Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 4

SADAT AND BEGIN DESERVE OUR THANKS. It takes courage to do the right thing, especially when you know it’ll make you enemies. Sadat’s neighbors liked what he did on the battlefield, but settling accounts across a table? No way. Something wrong with that picture. Use your strength, then put the other tools to work. Give Carter credit, too. He could have sent them packing, but he didn’t.

And look who’s nosing around now – our former acting governor, making like he’s California’s gift to the nation. Back then the last thing he wanted was for us to solve our problems. Scatter the marbles, pocket them for yourself and your friends, that was his way. Nothing’s changed. And you can’t ignore him, not the way the country’s tacking to starboard. Government is the problem, he says. Tell that to the millions of folks the New Deal saved. But memory is short, and no match for the siren song. My grand old liberals, where are you when we need you? Oil plus economy plus a committed, well-financed opposition – Jimmy is in deep trouble. Speaking of oil, I was pleased when Paul got the Pulitzer, surprised too. Shows how much I know. And the photos from that dinner I found in the file are fun.

I also was fascinated by the new Pope – political acumen and a made-to-order bully pulpit. Even then it seemed to me Europe was ripe for change and here was a guy who just might make the difference. Of course. I never bought into that Red Scare business, and to me Brezhnev was a hollow man. The USSR could still cause a lot of trouble, but they weren’t the cosmic threat we’d come to know and love. Iran and Khomeini, nothing good there for the foreseeable future. Good to see Hamid taking a stand.

I do enjoy seeing Paul dealing with his children, though that business with the middle boy was troubling – I never got to meet him. I wish I had known them better. His ex is probably still poisoning the well, though at the funeral the girl was pleasant enough and Peter greeted me with what looked for all the world like affection.

I wonder what Jonathan’s up to. As they say, no news is no news.

* * * * * * *

ONE MORNING ED REYNOLDS PAID ME A VISIT, back for one of Harlan Kenny’s unloved seminars. Still based in Bangkok, Ed had been on overload the last six months. Khymer Rouge, Boat People, and in mid-February the brief and bloody Chinese incursion into Vietnam. I treated Ed to lunch in the cafeteria and we caught up. He had nice things to say about the oil series. I remarked that we hadn’t seen each other for some time.

“I’ve been here,” he said, “it seems you’re always on the road.”

“That is true,” I replied. “There is a lot of that.”

“You have plans for tonight? A guy I know just came out with a book, there’s a little celebration. Thought you might be interested in meeting him.”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Dave Halberstam. Friend of mine from Vietnam.”

That took all of a micro-second. Formerly of the Times, Pulitzer Prize for war reporting, author of The Best and the Brightest, a masterly account of how we got into Vietnam. Luckily I kept a suit and a clean shirt in my locker and found a suitable tie in my desk. This would be several cuts above my usual sport coats and corduroys. Ed whirled by at seven-thirty and we caught a cab to a steak house near Lincoln Center favored by newspaper men. A couple dozen people were standing around, drinks in hand. I recognized Halberstam – tall and lanky, horn-rimmed glasses.

At this point I offer a confession. Mid-afternoon I blasted out and picked up a copy of Halberstam’s book. I’m a pretty fast reader and for an hour I skimmed its 771 pages. Luce’s Time empire, the Grahams’ Washington Post, the Chandlers’ L.A. Times, Paley’s CBS. I knew a fair amount about the first three but the television sections really drew me in. Later I’d have to reread them carefully.

“Dave! Congratulations! How the hell are you!” Reynolds put his arms around Halberstam and they gave each other a bear hug.

“Reynolds, you old bastard! Still in Thailand? Why don’t you get a real job?”

“Nobody’s hiring. But hey, when you love what you do, you stay with it.” Reynolds gestured toward me. “Meet a Gazette colleague, Paul Bernard. He’s our energy guru. You’ve probably seen his work.”

“You did that series on the oil industry. Nice piece of work.”

“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand, “a pleasure.”

“Paul and I met in Saigon. He was with the grand army of our republic.”

Halberstam continued shaking my hand. “Sorry about that. Looks like you made it back okay, anyway.”

“Pretty much,” I replied. “Wish I’d seen your book before I went there.”

“A number of vets have told me that. A good part of it was in the Times day-to-day, not all the detail, of course.”

We talked until Halberstam was spirited away. At dinner I introduced myself around the table. On my other side was a youngish guy with a down-under drawl, name of Harry Firth, said he was with the Latimer Television Network.

“Does LTN get much play in Halberstam’s book?” I asked.

“We’re too new. But when he updates it we’ll be in there. No account of American television will be complete without LTN.”

“You people have a high opinion of yourselves.”

“Absolutely.”

“And your boss is quite the character.”

“What people fail to grasp is he’s one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet.”

Rudolph Latimer’s story has been well chronicled. Flamboyant New Zealander, owner of newspapers, magazines, radio and television stations on every continent. Fiercely competitive with that other down-under media baron, though some called him a Murdoch wannabee. To position himself for U.S. television Latimer became a naturalized citizen, then proceeded to snap up TV stations including New York’s Channel Twelve, cobbling together what he called the Latimer Television Network. From modest circumstances, he had married up, then parlayed his wife’s fortune into a successful trucking empire before catching the newspaper bug. One of the world’s wealthiest men, a restless, demanding figure, his business ethics or lack thereof often landed him on his competitors’ front pages. Prolific spender on conservative causes, he had a plaque in his office, I’d seen a photo of it once – FOR ATTILA, LOOK LEFT.

“He couldn’t have accomplished all he has without smarts,” I said.

“Of course, his smartest play is to surround himself with good people. Like myself,” Firth said, laughing.

“Did he bring you from New Zealand?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He took a large sip of wine. “I’m his nephew.”

“Nepotism at its finest.”

“Whatever it takes. Actually I’ve worked for Rudolph for fifteen years. Started in Auckland, then London, now New York. He believes in working your way up. Or out.”

“What do you do for them now?”

“I produce the Channel Twelve late-night news.”

Interesting. “I took a quick look through Halberstam’s book. The stuff about television is fascinating.”

“And what do you do?”

“I’m with the Gazette. The energy beat the last few years, oil issues particularly.”

“The oil exposé, that was yours?”

“Yes. More recently I did Three Mile Island.”

“Mr. Latimer commented on the oil story.” He took another sip of wine. “You know, you’re good looking, you present yourself well, your voice is passable, have you ever thought of TV news? Maybe you could give Roy Williams a run for his money.” Williams was LTN’s prime-time anchorman, a good if rather stuffy newsman.

“After the oil story I was on some interview shows. That’s pretty much it.”

“Give me a call sometime.” He reached for his card. I traded him mine.

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

The next evening when I returned home I showed the card to Diane. “I sat next to this guy at dinner last night. He practically offered me a job.”

She turned the card over. “Latimer. He’s very right-wing, nobody you’d be comfortable with. Though my father thinks well of him.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

THE MIDDLE EAST SITUATION continued to give us fits. In August, Jimmy Carter fired his U.N. Ambassador. Andrew Young had angered American Jewish leaders for calling Israel “stubborn and intransigent.” When he met secretly with representatives of the PLO, Carter cut him loose. Then there was Iran. Given the hostility from our support of the Shah, some sort of reprisal was probably inevitable. In the months following his takeover Khomeini and the U.S. traded barbs, then in October, against State Department advice Carter permitted the Shah to enter the U.S. for treatment of his cancer. Khomeini demanded the U.S. return him to Iran for trial. Anti-Americanism surged as revolutionary elements charged that the U.S. was plotting a repeat of 1953. On November 4, several hundred militant students broke through our embassy’s gates, overran security and captured the building, parading their hostages in front of cameras. Though planned apparently without his knowledge, Khomeini soon endorsed the action.

In the United States – outrage. With the Gazette out front, the press painted a tale of national disgrace. ABC’s The Iran Crisis - America Held Hostage: Day __ nightly reminded viewers of our shame and futility. Though Carter acted swiftly, freezing Iranian assets and banning oil imports, what little there was of them, the standoff continued. A backlash developed against Iranians in the U.S. A few weeks later armed fundamentalists seized Mecca’s Great Mosque, threatening our Saudi ally. As the Tehran situation dragged on, the Great Satan was looking less great all the time. Carter’s stature, rebounding with SALT II earlier in the year, was now at rock-bottom.

Something new on the world scene, a phenomenon which would challenge the established order, roil and topple governments – terrorist strikes by nimble bands of the disaffected whose host state will not or cannot control, and at times covertly encourages for its own ends. Anarchy with deep pockets and serious firepower. But it wasn’t only the little guys acting up. The Soviets had fielded new missile programs and were rattling the nuclear weapon saber in Eastern Europe. Then in late December came Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan. Underestimating the problems involved in taming that wild and ungovernable country, the U.S. fretted that the Bear was again on the march. Russia’s daring put a spotlight on our impotence and, of course, our bitter legacy of Vietnam.

Jimmy Carter had some answers. He canceled grain shipments to the Soviet Union. He withdrew the SALT II treaty from the Senate, though by then it was a dead letter anyway. He canceled our participation in the Moscow Summer Games and reinstated draft registration for men eighteen and over. And in a portentous act evocative of Harry Truman, he guaranteed our dependency on the Middle East for years to come by issuing what came to be known as the Carter Doctrine. “An attempt by any outside force to gain control of the Persian Gulf region will be regarded as an assault on the vital interests of the United States of America and will be repelled by any means necessary, including military force.” Wow.

The USSR seemed unmoved, but reaction in this country was swift. The Democrats’ liberal wing distanced itself even further from its nominal leader. Nor could any amount of hawkishness appease the burgeoning conservative movement which now smelled blood. For me, Carter had just given up on energy self-sufficiency. “Disappointing, business as usual,” I wrote in an op ed piece which drew a flood of angry mail. Carter had rolled back oil price controls, hoping higher prices would spur exploration and boost alternative energy. Maybe, but liberals who wanted Big Oil checked at every turn abandoned him. Hit in the pocketbook, consumers were furious. A crude oil windfall profits tax lost Carter the conservatives, and Congress repealed his oil import fee. Some of Carter’s moves did work. Foreign oil consumption fell during his term, and with domestic production on the rise, oil inventories grew and natural gas was increasingly plentiful. Though we were paying more, chronic shortages seemed behind us.

Carter’s energy program was too complex for short attention spans, though I revisited the story every month or so. People were focused on the skyrocketing cost of everything including gas. Fred’s shrinking-paycheck story was a page one mainstay, that and the impending demise of the “work hard, do well” ethic. Even Diane and I felt the pinch, especially at tax time, though we weren’t exactly hurting. And I had to admit we enjoyed seeing the paper profits as our house and condo soared in value.

Under tremendous pressure, in April Carter and his military advisors concocted a complex plan to rescue the Tehran hostages, but an intense sandstorm grounded three of the choppers and caused the mission to be aborted. During the evacuation the force came under attack, one helicopter ended up on top of a C-130, and they both went up in flames. Eight U.S. troops were killed, several others injured, and five serviceable helicopters had to be left in the desert. Our failure was highlighted when two weeks later, a siege of the Iranian Embassy in London was decisively terminated by Margaret Thatcher’s Special Forces.

Poor Jimmy Carter. All that worrying and all for naught. He didn’t realize that things didn’t have to be so grim. America’s best days were ahead – so said the man on horseback who was spotted riding in from the west. Ronald Reagan, left-liberal union leader turned ultra-conservative, whose political apprenticeship I had the dubious distinction of living through, upbeat television pitchman for G.E. and the free enterprise system.

If Carter was snakebit, Reagan’s timing was exquisite. Since the Sixties the tide of conservatism had been rising. The alliance of college students and business that propelled Barry Goldwater into the sixty-four nomination had regrouped and emerged strong, organized and well-funded. From college kids (Young Americans for Freedom) to think tanks (American Enterprise Institute, Heritage Foundation, Cato Institute) to big-money donors (Coors, Mellon-Scaife) to newspapers and opinion journals (Wall Street Journal, National Review, Human Events, Commentary) and business consortia (Business Roundtable) the New Right had stood the liberal playbook on its head. Led by their intellectual pope, William F. Buckley, Jr., by the late Seventies conservatives had elbowed their way into the political mainstream. The one bright spot for Republicans in the sixty-four debacle – cracking the southern bloc over civil rights and desegregation – was not lost on them. And they had discovered targeted messages, the more divisive the better, can be very effective.

Lulled by Watergate, under Carter Democrats became demoralized and disorganized, and the New Right pounced, seizing the opportunity they and their forebears had been seeking since the New Deal. The economy was a shambles. A two-bit country was humiliating us. People were frustrated and angry. Bright, ambitious and self-assured, conservatives had a new set of answers – actually a very old set – shove government and its irksome regulations aside. Let those who can, succeed, and in the wake of their success, even the lowly will thrive. We were ready for a change. It was time to feel good about ourselves again.

MORE DISQUIETING RUMORS led me to sound out Alan Mauro. “You’ve come to the wrong place, son,” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on the desk. “So how’s the oilman? The patch still treating you right?”

“It gets a little old but what doesn’t?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He ran his hand over his beard. “Talk about old – can you believe I’ve been writing this godforsaken column nearly twenty-five years?”

“But it’s great. You don’t know how to write a boring word. How do you do it?”

“Damned if I know. Actually, I do. My material writes itself. It’s all in the material.”

“I’ve been hearing rumors about our esteemed employer. Any truth to them?”

He motioned with his hand. I got up and shut the door. “A. we’re about to declare bankruptcy. B. we’re up for sale. Pick one. If our esteemed publisher-in-chief is to be believed, those are our choices.”

“Nothing new there.”

“This time they’re saying we’re out of cash. Advertising’s down, circulation’s down, TV’s eating our lunch. Why waste time on an in-depth report when a ten-second TV spot gets you everything you need?”

“But where does TV get their news? We bake the cake, they frost it and make the sale. Why don’t we buy a station of our own?”

“If that’s a fix it’s sure not a quick one. Besides, all anybody here knows about TV is how to knock it. Oh, I didn’t mention – our costs are through the roof too. Inflation’s killing us, like everybody else. The new gadgetry is very expensive.”

The accounting and payroll functions had been automated nearly a year. For the last month technicians had been crawling all over the City Room, installing computers, cabinets, video monitors, laying cable, endlessly fiddling, tinkering, testing. The next two weeks we were scheduled for classes and seminars. Everyone was up in arms, of course – not enough time to do your job and now this stuff we didn’t want in the first place. Made me proud of my father, though, how far ahead of the game he had been.

Alan was going on. “Down the road maybe it makes sense. I don’t know – here they are talking satellites and I’m still trying to figure out the bloody fax machine. Next they’ll be replacing linotype with computers, for God’s sake. Three years it’ll all come together, they say. Just in time for 1984! Won’t that be grand!”

After digesting that piece of reality pie I stopped by to chat with Fred Mueller. “Keep it under your hat,” he said, “but Tom’s meeting with the troops next week. He’s going to announce layoffs, first we’ve ever had.”

I whistled.

“You and I are safe for now. They figure people who read the business pages can still afford a dime.”

“Where are they going to cut?”

“The soft stuff. Not sports, that’s sacred. Not City and Region, can’t afford to lose Joe Sixpack or Westchester. We may use wire services more for national news, close some bureaus – that’s a possibility.”

“Not international, I trust.”

“No, but we’ll be more selective. What does Sidney or Rio contribute we couldn’t get cheaper some other way?”

“I’ve been talking with Alan, same story. It’s been a pretty grim day around here.”

“If you’d just take my advice about that editor’s job. Maybe you could help us get through this mess if you were in management.”

I shook my head. “Not ready for that.”

As advertised, the next week saw a very uncomfortable Tom O’Connor standing on a packing crate in the City Room, telling the largest assemblage of Gazette employees I’d ever seen what management was doing to save the paper. A ten percent pay cut for officers and management for starters, five for other non-union staff. He’d asked the unions for the same. Twenty management jobs axed and if the unions didn’t agree to cuts, thirty news staff as well. An early retirement package was being readied.

Fred must have been clued in ahead. Wednesday’s Food section would go, the twice-weekly Fashion spread. Society pages, Weddings and Engagements, Interior Design, to be combined in a new Sunday “Life and Living” section. Music & Dance would be reduced, but Obits – the “Irish Sports Pages” – were untouchable. We’d close ten cities, cover them from the nearest surviving bureau. Others would be downgraded – Rio, Sidney, Nairobi, Johannesburg. We’d rely more on AP, UPI, syndicated material.

Frank Flaherty stood up. “The wire services are expensive,” he groused, “and you never know what you’re going to get.”

“When we need depth we’ll still send our people. I hate to do this,” O’Connor went on, a sad expression on his face, “but we need to tighten our belts. On the bright side, the move to computers,” he waved his arm around the construction, “that’ll mean significant cost savings for production, not to mention streamlining our newsgathering and editing. We’re also counting on a big boost in classifieds. They’ll be a lot easier to use.”

“That does it for the cuts?” Flaherty asked.

“For now, if things pan out. Otherwise, I won’t lie to you, we’ll be back here again.”

“Keep this up,” Ed Foley complained, “you won’t recognize what the hell’s left. Whatever it is, it won’t be the Gazette.”

“We won’t let that happen, Ed. We’ll shut it down first.”

“What about selling the paper? I mean, that’s a lousy idea, but if you could find somebody who respects what we stand for...”

“Somebody with a pile of money,” Ed Fiore shouted. Nobody laughed.

“We’re finding those two qualities to be mutually inconsistent,” O’Connor replied, “but yes, we have feelers out. We’ll keep you posted, to the extent we can.”

As the meeting broke up, I went over to Fred. “You had it pegged.”

“Tom has the mistaken idea I have something to say, so they rope me into these discussions. They are no fun, I’ll tell you.”

“Since you’re on the inside, let me bounce something off you. About who might be our White Knight, if I can call it that.”

“What are you hearing?”

“Rudolph Latimer.”

A wan smile flickered across Fred’s face. He shook his head. “We’ve known each other how long, Paul, ten years?”

“Sounds about right.”

“The day that bandit goes on our masthead is the day I walk out of here. He is the absolute antithesis of everything the Gazette stands for. At least that’s my going-in position.”

“Hey, I’m not promoting it,” I said. “The walls talk. Latimer has come up.”

“I won’t say there haven’t been conversations. Give that editors’ job some serious thought. The timing might be right. When things are in flux, people move up.”

“Battlefield promotions. Been there, done that, but thanks for the advice.”

I hadn’t yet told Diane about the turmoil, but Tom’s announcement was going to hit tomorrow’s page one so I figured I’d better. After the kids were in bed I laid it out for her.

“Do you think they’ll sell the paper?”

“It’s a possibility.” Then I mentioned Latimer.

“I just don’t see you working for someone like him.”

“Me either.”

Diane got up and checked on Paul who’d been fussy the last few days with a cold. She came back with two nightcaps. “You’re under a lot of strain, I’ve noticed it recently.”

“It’s a tough time. When the organization’s going bad it affects everybody.”

“There’s more to it than that. I think you’re getting bored.”

That took me aback. “I didn’t know it was so obvious.”

“I can read you. Sometimes.”

I nodded. “Lately I’ve been thinking about things. Whether I’ve gotten as much out of this place as it has to give.”

“Some people can do the same thing day after day, year after year. Not you.”

“How you would feel about my becoming an editor?”

She sat back. “What an interesting idea. That’d be a promotion, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s management. It’d mean more money.” I was quiet a moment. “I’m not sure I could take the hassle. The politics of reporting are bad enough. That’d be a hundred times worse.”

“Why do you ask? Has somebody mentioned it?”

“A couple of people.”

“Who?”

“Fred. Tom O’Connor.”

“O’Connor! If he wants it to happen it’ll happen!”

“I have something to say about it too.”

“Of course. How could I forget? You like your hands dirty and your feet wet.”

“My simple and deprived upbringing, no doubt.”

“When did this all happen?”

“Today. Last month. Last year.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Said I’d think about it.”

Diane lit a cigarette and sat smoking silently. “I’m really upset you didn’t tell me. This is not just about you, you know, it’s our family, it’s our life together.”

“It wouldn’t mean that much more money. Anyway, we’re not hurting.”

“I don’t mean the money. It’d mean less traveling. You could be home more.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends on the position.”

“And the prestige...”

“Agghh!” I lit a cigarette myself. “What I do has plenty of prestige. A fancy title wouldn’t add a damn thing.”

She ground out her cigarette and stood up. “The problem is you disrespect me. You should have told me and we should have talked it over like real couples do. That’s the least you could have done. I guess my opinion doesn’t matter.”

I shook my head. “Of course your opinion matters. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“After you’ve already killed the idea.”

“I can always revive it. Fred made another run at it today.”

“Well?”

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“If you don’t like what you’re doing, what are you going to do? Quit?”

“I’m not that dumb.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I need to find something where I can grow in a different direction.”

“What are you, a houseplant? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking international. That’d be a challenge, not to mention great fun.”

“Wonderful. Then we’d never get to see you.”

“From the tone of this conversation that might be for the best.”

“What a mean thing to say! And the children, just getting to the age when they need a father around.”

“Don’t bring them into this, damnit. I do pretty well by them or haven’t you noticed.”

“You don’t have to swear.”

“I’m not swearing,” I said, smiling and reached for her hand. She yanked it away. “Anyway, there are ways around this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of our international news comes from our foreign bureaus. Wouldn’t you like to live in London for a while? Or Rome? Or Paris?”

“What about Paul Junior?”

“What about him? He’s doing great. Anyway, those places have excellent doctors, every bit as good as ours.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What if I said that’d be just fine.”

“That would surprise me.”

“Goldman has offices all over, I’d have a professional life. The kids, it might be good for them. It didn’t hurt me, living abroad, though I was older.”

“And we’d sit down to dinner together most nights. It’d sure beat being Deputy Assistant Associate Editor of This That And The Other Thing.”

She was quiet for a moment. “My parents... they’d be devastated.”

“On the other hand, they love to travel. And we’d get back here plenty often. I’d make that part of the deal. Think of it as a quality time kind of thing.”

She put her hand on top of mine. “I’d need to think about it.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen tomorrow. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone.”

“That’s an improvement.”

“See, I do respect you after all.”

“Whenever it suits you, my dear.”

I HADN’T TALKED WITH HAMID for some time. When I called he said he’d be in New York in a few weeks and suggested we get together with Ed Said. After strolling the campus for a while, we linked up with Ed at a restaurant on Broadway, on the river side of the campus. It was interesting to see how warmly Hamid and Ed greeted each other – big hug, kisses on the cheeks, the whole bit. Ed and I got along well but it was reserved, cerebral. He began by asking about Hamid’s current project.

“With luck and the help of Allah, by mid-next year I will be finished.”

“So much for your one-a-year fetish,” I said with a smile.

“I fear I’ve had my first taste of writer’s block.”

Said nodded. “I don’t know any serious author who doesn’t from time to time. Good for the soul, actually – it helps keep the ego in check.”

“The poetry has been more complex than I had expected. I’ve had the short stories in shape for some time but I am aiming for a unified whole and that is difficult.”

“Has writing in Arabic made it harder?” I asked.

“Yes, but in an odd way. I was rusty and that slowed me down, of course, but when I got going I found the imagery so rich, it was as if pictures were exploding all around me. Limitless possibilities. I found myself chasing leads every which way, like one branch of a tree leads to three others which leads to nine others and so on. What I’m coming up with is very good but it has been a struggle to contain it.”

Ed nodded. “A wonderful problem to have. I imagine it gives your editor fits.”

“He has been very patient.”

“And you, Paul, what are you working on? You set a high standard with your oil industry articles.”

“A little of this, a little of that. I’m working on a piece contrasting the candidates’ positions on energy policy. I also have something I’d like your opinion on, both of you.”

I pulled several sheets of paper from my briefcase and handed them over. “I’m not sure where I’m going with this, except it is giving me a lot of distress.” The paper was headed “Catalog of Terrorist Attacks: 1968 - 1983.” I had put together a list of terrorist acts with names of the responsibles, location, outcome and date. I first became interested in this in the context of American labor violence. Hamid will remember those discussions in Berkeley. When I began I assumed for the last decade or so Arab groups have outpaced everyone in this dubious competition, but that’s not what I’m finding.”

Said nodded. “The list shows a rather more even distribution. The IRA, Canadian separatists, Basques, Corsicans, even South Moluccans, for goodness sake.”

Hamid nodded. “We, I should say they, the Arab terrorists, are clearly outnumbered.”

“All I can think of,” I said, “they have a flair for the spectacular. It’s one thing to blow up a mailbox in Québec, quite another to hijack a jet with two hundred people aboard.”

Said stared at Hamid. “You said ‘we,’ Hamid. Why is that?”

Hamid shook his head. “I don’t know. I certainly don’t support terrorism. Crimes against innocent people are crimes no matter what. I suppose at one level it’s my us-versus-them mentality. Abstracting from the violence if you will.”

“But you can’t abstract from the violence,” I replied. “That’s the essence of the deed.”

“Let me play devil’s advocate,” Said interjected. “Assume crimes have been committed, assume the victims are innocent, assume the victims are powerless to prevent these crimes, assume lastly no government exists to promote their interests. With me so far?”

I nodded.

“Other than self-help, how do such people gain redress? When a government is unable to protect its people, worse yet when government is itself the problem, and here I speak of Israel, is it surprising people do these things?”

I nodded. “It’s one thing if you live in a democracy, but lacking means to change a bad situation, self-help is more understandable.”

“Sounds like your Declaration of Independence,” Hamid observed.

Said nodded. “I doubt many Americans have looked at that document since high school. They’d be shocked how subversive it is. Fine as a museum piece, but when you’re top dog you don’t want to hear about rights of the oppressed or abusive government. But back to self-help. As Exhibit One, Paul, I present my Palestinians. The only possible moral outcome is a negotiated settlement between what I call the two “communities of suffering.” The Israelis deserve a home, I grant you, but so do the Palestinians. For centuries they had a home and it was taken from them. It should be restored, but when one side is master and the other the dispossessed, and when the world’s powers side with the master, what is there to say? Case in point, the Yom Kippur War. Only when Sadat demonstrated Egypt’s strength was Israel willing to deal with him. Otherwise what was their incentive? My conclusion, gloomy but realistic, as long as such inequities persist, from time to time violence will occur.”

“What about the students in our embassy?” I asked.

“Hamid may be better informed. I’m tempted to say students will be students...”

I shook my head. “Not any longer. However it started, it’s now the Iranian government acting.”

“...you didn’t let me finish. Of course it is, but it’s trivial compared with western actions in the region, in Iran itself, for that matter. You’ll recall 1953. Shall I mention the Israeli Army massacres in southern Gaza in fifty-six? Largely forgotten by the world, such evils sow seeds of hatred that flower many years later.”

We talked spiritedly over dinner, then about eight Ed had to get back and finish a lecture. Walking toward the subway station Hamid asked, “What do you think, Professor? Has Paul made enough progress to qualify as an honorary Arab?”

Said smiled. “I see hopeful signs. For a western journalist he may be, as they say, a keeper. So few in the media take the time to understand us. He at least is trying. Where will his positions settle when they are fully formed? That remains to be seen.”

Hamid said, “I look forward to offering him my work in Arabic.”

“If you ever finish.”

Hamid laughed. “I should know better than to give you a compliment.”

“Thank you for a most stimulating evening.” Said took Hamid’s hand then reached for mine. “One thing, Paul – your work will lead you to take positions on these issues. If you support the Arab point of view, be warned – even if you simply give it fair treatment you will come in for criticism, much of it uncalled for. Often you will not even know who is behind it. There is physical danger as well. The stakes here are extremely high, as are the passions.”

I stuck my leg out. “Not much they can do to me hasn’t already been done.”

“I hear what you say. That attitude will take you far. Good night.”

“Good night. As-salaamu alaikum.”

Said smiled. “As-salaamu alaikum, indeed.”