‘International politics is like a glass. Aggressive moves by either side pour water in. The overflow is war.’
Dimka saw the point. ‘When tension is at its maximum, no one can make a move without causing a war.’
‘Well done. And the Americans do not want war, any more than we do. So, if we maintain international tension at the maximum – full to the brim – the American President is helpless. He cannot do anything without causing war, so he must do nothing!’
Dimka realized this was brilliant. It showed how the weaker power could dominate. ‘So Kennedy is now powerless?’ he said.
‘Because his next move is war!’
Had this been Khrushchev’s long-term plan, Dimka wondered. Or had he just made it up as a hindsight justification? He was nothing if not an improviser. But it hardly mattered. ‘So, what are we going to do about the crisis in Berlin?’ he said.
‘We’re going to build a wall,’ said Khrushchev.
9
George Jakes took Verena Marquand to the Jockey Club for lunch. It was not a club, but a swanky new restaurant in the Fairfax Hotel that had found favour with the Kennedy crowd. George and Verena were the best-dressed couple in the room, she ravishing in a gingham check frock with a wide red belt, he in a tailored dark-blue linen blazer with a striped tie. Nevertheless, they were given a table by the kitchen door. Washington was integrated, but not unprejudiced. George did not let it get to him.
Verena was in town with her parents. They had been invited to the White House later today for a cocktail party being given to thank high-profile supporters such as the Marquands – and, George knew, to keep their goodwill for the next campaign.
Verena looked around appreciatively. ‘It’s a long time since I was in a decent restaurant,’ she said. ‘Atlanta is a desert.’ With parents who were Hollywood stars, she had been raised to think lavish was normal.
‘You should move here,’ George told her, looking into her startling green eyes. The sleeveless dress showed off the perfection of her café-au-lait skin, and she surely knew it. If she were to move to Washington, he would ask her for a date.
George was trying to forget Maria Summers. He was dating Norine Latimer, a history graduate who worked as a secretary at the American History Museum. She was attractive and intelligent, but it was not working: he still thought about Maria all the time. Perhaps Verena might be a more effective cure.
He kept all that to himself, naturally. ‘You’re out of the swim, all the way down there in Georgia,’ he said.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ she said. ‘I’m working for Martin Luther King. He’s going to change America more than John F. Kennedy.’
‘That’s because Dr King has only one issue, civil rights. The President has a hundred. He’s the defender of the free world. Right now his major worry is Berlin.’
‘Curious, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘He believes in freedom and democracy for German people in East Berlin, but not for American Negroes in the South.’
George smiled. She was always combative. ‘It’s not just about what he believes,’ he said. ‘It’s what he can achieve.’
She shrugged. ‘So how much difference can
you
make?’
‘The Justice Department employs nine hundred and fifty lawyers. Before I arrived, only ten were black. Already I’m a ten per cent improvement.’
‘So what have you achieved?’
‘Justice is taking a tough line with the Interstate Commerce Commission. Bobby has asked them to ban segregation in the bus service.’
‘And what makes you think this ruling will be enforced any better than all the previous ones?’
‘Not much, so far.’ George was frustrated, but he wanted to hide the full extent of that from Verena. ‘There’s a guy called Dennis Wilson, a young white lawyer on Bobby’s personal team, who sees me as a threat, and keeps me out of the really important meetings.’
‘How can he do that? You were hired by Robert Kennedy – doesn’t he want your input?’
‘I need to win Bobby’s confidence.’
‘You’re cosmetic,’ she said scornfully. ‘With you there, Bobby can tell the world he’s got a Negro advising him on civil rights. He doesn’t have to listen to you.’
George feared she might be right, but he did not admit it. ‘That depends on me. I have to make him listen.’
‘Come to Atlanta,’ she said. ‘The job with Dr King is still open.’
George shook his head. ‘My career is here.’ He remembered what Maria had said, and repeated it. ‘Protestors can have a big impact but, in the end, it’s governments that reshape the world.’
‘Some do, some don’t,’ said Verena.
When they left, they found George’s mother waiting in the hotel lobby. George had arranged to meet her here, but had not expected her to wait outside the restaurant. ‘Why didn’t you join us?’ he asked.
She ignored his question and spoke to Verena. ‘We met briefly at the Harvard Commencement,’ she said. ‘How are you, Verena?’ She was going out of her way to be polite, which was a sign, George knew, that she did not really like Verena.
George saw Verena to a taxi and kissed her cheek. ‘It was great to see you again,’ he said.
He and his mother went on foot, heading for the Justice Department. Jacky Jakes wanted to see where her son worked. George had arranged for her to visit on a quiet day, when Bobby Kennedy was at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, seven or eight miles out of town.
Jacky had taken a day off work. She was dressed for the occasion in a hat and gloves, as if she were going to church. As they walked he said: ‘What do you think of Verena?’
‘She’s a beautiful girl,’ Jacky replied promptly.
‘You’d like her politics,’ George said. ‘You and Khrushchev.’ He was exaggerating, but both Verena and Jacky were ultra-liberal. ‘She thinks the Cubans have the right to be Communists if they want.’
‘And so they do,’ Jacky said, proving his point.
‘So what don’t you like?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Mom, we men aren’t very intuitive, but I’ve been studying you all my life, and I know when you have reservations.’
She smiled and touched his arm affectionately. ‘You’re attracted to her, and I can see why. She’s irresistible. I don’t want to badmouth a girl you like, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘It might be difficult to be married to Verena. I get the feeling she considers her own inclinations first, last and in between.’
‘You think she’s selfish.’
‘We’re all selfish. I think she’s spoilt.’
George nodded and tried not to be offended. His mother was probably right. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said. ‘She’s determined to stay down there in Atlanta.’
‘Well, perhaps that’s for the best. I only want you to be happy.’
The Department of Justice was housed in a grand classical building across the street from the White House. Jacky seemed to swell a little with pride as they walked in. It pleased her that her son worked in such a prestigious place. George enjoyed her reaction. She was entitled: she had devoted her life to him, and this was her reward.
They entered the Great Hall. Jacky liked the famous murals showing scenes of American life, but she looked askance at the aluminium statue of
Spirit of Justice
, which depicted a woman showing one breast. ‘I’m not a prude, but I don’t see why Justice has to have her bosom uncovered,’ she said. ‘What’s the reason for that?’
George considered. ‘To show that Justice has nothing to hide?’
She laughed. ‘Nice try.’
They went up in the elevator. ‘How is your arm?’ Jacky asked.
The plaster was off, and George no longer needed a sling. ‘It still hurts,’ he said. ‘I find it helps to keep my left hand in my pocket. Gives the arm a little support.’
They got off at the fifth floor. George took Jacky to the room he shared with Dennis Wilson and several others. The Attorney General’s office was next door.
Dennis was at his desk near the door. He was a pale man whose blond hair was receding prematurely. George said to him: ‘When’s he coming back?’
Dennis knew he meant Bobby. ‘Not for an hour, at least.’
George said to his mother: ‘Come and see Bobby Kennedy’s office.’
‘Are you sure it’s okay?’
‘He’s not there. He wouldn’t mind.’
George led Jacky through an anteroom, nodding to two secretaries, and into the Attorney General’s office. It looked more like the drawing room of a large country house, with walnut panelling, a massive stone fireplace, patterned carpet and curtains, and lamps on occasional tables. It was a huge room, but Bobby had managed to make it look cluttered. The furnishings included an aquarium and a stuffed tiger. His enormous desk was a litter of papers, ashtrays and family photographs. On a shelf behind the desk chair were four telephones.
Jacky said: ‘Remember that place by Union Station where we lived when you were a little boy?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘You could fit the whole house in here.’
George looked around. ‘You could, I guess.’
‘And that desk is bigger than the bed where you and I used to sleep until you were four.’
‘Both of us and the dog, too.’
On the desk was a green beret, headgear of the US Army Special Forces that Bobby admired so much. But Jacky was more interested in the photographs. George picked up a framed picture of Bobby and Ethel sitting on a lawn in front of a big house, surrounded by their seven children. ‘This is taken outside Hickory Hill, their home in McLean, Virginia.’ He handed it to her.
‘I like that,’ she said, studying the photo. ‘He cares for his family.’
A confident voice with a Boston accent said: ‘Who cares for his family?’
George spun round to see Bobby Kennedy walking into the room. He wore a crumpled light-grey summer suit. His tie was loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He was not as handsome as his older brother, mainly because of his large rabbitty front teeth.
George was flustered. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought you were out for the afternoon.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Bobby, though George was not sure he meant it. ‘This place is owned by the American people – they can look at it if they like.’
‘This is my mother, Jacky Jakes,’ George said.
Bobby shook her hand vigorously. ‘Mrs Jakes, you have a fine son,’ he said, turning on the charm, as he did whenever talking to a voter.
Jacky’s face had darkened with embarrassment, but she spoke without hesitation. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have several – I was looking at them in this picture.’
‘Four sons and three daughters. They’re all wonderful, and I speak with complete objectivity.’
They all laughed.
Bobby said: ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Jakes. Come and see us any time.’
Though gracious, that was clearly a dismissal, and George and his mother left the room.
They walked along the corridor to the elevator. Jacky said: ‘That was embarrassing, but Bobby was kind.’
‘It was also planned,’ George said angrily. ‘Bobby’s never early for anything. Dennis deliberately misled us. He wanted to make me look uppity.’
His mother patted his arm. ‘If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’ll be in good shape.’
‘I don’t know.’ George recalled Verena’s accusation, that his job was cosmetic. ‘Do you think my role here could be just to make Bobby look like he’s listening to Negroes when he’s not?’
Jacky considered. ‘Maybe.’
‘I might do more good working for Martin Luther King in Atlanta.’
‘I understand how you feel, but I think you should stay here.’
‘I knew you’d say that.’
He saw her out of the building. ‘How is your apartment?’ she said. ‘I have to see that next.’
‘It’s great.’ George had rented the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian terraced house in the Capitol Hill neighbourhood. ‘Come over on Sunday.’
‘So I can cook you dinner in your kitchen?’
‘What a kind offer.’
‘Will I meet your girlfriend?’
‘I’ll invite Norine.’
They kissed goodbye. Jacky would get a commuter train to her home in Prince George’s County. Before she walked away she said: ‘Remember this. There are a thousand smart young men willing to work for Martin Luther King. But there’s only one Negro sitting in the office next to Bobby Kennedy’s.’
She was right, he thought. She usually was.
When he returned to the office he said nothing to Dennis, but sat at his desk and wrote a summary for Bobby of a report on school integration.
At five o’clock Bobby and his aides jumped into limousines for the short ride to the White House, where Bobby was scheduled to meet with the President. This was the first time George had been taken along to a White House meeting, and he wondered whether that was a sign that he was becoming more trusted – or just that the meeting was less important.
They entered the West Wing and went to the Cabinet Room. It was a long room with four tall windows on one side. Twenty or so dark-blue leather chairs stood around a coffin-shaped table. World-shaking decisions were made in this room, George thought solemnly.
After fifteen minutes there was no sign of President Kennedy. Dennis said to George: ‘Go and make certain Dave Powers knows where we are, will you?’ Powers was the President’s personal assistant.
‘Sure,’ said George. Seven years at Harvard and I’m a messenger boy, he thought.
Before the meeting with Bobby, the President had been due to drop in on a cocktail party for celebrity supporters. George made his way to the main house and followed the noise. Under the massive chandeliers in the East Room, a hundred people were into their second hour of drinking. George waved to Verena’s parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, who were talking to someone from the Democratic National Committee.
The President was not in the room.
George looked around and spotted a kitchen entrance. He had learned that the President often used staff doors and back corridors, to avoid constantly being buttonholed and delayed.
He went through the staff door and found the presidential party right outside. The handsome, tanned President, only forty-four years old, wore a navy-blue suit with a white shirt and a skinny tie. He looked tired and edgy. ‘I can’t be photographed with an interracial couple!’ he said in a frustrated tone, as if forced to repeat himself. ‘I’d lose ten million votes!’