(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  “Mr. Flannery and Governor Talley have just walked in. They’re ready to brief you on the press conference.”

  “Tell them to wait in my office. I’ll be right there.”

  After hanging up, Dilman considered a second cup of coffee, rejected it for lack of time, rose, tugged his jacket straight, and found his briefcase. He left the Yellow Oval Room and went into the West Hall.

  As he started for the elevator, he heard his name. He spun around, to observe Sally Watson, waving a sheaf of papers, hurrying toward him. Once again he was aware of her dress. The variety of her attire—he could not recall seeing the same garment on her twice in three weeks—fascinated him, as usual. She was wearing a claret-colored sheer blouse and magenta skirt, costly, unornamented, the subtle colors contrasting pleasantly with her sleek blond hair. She had more the appearance of a hostess than that of a secretary, Dilman decided, and he did not mind. At first he had worried about her conspicuous beauty, but by now it blended into the stately beauty of the White House itself. Besides, to his relief, with one exception, the press had played down and been uncritical of her being chosen to fill the position of social secretary. The expected exception had been Reb Blaser, acidly writing that the wily new President was trying to disarm the Southern bloc in Congress by embarrassing bribes, beginning with the hiring of the daughter of Senator Hoyt Watson. Dilman’s annoyance at this gratuitous observation had been teased away by Sally herself. “Now really, do I look like a Southern Trojan horse, Mr. President?” she had joked.

  However, whimsicality from Sally Watson was rare. For another surprise about her had been her seriousness. Somehow Dilman had expected a certain degree of frivolity in a wealthy, spoiled child. Instead, he had a social assistant who had proved punctual, earnest, dedicated, agreeable to working all hours, and who had the initiative to go beyond the scope of her East Wing office, to take over the handling of his engagements outside the White House. Once or twice he had almost forgotten to be cautious with her about his private affairs.

  As she approached, smooth brow furrowed, it was difficult for him to reconcile with the young lady’s angelic face one bit of gossip that he had heard. A few evenings ago Sue Abrahams had repeated a tidbit that Mrs. Gorden Oliver had passed on to her: that Kay Varney Eaton had been out of the city an uncommonly long period of time, and that the Secretary of State had been seeking solace in the company of Miss Sally Watson. Sue Abrahams had not repeated the gossip to titillate, but to keep Dilman informed of all that she heard behind his back. She doubted if the Arthur Eaton-Sally Watson thing was true, and had been pleased when Dilman discounted it entirely. Dilman had said that he could not conceive of an amorous relationship between a dignified, circumspect, older career diplomat like Arthur Eaton and a relatively superficial, inexperienced, too-well-known young single girl like Senator Watson’s daughter. What had Nat thought? Nat had shrugged, hummed a few bars of “September Song,” and they had laughed and dismissed it.

  Now, waiting for her, Dilman superimposed Nat’s shrug on Sally’s gilt-headed Aphrodite loveliness. Anything was possible, of course, but in this central city of professionally prying eyes it was unlikely that a sophisticated statesman of international renown would dare risk his reputation over any bachelor girl. Improbable, he told himself again, and accepted Sally Watson in her previous virginal and unsullied state.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I need you for a few minutes—tonight’s dinner—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Watson, but can’t it wait? I’m running behind—”

  “Just one minute, then. I suppose it’s not all that important, but—”

  “All right, Miss Watson. Do you mind telling me on the way to the office?”

  They walked to the elevator as Sally checked the markings on different sheets of her papers.

  “The platform is up in the East Room, and it’s completely decorated,” she said. “Very pretty. I just called the Hay-Adams and the Statler Hilton, and the whole Hollywood contingent is in, safe and sound. I can’t wait to hear Herbie Teele, and I adore Libby Owens, don’t you?”

  Entering the elevator, Dilman was less enthusiastic than his social secretary about the entertainment that was to follow the State Dinner. Allan Noyes, the Party chairman, had been the first to suggest it. The six famous Hollywood and New York performers had been staunch and vocal supporters of T. C. and the Party, and had raised a small fortune to help finance his election campaign. Now they had been the first to volunteer their support of the new President. Their quotations in the syndicated movie columns had been embarrassingly extravagant in praise of Dilman, whom none had ever met.

  This type of show-business liberal, no matter how sincere and well intentioned, had always made Dilman uneasy. They made too much of a point of loving anyone black or yellow or brown, no matter what the character and worth of the object of their extrovert affection. When the entertainment group had heard of Dilman’s first State Dinner, they had offered their services through Noyes. Dilman had been indecisive about them, preferring no entertainment at all, or, at least, something more conservative. And then Illingsworth had learned that President Amboko was an inveterate moviegoer, and that he would be delighted to enjoy some of his American cinema idols in the flesh, and that had pushed Dilman into agreement.

  Dilman had not minded Trig Cunningham, the rough and fearless star of a half-hundred swashbuckling and soldiering epics, or Betsy Buckner, the sinuous national Love Object, or Tilly Reyes, the rubber-featured lady clown, or Rick Wade, the disheveled guitar-strumming adolescent. They were white. His objections were to two other members of the troupe, Herbie Teele, the lanky, fork-tongued comedian known for his acid integration monologues and his coterie of young white female worshipers, and Libby Owens, the magnificent singer of sad blues songs. They were Negro. Dilman did not want them, not so soon, not the first day after the national mourning ended. But President Amboko wanted them. So did Sally Watson, apparently. And so they were here and in the wings.

  “Yes, it’ll be interesting,” he found himself saying. “I hope they exercise some caution. President Amboko may be a little touchy about certain jokes.” He meant himself and not Amboko, but he could not bring himself to be so naked in front of this girl. He hated Negro jokes told by Negroes, and Negro songs sung in public by Negroes.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. President. Mr. Illingsworth’s assistants are attending a rehearsal at the Hilton this afternoon.” Sally was busy with her bundle of papers. “The routine for the dinner has finally been worked out.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “All but the honored guests will arrive by the south grounds—go through the South Portico entrance to the first-floor corridor, where the Marine Band will be playing. I’ll be there with my staff, and we’ll show everyone the seating plan and give them their escort cards. Then we’ll get them into the East Room. They’ll have about twenty minutes there before your arrival.”

  The elevator had stopped. Quickly Sally opened the door, and waited for Dilman to step out before following him. Dilman, whose mind was on the press conference briefing, walked hurriedly, so that Sally had to skip every few steps to keep beside him. As they traversed the ground-floor red carpet, she continued to speak.

  “President Amboko and his entourage, with Mr. Illingsworth, will come in by the Pennsylvania Avenue side—the North Portico entrance—around five minutes after eight. You will welcome them in the Yellow Oval Room, and have perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to chat with President Amboko. After that, all of you will go down the stairway. Photographers will be permitted to take pictures—”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I’m told it is the custom followed by T. C. and most others before him.” She glanced at Dilman, who nodded assent, and then she went on. “The Marine Band will be playing ‘Hail to the Chief’ as you take Amboko into the East Room. Then, since we’ve been forced to combine the reception with the dinner, you, Mr. President, and Amboko, an
d his entourage, will form the receiving line, and as guests file past, they will go on to their tables—one main table, and smaller ones—in the State Dining Room and wait for you to take your seat. You will offer the first toast, after the dessert.”

  A White House policeman had sprung forward to open the door, and Dilman emerged outdoors with Sally onto the colonnaded walk that went past the indoor swimming pool, and turned toward the West Wing executive offices. He sniffed the air, cold and invigorating, peered at the blue-gray cloudless metallic sky, and resumed his march to the briefing.

  “According to Mr. Illingsworth,” Sally was saying, “after dinner you can lead President Amboko upstairs for a private conversation in the Yellow Oval Room, while the other guests go into the Red, Green and Blue Rooms for champagne. Then, Mr. President, you will show him to the East Room for the performance.” She slowed, searching her papers, and Dilman slowed his stride with her. “The final total—we sent 104 invitations and admittance cards—”

  “Is everyone coming?” Dilman asked.

  “Ninety-six have accepted,” she said. “The others are either out of town or ill or—oh, yes, there is one guest—no, two—I haven’t heard from. Senator Bruce Hankins—”

  “I predicted that. I told Talley we shouldn’t bother, but he wanted to play politics.”

  “—and Miss Wanda Gibson. She and the Reverend and Mrs. Spinger were invited together. I heard from the Spingers, but I have not heard from Miss Gibson.” She looked up. “I’ll telephone Miss Gibson—”

  “No,” said Dilman, and at once, from Sally’s inquisitive eyes, their widening, he knew that he had uttered his order too hastily and too strongly. He sought to rectify it. “You needn’t bother. She lives with the Spingers, and I am sure she assumed their acceptance was her own.”

  “Very well.” But he could see that Sally was reluctant to drop it. He wondered if she would go further. She said, “I think I am acquainted with all of the guests, or at least know about them, except Miss—Miss Wanda Gibson. Since I want to be as useful to you as possible, Mr. President—you know, introductions, making outsiders feel at home—is there anything I should know about the lady?”

  Dilman cursed himself for having added Wanda’s name to the invitation list. He had known the hazard of doing so. He had done it only to prove to Wanda that he was not afraid to see her in public. He had expected questions from Illingsworth and received none, and Sally Watson’s curiosity caught him momentarily off guard.

  He halted before the French doors leading into his Oval Office, returned the greeting of a Secret Service agent, and then confronted Sally as casually as possible. “You needn’t fret about Miss Gibson,” he said. “As a senator, preparing for committee hearings, I sometimes found her a valuable information source. She is employed by a Liechtenstein corporation, the Vaduz Exporters, in Maryland. I believe her firm carries on a good deal of trading with African nations, Baraza among them, and I thought that President Amboko and his Ambassador—what in the devil is his name?—Wamba, yes, Wamba—that she’d be one more person for them to talk to. That’s all. You needn’t bother about her tonight. She’ll be well taken care of. The Springers will have her in tow. And Mr. Abrahams—you met him—I think he knows her slightly, professionally, and he’ll pitch in.”

  He realized that he had explained too much, and that Sally Watson had been listening too closely.

  He said, “Is that all? I’ve got to—”

  She said, “Well, there are a couple of minor—”

  “You take care of the rest of it, you and Illingsworth. I haven’t time to be nervous about tonight. I’ve got to save my anxiety for the press conference. Forgive me, Miss Watson. You’re doing wonderfully on your own.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn’t mean to distract you. Good luck, if I’m allowed to say so.”

  He turned to the closest French door, and could see Tim Flannery holding it open. He thanked his press secretary and went into the office, which was agreeably warm. Talley, making corrections on the typed pages in a loose-leaf folder, began to rise, but Dilman signaled him to remain seated.

  After taking his place behind the desk and apologizing for his tardiness, Dilman said, “Well, gentlemen, I’ve been doing my homework the last couple of nights. What’s next?”

  “This,” said Talley, closing the vellum folder and holding it up. “I’ve tried to anticipate every question that might be put to you in the press conference. Then Tim here kind of had drinks with some of the boys, and picked up a few clues as to what you might expect. We listed the questions, circulated them to every department, and each one sent over lengthy replies on policy, supplemented with facts and figures. Tim and I condensed this to five typewritten pages. I don’t think we’ve missed a trick.” He came out of his chair and handed the folder to Dilman. “You have enough time to go over them by yourself now. Most of it will be familiar, but if anything puzzles or confuses you, we can talk it out right here.”

  Dilman picked worriedly at a corner of the blue vellum folder. “What if I don’t remember some figure or—”

  “You’re not expected to be a memory expert, Mr. President,” Talley said. “Tim will be seated beside you with that folder, and you can always turn to him for some elusive fact or number.”

  “Won’t that look amateurish on television?” he asked.

  Flannery shook his head. “Not a bit. It’ll make you appear fallible and mortal, serve to put viewers at ease.”

  Dilman did not feel reassured. There had been several hours of debate on how his first press conference should be presented to the public. Dilman had turned down a huge televised press conference from the New State Department Building auditorium as being too impersonal, and as demanding histrionic talents that he knew he did not possess. He had considered an informal gathering in the Indian Treaty Room across the street. Flannery had been against this, arguing that Dilman had yet made no contact with the American public or with the majority of the press, except through brief, impromptu remarks or dictated statements, and that full exposure was now a necessity. A compromise had been reached only two days before. Forty to fifty members of the press would be admitted to the Cabinet Room. The television networks would cover the event. The atmosphere would be comfortable and unstaged. Dilman would make a series of news announcements, and then answer questions for perhaps twenty minutes.

  Dilman opened the folder. On the first page there was typed in capital letters:

  FOR THE PRESIDENT—MORNING BRIEFING ON PRESS CONFERENCE

  As he turned the page, he heard Tim Flannery saying, “One thing, Mr. President.” He looked up, and Flannery went on, “You’ll notice a star in the margin, and the name of a newspaper or wire service beneath it, alongside several questions. There are not many, but those are the ones we planted to be sure they were asked. They’re the ones we feel you have good replies to and can come off well with.”

  “I knew it was done,” said Dilman, “but how do you manage it? Don’t the reporters resent it?”

  “Not at all,” said Flannery. “It gives them added news, even if canned or controlled, as they may think. These are men we can depend upon. They do us a favor, and at the right time we repay them with an exclusive lead. It’s not too obvious. Yesterday I called in one of the bureau chiefs representing a New York paper, handed him a written question, and I said, ‘Look, if you ask the President this question, in your own words, you might get an interesting answer. I’m just tipping you off.’ He looked at the question and said. ‘You mean, he’d like to get an official policy statement on this off his chest?’ I said, ‘I think so. It won’t be pap. It’ll be solid and definite.’ He said, ‘Okay, Tim, good enough.’ ” Flannery smiled at Dilman. “It’s the way we’ve worked in the past, with excellent results.”

  “Fine,” said Dilman. “You two do whatever you wish until I’ve gone over this. If I have any questions, I won’t be reticent. I’ll need every bit of direction I can get today.”

&n
bsp; Dilman studied the second page in the folder. Under the heading, YOUR OPENING REMARKS, there was a concise list of the subjects that he would cover in his reading of the mimeographed text. Next, under the heading, QUESTIONS ON OPENING REMARKS AND OTHER MATTERS (IF ASKED), there were fourteen short queries. Turning the page, Dilman found the heading, YOU MAY RESPOND AS FOLLOWS, and here each possible inquiry was repeated, followed by a suggested reply, severely condensed to one paragraph. This ran almost two pages. The last heading read, BACKGROUND, with numbers keyed to the questions and answers, and tight paragraphs filled with authoritative quotations and statistics from government departments elaborating upon the suggested responses.

  Flipping back to the second page, Dilman quickly went over the outline of the prepared statement already in his briefcase, which he was to read to the reporters and television cameras. The general tone was humble and conciliatory. He was to begin by saying that he welcomed the opportunity to meet with the men and women of the fourth estate upon whom the electorate depended for all information concerning their government. He was to say that he felt they would perform with the same sense of responsibility with which he would try to perform. Never in our history, he would say, was a President or the public more dependent upon news media for accuracy and reliability. There would be the quotation from Thomas Jefferson: “The press is the best instrument for enlightening the mind of man, and improving him as a rational, moral, and social being.” Tim Flannery had calculated that these remarks, this initial flattery, would soften the cynical reporters, make them preen with self-importance, make them know that here was a Chief Executive who would cooperate with them. Remembering the writings of Reb Blaser and his kind, Dilman felt less confidence in the uses of flattery, but he liked Flannery too much to disagree.