Blind Date (19 page)

Ronsard-Thibaudet Samael, President of the African Republic of Lotan, was a world-renowned essayist and the author of numerous works on the nature of language. Investors International had decided to honor him with its prestigious Humanitarian Award.

Levanter, one of the organizers of the event, went to the New York hotel where President Samael's entourage was staying. He had an appointment with the State Department official serving as Samael's adviser during his visit and was given a careful security check by three United States Secret Service agents both before entering the elevator and as he stepped out of it.

A tall, red-haired woman, with full breasts and unusually white skin, was waiting for Levanter at the door. Levanter mentally nicknamed her Oklahoma: a lot of everything but no detail to speak of. She introduced herself as President Samael's adviser. Inside, she pointed to the papers spread all over her sofa, desk, and table, explaining that these were the detailed security plans for the Investors International dinner. President Samael was to be honored as a thinker and humanitarian. But since many Afro-Americans in the United States were fanatically opposed to his administration's domestic reforms and foreign policies, his visit had turned into a political event, necessitating elaborate security measures. The State Department adviser was the liaison for the various federal and city agencies involved.

Levanter looked over the list of notables invited to the dinner; then he and Oklahoma started working on the final seating plan.

There was a knock at the door, but Oklahoma made no move to answer it. Assuming that she expected him to respond, Levanter went to the door and opened it.

He faced a handsome, slender man whose dense silver hair contrasted with the black skin of his youthful face. The man was naked except for a pair of unusually narrow briefs. Such a tight,
sparse garment, Levanter thought with amusement, could go a long way toward sustaining the notion of black virility. A freshly starched white shirt hung by its collar from the man's forefinger.

The man did not express any surprise at encountering a stranger at her door. Stepping past Levanter without speaking, he entered the room and went straight to the woman. He embraced her and whispered something in her ear. Levanter, ill at ease, remained at the door and looked away. But the man left as quickly as he had arrived, passing Levanter on his way out, still dangling his shirt. Levanter turned back into the room. Oklahoma, flushed, made no comment, and the two of them went on with their work as if nothing had happened.

A few minutes later there was another knock at the door. This time Levanter ignored it, and the woman went to answer. The same man entered. He was wearing a tailored dark blue suit, starched white shirt, fashionable wide tie, and shiny, pointy-toed shoes. Levanter, who had seen many photographs of President Samael, although he had never met him in person, recognized the man instantly and rose to greet him.

Oklahoma led him over to Levanter and introduced them. President Samael extended his hand and Levanter shook it. The President stepped back, looked at him, then turned to Oklahoma. With a straight face, he said, “Mr. Levanter and I have met once before, but it was some time ago and we have both changed.” Addressing Levanter, he said, “You, Mr. Levanter, might even have forgotten our first meeting!”

“Indeed, Mr. President,” said Levanter with an equally solemn expression, “it was, after all, so long ago.”

Samael smiled. Assuring Levanter that he was looking forward to the dinner, he kissed Oklahoma on her cheek and left.

As Levanter and Oklahoma settled down to work again, Levanter remarked that President Samael was a very charming man.

The adviser raised her head and nodded. “A fine gentleman,” she said. After a moment, she added solemnly, “And always smartly dressed.”

In Tunisia on behalf of Investors International, Levanter attended a gala, where he was introduced to an Arab diplomat, a former Interpol official. A handsome man with dark, intense eyes, the Arab carried himself with an air of detachment. He offered to take Levanter for a ride in his new, custom-built Italian sports car.

They drove slowly through the crowded suburbs of Tunis, then moved onto an open highway, past giant billboards displaying life-sized portraits of the country's president, and turned off at a dirt road.

Passing through peasant villages, the diplomat honked the horn to clear a passage through the crowds of half-naked men, women, and children who crawled out of their huts to stare at the car. The long gleaming hood kept brushing against villagers who failed to jump out of the way in time. In one village, a camel stubbornly blocked the road, and the diplomat was forced to stop. A crowd of onlookers pressed closer to the sleek machine.

An old beggar, his hand outstretched, hobbled over to the car on Levanter's side. His chest was covered with dirt and sores, his trousers were in shreds, his feet bare. One eye was barely visible in a pool of oozing pus. He wore a wreath of fresh lemon-blossoms over his matted gray hair. He brought his face close to the window and fixed his good eye on Levanter. When Levanter made no move to open the window, the beggar began to twitch and placed his gnarled hands on the glass, his crooked fingers crawling over it like leeches.

Levanter reached into his pocket for some coins and pressed the window control button on his door, lowering the glass. A hot steaming odor filled the car. Levanter offered the money to the beggar, who jerked his hands off, refusing to take it. The diplomat started to press the button to close the window, but Levanter restrained him.

The beggar put his head next to Levanter's. Spittle drooled from his toothless mouth and a dry rattle came from his throat. Finally, in halting French, he managed to say, “Do you — do you know Cecil Beaton?” He watched Levanter in suspense, waiting for an answer. Levanter nodded; a smile crossed the man's face. “When I was young, Cecil Beaton knew me well. He photographed me. He said I was the most beautiful boy he had ever met.” His sighted eye blinked; he watched Levanter's face as if expecting some response.

Just then the camel moved off the road. Obviously annoyed, the diplomat sent the window the rest of the way up and stepped on the gas. As the car took off, the rear fender grazed the beggar, and he fell to the ground.

Back at Levanter's residence, the diplomat politely escorted Levanter to the door. “Have you had a chance to visit the new baths in Hammamet?” he asked.

Levanter replied that he hadn't.

“You must.” The diplomat placed his hand on Levanter's. “There you can enjoy some of the most stunning creatures nature has devised,” he said, lowering his voice. “Young, so very young. And how beautiful!” He smacked his lips in appreciation. “I'll be glad to take you there,” he added in a whisper, his fingers pressing Levanter's wrist.

“That's most kind of you,” said Levanter. “Where do these girls come from?”

The diplomat looked at him with unabashed amazement. “Girls?” he said, chuckling and patting Levanter's forearm. “Who mentioned girls?” He glanced at Levanter as if seeing him for the first time. “My dear George, you are a fetishist, aren't you?” He was still laughing as he left, calling out, “I guess I'll see you when we're both back in New York.”

A New York hostess invited Levanter to a party at which the United States Secretary of State and a Soviet poet whom Levanter had known at the university in Moscow were also to be guests.

At one point in the evening, Levanter saw the poet talking with the Secretary of State and removing his wristwatch. He moved
closer and overheard the poet urging the Secretary to do the same. Exchanging watches, the poet explained, was a Russian custom carried out in the spirit of friendship: one man's watch times his friendship for another. Aware that other guests were watching him, the Secretary, always the consummate negotiator, removed his Tissot and reluctantly gave it to the poet, accepting the poet's Pobyeda in return.

When Levanter returned home from the party, he had hardly walked in the door before the phone rang. It was the Arab diplomat, who was one of the guests, calling on behalf of the hostess. He told Levanter that the wife of the Secretary of State had just called the hostess to say her husband wanted to renegotiate the wristwatch exchange. The hostess did not feel she knew the Soviet poet well enough and had asked if Levanter could tactfully persuade the poet to take back his generous gesture of friendship. The relative monetary values were apparently not at issue, the hostess assured the diplomat, although the Tissot was vintage and expensive and the mass-produced Pobyeda was cheap and new. The reason the Secretary wanted to retrieve his own watch was that it had been given to him during his youth in Germany, and there was a lot of sentiment attached to it.

The next morning, Levanter picked up the Pobyeda and went to see the poet to collect the Tissot. When he explained his mission, the poet went into a rage. He shouted that during his poetry-reading tour in the United States he had traded many Soviet-made Pobyedas for the watches of some very distinguished Americans, many of them Harvard colleagues of the Secretary of State, and no one had ever reneged on the exchange. As evidence, he brought out an impressive collection of Rolexes, Omegas, Pulsars, and Seikos. He plucked the Tissot from the collection and handed it to Levanter.

“Who does he think he is?” the poet ranted in Russian. “Just because he was born in Germany and speaks with a German accent, he doesn't have to behave like a German!” He shouted that
“pobyeda”
might translate as “victory,” but it certainly did not mean the victory of pettiness over friendship.

The Arab diplomat was relieved and grateful. “This was a
delicate incident,” he said, “and I knew I could count on you to handle that poet.” He paused. “Although, by coincidence, I learned that the Secretary of State just bought his Tissot on a recent junket to Geneva.”

At another time, Levanter was invited to a small dinner party at the New York home of an American businessman and his wife. The guest of honor was Madame Ramoz, wife of the President of the Republic of Deltazur, a small, underdeveloped country of many islands that depended on tourism and American economic and military assistance. Madame Ramoz often represented her husband abroad, and it was said that at home she commanded greater power than all the other government figures put together.

Madame Ramoz arrived in the company of several heavily armed bodyguards, who waited outside the apartment during the party, and an aide, a handsome colonel of the Palace Guards, who placed himself discreetly inside.

She was strikingly elegant, and Levanter was pleased to be seated beside her at dinner. Madame Ramoz explained that she had come to New York on behalf of her husband, the President, to address a Press Club luncheon the following day.

American newspapers had been publishing articles and editorials highly critical of the President, she said, reporting that on the pretext of fighting Communist rebels he had established martial law and that he was suppressing political opposition to his dictatorial rule through merciless arrests. As the economy of her country depended on American investments and its safety on American military aid, Madame Ramoz admitted one of the main purposes of her visit to the States was to present the truth and to counteract what she termed the antagonistic, Communist-inspired, liberal attacks on her husband, who had made the Republic of Deltazur a bastion of democracy and freedom.

Madame Ramoz spoke coolly, charmingly, and Levanter found himself staring at her. She was one of the most beautiful Eurasian women he had ever seen.

When she finished her polite discourse, Levanter said he was certain that because of American concern over the political situation in her country, the audience at the luncheon would be listening to her speech most attentively. Madame Ramoz told him that she had taken precautions against being misquoted or misrepresented by preparing her speech in advance and providing copies for distribution before she spoke. He said he regretted that he was not a member of the Press Club, and asked how he could obtain a copy of her speech.

After dinner, Madame Ramoz casually handed Levanter a copy of her prepared text. As she went off to talk with some of the other guests, Levanter quickly read the speech. He waited until Madame Ramoz returned to where he was sitting.

“Is this the final text of your speech?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she replied with confidence. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm afraid there's a serious error in it.”

“An error? What sort of error?”

“One that might cause you, Madame, and your husband a great deal of embarrassment,” Levanter said quietly. “However, the error can easily be corrected.”

Madame Ramoz looked at him with anxious curiosity. “Tell me about it,” she said.

“If I point out the error to you, Madame, will you, in good faith, tell me if you intend to correct it?”

She looked at him intently. “Of course I will.”

“Then,” Levanter continued, “if, thanks to me, you recognize and rectify this error, will you do something for me in return?”

Madame Ramoz gave him a reproachful look. “That depends on what you want me to do.”

Levanter watched her eyes as he spoke. “Through my role in Investors International,” he said, “I have learned that two prominent reporters for an opposition newspaper in your country have been in prison for months without trial, on vague charges of subversion.”

She did not react.

“There was some evidence of torture,” he went on, “of resettling their families. If I save you from an error in your speech, will you intervene on their behalf?”

Madame Ramoz looked away, toward the handsome colonel, who stood across the room watching. Then her gaze moved back to Levanter. “I am merely the wife of the President, Mr. Levanter, but I promise to use whatever limited influence I have on the Ministry of the Interior. Now tell me about this error.”