The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  It was rare for foreign officers at Showers’ level to take people to lunch in Washington on official business. Were he and Kurosawa overseas, he could spend as lavishly as he pleased, but within the United States, the State Department was chary with its expense accounts.

  This wasn’t exactly official business. He was paying for the lunch out of his own pocket. The Gangplank was pleasant, and it was cheap. It was also appropriate. The Potomac was very bright and blue and beautiful that day, the hulls of the moored sailboats a brilliant white in the sunshine, the screeching of the wheeling seagulls overhead seeming to urge him on, chiding him to keep up his resolve.

  Kurosawa was head of his embassy’s maritime section. For most of the lunch, they talked usefully about an Alaskan waters fishing dispute that had been preoccupying both their offices for months. Showers suggested that the United States might now be willing to agree to a compromise, allowing the Japanese an increase in their catch quota if they would reduce the size of the territory they claimed as international waters. This was a small breakthrough, as heretofore neither side had been willing to relinquish anything. There had been no official change in U.S. policy, but the assistant secretary Showers worked for had mentioned that Secretary of State Hollis’s death had removed an impediment. Hollis’s sympathies and interests centered on Europe, and he had been contemptuous of the Japanese. Showers’ boss and Undersecretary Richmond, now acting secretary of state, favored conciliation, and wanted to get this long-standing dispute off the books. The possibility offered Showers a good pretext for this meeting.

  Kurosawa seemed pleased to hear what Showers had to say on the matter, but not really surprised. With good reason. The Japanese had all manner of high-priced American lobbying firms on their payroll, their operatives at work all over Capitol Hill. They’d probably learned of the change in thinking before Showers had been informed of it. Showers’ disclosure at least provided confirmation of their intelligence.

  “What do you hear about the Earth Treaty?” Kurosawa asked. “Is it going to be a close vote?”

  Again, the Japanese were far better informed on this question than Showers was. They’d had people lobbying against the treaty from the first moment it hit the Senate.

  “You never know until the votes are counted.”

  “We hear the president is going to move for a vote on the treaty first, and bring up the enabling bill later. This is true?”

  “I’ve talked to the president just once since the inauguration. It was at a White House Christmas party. He wished me a Merry Christmas.”

  Kurosawa smiled. Showers liked the man. He was very interested in horses, and they occasionally rode together in Rock Creek Park. They’d also had long talks about the sea, how it was the common blood of all nations.

  The man was still smiling. There was no better moment for what Showers had to do. He reached into his pocket.

  “Do you know anything about this?”

  The smile disappeared very quickly as the other man read the memo’s contents.

  “Who is this Peter Napier?”

  Showers shrugged. “Someone with the National Committee.”

  “If this is true, David, it would be most unfortunate.”

  “You’ve heard nothing about it?”

  “No.” He gave the word a Japanese intonation, making it sound almost like a bark.

  “Then I’m sure it can’t be true. There are always rumors going around. Perhaps this fellow was just foolish enough to put one down on paper.”

  “How did you come to have this?”

  “One of my superiors got hold of it.” Here the lies began. Showers quickened the pace of his words. “He asked me to check it out. I thought you would know if anyone would. The National Committee wouldn’t tell us anything. The White House people I talked to acted as though I had lost my mind.”

  “It is unbelievable.”

  “I think that’s what I’ll tell my boss.” He reached for the memo, but Kurosawa held on to it.

  “May I borrow this, to make further inquiry?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. That could get me in a lot of trouble.”

  Kurosawa gave the paper another quick read, then handed it over.

  “Very interesting.” He signaled to the waiter for the check.

  “I invited you,” Showers protested.

  “Oh no, please. This is very good news you bring me about the Alaskan matter. Happiness is to be repaid.”

  He signed the credit card form with great haste. Showers offered him a ride to the embassy in his Cherokee, but Kurosawa politely declined. He all but ran out into Maine Avenue to hail a cab.

  Limping back to his Jeep, Showers hesitated before unlocking the door, then took out the memo and tore it into very small pieces, dropping them into a trash basket on the embankment.

  He had thought he’d feel quite rotten at this point, but instead there was an odd exhilaration. He quickly realized what it was. Except for his brief but serendipitous involvement in the long-ago Anglo-Icelandic cod war, this was the first time in his career that he had actually caused something to happen.

  It took the efforts of Alixe Percy, Becky Bonning, a veterinarian, and two grooms to get Moonsugar moved from the steeplechase course barn to Showers’ stable, but the horse survived the trip well and settled comfortably into his stall. The vet’s diagnosis was that the fracture was more a hairline crack than a real break, and that it was fortuitously placed. A few inches closer to the ankle, and there would have been no prescription but death. The horse still favored the leg badly, putting no real weight on it. But he could stand, and did so without complaint. It would be weeks before they’d even trust him to an amble around the stable yard, but every indication was good.

  “That goddamned Lynwood Fairbrother was two seconds away from putting him under,” Alixe said, as they stood in the stable after the veterinarian had departed. “I’ll speak no ill of Lenore after this.”

  “I wish David could be here,” Becky said, stroking Moonsugar’s head. “I don’t understand why he has to stay in Washington so long.”

  “It would be fine by me if the British came and burned the place down again,” Alixe said. “Useless damn pile of marble, that city.” She stuck her hands on her wide hips and squinted out the open stable door. “As long as I’ve got the horse trailer hitched up, let’s take care of some other business. Let’s get that fine big bay stallion I bought over here into David’s barn where he belongs.”

  “You’re sure this is the time do it?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “What do you think David will say?”

  “He’ll piss and moan and give us all sorts of noble shit about not accepting charity, but I’ll work on him. Maybe I can get a couple hundred dollars out of him and persuade him to let me carry him for the rest if he’ll sign the papers. If he balks at that, I might just ask him to train the big beast for me for steeplechase. The main thing, Becky, is to get that animal under this roof. If we’re ever going to get the good captain to come back and run this place properly, it’s all got to start with this horse. Keeping up the Queen Tashamore line, that’s a family obligation. And that man loves obligation the way I do Virginia Gentleman straight bourbon.”

  “Sometimes I think that’s all he loves.”

  “How’s your divorce from Billy coming?”

  “We signed the agreement. I just have to wait for the court decree.”

  “Billy didn’t give you any trouble?”

  “He wants out. My father cut me out of his will, you know. He wrote me a letter saying he couldn’t change it back again as long as I was married to Billy. I guess you might say he didn’t love me for myself.”

  Alixe snorted. “That bastard. I held no love for that horse-killing tramp sister of his, but they sure as hell took the wrong Bonning feet first out of the inn.”

  “He was my husband, Alixe.”

  “You just put him out of your mind now. If he bothers you, let me know. If I ever catch t
hat sonofabitch out around here again, I swear there’s going to be a hunting accident.”

  Every opening of a new exhibition at Washington’s National Gallery of Art was invariably accompanied by a gala black tie dinner, honoring each show’s organizers, contributors, and underwriters. The museum’s trustees, director, top staff, and major donors usually made up the better part of the guest list, along with a sprinkling of important federal officials and members of Congress. Because so many of the donors were wealthy widows, the list was often fleshed out with a few male art critics and local celebrities, and enough socially prominent Washington bachelors to provide sufficient dining companions for the superfluity of ladies.

  In this capacity, Showers was in fairly regular attendance at these affairs, held almost always in the Gallery’s ultramodern East Building, designed by I. M. Pei. The Gallery had been established by the Mellons of Upperville, the principal family of the Virginia horse country, and Showers’ father had been a generous contributor before he’d run out of money, considering support for the institution a requisite part of a horseman’s noblesse oblige. Showers had no money to give, but was happy to help out as an extra man.

  The exhibition that had just opened was one of works on paper by the Austrian artist Egon Schiele. The menu that night, accordingly, was delightfully Viennese. The guests included not only the Austrian but the Canadian ambassador, as the latter was a noted collector of Schiele’s drawings. The protocol called for arriving guests first to view the exhibition, pause for cocktails on an upper balcony overlooking the East Building atrium, then descend to the main floor, where candlelit tables were arranged around a central fountain and potted shrubbery in the manner of a Vienna summer garden. While they ate, the guests were to be entertained by a string quintet playing short pieces by Mozart. Many considered these National Gallery evenings more glittering occasions than White House state dinners. From time to time, even the president came.

  He was not there that night, but his chief of staff was. It was Robert Moody’s first exposure to any of Washington’s multiplicity of art museums. As governor of Maryland, he had attended a few functions at the Baltimore Museum of Art, but had paid no attention to the objects on the walls. Now he was given no choice. Upon entering the East Building, he and Deena were swept along the reception line and then guided upstairs by young women in evening gowns and directed into the show.

  Moody and his wife stood uncomfortably a moment, feeling as though more eyes were on them than on the pictures, until Moody at last spotted a congressman he knew from New Jersey. Abandoning Deena, he walked quickly to the man’s side.

  “Hello, Charlie,” he said. “What the hell brings you here?”

  “My committee’s got the National Endowment for the Arts appropriation up. I guess this is a way of greasing the skids.”

  They studied the picture at which the congressman had been staring.

  “What do you make of that?” Moody asked.

  “It’s a picture of some woman. It doesn’t look like he finished it.” The congressman leaned to look at the wall text next to the work. “Her name’s Schiele, too. Probably his wife.”

  “It’s his sister, actually,” said a voice from behind them.

  Startled, especially by the familiarity of the voice, Moody spun around to find himself looking at “Captain” David Showers, seeming a little less heroic in the uniform of black tie. A few days before, he couldn’t even remember the man’s name. Now he was running into him everywhere.

  “Good evening, Mr. Moody,” said Showers, shaking hands. “Good evening, Congressman.”

  “Hiya,” said Moody. “His sister, you say?”

  “Yes. He did a number of portraits of her. Schiele’s output was enormous, even though he died fairly young, during a flu epidemic at the end of World War One.”

  “Is that why he didn’t finish this picture?” Moody said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

  “It’s finished,” said Showers. “Schiele was something of a minimalist. He didn’t often do backgrounds.”

  An awkward silence fell. Finally, Showers spoke again.

  “I understand we’re moving ahead with the treaty.”

  Moody glanced at the congressman, who was not exactly an administration stalwart, then glared at Showers. He disliked the use of the inclusive “we.”

  “We haven’t said what we’re doing yet.”

  “Some new reports came across my desk today,” Showers said. “There’s a frightening one from Australia. At the rate they’re experiencing skin cancer because of the ozone depletion in the Antarctic, they expect that nearly ninety percent of the population will eventually get some form of the disease.”

  “The sun shines a lot down there,” said the congressman. He looked around, saw someone he could talk to, and quickly excused himself. Environmentalist talk made him nervous. People talked about his state as though it were some sort of death trap.

  Showers looked to Moody. “I met with a man from the Japanese embassy today.”

  “Yes? Well, that’s part of your job, isn’t it?”

  “I showed him the National Committee memo.”

  Moody simply stared.

  “He looked quite startled,” Showers said. “I’m sure he informed his superiors immediately.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t know anything about it.”

  “But Secretary Sadinauskas …”

  “Hell of a guy, Wally. A real team player.” He shook Showers’ hand. “It’s real nice talking to you, Showers, but I better get back to my wife.”

  Moody found Deena out on the long balcony with two other high-ranking administration wives, sipping champagne and chattering amiably as she watched late-arriving guests mounting the stairs. She was still being inordinately sweet to Moody, and took his arm as he came beside her. With her were two women Moody had never seen before along with Jane Stoltz, wife of the agriculture secretary. They wore high-necked gowns, in frumpy contrast to Deena’s expansive, much exposed bosom. They were talking about the president’s wife, complaining about her reclusiveness. Mrs. Stoltz had had to stand in front of her that afternoon at a National Forest Service tree-planting ceremony at Mount Vernon.

  “Save a blade of grass, plant a tree. That’s her thing,” said Jane Stoltz. “You’d think she could take an hour out for it.”

  “Maybe she just didn’t want to get her hands dirty,” said one of the other women. She gave a short, squeaky laugh.

  Deena was eyeing the crowd with sweeping glances—a fighter pilot scanning the skies. Suddenly her eyes widened, as though in surprise or alarm. For an instant, Moody wondered if she had spotted the president. Turning quickly, he saw that it was only Lynwood Fairbrother and his wife. Lenore was wearing an emerald green dress and small tiara, easily the most elegant woman there.

  Deena turned away. The Fairbrothers, reaching the top of the stairs, proceeded along the balcony toward what looked to be a group of very wealthy friends. Seeing Moody, Lenore veered away, directly toward him. Her husband continued plodding ahead.

  “Chief, darling!” she said, and kissed Moody on the cheek. “How very, very, very nice to see you again. You’ll like the arts crowd. Just as depraved as the horse crowd, but ever so much more discreet about it.”

  Deena stared coldly, her eyes narrowed.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Lenore continued, her hand still on Moody’s shoulder. “Are you having a wonderful time? Egon Schiele is such a delightfully obscure artist. Pity they have only his pretty things up. Most of his work was frightfully obscene. Oh dear, there’s Bunny Mellon. Must run and see her. So nice to see you all here. Next time you come, Chiefy darling, you must bring your lovely friend Mr. Bloch. The Gallery would just love to have some of his money.”

  She swept away, waving to friends. Moody was sure his face was crimson.

  Deena looked like someone who had n
arrowly escaped being run down by a speeding motorist. “What are they doing here? This isn’t a horse barn.”

  “Mr. Fairbrother’s on the board of trustees,” said Mrs. Stoltz. “He’s gives gobs of money to the museum’s acquisition fund.”

  “I’m much more interested in the Kennedy Center,” Deena said, almost smugly.

  Moody had put through the paperwork on the nomination of Senator Sorenson’s wife to the Center’s board that afternoon. He excused himself, saying he wanted to go back and look at the art.

  Showers sat dutifully through the after-dinner speeches, then excused himself and slipped away into the night. Lenore had stopped by his table to whisper something about staying over in town instead of driving back to Dandytown with her husband, but Showers was no more in favor of that than Lynwood would be. Fairbrother was a fanatical Anglophile who ran his horse farm in the style of an English country manor. He excused his wife’s flirtations and occasional sleeping around because that sort of behavior was the long-standing habit of the British upper classes. He allowed it under his own roof because that was in the tradition of English country weekends. But he would not tolerate anything so provocative and humiliating as Lenore’s resuming her old romance with Showers. He trusted Showers not to let that happen. He’d told Showers that he did. Showers had given his word that it would not happen. Lenore seemed as bent on getting him to break his word as she had been on losing her virginity to him those many long years before. It was a game with her, he was sure. Lenore loved winning games.

  Showers’ small apartment was near the Washington Channel, more than ten blocks from the National Gallery. He decided he’d walk at least part of the way. His limp had diminished and he no longer needed a cane. The night was pleasantly warm, and the image of himself as a solitary figure in evening clothes nervously appealed to him. Loneliness and emptiness had become the principal features of his life.

  He stood on the museum steps a moment, looking up at the bright, full moon. The Mall and the ghostly public buildings were bathed in its iridescence. It suited his mood.

  Showers had wholly pledged himself to Lenore only to be rewarded with the unending prospect of frustration and impossibility. He had kept his promise to his father to save the family horse farm, but to no purpose. It was a place without any real function. It wasn’t likely it would ever again have one until he sold it, or died.