Raj shook his head. “No thank you.” He quickly looked over at Venu. “Do you? I’m sorry. Do you?”
Venu shook his head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
As the waiter walked away he angrily muttered something in a foreign tongue or maybe it was just a softer strange word from no country on earth but, to Raj’s and Venu’s relief, without yelling it out.
The limousine with CC on its rear license plate indicating it belonged to the government went directly to the Claridges Hotel to drop off Venu Ramachandra before bringing back Raj to the Ashoka.
Raj also got out of the car to shake Venu’s hand and to say with respect, “Good night, boss.”
“I’m not your boss. That was a while back. Things change.”
“Tell me—what should I do now, Sa’ab? I mean about those things you would say are important for me to do?”
Venu nodded. “Lieutenant, leaders gravitate toward leaders. It’s like any other profession. Lawyers gravitate toward lawyers; dancers gravitate toward dancers, fools gravitate toward fools, the wise gravitate toward the wise, and leaders gravitate toward leaders. Kennedy has been in office in the U.S. a short time—not even two years but by this time he knows both Nehru and Ayub Khan. Both of them. India and Pakistan. Our country—yours and mine and he even knows our enemy, Pakistan. And around the world he now knows so many leaders; de Gaulle and Ben-Gurion and Sihanouk and Nkrumah and the Shah. Around the world. He even knows Khrushchev. You—you should request a meeting with Prime Minister Nehru. He’ll see you. He would be wise to let it be known he will meet with you—that you are friends. It will do him good. And it will do you good as being a leader among leaders.”
“I don’t like Nehru.”
“You know him already?”
“No. But I don’t need to know him to not like him. I don’t like his hats; I don’t like his jackets; and most of all I don’t like the way he demanded we conduct the war nor did he seem to have a plan for India’s victory. My soldier friends knew how to achieve victory; he didn’t. I think he was afraid of thinking it out. And worst of all is that Nehru’s peace agreement gave away parts of India’s northern territory. I say none of this publicly. That is not my public business.”
“That’s good. That’s worthy thinking. Maybe some day that will be your speaking role. But not today.”
“I admire what Churchill and Roosevelt did. They were leaders. They knew how to fight a war. They knew how to win a war and achieve unconditional surrenders. And when it comes to peace rather than in war I admire Mahatma Gandhi as a moral leader—as a Hindu leader—as a Bharata.”
“But the ones you admire—that at least you mentioned are—are gone—not Churchill but Gandhi and Roosevelt are gone.”
“Then maybe I’ll see the living Truman or Eisenhower or even the current President; President Kennedy. And you are not gone, Mr. Ramachandra. I followed you at the Taj Mahal Hotel when I knew so little about leadership. When I was so knowledge-less yet somehow you believed in me. You are worth following, Sa’ab. You are my kind of leader. And you are here walking on earth—alive—and you choose India.”
“You are gracious, Lieutenant.” With a modest turn in dialogue he quickly added, “Tell me, what do you think of the Dalai Lama?”
“Fine. I don’t know much about him except that his nation of Tibet is under China now and the Dalai Lama lives here in India. He was given refuge.”
“By the man with the funny hats and jackets that you don’t like: Nehru. And Nehru is alive and in India and you don’t want to meet him. That’s alright if that’s the way you want it. You should then go to meet the Dalai Lama so you associate with leaders—eventually as habit. He is a leader of a great people.”
“Where is he? Delhi?”
“Dharamshala. You know, the Hill Station. Way up from Delhi. Dharamshala is a real Shangri-La in the midst of the Himalayan Mountains. Right between your two disfavored places; West Pakistan and China, so don’t go too far. They’re dangerous—deadly for you.”
“I will ask to see the Dalai Lama—but not tonight!”
Venu extended his hand. “Good night, my friend.”
THEME EIGHTEEN
DESTINATIONS
HOLLY WOOD CONFIDENTIAL, the magazine that was for sale next to the cash-registers of U.S. grocery stores, devoted its cover to a full page portrait of Savannah Lane. Underneath the portrait was the quote, “I was told my days on ‘Gemstone’ are through. Over. Done.” Any potential reader had to buy and read the magazine to find out that she didn’t show up for work for a long time with one excuse after another, and therefore she was not called again to play her role, and her contract was not renewed. She had ignored the warnings she received when phoning from New York while attempting a lead role in one of the planned Broadway musicals in the season ahead; “The Roar of the Greasepaint—The Smell of the Crowd,” “Fiddler on the Roof,” “Man of La Macha,” “What Makes Sammy Run?” among others, with her major excuse from being away from “Gemstone” in Los Angeles becoming more and more that she had a bad cold. “Really bad.”
Once back to Los Angeles she discovered that her previously reserved parking place at the television studio didn’t have her name on it anymore. Instead of her name there was a flat blue color with the insulting sign next to it saying “Wet Paint.”
She knew she was wrong in what she did and she knew it was right that she was fired and so she did what any annoyed actress would do in a similar situation: she made a U-Turn from the studio parking lot and headed her car to U.S. Route 101 and drove 134 miles to San Diego and then to Narragansett Street in Ocean Beach and to the Silver Spray Hotel and Apartments that was situated on a high embankment off the Pacific Coast.
She waited for Christopher Straw in the small and uncomfortable reception room, only sharing it with the clerk near the old dark brown wooden room-key boxes; the clerk being at least twice her age and who couldn’t stop staring at her. She hadn’t phoned to tell Christopher Straw she was coming to see him but she never told anyone what she was going to do next. That was her style. No excuses in advance. Not a justification. Anyone had to love her in order to like her.
The locale’s scenery was luxurious but the Silver Spray as a living facility at this time was starting renovation, and at least temporarily was not what would be called luxurious. Its non-luxury might have been a financial plus for its guests as Chris’ apartment was an affordable $45.00 a month. Another part of the temporary minus of the Silver Spray was Melvin, the receptionist whose conversation had what he thought was a charming routine, but it was quickly a nuisance. It came about because Anna had the habit of sending Chris chocolate-chipped cookies through the mail. The first time Melvin handed him the package Chris made the mistake of offering him one or two cookies. Chris told him, “These are blues-chasers! They chase away the blues!”
It was considerate of Chris but when another box of cookies arrived Melvin held it behind his back and said, “Ehhh—one third, Mr. Straw. One third!” It was worth a slight smile to a degree at that time, but not when it happened as habit with anything received through the mail that might have looked inviting to Melvin. “Ehhh—one third, Mr. Straw. One third,” was becoming a greeting of exasperating frequency.
On this late Thursday afternoon Chris returned from work in what made him look like what he was: his brown suit with an open jacket and open collared white shirt with a slightly pulled down tie hanging loose in front of the shirt told San Diego he was engaged in the New Frontier of space. He was neat enough to be a man who used his head all day but not so neat as to be a lawyer or business-man or someone else engaged in an occupation clearly held by other generations. He was a space-man. He walked into the reception room of the Silver Spray where Melvin handed Chris his apartment key and a couple pieces of mail and gave a sort nod as his glance indicated someone was sitting on the chair behind Chris. Melvin then mouthed with a near-whisper, “Savannah Lane. Savannah Lane. You won’t believe me but she is sitting on one of
my chairs.”
Chris turned quickly around to see Anna sitting there. Had Melvin elected to have said, “Ehhh—one third, Mr. Straw—One third” about Anna, Chris probably would have slammed a fist on him in a fit of thoughtless rage.
“Hello, Mistuh Straw” Anna said in her best quickly restored southern accent.
“Anna!”
“Can you buy a very poo-ah girl a cup of coffee and a Bayer aspirin?”
He gave a big smile and nodded. “I think I can do that! I know a terrible place.”
“Won-duh-fuhl! Let’s go!”
With a quick new thought he said “No” and shook his head. “I’m so happy to see you that I won’t take you to a terrible place no matter how much that’s what you want!”
She gave him a startled look. “No? Not for a poo-ah girl in basic need of human necessities?”
“Not tonight. Let me take you to Sunset Cliffs. It’s very close and we won’t have to drive anywhere. It’s a quick walk and at sunset it can be incredibly beautiful. It’s almost time for sunset.”
“If that’s what you want with all yaw selfishness!”
“That’s what I want. For a long time I have imagined you with me there.”
“Don’t you have a cah?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“What is it?”
“A Chrysler loaned to me by Astronautics. They have a fleet and let me have it unless they need it. At least temporarily, it’s how I get to work and back every day.”
“What yee-uh?”
“It’s a Post-War. It was built after the war.”
“What wah? World Wah Two or—or was it built before World Wah One?”
“Now, what war do you really think it was?”
“The Recent Unpleasantness. That’s the wah you Yankees call the Wah between the States or worse yet, the Civil Wah,” she said with a quick flirtation by maintaining her southern accent. “When the Yankee’s came!—That wah! Why didn’t you-all stay home? Your Yankee’s General—General Sherman burned down every road he crossed in Gee-aw-ja. The Recent Unpleasantness Wah.”
Christopher shook his head. “I’m not an expert on that war but I can tell you that my loaned Chrysler is a post-war car and it rides just fine.”
“Oh, My God! In that case, let’s walk to your sunset! I don’t want to be in that cah when it explodes!” Then she talked softer. “Where was it built?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she appeared to answer her own question. “Detroit! By Yankees! They’ve timed them so they explode!”
“Not this one. The man who takes care of the loaners at Astronautics can be trusted. He was born in Mississippi.”
“Thank God!”
They walked less than a block and they were suddenly overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There was a dirt pathway going down the steep hill in a reach that went even further west, closer to a wooden stairway covered with a thin surface of sand that headed to a wide cliff toward the ocean with breakers of the Pacific targeting itself to directly hit those sands, beating itself against the cliff and its grottos while a huge spectacular red setting sun was making its own calmer journey to the north-west over a calmer part of the ocean farther away from the cliff.
For the first hour there was little conversation and much of hand-holding and affection. It would be fine if it lasted forever but they couldn’t do that forever and instead they started talking about how content he was working on what he called “Model 7” that started as the first U.S. Intercontinental Ballistic Missile and had now become the launch vehicle for Mercury 7 Astronauts going into orbit.
She, in turn, told him a little—very little about what was going on in her life. “I want to get out of television and back into movies. The trouble is that my favorite movie studio with my favorite movie people doesn’t exist anymore. My friends in the industry are all over town ever since RKO sold its studios to Desilu—to Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. So I want to go back into movies at whatever studio is still in business. But right now ‘I’m between pictures’ and I told you before what that really means in Hollywood!” The trouble is that she didn’t tell Chris about the meaning of that phrase; she told Raj while they were at the Top of the Sixes.
When she noticed a questioning expression on Chris’ face she quickly remembered she had confused Chris with Raj in her memory-bank and she tried to get out of it by quickly adding, “Didn’t I tell you what the line means? Well, I tell everybody! Everybody heard me because it’s such a great line! I thought I told you, too. If I missed telling you it means—I’ll tell you what it means. It means I’m out of a job—an acting role. But it won’t last long. Things like that always happen to actors and actresses.”
She tried too hard to pass over her error in who she told about that phrase. Chris knew she had probably told Raj. After all this time he still knew she had been with Raj despite no evidence. “Are you sure you’ll be okay being out of work for a little while?”
“I’ll be more than okay.”
“They let you go?”
“I wanted to be with you in Bermuda and that started my short absence. Is there a law that says I can’t do that?”
Chris didn’t answer.
“I mean is there a law?”
“No. Not a law. It doesn’t take a law.”
They stayed on the Sunset Cliffs side of the Silver Spray through most of the night-time hours. After the Earth had made three-quarters of its inevitable trip around the Sun and night was done, Chris and Anna walked to Chris’ apartment. Chris showered and got dressed in a blue suit so it wouldn’t look by those at work that he was up all night in the brown suit he wore the day before now which was rumpled since wearing it not only the day before but obviously throughout the night. Anna was still in bed watching him put the things from the pockets of the pair of pants he wore earlier into the pockets of the pair of pants he was wearing now.
“Isn’t that sound wonderful?” she asked him.
“What sound?”
“The breakers. This place is filled with romance. First, there is you—and then there is that wonderful repeated hit of the breakers against the land out there that we can even hear inside.”
“Sorry, Anna. I wish you were right but that crashing has nothing to do with the ocean.”
“Then what is it?”
“The flushing of the toilets in the apartments down the hall.”
She laughed and rapidly changed the subject. “Where are you going, Honey? Work? Where is it? Far?” Honey was a good move.
“Astronautics. Not too far. I don’t know the address but I sure know how to get there. My car knows the way. Can’t miss the place. Big buildings. Can’t miss them. No other big buildings around them.”
She said, “It’s 5001 Kearny Villa Road.”
Chris looked confused at her reciting the address of Astronautics and he asked her, “Why did you ask me when you even already knew the address of the place?”
She suddenly exploded with tears and quivering lips and finally with loud sobs as she yelled out, “Because I wanted you to think I was smart! Do you mind?!”
He regretted he asked even though he at least controlled himself from asking, “What’s that got to do with being smart?” He immediately felt sorry for her. She had taken his reaction to her knowing the address outrageously hard. There are some times in life when a man just can’t help but do everything wrong, particularly when a woman is involved. At best she is the witness. At worst she is the victim. God probably has more important things to do than to continually rescue men caught in such a jam. He has a tougher job than most imagined.
Next, by 7:00am in the morning, his post-war loaned Chrysler chugged along since it was born many years ago when it claimed its post-war status. He slowly passed the Loma Theater to the parking spaces for the large ZANZ coffee shop with its interior very much alive in the early morning with the fresh aroma coming from the toasters on the counters being used with white bread leaping up after becoming golden.
After his breakfast of eggs made sunny-side up and that now self-made buttered toast with orange juice and then coffee for his near finish followed by a cigarette, he paid the bill and drove from ZANZ at Midway and Rosecrans to the magnificent giant Kearny Mesa plant of Astronautics designed by the architectural geniuses, William Pereira and Charles Luckman, consisting of two huge wide white buildings that had six thin black lines to mark the six interior floor-lines above the entrances of the two buildings. Those two buildings and a reflecting pool were hosts to a flurry of much smaller buildings within the compound that housed more secrets than any competing other structures held in San Diego, including the hotels where Soviet KGB agents stayed in quantity within the area.
By 7:50 am Christopher Straw was in the Astronautics plant with its massive and palatial presence including the reception area. Nothing like this grand entrance had existed before; certainly not in a defense plant or even a space exploration laboratory. A huge spiral ramp hovered over the welcoming area of the imposing lobby with dozens and dozens of thin metal rods looking as though they held up the spiral ramp that took forever to walk up to the floors of mystery above.
Chris was given an office that had never been occupied before and he adorned it with a map of the world that was a somewhat reduced-in-size duplicate of the map used at Cape Canaveral’s Central Control with its up and down zig-zag pattern of the orbits of the solo flights of the Mercury Seven Astronauts and of upcoming two-man flights of Gemini Astronauts.
His office furniture was minimal by choice: There was his desk, two comfortable chairs and one uncomfortable chair, a small coffee table housing only a large brown government-style ash tray, and against the east wall were two iron safes with combination locks built to government standards and requirements for holding classified material of all designations; marked or unmarked.
Raising the Baton Page 16