrors. Those mothers had plenty to answer for, perhaps the weather of the gloomy Caucasus was responsible, the air so thin no love could breathe, and their little boys became monsters. Willy tactfully avoided mention of Adolf Hitler. Then he turned suddenly and accused Alec of contriving a cover-up worse than anything Richard Nixon had contemplated. Another Washington shell game, now-you-see-it-now-you-don't, and one day there he was, waving from the Marine helicopter to his tearful staff. How fortunate the public was spared the anguish of a trial, which inevitably would have involved Washington itself, home to Richard Nixon for most of the past thirty years. Where do you think he learned his tricks? Whittier, California? Perhaps the trial would have involved other Presidents, and how they did their business. And how their staffs did business, and with whom. The intimidating public glare indeed! More like a Star Chamber, because while justice may have been done, it was not seen to be done. What remained were the tapes themselves, thousands of hours of loose talk and false hopes. What bad language! How coarse he was! And Big Head was an anti-Semite, along with three-quarters of the peoples of the nations of the earth. Genteel Washington was appalled at the stink of the locker room in the Oval Office itself. Do you think, Alec, that perhaps there's the smallest bit of snobbery here? Furious, Alec stormed from the room and refused to accept his stepfather's apology, which was insincere in any case.
That was unnecessary, Sylvia said.
He's more like Axel every day, Willy said.
He's just a boy, she said.
He was a boy, Willy said. He's a grown-up now.
So Washington lost its savor and they returned to Nantucket, for good, as it turned out. Sylvia knew that you could as easily live in one place as another; there was no public arena at all on Nantucket. For some years she maintained a correspondence with Billie and Ed Peralta and with the Grendalls, and then the correspondence languished. She no longer followed the news closely. Ford became Carter and Carter became Reagan. On Election Day 1980, she forgot to vote. She was tending her garden, preparing for the usual vicious winter, and that night watching the election coverage she wondered what politics had to do with life as it was lived. Now and again in the Sunday paper she would see Axel's name or Alec's, Axel meeting some foreign supremo at a resort you never heard of, Alec refusing comment on the pending hearings except to say that his client would be cleared of all charges One night she saw Alec on the evening news and was surprised by how well he looked; but of course he was divorced now and sometimes divorce was a tonic.
Sylvia was experimenting with long-line verse, alone every afternoon in her upstairs study, watching Willy surf-cast on the deserted beach; he fished rain or shine, winter and summer. The struggle, she found now, was the tide climbing the low hill of sand, reaching and then falling back. She watched Willy's curvy line glittering in the sun, Willy in silhouette against the nervous ocean. Lobster boats moved offshore and she thought of dinner, lobster grilled, a green salad, chess with Willy beside the fire. She listened to cello sonatas, mostly Brahms, feeling her pencil on the paper like a bow across strings, an andante and then a diminuendo, almost a sigh. No rush; there was plenty of time. She was trying to draw music from the paper, trying to bring her crowded childhood to life, thinking all the while that any soloist needed accompaniment. Rostropovich needed Serkin. Even du Pre needed Barenboim. The cellist could supply the muscle, but the pianist set the pace, the gait of the piece. Sylvia was thrilled with her long lines, working now in a vernacular tongue. Slang she had not heard in years came back to her, and the look of her bedroom in the early morning light, her calico cat, a doll she loved, a nanny she didn't love. She was trying to arrange the characters as you would in a play. As she wrote she watched the tide; saw Willy stretch his arms and heave the line beyond the breaking surf.
Axel was in the room, and so were her father and her grandchildren, and poor Fred Greene and the Nazi officer in the Paris café so long ago, and the girl in the beret. She tried to remember the name of the brigadier's mistress and could not. She remembered the museum at Calcutta and the curator unlocking the vault to get at the drawings, and her own surprise. She conversed with her difficult mother, dead the year she left Axel. She remembered her dismay when she realized beyond doubt that one day she would occupy Echo House. She looked at Constance and saw an antique version of herself, an appalling prospect. She remembered her excitement when she realized she could leave Axel, that she was not a piece of property or a head bolted to an iron plinth. Watching Willy return, with his fishing rod on his shoulder and a fat bluefish in his fist, she decided she was the happiest she'd been. She thought. It's only 1982. I can have twenty more years of Willy and Nantucket. I will never run out of poems.
She heard the door close and the telephone ring and a moment after that Willy's knock on her door. She did not turn and presently felt his hand on her shoulder, and then his head close to hers. She knew at once that something was wrong and that it had to do with Washington.
"Ed Peralta's dead," he said. "Suicide."
Poor Billie, Sylvia said, and began to cry. She remembered Billie in the bar car of the Twentieth-Century Limited, appearing suddenly at their table, Axel looking up and smiling pleasantly as he would at any stranger. This is my place, Billie had said to the steward, but by then she and Axel were halfway down the car, his hand on the small of her back. She thought the heat of his hand would melt the cloth. She remembered the cloth against her skin and then they were embracing wildly in the vestibule, the train rocking and the night air unwelcome.
