They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  Gang and Fa found the phraseology (holy war) revealing—almost amusing. Both of them were well familiar with Tibetan Buddhist terminology, and neither could recall ever coming upon the phrase holy war. No, this was the coinage of another, very different, religion. In his zeal and haste, Minister Lo appeared to have done some cutting and pasting.

  As for that other mischief-maker, General Han: Immediately following his humiliation over the thwarted naval incident, he had convened an emergency plenary meeting of the Central Military Committee. Han had expressed to his generals and admirals that he had the “gravest reservations” about President Fa’s handling of the incident. Moreover, he had wondered—out loud—whether the leadership was “up to the great tasks before us.” Having openly questioned the president’s judgment, he proceeded—without even consulting Zhongnanhai—to raise the Readiness Status of all PLA forces in Chengdu Military Region (Tibet) from Level 3 to Level 2. While this was formally within his authority at a time of “national emergency,” it would have been polite, to say the least, for him to inform China’s president and general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party.

  “At least in Tibet he can’t use ships,” Gang observed.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to try,” Fa said.

  He did not look well, Fa. The dream was back; again his bed was a trapdoor into a basement of horrors. He’d lost more weight. Gang couldn’t bring himself to tell Fa about the cruel jibe making the rounds of the Central Committee’s secretariat: Perhaps President Fa also has a pheochromocytoma! Gang fumed. Very amusing! And in which ministry did this clever jest originate? Let me guess. There was a subdirectorate at MSS whose task was to come up with this sort of thing; typically, however, the target of ridicule was not the president of the country.

  Gang and Madam Fa did what they could to stop the president’s caloric hemorrhaging, plying him with American-style “milk shakes” and “junk food.” Gang quietly dispatched people to McDonald’s and Burger King and KFC and those other temples of American cardiovascular worship. They brought back soggy, grease-soaked bags of revolting, life-annihilating foods; revolting, perhaps, but gobbling it down himself, Gang admitted, quite delicious. He became a regular sharer in these presidential force-feeding repasts, in the process gaining ten pounds. His suits were beginning to pinch.

  “Look at us, Comrade,” Gang said to Fa one night as they passed in front of a mirror in the Great Hall of the People on their way into a banquet in honor of a delegation from Iran that had come to buy missiles with which to threaten American ships in the Persian Gulf.

  Fa and Gang winced at their reflections—the one gaunt, the other inflated like a balloon—and hurried down the corridor to toast the warm relations between Beijing and Tehran. Between Gang’s inhalation of American carbohydrates and Fa’s chain-smoking and pill-taking, the leadership of China could not be said to be in robust condition.

  “Good morning, Comrades,” Fa began.

  The response was sullen and perfunctory. It was not a morning for smiles.

  The state news agency Xinhua had issued a frosty two-paragraph bulletin acknowledging the passing of the “self-proclaimed Buddha reincarnation Tenzin Gyatso in Ohio, USA.” It reasserted China’s authority over the “management of living Buddha reincarnation.” (Translation: We’ll be picking the next Dalai Lama, thanks very much.) And in case there was any doubt in anyone’s mind as to whether the remains would be returning to Lhasa for stupa burial: “The recent declaration of the Sanitary Subcommittee of the Central Directorate for the TAR with respect to the matter of repatriation remains in effect.” (Translation: Not a Chinaman’s chance.)

  Xinhua had issued the statement on the authority of the deputy minister for Propaganda and Thought Work. Zhongnanhai had not been asked to approve the wording. This went beyond casual negligence. Fa bristled but remembered Admiral Zhang’s admonition: Pick your own ground for battle, not the enemy’s.

  “I spoke this morning with the American president,” Fa began.

  The announcement caught the committee by surprise. All eyes turned to Fa, then caromed around the table like billiard balls. Fa tracked the glances as clues to who had been in cabal with whom.

  “Ah? Who initiated the call?” Lo asked. He added with a smirk, “If I may ask.”

  “You have asked. And since you do, I will tell you that it was he who requested the call. But”—Fa smiled—“I don’t suppose I need to tell you, Lo, what he was calling about. Since undoubtedly you were listening in.”

  Gang, hearing this through his headphones, tensed. Oh, Comrade, be careful, please.

  The room went quiet. Then Fa said heartily, “But you would be a poor minister of security if you didn’t listen in, wouldn’t you? Eh?”

  Nervous laughter. Lo smiled.

  “Well, Comrades,” Fa went on, “you will not be surprised to hear that the president was not calling about our disagreement over our steel exports. No . . .” Fa’s voice trailed off. Gang had given him half a stay-awake pill—after he’d spoken with the American president. “. . . It was the issue of the Lotus’s remains. Speaking of which, I see from Xinhua this morning that the issue has apparently already been settled. Well, I like to keep up with the news. Yes, yes. One wants to be informed. Especially when one is theoretically in charge.”

  A darting of averting eyeballs.

  Lo leaped in. “I trust, Comrade, that you told the American president that this is our business, and none of his.”

  Gang thought, Comrade Minister Lo is animated this morning. Did he have a stay-awake pill, too?

  “I did not use those exact words,” Fa said. “But then a president and general secretary does not have the luxury of bluntness. Now that you bring up the subject, however, you make me think how refreshing it would be to look someone right in the eye—as I am you, now, here—and say, ‘You really are a thoroughgoing bastard, aren’t you?’ ”

  The room froze. Gang held his breath.

  “Imagine being able to say that!” Fa laughed. “How liberating that would be! Don’t you agree, Comrade?”

  Lo, caught off balance, stared coldly, jaw muscles working. He recovered, and now he laughed as well, perhaps a bit too energetically. “Yes, Comrade. Yes, I see exactly what you are saying. It would be agreeable indeed to tell the American president what a real bastard he is.”

  Great laughter.

  “Perhaps,” Fa said, “after my duties as servant of the people and the party are concluded, I will spend my retirement going around telling people what I truly think of them. Yes, that is something I could look forward to. But I might end up seeming like one of those people who have that condition where you can’t control yourself and shout, ‘You look like a chicken!’ Or ‘Hey, why don’t you lick my balls?’ ”

  Awkward laughter.

  “However,” Fa said, “as long as I continue to hold these positions of great responsibility, I must comport myself appropriately. And now I will tell you all candidly that the American president expressed deep concern. His manner was correct and respectful. Our conversation was cordial. He made no request or petition on behalf of the Tibetan. But he said that the matter has troubling shi. He said, ‘This business could take on a life of its own.’ Those were his exact words.”

  “There you have it, Comrades,” General Han said. “The so-called most powerful man on earth, trembling like a girl!”

  Nervous laughter.

  Fa continued. “I discerned no trembling, Comrade. He told me that he will make every effort not to take sides in this business.”

  “ ‘Every effort’?” Lo laughed. “Well, Comrades, then we have nothing to worry about, do we? The most powerful man in the world will make ‘every effort’! How can he fail?”

  Laughter.

  “He pointed out to me,” Fa continued once the laughter had subsided, “that his power, unlike our own, is limited. He expects that there will be mischief in their Congress. You know what a hive of bees that can be. Well,” he said, taking
a piece of paper from his leather portfolio, “why don’t I read you the statement that he will make this afternoon, at the White House?”

  Fa looked up from the paper and said with an air of bemusement, “I’ll spare you the flower petals they sprinkled over the top of it. He goes on for a bit about what a sweet old man was the Lotus. I don’t suppose you want to hear that. Here’s the meat of it: ‘The United States earnestly hopes that the interested parties will resolve this matter in an atmosphere of calmness, dignity, and mutual respect worthy of His Late Holiness, the Dalai Lama.’ ”

  “Oh, fuck that,” General Han said.

  “Well,” Fa said, leaning back in his chair, “so much for dignity.”

  Han seethed. “The Americans have been stirring this shitpot all along! Spreading lies about how we tried to poison the old dog! And now they put on this mask of piety, like some old woman in a temple, lighting incense sticks, mewling, ‘Oh, oh, let us all be respectful to one another. As he was.’ I say fuck the American president. Fuck them all.”

  Gang heard murmurs of assent, the soft thumping of palms on the table. Though afraid for his president, he could not help but be amused by General Han’s mimickry of a squeaky-voiced old woman in a temple. Had he practiced this? Oh, to put it on YouTube.

  When the murmuring had died down, Fa said calmly, “Are you proposing to fuck all Americans, General? That will take some time. There are over three hundred million of them now.”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Comrade!” Han shot back. “You’re in no position to.”

  The room went quiet.

  So, Gang thought, now it’s out in the open: You are weak, and we have no confidence in you.

  Lo put his hand on Han’s forearm. “Easy now, Comrade General. Our dear Comrade President Fa was only attempting to be witty. And that is not something that comes naturally to him. But let’s at least give him credit for trying.”

  Laughter.

  “I thank you for the compliment,” Fa said. “You are correct, as always. Wit is a mountaintop beyond my reach. But as to the general’s point—and I am most interested in this—are you saying that we now know for a certain fact that the poisoning accusations were a propaganda operation by the Americans?”

  “It is . . . Yes, Comrade President,” Lo said, “This can now be confirmed. CIA.”

  Gang caught the hesitancy. Fa caught it, too.

  “Well, Comrade,” Fa said gravely, “if that is the case, then our good General Han is absolutely correct. We must look with disdain on these silky lies of theirs. Yes. But in diplomacy, as we all know, the wise thing is to allow the enemy to believe that he has deceived you. Surely Sun-tzu has something in his book about that,” Fa added with a chuckle. “So, Comrades, we are not deceived. But let us all frankly admit that this business is going to be unpleasant. In the days ahead, we will hear harsh things said about our beloved China. Harsh things. I think they will run out of straw, making so many effigies of me. But as our general minister of defense would say, ‘Fuck them all.’ ”

  Gang heard the tension go out of the room, the laughter, and breathed.

  BACK IN THE PRESIDENTIAL bathroom, faucets and showers flowing, Fa and Gang sat pensively. Gang silently gorged on french fries from a McDonald’s bag. Fa smoked. It was too early for whiskey. Too bad. Fa would have liked a whiskey.

  “You caught the lie about the CIA?” Fa said, breaking the silence.

  “Um,” Gang said, wiping french fry grease from his lips. “Yes. And wouldn’t you know that I still haven’t received the so-called transcript of that supposed conversation between the lama and CIA agent Mike. I’ve asked them for it three times.”

  “What excuse do they give?”

  “They’re ‘looking for it.’ It seems to have been misplaced.”

  They sat awhile longer in silence, listening to the rush of water.

  “All right then,” Fa said. “It’s time. Tell Mankind Is Red to start watering the vine.”

  Gang located a remaining french fry and ate it, nodding.

  “Let’s hope—” Fa interrupted himself and smiled. “Do you know, Gang, I almost said, ‘Let’s pray’? Funny. Let us hope that the vine flourishes. Because if it does not, we will wither along with it.”

  Gang grinned. “In that case then, perhaps we should pray.”

  Fa smiled. “Why don’t you find us a good Tibetan prayer?” He stood and began to shut off the faucets. “But when we say this prayer, we shall have to turn these up very loudly. Can’t you see Lo’s face as he listens to us chanting?”

  And at this the two men laughed.

  CHAPTER 29

  PINGGG

  Friday night at Upkeep, and Bird and Myndi were in the kitchen attending to the quiet ritual of chopping things for dinner.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Bird suddenly declared in mid-carrot-chop, “I never asked you how the EQ shoot went.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. That was so insensitive of me. With all this stuff going on . . . But that’s no excuse.”

  Myndi looked at him.

  “So? How did it go?”

  “They were disappointed that you weren’t here,” she said, staring back down at her shallots.

  “I’m sorry. What can I say?”

  “Not much, frankly, at this point. It doesn’t matter.” (Translation: It matters.)

  “Babe, you’re the star of this show. I’m just . . . But okay, I take ownership of my assholeness in this regard. Absolutely.” Pause. “Other than that did it go okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “You sound kind of down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I bet it’s going to be fabulous. What outfits did you wear?”

  “I must have changed seven or eight times. They sent two stylists.”

  “Two? Wow.” Bird could not think of anything more reaffirming to add. He leaned over and gave her a husbandly peck on the cheek. “Bet you looked like a million bucks. When’s it come out?”

  Myndi went on chopping. “Well, Walter, the name of the magazine is EQ, which stands for Equestrian Quarterly, so I would imagine next quarter.”

  “Babe. You sound depressed. Is everything okay?”

  Myndi put down her knife. “All this fuss and feathers about the Dalai Lama and where to bury him. I know you’ve been in some bunker somewhere, but maybe you’ve heard something about it?”

  “Yes, I . . . oh, so he finally died, did he? Poor old thing. Well, I guess he must have died if they’re trying to figure out where to bury him.”

  “Yes, Walter, he died. And the Tibetans are having a thing because China won’t let them bury him in Lhasa. Who cares?”

  “Well, I imagine they’ll sort it all out. But is this what’s got you down?”

  “The Tang Cup, Walter.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s six weeks away.”

  “That’s great. Are you excited?”

  “I was excited.”

  “ ‘Was’?”

  “Walter, this idiotic lama business could screw everything up for me. The EQ reporter told me that the U.S. might not send a team if things deteriorate.”

  Bird tried to conjure words of empathy and indignation, but they bounced on his tongue like a fumbled football.

  “Oh, dear,” Bird finally managed.

  “Oh, Walter,” Myndi said, biting her lip. “I’ve worked so hard for this.”

  “I know you have, darling,” Bird said. He felt as if he were hallucinating. “But I’m sure it’ll blow over. These things always do.”

  Myndi went back to her chopping. “Have you seen the TV? There are mobs in front of the Chinese embassy in Washington.”

  “Really? No, I’ve been in the bunker. Mobs, huh? Guess I’ll avoid Connecticut Avenue and Kalorama.”

  “And that actor, Branford Dane. Spare me Hollywood Buddhists.”

  “Is he in a new movie or something?”

  �
��You can’t turn on the TV without seeing him. Who is he to issue demands to the Chinese government? I don’t even like his movies. It’s just a way of getting his name out there. Actors. I despise them.”

  “Yes.” Bird nodded. “Hard to imagine Clark Gable or Gary Cooper doing that sort of thing. How’s Harry?”

  “Harry?” Myndi said. She stopped chopping. “Fine. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I’ve been kind of judgmental. And not very nice. About him wanting to help you out with the financing.”

  Myndi looked at him strangely. “I don’t really know what to say to that, Walter. You weren’t just ‘not very nice.’ You were totally rude. Beyond rude.”

  Bird thought, So here are the wages of sin: having to apologize to the cuckolded wife for not liking her asshole rich friend. With whom she may or may not be sleeping. You made your bed, pal. Suck it up: sheets, mattress, and pillow.

  “Yes,” Bird said. “I now realize that. And I’m sorry.”

  “That scene at the club,” she said, “when you got hammered and carried on about that horrible movie. I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

  “Yes,” Bird said. “Well, I certainly feel rotten about it, too. Do you think if I dropped Harry an e-mail . . .?”

  Myndi put down her knife and looked at him. “Walter, why are you . . . What’s with you all of a sudden?”

  Pinggg.

  “Walter?”

  “Yes, Myn?”

  “Have you been going to AA?”

  Bird smiled sheepishly. Bit his lower lip. Nodded. “I guess there’s no keeping secrets from you, is there, darling? Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “Oh, Walter. Thank you.”

  “Turns out there’s a regular meeting right around the corner from my office on K. So I can pop in almost anytime.”

  “Walter. You don’t know how glad that makes me.”

  Bird shrugged.

  “No. Listen to me. I’m proud of you.”

  “Well, it was you, darling, who suggested it in the first place. So you should really be proud of yourself.”