Let’s not make this into a crisis, Jimmy. They’re not going to walk away from the table. It’s probably just another goddam Buddhist holiday. They’ve got a million of them. But find out.”
Nick listened to the wheels of power while the midday traffic floated by outside.
“Fine,” Larry said, signaling to Nick that he was finishing. “And use the telex line, will you? I’ll be in and out. Right, later.” He hung up. “Nick,” he said fondly, shifting gears.
“How’s the Insider?” Nick said, a joke between them. A
Newsweek
cover story had labeled him Mr Insider, the old Democrat who served both parties and seemed beyond either, the surprise Nixon appointee to the negotiating team, brought back by the wrong party from his banishment to the wilderness during the Johnson years. That had been the one transition he hadn’t survived, trickier than Truman to Eisenhower, because Kennedy had liked him and that, for Johnson, had been that. Now he was in because he’d been out, his hands so clean in Asia that he’d become a statesman, not a fixer.
“Outside looking in, from the sound of it,” he said, smiling. “Seems I’m going to face an empty table in Paris tomorrow.”
“They’re objecting to you?” Nick said, surprised.
“They’ll get over it. They have to.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“This time? Old Cold Warrior, something like that. Hardline–that’s the actual phrase. Funny, back then I wasn’t supposed to be hard-line enough. Still, who was? Except Stalin.”
Nick smiled at the play of his mind. “Is it serious?”
But Larry was clearly enjoying himself. “No. Ho’s probably still away for the weekend, but nobody wants to say. The minute he gets back we’ll be bowing and drinking tea and off we go.”
“Good luck,” Nick said, looking at him seriously.
Larry looked up, not sure how to respond, but before he could say anything, Nick’s mother opened the bathroom door.
“Nick,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t hear you.” She was already dressed, a Chanel suit with a short skirt, and had clearly been putting on fresh makeup, so Nick expected an air-kiss, but she rushed across the room to hug him with the old warmth, her cheek tight against him.
“You’ll smear,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, darling, I don’t care,” she said, holding him. “Here. Let me look at you.” She pulled back, holding his upper arms, gazing at him fondly, and Nick wondered again if she saw his father. “I think you’ve grown. Is that possible? We’re supposed to
stop
. But Nick, the hair.” She touched the back of his neck.
“Too long?”
“Too scraggly. Just a trim? I’m sure they have a barber downstairs. It wouldn’t take ten minutes—”
“Mother.”
“Oh, I know, I know. But honestly, Nick, you can’t go to the Bruces’ like that. You really can’t.”
“We’re going to the Bruces‘?”
She sighed. “Oh, I know, darling, I’m sorry. We came to see you and now Evangeline’s carrying on about dinner. She’s been on the phone half the morning. I told her we’d said drinks but apparently she’s got half of London coming to some reception. So now it has to be dinner after, and - Anyway, it can’t be helped. You know what she’s like. You don’t mind, really, do you? Sasha will be there, I suppose. Weren’t you at school together?”
“No, she’s younger.”
“Oh. Well—”
“It’s my fault, Nick,” Larry said. “I can’t say no to David. He’s still the ambassador. Anyway, we can talk at lunch.”
Nick smiled to himself. One meal. One tie. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. This all right?” He touched the lapel of his jacket. “For tonight?”
“Don’t tease,” his mother said lightly, enjoying herself. “A proper suit. I know you have one. Funny, isn’t it? Men used to come to London just to
buy
suits, and now look at everybody.”
“You’ll feel better at the Bruces‘. I’ll bet the rot hasn’t spread there
Nick listened to the wheels of power while the midday traffic floated by outside.
“Fine,” Larry said, signaling to Nick that he was finishing. “And use the telex line, will you? I’ll be in and out. Right, later.” He hung up. “Nick,” he said fondly, shifting gears.
“How’s the Insider?” Nick said, a joke between them. A
Newsweek
cover story had labeled him Mr Insider, the old Democrat who served both parties and seemed beyond either, the surprise Nixon appointee to the negotiating team, brought back by the wrong party from his banishment to the wilderness during the Johnson years. That had been the one transition he hadn’t survived, trickier than Truman to Eisenhower, because Kennedy had liked him and that, for Johnson, had been that. Now he was in because he’d been out, his hands so clean in Asia that he’d become a statesman, not a fixer.
“Outside looking in, from the sound of it,” he said, smiling. “Seems I’m going to face an empty table in Paris tomorrow.”
“They’re objecting to you?” Nick said, surprised.
“They’ll get over it. They have to.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“This time? Old Cold Warrior, something like that. Hardline–that’s the actual phrase. Funny, back then I wasn’t supposed to be hard-line enough. Still, who was? Except Stalin.”
Nick smiled at the play of his mind. “Is it serious?”
But Larry was clearly enjoying himself. “No. Ho’s probably still away for the weekend, but nobody wants to say. The minute he gets back we’ll be bowing and drinking tea and off we go.”
“Good luck,” Nick said, looking at him seriously.
Larry looked up, not sure how to respond, but before he could say anything, Nick’s mother opened the bathroom door.
“Nick,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t hear you.” She was already dressed, a Chanel suit with a short skirt, and had clearly been putting on fresh makeup, so Nick expected an air-kiss, but she rushed across the room to hug him with the old warmth, her cheek tight against him.
“You’ll smear,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, darling, I don’t care,” she said, holding him. “Here. Let me look at you.” She pulled back, holding his upper arms, gazing at him fondly, and Nick wondered again if she saw his father. “I think you’ve grown. Is that possible? We’re supposed to
stop
. But Nick, the hair.” She touched the back of his neck.
“Too long?”
“Too scraggly. Just a trim? I’m sure they have a barber downstairs. It wouldn’t take ten minutes—”
“Mother.”
“Oh, I know, I know. But honestly, Nick, you can’t go to the Bruces’ like that. You really can’t.”
“We’re going to the Bruces‘?”
She sighed. “Oh, I know, darling, I’m sorry. We came to see you and now Evangeline’s carrying on about dinner. She’s been on the phone half the morning. I told her we’d said drinks but apparently she’s got half of London coming to some reception. So now it has to be dinner after, and - Anyway, it can’t be helped. You know what she’s like. You don’t mind, really, do you? Sasha will be there, I suppose. Weren’t you at school together?”
“No, she’s younger.”
“Oh. Well—”
“It’s my fault, Nick,” Larry said. “I can’t say no to David. He’s still the ambassador. Anyway, we can talk at lunch.”
Nick smiled to himself. One meal. One tie. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. This all right?” He touched the lapel of his jacket. “For tonight?”
“Don’t tease,” his mother said lightly, enjoying herself. “A proper suit. I know you have one. Funny, isn’t it? Men used to come to London just to
buy
suits, and now look at everybody.”
“You’ll feel better at the Bruces‘. I’ll bet the rot hasn’t spread there
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