Moving through the light and darkness of the gardens of Versailles, Dilman had heard the Russian out with a rising sense of hopelessness. The gulf that separated them, that had almost been closed, now seemed wider than ever. He said, “I am sorry, Premier Kasatkin, but I still am unable to agree with your analysis of me, of my interest in Baraza. It absolutely does not spring from my color-”
“You cannot be unconscious of your color, Mr. President,” Kasatkin cut in. “When you go back to your America, what awaits you? Brutal racial riots on every street corner, fury, dissension. Why? Because you do not and cannot practice the democracy your white salesmen try to sell.”
Dilman had tired of being defensive. “You,” he said, “do you practice what you sell? True communism? The system of social organization in which goods are held in common? The system of Plato and Karl Marx?”
“The system of Karl Marx, yes,” said Premier Kasatkin coolly. And not only goods held in common, but brotherhood, respect-”
“You read our newspapers, but I read yours, too, Premier Kasatkin.” Dilman tried to keep his tone level, reasonable, to save what had been gained these last five days, yet let this mule-headed adversary know that he knew the U.S.S.R. was anything but a utopia. You speak of your brotherhood, your equality, in Russia. You have twenty-three members of your ruling Presidium, yet not one is a Georgian, a Uzbek, a Ukrainian. Not one is a Jew. Why the discrimination? Why the starvation purges? Why the constant treason trials? Why only one political party instead of two or three or many? Why the deposing or killing of those who are anti-Party? Why the persecutions of Molotov, Kaganovich, Malenkov, Beria? Why no kosher shops and the dwindling handful of synagogues for one-fifth of the world’s Jews? Why the growing anti-Semitism? Why the beatings and ridicule of African students from Senegal and Nigeria at Moscow State University? Why those endless rural revolts against fixed prices and gouging taxation? Why the KGB
He halted, winded, and was relieved to hear Kasatkin chuckling. “Good, good,” the Russian was saying, “spoken like a true son of the robber barons. I miscalculated. You feel you have more equality than I thought. Well, my friend, we would have to be here five more days for me to reply to you, and correct you, and I would get nowhere with you, and you would accomplish less with me. Let us forget ideologies, their strengths and weaknesses. Let us concentrate on coexistence in peace. We have glued together much these last days. Let us make it stick.”
“That is all I wish,” said Dilman.
They had arrived at the Palace. Ahead, their counselors and aides, and their French hosts, waited in curious groups beside the fleet of gleaming Citroens.
Premier Kasatkin halted. “Our last moment alone, Mr. President.” He extended his hand. “We will keep the peace. As for Baraza, you have my pledge, we will not interfere with
Dilman took his hand. “I shall reassure Kwame Amboko you will not intefere with
Their grips relaxed, their hands parted. As they moved ahead, separating as they walked, Dilman remembered two lady schoolteachers who had once come to Versailles. He envied them their magical escape to the past, where all had already happened and where there could be no terror of the unknown, unlike Kasatkin’s realistic future, where there lurked tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.
Dilman mourned leaving what was behind, as he mourned Grandpa Schneider, who had not been at his side after all, and he said cheerlessly, “All right, Secretary Eaton, let’s head for home. There’s work to do.”
VI
His life was so filled with telephone calls from so many varied persons, at all hours, on all subjects, with so many degrees of urgency, that it was surprising how one more call, no matter how unusual, could have possessed the devastating power of an earthquake.
All of this he would remember later.
It was five days since his return from Europe, and Douglass Dilman sat at the head of the mahogany dining table in the intimate Family Dining Room on the first floor of the White House, enjoying the informal luncheon with United Nations Ambassador Slater and key members of the American delegation. In spite of the necessary presence of Arthur Eaton, who had been disapproving and excessively formal with him since his veto of the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, the friendliness of his United Nations colleagues made the meal pleasurable.
Dilman had reported upon every detail of his foreign policy talks with Premier Kasatkin. His listeners agreed that the air had been cleared, and peace was probable and wonderful, and that the President had achieved a real success. Basking in the unanimity of this favorable opinion, Dilman had the appetite for a second helping of the baked salmon loaf.
Then it was, with the luncheon almost over, that Sally Watson appeared, and came quickly to him. While Ambassador Slater politely shifted his discourse from the President to Eaton, Dilman leaned toward his social secretary as she bent close to his ear.
“A telephone call, Mr. President,” she whispered. “Miss Foster says that the party calling insists it is important.”
“Who is it?”
“Miss Foster didn’t say, except-”
“I’m sure it can wait, then.”
“-except it is personal, from someone with the Vaduz Exporters.”
Dilman’s immediate reaction of concern broke across his features. He was sure that Miss Watson was not unaware of his reaction. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I’d better take it.”
“Shall I transfer it in here, or-”
“No, no.” He pushed his chair back, made hasty apologies, and followed Sally Watson into the State Dining Room, and then into the Main Hall.
She was leading him to the Red Room. “Right in here,” she said. By the time he entered the nineteenth- century Empire parlor, he could see Miss Watson taking up the receiver from the marbletopped circular table. “Miss Foster,” she was saying, “I have the President. One moment-”
Dilman accepted the telephone. “Thank you. That’ll be all, Miss Watson. Please close the door when you leave.”
He waited. The moment that Sally Watson had gone, he turned away, receiver pressed to his mouth and ear, and said, “Miss Foster? You can put the call through.”
Again he waited.
The call had unsettled him. Not once before, in all his weeks in the White House, had Wanda Gibson telephoned him here. This was the first time. Of late, he had kept their tenuous relationship alive by trying to telephone her at least once a week, during evenings only, when the Spingers were home to answer the phone, and so avoid arousing any suspicion in the minds of operators or anyone else who might overhear him.
Now here was Wanda coming to him openly. He wondered. Of course, the message had not said that Miss Gibson was calling, but rather, someone from Vaduz Exporters. Perhaps Wanda had fallen ill, met with an accident, and someone in her office, or her employer, Franz Gar, was trying to notify him. But no, Wanda would have told no one in her firm that she was a friend of the President. He was baffled.
Suddenly, unmistakably, he heard Wanda’s voice in the earpiece. “Mr. President-is this President Dilman?”
He understood her hesitancy immediately. “One second, hold on,” he said. “Uh, Miss Foster-”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Personal call. You need not monitor this one. Thank you.”
He listened for the audible click of his secretary’s telephone, heard it, and was assured that Wanda and he
