Kissinger opened the door. -
- "What's the matter, Henry? You look a little upset."
"Well," said the Secretary, as he sat down in an easy chair, "to tell the truth, I am a bit depressed."
"Why?"
"It's the view of Mr. Ford that one man should not be both
Secretary of State and National Security Adviser."
"But you've done both jobs brilliantly."
"Yes, I thought so, too. But he wants me to resign the
NSC. Frankly, I think it will undermine the perception of my position." - -
'I in sorry, Henry," George said with genuine sympathy. But it s not as if you ye fallen from power completely."
"No, you're right. In fact, it may make it easier for me to operate, since I have such a good relationship with my successor."
"Who's the new Security Adviser?"
Kissinger looked poker-faced at his one-time Harvard tutee and answered, "You."
ANDREW ELIOT'S DIARY
- November 3, 1975
I saw my former roommate's picture in The New York
Times today.
George Keller's been appointed to succeed -Kissinger as
the head of the National Security Council. He's moving back into the West Wing of the White House, where he'll be able to knock on the President's door
- anytime he wants and really get to turn the steering wheel of government.
On the seven-o'clock news tonight some pundits were speculating that George is being groomed for something even bigger.
Rumor has it that Gerry Ford would be more comfortable
with someone he himself selected as Secretary of State. They
say if he's reelected-which looks likely-he'll bring in a fresh new team, starring George. What a coup! He's really got the world by the tail. Fame, power-and a terrific wife. Some guys have all the luck.
Something occurred to me. If I phoned George at the White
House, would he still take my call?
T
elegrams and letters poured into the White House congratulating George on his appointment. At the end of the day, his secretary handed him two overflowing shopping bags so that he could read them with Cathy.
"I'll look silly walking in the White House parking lot like this," he protested mildly.
And then he thought, Hell, I'll enjoy every minute of it. My car is parked inside the presidential compound now. Cathy greeted him on the doorstep. "I've prepared a celebration feast," she said, hugging him.
"Who's coming?" he inquired. "Nobody. Now, are you ready for a drink?" "Absolutely." -
As she pulled him toward the living room, she whispered,
"I've got a surprise for you. It's something I've been saving for a long time. Look."
She pointed to the coffee table, where she had placed two glasses and a bottle of- -
"Hungarian champagne!" George gaped. "Where did you get that stuff?"
"It wasn't easy, let me tell you."
They got a little drunk, picked at the food, made love in
-the living room, and then got drunker still.
"Hey," Cathy murmured, "you certainly brought home a load of telegrams."
"I didn't know I had so many friends." -"Don't worry,
love. Now that you're one step from the Oval Office, you'll discover a lot of brand-new pals. Ah, come on, let's open some and see who wants to get in good with you."
They giggled and then started reading.
Naturally, the governor of every state had cabled.-
Likewise the mayors of important cities. Democrats no less than Republicans. In fact, anyone who harbored aspirations of a diplomatic or political nature.
And even several major personalities from Hollywood.
"Well, one thing's sure," Cathy grinned, "I won't let you travel on your own from now on. Some of these are pretty close to propositions."
George was savoring it all. Because he knew this was only the beginning. The best was yet to come.
"Hey," she hailed him boozily. "This one's a little
screwy. Who the hell is 'Michael Saunders from the good old days'?"
George was puzzled. "Let me see it." --
He studied the telegram and gradually the message became clear.
QUITE A LONG ROAD FROM THE WIENER KELLER EH OLD
BOY? YOUR FIRST ENGLISH TEACHER MIKI WISHES YOU SUCCESS. IF YOU'RE EVER IN CHICAGO LOOK ME UP.
MICHAEL SAUNDERS FROM THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Does that mean anything to you?" his wife inquired.
"Not anymore," he answered, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the fire.
Such was tb-at happy Garden-state
While man there walked without a mate: - After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond-a mortal's share To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.
I
n the third year of his rebachelored life, Ted Lambros thought of himself as the embodiment of Andrew Marvell's famous lines. Indeed, he told himself, the poet was
unconsciously setting forth the formula for academic success. A professor on his own can really get a lot of work done. Immediately upon his return to Canterbury, Ted had sold
the home on Barrington Road and moved into an apartment at the top of Marlborough House, the best faculty accommodation available.
His triennium as chairman of the Classics Department had been singularly impressive. Enrollments had increased, the
number of majors had doubled, and he had even managed to goad his colleagues into publishing a word or two. He had also succeeded in winning tenure for his former student Robbie Walton, the young man who had gotten him to Canterbury in the first place. Lambros always paid his professional debts.
It is arguable whether Ted had been an angry young man, but it was beyond doubt that he was a furious middle-aged one. He was fueled by rage to toil night and day, serenas noctes vigilare, as Lucretius put it.
As soon as he could free himself from paperwork, he would
go back to Marlborough House, wolf down a defrosted dinner of dubious nutritional value, and immediately head for his desk. After the initial hours of intense concentration, he would pour himself a little retsina. Gradually the ingestion of modern Greece's national drink began to illuminate ancient Greece's greatest playwright. Ted's research on Euripides
took on a Dionysian cast. And he was determined to uncover all the enigmatic author's secrets.
He had no social life to speak of. In fact, he refused all invitations, except if he was fairly certain that a high administrator might attend. For the rumor had it that when Tony Thatcher's term was up, Ted Lambros would be his successor.
In his persistent anger, he still avoided women. That is, emotionally. There were the biological necessities-which now were easier to satisfy at Canterbury. In addition to the usual supply of cast-off first wives, and the young, attractive Europeans whom the college brought over to teach elementary languages, the seventies saw a new influx of mature women.
The government was making a lot of noise about Affirmative Action hiring at senior-faculty levels. And so the administration diligently searched for such rare females lest they risk losing federal subsidies.
Among the bevy of these new profs were several who were not loath to engage in a liaison without sentiment.
Especially with Ted Lambros. And not merely because he was attrac
tive. No, these women were just as ambitious as their male counterparts. And just as eager to advance their careers. Lambros was important. Lambros sat on many a committee. And, one fine spring day-as predicted-Theodore Lambros was named Dean of Canterbury College.
When Ted got back home after receiving the big news, a
voice within him suddenly wanted to call out, "Hey, Sara, I'm the goddamn Dean!"
But, of course, no one was there. He lived alone.
Determinedly alone. And thought he had convinced himself that he liked it better that way.
Yet, he now had a strangely hollow feeling. Sara had
always been there when things were bad, to help him share the hurt. Now he realized that he needed her to share the joy as well. For otherwise it had no meaning in this empty room.
The Dean of Canterbury College is saluted everywhere on campus. But once at home, he loses both his scepter and his crown and becomes an ordinary human being. With ordinary needs.
He'd been a husband and a father once. And now, in this moment of triumph, he realized how he missed the
flesh-and-blood dimensions of his life.
One Saturday, two or three weeks earlier, Rob and his wife had forced Ted to go ice skating with them, hoping that the exercise would lift his mood. They had not imagined it would have the opposite effect.
For all Ted saw around him at the rink were fathers and their skating children. Fathers and their children holding hands. Fathers picking up and comforting little ones who'd fallen on the ice.
He longed to put his arms around his son again. And, painful to admit, he also longed for Sara.
Sometimes, late in the night, he'd wake with pangs of loneliness. His only cure was to get up, sit at his desk, and dull the ache with work. He was emotionally dead. -
The only part of him he kept alive-by intravenous shots of research-was his intellect. He was close to finishing that goddamn book that would be his academic-passport to a brave new world.
So, if the price of this was solitude, then he would make the most of it.
Only once during this entire time did he succumb to
emotion. One evening in the second term that he was dean, his brother, Alex, called to tell him that their father had just died.
He stood there in the cemetery, his arms around his mother and his sister, And he wept.
From across the grave, Alex whispered, "You made him very proud, Teddie. You were the glory of his life,"
Ted could only nod.
That night he returned to Canterbury, sat down at his desk, and started working again.
The telephone rang. It was Sara. -
"Ted," she said softly, "why didn't you call me? I would have flown over for the funeral."
"How did you find out?" he asked numbly.
"Someone from the Harvard Department rang me. I'm very sorry. He was a wonderful man."
"He loved you, too," Ted answered. And then, taking advantage of this moment, added, "It's a pity he saw so little of his eldest grandchild."
"He saw him just this Christmas," Sara countered gently,
"and you know I write your parents every month. And- send them pictures. Anyway, if you'd only called I would have taken little Ted to the funeral. I think it would have been important for him." -
"How is he?" -
"Pretty upset by the news, but otherwise okay. He's top of the class in -Latin."
Ted felt a desperate need to keep her talking on the phone. "How's your own work coming?"
"Not bad. I've had my first article accepted by HSCP ."
"Congratulations. What's it on?"
"Apollonius. Sort of a distillation of my senior essay."
"Good. I look forward to reading it. How's your thesis coming?"
"Well, with any luck I'll finish it by the end of spring. Cameron is reading the first chapter and Francis James the second."
"You mean the new tutor at Balliol? Tell him I liked his book on Propertius. What are you writing on, anyway?"
"I really bit off more than I could chew." Sara laughed.
"My topic is nothing less than 'Callimachus and Latin
Poetry.'"
"Well," Ted joked, "that's sent many a strong man to an early grave. Uh-no antifeminism implied. I guess I should have said 'person. '1 still have trouble getting used to the new terminology."
He ransacked his mind for topics that would keep the conversation going.
"Then you think you'll get your degree in June?"
"1 hope so."
"Then I guess you'll be coming home, huh?"
"I'm not really sure, Ted. Anyway, I think this is
something we should discuss face to face when you come over next month."
"I'm really looking forward- to it," he replied. -"So is Teddie," she replied softly. "If it fits my schedule, we'll try to meet you at the airport."
"Thanks for calling, Sara. It was really good to hear your voice."
He hung up and thought, I only wish I could see your face.
"I can't believe it," Ted remarked, "the kid talks with an
English accent."
"What do you expect?" Sara asked. "He's lived here most of his life."
They were sitting in the (now redecorated) living room in
Addison Crescent, drinking iced coffee.
"He also didn't seem very friendly to me," Ted commented.
"I mean, all I got was a fleeting 'hello, Daddy.' And then he disappeared." -
"Your son has priorities." Sara smiled. "And this
afternoon is a crucial cricket match against Saint George's