“What’s today?”
“Friday, the 23rd, sir.”
He mumbled something.
“What’s that, Mr. Bhavnani?”
“I don’t want to go to the dedication of those two tall boxes. Why didn’t they get Frank Lloyd Wright to design something? Did he die?”
“I think so. Many years ago, sir—I think.”
“Too bad.”
Raj walked to the window overlooking the view to the south while holding on to the large cardboard invitation. He nodded toward the towers. “Look at them! Just look. Just look. A kid could have designed them. Two long rods in four-walled shapes. You call that creative? A kid. That’s right. Where’s the design? Did the designer ever hear of at least rounding something? Too creative? And why two of them? They’re both the same. Why not just one—or why not three or four? No room? Is that what would have been done if there was room? Twenty boxes?”
“Yes, sir. Should I say ‘no’ to the invitation for you? The dedication is for April the 4th at 3 o’clock and your calendar is blank that afternoon, Mr. Bhavnani. And Governor Rockefeller’s secretary called to find out if you’ll be at the dedication and the reception. He’s going to be there and maybe Mayor Lindsay will be there, too. Apparently the Mayor doesn’t know for sure yet if he can attend. Governor Rockefeller is going to speak in the North Tower Lobby and his secretary said that he would like to see you there.”
“I don’t care about Rockefeller. He calls me ‘fella’! See if he likes it.”
“Yes sir.”
“From where does he get that kind of greeting? Tell him that I said to tell the fella I won’t be there. And John Lindsay probably doesn’t know if he’ll be there because he doesn’t know anything; not even if he’s a Republican or a Democrat and he certainly has no idea what his political party will be by April the 4th or whatever the date is supposed to be.”
“I’ll just respond that you’re sorry but that you can’t be there, Mr. Bhavnani.”
“No! No! No!” He grabbed the invitation from her hands. “Respond that I can be there but I don’t want to be there and I’m not sorry I won’t be there but I am delighted to refuse! Erik, honesty is the best policy. I never lie. Never have. Look at this invitation. It’s on stiff cardboard; see? That’s to show it’s expensive. That’s supposed to look royal or something.” And he looked down directly at the invitation in his hands. “And the whole thing—see? A silver invitation with the designs of those metal stripes they have all over those two buildings. And the invitation says that the Commissioners of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey have the honor and pleasure of inviting me; not Rockefeller inviting me, as though I should be honored that the Commissioners of the Port Authority want me there. They probably want some money. You know who they are? Do you know any of their names?—If they even have names.”
“No sir.”
“I know one of their names. One of them. He’s Bozo the Clown; that’s who he is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get a big silver cardboard and write ‘Dear Bozo the Clown. My boss won’t be there. Don’t forget to feed the elephants.’ And send it to him.”
“I will.”
“You sure Frank Lloyd Wright’s dead?
“Yes, sir.”
“He probably died when he saw those two buildings.”
“I don’t think he could have seen them. I think he was probably gone by the time they were really visible.”
“For his sake that would probably be best.”
“Perhaps, sir.” She walked out of his office.
The moment Venu arrived in her outer office she pressed the proper button on the intercom and said, “Your guest, Mr. Venu Ramachandra has arrived. He’s early.”
Raj Bhavnani stood up behind his desk when Venu walked in. His standing automatically put his back to the large picture window looking south over the city. “Sa’ab! Good to see you! Venu Ramachandra! Venu Ramachandra!”
“Raj Bhavnani! Do you mind if I only say it once?”
“That means you are not as glad to see Raj Bhavnani as I am glad to see Venu Ramachandra; that’s what it means! I am twice as glad to see you as you are when you see me!”
“That’s good of you to say, Lieutenant Raj. Thank you. May I sit down? That’s some view you have here.”
“Sit down! My rudeness in not offering that immediately. My rudeness; that’s what it is. Sit down!”
Venu nodded. “No problem,” and he sat facing Raj as he too, sat down.
“No problem? That’s U.S. Astronaut talk, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I heard every moment of Friendship Seven!”
“Through All India Radio, I am sure. Now, what can I do for my first real employer? I mean my employer at the Taj!”
“What you can do for me is easy—just to let me see you and find out if your importance is increasing. It should be.”
“I had a rough time during the whole Bangladesh crisis a few years back. I wasn’t going to go to India and risk my life again and this time having to support Indira Gandhi—and at the same time, of course I was opposed to Pakistan’s Yahya Khan. Unlike 1962 I didn’t go home to India to fight a war because this one was a war I didn’t support, and I didn’t talk much about it on either All India Radio or the Voice of America. I‘m glad to say neither one fired me, but it was uncomfortable to avoid talking about the war. I think that many of the people in both places secretly felt as I did: both Pakistan’s leadership and India’s leadership were not worthy of support and if Bangladesh would become an independent nation it would become what much of the world would call ‘a basket case.’ Do you know what that means?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“So now it’s the People’s Republic of Bangladesh and it is a basket case. I have learned a long time ago to beware of any country that calls itself the People’s Republic of anything because those countries are neither for the people nor are they republics. Sa’ab, notice that our country doesn’t call itself the People’s Republic of India, nor does the country in which we are sitting call itself the People’s Republic of the United States.”
“You’re good, Lieutenant. You’re very good. You think well and talk well. You don’t have to argue with me about the subject of Pakistan nor the inabilities of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh, particularly with Indira Gandhi’s handouts of India’s funds. If it was a different Prime Minister I would think differently. And, I suspect, so would you.”
Raj nodded.
“How do you think you survived your jobs with All India Radio and Voice of America during that war?”
“I changed my own format. No commentaries. Instead, a lot of guests. Willis Conover was a frequent guest with his great talking and playing of American music—jazz—on my All India Radio programs, and I played a lot of repeats from my Voice of America programs that I got from the Voice of America itself—ones that he recorded for the Soviet Union and their satellite nations. Mainly jazz. The kind of shows that Conover made so many Soviet citizens secretly listen to the V.O.A.—The Voice of America.”
“I suspect you made no enemies nor friends in Bangladesh, nor by Pakistan nor by Indira Gandhi.”
“I recovered since then. No one brings it up. What is new with you, Sa’ab?”
“Talking with the Hyatt people. They have big plans for hotels. Big plans for hotels in Delhi. I might go with them.”
“Good! Good for you! You never hesitate to investigate what’s worth knowing. That sounds like something good.”
“I’ll see. I love the Taj Hotel. It’s a wonderful place—as you well know. But I’ll see. My interest right now is finding out your next step, Lieutenant.”
“I have one but I don’t want to tell you.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s because I do trust you and I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”
“Then why the secret?”
“I can embarrass myself for a failure in front of anyon
e except you. I want to be sure I will succeed before going ahead with what I plan to do when I know I will tell you. Besides, you’re the only one on this side of the ocean—any ocean—that still calls me Lieutenant. I like it. I think it sounds good. Don’t you think so? I think it sounds very good. It gives me prestige. I mean more prestige than I already have.”
It was difficult to ever leave a meeting with Raj Bhavnani with total satisfaction of his resolve.
THEME THIRTY-THREE
“THE WAY IT MIGHT BE”
WHEN CHRIS CAME HOME to the Bahia suite during one late afternoon in 1973, the walk down the hallway passing other people’s living quarters was markedly different than usual in that behind every doorway could be heard the distinct voice of Senator Sam Ervin. That meant all the television sets had been turned to watch hearings in Washington D.C. as Senator Ervin was the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee to Investigate Campaign Practices more often known throughout the country as the “Watergate Committee.”
But when Chris opened the door to his and Anna’s suite it was happily silent inside except for some unknown song coming from the humming of Anna. He literally grabbed her and they kissed much more passionately than when he normally came home early. It was all because Senator Ervin’s voice was not in their suite.
“Is he under the bed?”
“Who?”
“Ervin! Senator Ervin! For sure I am not complaining but how come you are the one person in the United States who is home and not watching the ‘Watergate Hearings?’”
“Because I can’t stand them! Because they make me sick! One man—and unfortunately he’s from a southern state—North Carolina—is leading this travesty!”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Honey, he’s ruining the country; him and that ‘Johnny Gonna- get-the-President Special Prosecutor! Where’s that in the Constitution?”
“Cox. You’re talking about Archibald Cox.”
“If he’s the Special Prosecutor.”
“He is.”
“Did you elect him? Somehow I missed that election.”
“You have a point. There wasn’t any election for Special Prosecutor.”
“See what I mean?”
“I totally agree with you; you know that, but why so avid about the subject today?”
“Because I voted for and like the President and I don’t like some outside force trying to bring him down without my vote requested.”
“You didn’t ever tell me you knew him!”
“I don’t but I know a lot of his appointees.”
“You do? How did that happen?”
“Pierre Salinger introduced me to some Nixon people when I met Mr. Salinger at the San Souci Restaurant when—you know. They eat there too, and we all got along great! I went back a number of times. We all just became good friends!”
“You never cease to amaze me, honey!”
“Why?”
“I just don’t get it. Or maybe I do. There’s a song, ‘A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.’ You’re their melody.”
“They just think I’m smart!”
“You are! But I’m not an illiterate and I don’t know anyone at the White House—not one person. Not ever. Never have known anyone at the White House and I’ve been around since F.D.R.”
“Have you not even met one of the White House Ushers?”
“I didn’t know they had ushers. With flashlights to find someone’s seat?”
Anna shook her head. “No! I’ll tell you when you get a little smarter!” And she winked as she took her usual very close-tohim position and gave him a loving and long kiss.
“Not bad! I’m smart enough to know that isn’t bad.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell you something else—and this is bad— real bad.”
“What?”
“They’re going to get him. The President. They’re going to get him. They have the script just like a shooting script at Warner Brothers. They’re going to get the ones no one ever heard of first. Keep going up and up the ladder. After that, get Chapin then Haldeman and then the President and poof: it will work—and it will work because the people don’t know what’s coming off. It will be the new instruction book on how to get rid of a President. A new precedent and elected Presidents will become game for a cerebral assassination—not a killing—just a torturous fate for elected presidents by a circuitous road to a president’s removal from office by the actions of a Special Prosecutor; a position started this year—but you can be sure, not to be ended this year.”
“You’re good, honey. You’re really good—and where did you pick up that vocabulary?”
“My D.C. friends at the San Souci—and a Thezerus.”
“Thesaurus.”
“That’s what I said. And all that’s needed is a Special Prosecutor. That’s how to start it. There isn’t one thing that President Nixon or even his staff did that hasn’t been done in previous administrations in my lifetime and even in your longer lifetime—very much longer than me. The only difference between the others and President Nixon is that no one ever thought of getting away with an unelected Special Prosecutor who would have more power than the President. You know the tapes?”
“I know of them.”
“Everyone in the country has been led to believe he was the only president to record conversations with people who didn’t know they were being recorded. Every President since your F.D.R. did that on a wire recorder. But not one former President is alive to tell that to the public and I believe they would all tell the public. But those who were on their staffs who are alive and who knew their president had a system of recording, won’t reveal it to the people. President Johnson advised President Nixon to have a recording system like his installed for both legal and historical reasons. I think he was right. I’ll bet you if any of those presidents were alive they would support him no matter their political party.”
He nodded. “I don’t doubt that at all. I just can’t get too involved because it isn’t my sphere and I can’t do anything about it. What I can do something about is my craft, the world in which I live: space and its exploration. That’s what I do. I so much admire how you think and I totally agree with every word but my mind is admittedly filled with things not around me but above me. That’s all. It’s inborn. I crave for the day when humans visit the planets and the whole solar system we live in and eventually to other solar systems and knocking down the barrier of distance and time so that some not too distant generation can be the first generation without those barriers. I concentrate mainly on whatever exists somewhere—every-where—in and beyond the sky.”
“Oh, my heavens!”
“Is that not what you expected? Or are you disappointed?”
“No, no. Never. I didn’t expect anything less—but I guess I didn’t expect the way you put it. Tell me; you said you want to break down the barrier of distance and time. Can they be broken down? Haven’t they been invented by God?”
“It sure wasn’t anyone else. But God also invented Man. And hasn’t He allowed and probably encouraged Man to invent all kinds of things to exceed what He initially created? I believe He will allow me to succeed and if He would rather I fail then I’ll fail. I can take it. Maybe He will do it later without me.”
“You sound like you are the one who went to Rome. Not me.”
“Anna, in truth I never talk this way. I cool it—but you’ve probably rubbed off on me. Something inside of you came into light when you went to Rome, maybe, and ignited a beam into me that was broken off some time ago. You told me that life is like being a part of a giant orchestra and God is the conductor.”
“I did? I said that?”
“You did.”
“Did I put it that way?”
“Close. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe you put it better; I don’t know. But you put it some way and maybe some time in the future He will allow me to stand on the pedestal at His podium and loan me His baton for one piece. Not long. Just one piece. That’s all.
That’s good enough. I’ll give His baton right back to Him as soon as the piece is done. Does that seem right? Does that seem possible?”
She gave a short assuring nod above her now trembling lips. “Not just possible, Christopher Straw! Do it! Just do it!”
THEME THIRTY-FOUR
THE SECOND TIME SINCE JESUS CHRIST: A NEW MILLENNIUM
FOR MUCH OF THE WORLD, every thousand years there is a celebration of a new millennium. Admittedly there was only one anniversary of a new millennium before this one, but even with such little precedent its celebration was not exactly as expected for an anniversary of the beginning of Christianity. This one was widely known as Y2K. That’s because there was such concern over what computers planned on doing when they had been so used to a change in year meaning only advancing the last two digits of the new year, never mind the change of a century or, of all things, a new millennium and identify it in digital language.
There were some—admittedly not many—who wondered if the last time this happened on January the First of the Year 1,000 (One Thousand) the change of millennium was called Y1K. Nor was there any discovered evidence of any earlier people using the designation of Y1 for the entrance of the very first year of all time. If there was any such evidence it has been lost.
This year the fast-living people of the coming new century wanted the designation to save time by making it one syllable shorter than having to say “Year Two Thousand.” Instead they would use the initials of Y2K whose shorthand name gave a more digital presence in recognition of modern times. That one syllable that was tossed out must have saved an immeasurable amount of moments—perhaps millions of such moments—for painting pictures or writing poetry or creating sculptures or for quick tap-dancing or blinking.
There were any number of theories predicting what would happen at the dreaded midnight when computers would start messing up records of daily logs to diaries, to purchases, to tax records, to perhaps some computers ending their own lack of self-confidence by exploding in desperation.
What happened was totally unexpected: somehow most computers knew exactly what to do by simply ignoring the first two digits of the new year altogether just the way they always did while using the last two digits of the new year all the way from January the First. There were some reported difficulties but not many and not beyond fixing and certainly not worth the horror that was expected worldwide.
Raising the Baton Page 24