‘I guess we need both,’ Verena said, and went back to doing her eyes.
George put on his best suit, which always made him feel good. He would have a Martini later, maybe two. For seven years his life had been bound up inextricably with Robert Kennedy’s. Maybe it was time to move on.
He said: ‘Does it ever occur to you that our relationship is peculiar?’
She laughed. ‘Of course! We live apart and meet every month or two for mad passionate sex. And we’ve being doing this for years!’
‘A man might do what you do, and meet his mistress on business trips,’ George said. ‘Especially if he were married. That would be normal.’
‘I kind of like that idea,’ she said. ‘Meat and potatoes at home, and a little caviar when away.’
‘I’m glad to be the caviar, anyway.’
She licked her lips. ‘Mm, salty.’
George smiled. He would not think about Bobby any more this evening, he decided.
The news came on TV, and George turned up the volume. He expected Bobby’s announcement to be the first report, but there was a bigger story. During the New Year holiday that the Vietnamese called Tet, the Vietcong had launched a massive offensive. They had attacked five of the six largest cities, thirty-six provincial capitals, and sixty small towns. The assault had astounded the US military by its size: no one had imagined the guerrillas capable of such a large-scale operation.
The Pentagon said the Vietcong forces had been repelled, but George did not believe it.
The newscaster said further major attacks were expected tomorrow.
George said to Verena: ‘I wonder what this will do for Gene McCarthy’s campaign?’
* * *
Beep Dewar persuaded Walli Franck to make a political speech.
At first he refused. He was a guitar player, and he feared he would make a fool of himself, like a senator singing pop songs in public. But he came from a political family, and his upbringing would not allow him to be apathetic. He remembered his parents’ scorn for those West Germans who failed to protest about the Berlin Wall and the repressive East German government. They were as guilty as the Communists, his mother said. Now Walli realized that if he turned down a chance to speak a few words in favour of peace, he was as bad as Lyndon Johnson.
Plus he found Beep pretty much irresistible.
So he said ‘Yes’.
She picked him up in Dave’s red Dodge Charger and drove him to Gene McCarthy’s San Francisco campaign headquarters, where he talked to a small army of young enthusiasts who had spent the day knocking on doors.
He felt nervous when he stood up in front of the audience. He had prepared his opening line. He spoke slowly, but informally. ‘Some people told me I should stay out of politics because I’m not American,’ he said in a conversational tone. Then he gave a little shrug and said: ‘But those people think it’s okay if Americans go to Vietnam and kill people, so I guess it’s not so bad for a German to come to San Francisco and just talk . . .’
To his surprise there was a howl of laughter and a round of applause. Maybe this would be all right.
Young people had been flocking to support McCarthy’s campaign since the Tet Offensive. They were all neatly dressed. The boys were clean shaven and had mid-length hair. The girls wore twinsets and saddle shoes. They had changed their appearance to persuade voters that McCarthy was the right president not just for hippies but for middle Americans too. Their slogan was: ‘Neat and clean for Gene.’
Walli paused, making them wait, then he touched his shoulder-length blond locks and said: ‘Sorry about my hair.’
They laughed and clapped again. This was like show business, Walli realized. If you were a star, they would love you just for being more or less normal. At a Plum Nellie concert, the audience would cheer wildly at literally anything Walli or Dave said into the microphone. And a joke became ten times as funny when told by a celebrity.
‘I’m not a politician, I can’t make a political speech . . . but I guess you guys hear as many of those as you want.’
‘Right on!’ shouted one of the boys, and they laughed again.
‘But I have some experience, you know? I used to live in a Communist country. One day the police caught me singing a Chuck Berry song called “Back in the USA”. So they smashed up my guitar.’
The audience went quiet.
‘It was my first guitar. In those days I had only one. Broke my guitar, broke my heart. So, you see, I know about Communism. I probably know more about it than Lyndon Johnson. I hate Communism.’ He raised his voice a little. ‘And I’m
still
against the war.’
They broke out into cheers again.
‘You know some people believe Jesus is coming back to earth one day. I don’t know if that’s true.’ They were uneasy with this, not sure how to take it. Then Walli said: ‘If he comes to America, he’ll probably be called a Communist.’
He glanced sideways at Beep, who was laughing along with the rest. She was wearing a sweater and a short but respectable skirt. Her hair was cut in a neat bob. She was still sexy, though: she could not hide that.
‘Jesus will probably be arrested by the FBI for un-American activities,’ Walli went on. ‘But he won’t be surprised: it’s pretty similar to what happened to him the first time he came to earth.’
Walli had hardly planned beyond his first sentence, and now he was making it up as he went along, but they were delighted. However, he decided to quit while he was ahead.
He had prepared his ending. ‘I just came here to say one thing to you, and that’s: Thank you. Thank you on behalf of millions of people all over the world who want to end this evil war. We appreciate the hard work you’re doing here. Keep it up, and I hope to God you win. Goodnight.’
He stepped back from the microphone. Beep came up to him and took his arm, and together they left by the back door, with cheers and applause still ringing out. As soon as they were in Dave’s car, Beep said: ‘My God – you were brilliant! You should run for President!’
He smiled and shrugged. ‘People are always pleased to find that a pop star is a human being. That’s really all it is.’
‘But you spoke sincerely – and you were so witty!’
‘Thanks.’
‘Maybe you get it from your mother. Didn’t you tell me she was in politics?’
‘Not really. There’s no normal politics in East Germany. She was a city councillor, before the Communists cracked down. By the way, did you notice my accent?’
‘Just a little bit.’
‘I was afraid of that.’ He was sensitive about his accent. People associated it with Nazis in war movies. He tried to speak like an American, but it was difficult.
‘Actually it’s charming,’ Beep said. ‘I wish Dave could have heard you.’
‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘London, I think. I imagined you would know.’
Walli shrugged. ‘I know he’s taking care of business somewhere. He’ll show up as soon as we need to write some songs, or make a film, or go on the road again. I thought you two were going to get married.’
‘We are. We just haven’t gotten around to it yet, he’s been so busy. And, you know, my parents are cool about us sharing a bedroom when he’s here, so it’s not like we’re desperate to get away from them.’
‘Nice.’ They reached Haight-Ashbury and Beep stopped the car outside Walli’s house. ‘You want a cup of coffee or something?’ Walli did not know why he said that: it just came out.
‘Sure.’ Beep turned off the throaty engine.
The house was empty. Tammy and Lisa had helped Walli deal with his grief about Karolin’s engagement, and he would always be grateful to them, but they had been living a fantasy life that had lasted only as long as the vacation. When summer turned to fall they had left San Francisco and gone home to attend college, like most of the hippies of 1967.
While it lasted, it had been an idyllic time.
Walli put on the new Beatles album,
Magical Mystery Tour
, then made coffee and rolled a joint. They sat on a giant cushion, Walli cross-legged, Beep with her feet tucked under her, and passed the roach. Soon Walli drifted into the mellow mood he liked so much. ‘I hate the Beatles,’ he said after a while. ‘They are so fucking good.’
Beep giggled.
Walli said: ‘Weird lyrics.’
‘I know!’
‘What does that line mean? “Four of fish and finger pies”. It sounds like, you know, cannibalism.’
‘Dave explained that to me,’ Beep said. ‘In England they have seafood restaurants that sell fish in batter with French fries to go. They call it “fish and chips”. And “four of fish” means four pennies’ worth.’
‘What about “finger pie”?’
‘Okay, that’s when a boy puts his finger up a girl’s, you know, vagina.’
‘And the connection?’
‘It means that if you bought fish and chips for a girl she would let you finger her.’
‘Remember the days when that was daring?’ Walli said nostalgically.
‘Everything’s different now, thank God,’ said Beep. ‘The old rules don’t apply any more. Love is free.’
‘Now it’s oral sex on the first date.’
‘What do you like best?’ Beep mused. ‘Giving oral sex, or receiving?’
‘What a difficult question!’ Walli was not sure he ought to be talking about this with his best friend’s fiancée. ‘But I think I like receiving.’ He could not resist the temptation to add: ‘What about you?’
‘I prefer giving,’ she said.
‘Why?’
She hesitated. For a moment she looked guilty: perhaps she, too, was not sure they should be discussing this, despite her hippie talk about free love. She took a long draw on the joint and blew out smoke. Her face cleared, and she said: ‘Most boys are so bad at oral sex that receiving is never as exciting as it should be.’
Walli took the joint from her. ‘If you could tell the boys of America what they need to know about giving oral sex, what would you say?’
She laughed. ‘Well, first of all, don’t start licking right away.’
‘No?’ Walli was surprised. ‘I thought it was all about licking.’
‘Not at all. You should be gentle at first. Just kiss it!’
Walli knew, then, that he was lost.
He looked down at Beep’s legs. Her knees were pressed close together. Was that defensive? Or a sign of excitement?
Or both?
‘No girl ever told me that,’ he said. He gave her back the joint.
He was feeling an irresistible rush of sexual excitement. Was she feeling it, too, or just playing a game with him?
She sucked the last of the smoke from the roach and dropped it in the ashtray. ‘Most girls are too shy to talk about what they like,’ she said. ‘The truth is that even a kiss can be too much, right at the start. In fact . . .’ She gave him a direct look, and at that moment he knew that she, too, was lost. She said in a lower voice: ‘In fact, you can give her a thrill just by breathing on it.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Even better,’ she said, ‘is to breathe on it through the cotton of her underwear.’
She moved slightly, parting her knees at last, and he saw that under her short skirt she was wearing white panties.
‘That’s amazing,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Do you want to try it?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Walli. ‘Please.’
* * *
When Jasper Murray returned to New York he went to see Mrs Salzman. She got him an interview with Herb Gould, for a job as a researcher on the television news show
This Day.
He was now a different proposition. Two years ago he had been a supplicant, a student journalist desperate for a job, someone to whom nobody owed anything. Now he was a veteran who had risked his life for the US. He was older and wiser, and he was owed a debt, especially by men who had not fought. He got the job.
It was strange. He had forgotten what cold weather felt like. His clothes bothered him: a suit and a white shirt with a button-down collar and a tie. His regular business oxford shoes were so light in weight that he kept thinking he was barefoot. Walking from his apartment to the office he found himself scanning the sidewalk for concealed mines.
On the other hand, he was busy. The civilian world had few of the long, infuriating periods of inactivity that characterized army life: waiting for orders, waiting for transport, waiting for the enemy. From his first day back, Jasper was making phone calls, checking files, looking up information in libraries, and conducting pre-interviews.
In the office of
This Day
a mild shock awaited Jasper. Sam Cakebread, his old rival on the student newspaper, was now working for the programme. He was a fully-fledged reporter, not having had to take time out to fight a war. Irksomely, Jasper often had to do preparatory research for stories that Sam would then report on camera.
Jasper worked on fashion, crime, music, literature and business. He researched a story about his sister’s bestseller,
Frostbite
, and its pseudonymous author, speculating about which of the known Soviet dissidents might have written it, based on writing style and prison camp experiences; concluding it was probably someone nobody had heard of.
Then they decided to do a show about the astonishing Vietcong operation that had been dubbed the Tet Offensive.
Jasper was still angry about Vietnam. His rage burned low in his guts like a damped furnace, but he had forgotten nothing, least of all his vow to expose men who lied to the American people.
When the fighting began to die down, during the second week of February, Herb Gould told Sam Cakebread to plan a summing-up report, assessing how the offensive had changed the course of the war. Sam presented his preliminary conclusions to an editorial meeting attended by the whole team, including researchers.
Sam said the Tet Offensive had been a failure for the North Vietnamese in three ways. ‘First, Communist forces were given the general order: “Move forward to achieve final victory.” We know this from documents found on captured enemy troops. Second, although fighting is still going on in Hue and Khe Sanh, the Vietcong have proved unable to hold a single city. And third, they have lost more than twenty thousand men, all for nothing.’
Herb Gould looked around for comment.
Jasper was very junior in this group, but he was unable to keep quiet. ‘I have one question for Sam,’ he said.