Raising the Baton

by Herschensohn, Bruce;

  On Anthony Jowett’s reappearance he asked, “Where are you staying, Mister Bhavnani?”

  “The Hay-Adams.”

  “The Hay-Adams!?”

  “Yes, yes. You know it?”

  “I know where it is: Practically across the street from the White House. One block—one block away at most—north. It’s on Lafayette Square and it’s on 16th Street just like the White House! That’s luxury, my man!”

  “Oh, that’s fine. Luxury. That’s good. The hotel was booked for me by All India Radio. I didn’t choose it. I never heard of the Hay-Adams.”

  Mr. Jowett and Raj were silent for an extended moment with the silence finally interrupted by Mr. Jowett who started nodding as he said, “All India Radio chose a treasure of luxury for you as your living quarters. They chose well. If someone phones you at the Hay-Adams and you’re in the dining room or the bar, a waiter brings a phone right to you and plugs the phone in. There are plugs in every booth in the dining room and bar. After all, at the Hay-Adams it could be the White House that’s calling you.” And Mr. Jowett raised his eyebrows and gave a few nods to affirm what he had said. “But wait until you see your office here in this bilding! Your office is another treasure of luxury, my good man—and that wasn’t chosen by your government but by my government who booked it for you to do your job here. Now, let’s go see it.”

  Mr. Jowett led their way to the elevator and up to the third floor and then to the open doorway of the north-east corner office that was to be Raj’s immediate destination.

  Raj stood still in the doorway with his mouth open. “Massive! This is truly massive! Colossal—Colossal!” Raj said to Mr. Jowett. “This is a massive and colossal office!”

  “Enormous. Yes, it is,” Jowett agreed with a nod and they slowly walked in. “We believe that it is second in size only to the President’s office—the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House five blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue, my man! Someone over there must like you! But size is not its only virtue. Follow me to what are your corner windows and the door to your balcony.”

  “Yes, yes. Please.”

  Mr. Jowett walked behind the desk to the door from the office’s interior to its balcony. They both walked out to overlook a view that was truly grand. Raj was awed. He stood transfixed on the long arm of Pennsylvania Avenue. “That’s the Capitol Building, isn’t it? The Capitol?”

  “It is. Way down there. This is a perfect place from which to see the Inaugural Parade. You can have a party up here to watch it come straight toward us from the Capitol! Invite your friends—if the folks on the fourth floor allow it.”

  “Who’s on the fourth floor?”

  “Shhh! Some of the FBI folks!” He pointed to the ceiling. “Right above you! Fourth floor! And more of the Bureau folks across the street at the Department of Justice! Shhh!”

  “Fine, fine!”

  “Kennedy wanted this area of Pennsylvania Avenue cleaned up—so it will be cleaned up. Johnson is for it. You’ll see the work begin. And right up that street—that’s where President Lincoln was killed.”

  “It is?”

  “You can’t really see it from here but just up 10th Street over there, behind that cluster of small buildings. Ford’s Theater. Then they took him across the street from the theater and he died in the house directly across from Ford’s.”

  “You’re quite an historian, Mr. Jowett.”

  “Please call me Anthony—and I’m not an historian. Everyone here is familiar with those buildings and that chapter of history.”

  “What are the hours here?”

  “The hours? They are what you want them to be. You are a contactor doing work for the Voice of America. But the best kind of contractor. You make your own hours after some discussions here probably depending on the calendar for international radio and television and India’s connection and your coordination here with Voice of America.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bhavnani. But I suppose Leonard Marks should know if you’re going to be here for quite a while. He’s really your boss. He runs the Agency for President Johnson. He’s up at the Agency’s Headquarters at 1776 Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s up the street one block after the White House.”

  “He’s the one who contacted me. I talked with him on the phone. I’m supposed to see him after I get adjusted here. Let’s go back inside.”

  “You have an appointment with Mr. Marks tomorrow at 8:00 in the morning.”

  “I do?”

  “You do. We’ll have a car pick you up at the Hay-Adams.”

  As they walked back into the office Mr. Jowett closed the balcony door and said, “There is a lot of history here, my good man. Everywhere you look—outside and inside this building. And if that isn’t enough to look at, there’s your own television set. And if that still isn’t enough you’ll have a pretty secretary. She’ll be in at Nine this morning: Tara Thompson.”

  “No. I don’t want a pretty secretary. I want a big, fat one. Then I won’t have a crowd coming up here to see her and talk with her and behave like idiots around her. And she won’t entice me, either. A big, fat one is what I want.”

  “We can arrange that. That’s not a problem. I can take all those administrative things you need or want.”

  “That’s good. Now, what’s that?” Raj was staring at a closed door in the office. “What’s that door over there?”

  “I never noticed. I suppose it’s a closet. Go ahead and open it and we’ll find out.”

  Raj walked over to the closed door he had noticed and he opened it. Inside the closet was a very large iron safe with the Seal of the United States painted on its white-painted door. It took only seconds before Raj opened the unlocked safe to find nothing inside. “Cleaned out!”

  “Too bad!”

  “Whose was it? Do you know?”

  “I don’t know but I wouldn’t doubt that it was James Farley’s safe! President Roosevelt’s friend. James Farley. Roosevelt—FDR appointed him Postmaster General. A good position. That’s a Cabinet Post; the President’s Cabinet. This was his office when this building was the headquarters of U.S. Post Office’s. Now it’s the Old Post Office Building. He held that job for the first two terms of FDR.”

  “See? You are an historian, Mr. Jowett, just like I said—and you don’t even know it! Now, what’s that?” and Raj pointed to another door.

  “Your private bathroom and shower. It probably was James Farley’s.”

  “What an office!”

  “Yes, Mr. Bhavnani; what an office.”

  “And I like that this office has been held by a leader—your Mr. James—” and he paused.

  “Farley. James Farley.”

  “Is he still living?”

  “No.”

  “Was he considered to be a leader?”

  “I would say so. That is, if someone is a friend of the President that makes that person a leader. Let me put it this way—if you’re a friend of the President there are a lot of people following you and asking you questions—so James Farley was a leader.”

  “I like to be in the company of leaders.”

  “Then you will be happy here, my good man. There are both hundreds of leaders living now in this city and there are the shadows of thousands of leaders who have passed into and out of D.C. for 190 years.”

  “That’s good—even to be in in their shadows by touching—by really touching their memory. So that was James Farley’s safe?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. That’s very good. Now I inherited it. So two leaders meet between their separate times: Farley and Bhavnani!”

  Mr. Jowett looked at Raj with a curious stare.

  THEME TWENTY-SEVEN

  LATE-NIGHT ENTERTAINMENT

  AS A CONTRACTOR rather than an employee, Raj could have lasted only days or weeks but so far he lasted throughout 1967 and into 1968 and by then it had become a habit for Raj Bhavnani to eat dinner alone at the Old Ebbitt Grill; a short walk from the Old Post Office Bui
lding. His frequent nightly habit dictated that he would go back to his office to write some commentaries for Voice of America or for All India Radio or for both about subjects of particular interest to his listeners that he would schedule recording during the day ahead in the building’s downstairs studio. Then, when the evening writing was close to done, for a reward to himself he would turn on his television set and click the channel indicator to Channel Four and he would lean back in his black leather-backed chair and watch a close shot of a large man who said, “And now Ladies and Gentlemen, ‘Heeeeeeeaar’s Our Man!’”

  There would be wild applause. There had to be wild applause as everyone in the studio-audience and most people watching on television wherever they lived had no need to be told his name. Next on the screen there was a shot of a stage with long curtains that were being opened from behind and separated by a slender man at the curtain’s base which sent the applause in the studio to be even stronger and more excited. Then the picture cut back to the close shot of the large man who had introduced him and this time that large man was giving a respectful slight bow as the wild applause continued for the evening’s first appearance of the prime star he had introduced.

  When the applause cooled down there was the star’s opening monologue that set the studio audience into uproarious laughter but Raj didn’t quite get absorbed in it as he was re-writing a script of his own that he was planning to give on Voice of America the following day. Despite his concentration on his own writing he did hear and understand the introduction of the host’s first guest of the evening, “What a pleasure; the lovely star of Gemstone, Miss Savannah Lane!” The audience cheered while Raj’s jaw dropped as he quickly lost all interest in writing, jolting his stare at the screen of the television set. And there she was walking across the stage to the chair by the side of the host’s desk while the studio audience kept cheering. She had that great walk of hers.

  And Raj, all alone in his office, was cheering too. And Raj could swear he inhaled her fragrance coming through the glass screen of the television set. Of course not. But even though she was only appearing through the technology of current electronics, his office was filled with the magic of Savannah Lane’s aura.

  Then Camera-Two gave a panning sweep of the enthusiastic audience so the people at home could see their reaction in the studio, and the camera stopped its motion while it held the view of one man who had risen and was smiling broadly while clapping and cheering. It was a man who was more than identifiable to Raj.

  From off-screen the host said, “That’s your Space Man, isn’t it, Savannah?” And the off-screen Savannah Lane said, “That’s my Christopher Straw!” And also from off-screen Raj Bhavnani turned off the television-set with a push of the remote that could have broken the remote and even could have broken his thumb. No matter. The set was off. Raj walked with quick steps—almost leaps—out of the office; down the elevator; onto the ground floor; onto Pennsylvania Avenue and he hailed a taxi that took him to the Hay-Adams Hotel.

  His fast-walk was revived when he walked into the hotel and straight into the bar. It was closed for business and the only other person in the barroom was its tender; Phillipe.

  “You closed, Phillipe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bhavnani, but not for you. What will you have?”

  “I don’t know yet. Do you have a tape player?”

  “No, Mr. Bhavnani. We never serve tape-players. No one drinks them.”

  “Wait. Just wait. I’m going to go to my room and bring my tape machine down. Just wait and then I’ll have a—a scotch on the rocks. Scotch on the rocks, whatever that is.”

  “Yes, sir. It means on ice.”

  At that Raj hurried to his room. And in short time he emerged in the barroom again, this time holding on to the handle of a portable red Ampex Caprice tape player that looked like a small piece of luggage while with his free hand he held a reel of ¼” brown magnetic tape tightly wound on a clear-plastic reel. He set the machine on the bar and threaded the tape on one of the machine’s two spindles with the tape being received by an adjoining empty reel. It all worked. Raj pressed the machine’s red knob and then he and Philippe heard the tape’s recorded music with the beautiful singing of a woman vocalist who sang in Hindi.

  Raj started dancing as he did years back in front of an audience of New York City’s Ceylon India Inn with Savannah Lane being part of that audience.

  “Louder!” Raj yelled to Philippe and Phillipe turned it louder and Raj yelled “Louder!” again and again and one by one people came in to see what was going on and then couples knew what was going on and couples kept coming in, now not out of curiosity but to hear the music and see Raj Bhavnani dance.

  And dancing he did with his legs running and jumping; his arms twisting and turning; his hips revolving; his neck going side to side and his fingers behaving wildly. This was all to cloak his missing of Savannah and receive a boost by a revival of his self-confidence. It worked. He was a celebrity again.

  But he wanted it to work even better. And so Raj continued to direct Phillipe to turn the music to be “Louder!” as he danced and danced and danced and the audience got larger and larger and larger and the audience cheered and cheered and cheered as they applauded and applauded and applauded. And when the dance was done Raj almost fell onto a bar-stool, and the audience continued with their cheers and applause. Philippe shoved a Scotch on the rocks in front of Raj and Phillipe said, “You can dance, Mr. Bhavnani! And who was the singer?”

  “Meena Kumari. Probably the most popular singer in all of India,” he told the truth but then he lied with “We used to be—yes, we used to be in love with each other. Many nights she would sing and I would dance.”

  “What is the name of the song?” a woman in a miniskirt asked Raj as she came to his side at the bar.

  “Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh,” he answered. “Meena always said it was written for me—and sung for me.”

  “Is that a Scotch?” the Miniskirt-adorned woman asked. “On the rocks” he said as his new encyclopedic knowledge of drinks took over. “Do you want one?”

  She nodded with a smile.

  “Phillipe!” he yelled over the continuing applause of the audience that was still not content without an encore. He ordered another scotch on the rocks for his new companion. He heard some other woman say, “That’s Raj Bahvnani!”

  “It is!” Raj confirmed.

  In retrospect, Raj Bhavnani’s sudden performance did not bring about what he wanted: Savannah Lane’s pursuit to track him down and leave Christopher Straw for one more interlude with Raj. It didn’t happen. But not all was lost: three days later something unexpectedly came from his impulsive dance at the Hay-Adams. It was a handwritten note from Bess Abel, Social Secretary of the White House, who wrote that President Johnson had heard of the acclaim Raj Bhavnani earned from an enthused audience for his dancing abilities learned in his home country of India, and at the President’s request, Bess Abel would like to meet with him at his convenience in her office to discuss the possibility of providing some entertainment for the President’s State Dinner of Norway’s King Olav the Fifth at the White House scheduled for the evening of April the 25th.

  That was when Raj’s mood changed recognizing once more in his life that there are times when good things fizzle while the fizzling could bring about something else, eventually coming to the surface of life beyond and above the unfulfilled effort.

  THEME TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE APPOINTMENT

  BESS ABEL LEFT WORD FOR HER ASSISTANT, Dora Malloy to take Raj to the Cabinet Room and to sit with him in the room’s leather covered chairs at the table meant to house the members of the President and his Cabinet.

  “Feel free to sit over there,” Dora Malloy said as she pointed to President Johnson’s old chair when he was Vice President across from his current chair as President. “That’s where the boss sat when he was Vice President. Now it’s Vice President Humphrey’s chair that’s there. The old one is going to go to the Presiden
t’s Library.” She briefly described President Johnson’s previous view from his chair when he was Vice President which was a much better view than his current one. “The view as Vice President was wonderful because from that chair he could see through the windows, and see the South Lawn and the Ellipse and Memorials and Monuments. Beautiful! Now, as President he gets a chair that has a little higher back than the other chairs but now he sits on the other side of the table with his back to that beautiful view. His new view as President is just looking at the Cabinet Members. President Lincoln said that his cat—‘Dixie’—was smarter than all the members of the Cabinet put together. Something like that. I think the boss likes that quote. He’s an animal lover. Don’t quote me on this but I believe he may like animals more than Cabinet Officers. He particularly likes dogs and cats.”

  It wasn’t long until President Johnson called on the intercom. “Bess?”

  “No, Mister President,” Dora Malloy said. “She’s still over at the State Department and she asked me to take care of the meeting between you and Mr. Bhavnani in case she was delayed.”

  “Yes,” the President said, “I asked her to stick it out at State and not let them take over what isn’t any of their business. Now, Dora, bring Mister—the fellow—the dancer from India fellow to come in here. What’s his name?”

  “Bhavnani. Raj Bhavnani.”

  “That’s it!”

  Dora Malloy escorted Raj into the Oval Office while the President stood and extended his hand. “Sit down, Raj. You are Raj aren’t you?”

  The President’s question was quickly followed by Dora Malloy almost tip-toeing out of the office.

  “Yes, sir.” Raj could hardly take his eyes off the sights of the Oval Office near the chair that President Johnson, with a nod of his head, had indicated Raj should sit. Across from Raj was a painted portrait on the wall of Andrew Jackson who Raj didn’t recognize and there were four book-shelves with books on them and there were three television sets side-by-side in one single wide case with the legs of that wide case resting on the floor.