Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 8

HOW ANYBODY COULD BE SO CONSISTENTLY OFF BASE is beyond me. For a guy they called the Great Communicator, he didn’t even try to reach the great majority of people who’re just squeaking by. I guess he didn’t think he had to. From each according to his need, to each according to his greed – way to go, Ronnie! Though when you think about it, in a land where striving is number one, it’s no surprise the successful get away with so much. They’re who everybody else aspires to be. Luckily for the rest of us, though, Reagan and his crowd had more than their share of screw-ups. Even the super-competent Stockman! They said the boss took him out behind the woodshed. Surprised me – I didn’t think clemency was in his tool kit.

Having never been to Newfoundland, I have no desire to start now. I give Paul a lot of credit, not letting that leg of his hold him back. And I like how he and that Lucie are getting on. She has a streak of irreverence I find admirable. You can see he is attracted but he hews to the straight and narrow. I’ll bet Jonathan will have a comment about that. I also like Paul’s frank talk about the Church. That situation’s only going to get worse, though let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If it’s so infallible, why do the leaders keep making such terrible mistakes?

Steve Samuels says my deposition has been set for April 15, as if that date isn’t enough of a burden already. Reminds me – I’d better check with my accountant. There’s too much going on, and it’s not easy holding it together from here. Thank God for Joseph, but I still have this nagging worry something has fallen in a crack.

Jonathan calls again, this time from London. He’ll be back tomorrow, late. When I ask how did it go this time he is not so giddy. I have no idea what, if anything, he accomplished and he is not disposed to tell me on the phone. “Relax, Gus, we’ll debrief tomorrow,” he says. He’s been spending too much time around the military.

* * * * * * *

THE PLANE RIDE BACK WAS SO EASY I finished the le Carré. A feat, for he is heavy going for me, oblique, though I like his characters. I also organized my notes for a follow-up to the Ocean Ranger story, comparing French energy policy with ours. This seemed a logical time to let it fly. My series of three Dispatches began with the cost, financial and human, of the oil dependency which for a century has skewed the policy of nations, fomented wars and toppled governments. I drew heavily on our good old oil report. Could there be an end in sight, I asked, a moderation at least? Powerful interests say keep drilling, keep refining, there’s plenty left, and rivers of ink have tried to debunk the “peak oil” theory. But how can any fair appraisal deny oil is a declining resource? A. There’s only so much left. B. It is not renewable. C. Therefore it must run out. The question is when.

Oilmen are tactically brilliant – the extremes they go to at the margins proves that. Why can’t such genius be turned in more wholesome directions? When it comes to weaning us off our oil habit, as Marty put it, encouraging other energy sources, we have failed miserably. If a buck could be made in solar power or wind energy or grain-based fuels, private enterprise would have done it years ago. And as for nuclear, it can’t seem to gain real traction. Instead of reaping its peaceful benefits we’ve had military control, political infighting, and now timidity before activists and their doomsday scenarios.

Our recent history has not been kind to fans of government as service-provider. Apart from isolated successes, some notable, even noble, not since FDR has our government earned high marks for sustained performance. This is the flaw in the conservative formula, I concluded in my Dispatch. They claim government can’t solve the problem because government is the problem, but they are elevating poor performance into doctrine. The Reaganites want to dismantle Washington and turn private enterprise loose. Fact is, the Articles of Confederation aren’t coming back. Like it or not, Reagan has to govern or, more befitting his style, preside.

The second Dispatch dealt with the current state of U.S. deregulation and offered a prognosis. Driven by zeal for lower prices and broadened service, arguably a populist motivation, supported by industrialists claiming to want “real competition,” we’re well on our way to deregulation. Turmoil is assured, I predicted, success certainly is not, nor public benefit, broadly considered. Next to tee it up, the savings and loans. Starting in 1980 and with important legislation pending, the “thrifts” are being encouraged to move into risky, higher-profit ventures. Relaxed accounting and stockholding requirements are part of the game, along with, of course, declining oversight. In time the chickens will come home to roost, I predicted, but for now this staid old industry is the “go-go” place to be.

Ronald Reagan also put a moratorium on new regulations across the board, and told the agencies to re-examine those on the books. He imposed a hiring freeze. Pro-deregulation advocates were now heading agencies and departments – SEC, FCC, Interior, OSHA, FDA.

Competition has a nice ring, but it’s the last thing the businessman really wants. Market control? That’s more like it. Forget the Reaganites’ dishonesty, what about their blindness to the reason regulation came about in the first place? However mixed its track record, the regulatory system dealt with real problems, curbing tycoons and buccaneers whose excesses had greatly harmed the country. Has human nature changed in the past sixty years? What proof have we that the cunning and greedy have reformed? Of course there is no proof, but in the current environment none is necessary, none wanted. Government is bad, private enterprise good – end of discussion. In this climate tunnel vision is a powerful tool. American capitalism has done great things, but its dark side, its frontier mentality, is always leaving the mess for somebody else to clean up.

My final Dispatch circled back to oil, discussing Reagan’s energy policy and contrasting it with that of France. Paramount among the sectors that will suffer from Reagan’s deregulation crusade, I wrote, energy demands a kind of long range thinking that few businessmen attempt. But, I added, national perspective and promoting the public good aren’t part of the free-enterprise vocabulary, let alone its mandate, not in the U.S.

In contrast, what happens when government has the political will to grab hold of the energy problem? Like us, France was shocked by OPEC, but the nation of Becquerel and the Curies willed itself to become a leader in civilian uses of nuclear science, and by 1970 had a number of reactors in service. The government then opted for massive development, aiming at making nuclear the country’s main source of electric power. Well ahead of its public, it laid plans for over fifty new-design power plants and uranium enrichment facilities. During these years, France also actively exported equipment and enriched uranium, aiding South Africa, China, Israel, Iraq and Iran in development of their nuclear capabilities, the 1957 Israeli project conducted in secrecy and outside the IAEA.

As I wrote, nuclear was supplying over 70% of France’s power. Fossil fuel’s share had fallen, hydroelectric making up the difference. France now exports to its neighbors a substantial portion of the electricity it generates. Not as wedded to the automobile, France and other European governments have set policies which discourage the use of cars – notably steep gasoline taxes. To compensate, France promoted the excellent inter-city and trans-national rail system crowned by the high-speed TGV. Polls in France have shown overwhelming support for nuclear power, with people valuing reduced dependency on foreign oil, the jobs and prosperity created locally, plus of course, cleaner air. Even there, however, nuclear has its opponents, and in 1980 a Level 4 accident occurred in the Loire region which encouraged the opposition. Three-Mile Island was, I noted, a Level 5.

By March, Expat Dispatch had become a weekly feature in the Gazette, with an occasional mid-week offering as well. The mail ran about two-thirds favorable, though the nuclear power series hit a nerve, with 78% against. I was even given the services of a part-time researcher, a doctoral student in journalism at Columbia. I had only to mention a need and within hours faxes arrived with more information than I could handle.

INCREASINGLY I WAS DEALING DIRECT WITH TOM O’CONNOR. Fred had no problem with this, though it meant I wasn’t as available to him or Didier. On the other hand, my new stature seemed to annoy Harlan Kenny. He tried to keep close tabs on his foreign team though the nature of the beast made that impossible. Didier was cool about it – he knew having me in Paris was a plus for his bureau.

One day in mid-March I received a call from Tom. Be in New York tomorrow was the message. Some CBS execs are coming over, that’s all he’d say. The deal to showcase the Gazette’s European reporting was coming to a head, I figured, but why did they want me there? Fresh off the Concorde, I arrived a half-hour early. Alan Mauro was there but no Fred, no Harlan, which was odd. I grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat at Tom’s conference table.

“Here’s what’s going on. We got wind 60 Minutes is doing a segment on the Vietnam Wall, the November dedication. I talked with Don Hewitt about you.”

“Me?”

“They’ll be using vets on camera, seems to me they ought to profile somebody in the public eye. You present yourself well and of course you earned your stripes big time...”

Oh-oh, I thought, I see where this is headed.

“Long story short, Don said they were already thinking along those lines and, get this, you were already on their short list! Said one of their correspondents brought you to his attention. Marty Keller. You probably know him.”

“I spent time with him recently – your Ocean Ranger gig.”

“I need to ask, are you okay with this? It’d be quite a departure.”

“I guess... sure, count me in, it’ll be good experience.”

“I don’t know where they are on it, but them coming over’s a good sign.”

Francie stuck her head in. “Mr. O’Connor, your guests are in the Board Room.”

We picked up our stuff and headed out. “Thought that’d impress them,” Tom said.

“Remember I gave you that tour?” Alan asked, slapping me on the back. “The way you’re going, you’ll have a picture on that wall one of these days.”

As we walked in three men were standing at the far wall examining the display. O’Connor went over to the man in the center, a bit shorter than the other two. I recognized Hewitt, one of television’s superstar innovators. “Good to see you, Don, thanks for coming over. You know Alan.”

“Yes, always a pleasure,” Hewitt said, greeting him.

“And this is Paul Bernard. Paul, Don Hewitt.”

Roy Carlson, another producer was there, also Ed Feldman, a writer.

“Shall we begin?” Tom asked.

“If I can tear myself away from this,” Hewitt observed, nodding at the photos and memorabilia. “Quite the museum, even some of our luminaries.”

“However you slice it we’re all in the same business.” Tom gestured toward the end of the table. “Don’s the man who invented the Stopwatch.”

“And here I am still winding it, twelve years later,” Hewitt smiled.

“I’ve briefed Paul on our conversation...”

Hewitt held up his hand. “Let’s bypass the preliminaries. Paul, we’d like you to do the segment. I’ve read the material Tom sent and seen footage of your work, but I wanted to meet you personally. As far as we’re concerned it’s a go.”

“That’s great,” I managed to blurt out.

“One thing, though, I’d like to ask your current views on Vietnam. It may or may not come up but it would be helpful to know where you stand.”

I took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “Where do I begin? The people who sold us the war lied. They hid important information. It was an abuse of power, of the people, of the Constitution.”

“Strong words.”

I nodded. “Having said that, I am proud of my service. I honor the guys I served with, especially the ones that didn’t make it back. I’d like to think we’ll never get dragged into another needless war but I have no illusions. That’s a big reason I’m in this business,” I nodded at Tom and Alan, “to help people see what’s happening before it’s too late.”

“Thanks,” Hewitt nodded. “I can tell that wasn’t easy. I understand you gave up your deferment and volunteered for Vietnam. If you had it to do over, would you do it again?”

“Yes.”

“Remarkable. Tom, our people can iron out the details, no need to take everybody’s time here. I’ve assigned Roy and Ed here to develop a scenario and a script. They’ll need pictures too. Paul, if you can dig up some material from your early days, from Vietnam. We’ll want to go into your injury and the recovery process too, I assume you’re okay with that. Your time at the Gazette, what you’re doing in Europe, what’s ahead. We’ll get it all down on film, nothing live except our in-studio commentator. Stan Plavin has spoken for it so you and he’ll spend time together at the appropriate point.”

When the CBS people left we spent a few minutes around the table. Tom was effusive. “That was excellent! And Don told me on the q.t. they’ve decided to go ahead with our co-op deal.”

“What’ll that involve?” I asked.

“When they need more depth to a story they’ll ask us to pull it together, on a selective basis, that is, then involve one of our people on-air. We’ll suggest topics too. I see it oriented toward features more than breaking news, though I don’t rule that out. We’ll use Ted Cartright in London, Spazienza in Rome, yourself, a couple of others. You’re ready, and Ted was with BBC before he joined us. The others’ll need work.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be great for us. We’ve got to find ways to use television to our advantage. If we don’t it’s going to eat even more of our lunch.”

On the flight back, what was happening began to sink in. Fact is, though, I had no idea what I was getting into. A glass of champagne and the view from fifty-six thousand feet calmed my butterflies and set my mind loose. They want old pictures, do they... luckily I brought most of my memorabilia with me. At one point I thought of Rudolph Latimer and started laughing. Wait until he finds out about this!

I’d never seen Diane so impressed, not even by the Pulitzer. “This’ll put your career in orbit,” she gushed.

“Yeah. Let’s hope it’s around the right planet.”

A COUPLE OF SATURDAYS LATER we joined Pat, Michel and Lucie for Saturday brunch. I was nervous about inviting Diane – I never knew which Diane’s going to show up – but she was in fine form, funny, friendly. Lucie filled us in about the exhibition. The dispute had been resolved in her favor, though her relationship with her adversary was in tatters. “It became rather ugly before le directeur finally made his decision.”

“As a woman you have to fight for your rights,” Diane said.

“Bien sûr, it is a man’s world,” Lucie said. “Though my impression is the French are rather more candid about it than you Americans.”

“Au contraire,” Michel observed. “As an example, we have no equivalent for your expression ‘male chauvinist pig.’”

Lucie laughed. “Pour les Français, c’est une tautologie. By the way, it opens July 1, though of course you will all be invited to le vernissage. The behind-the-scenes work is a bit behind but we will catch up.”

“I was interested to see your articles comparing French policy with that of the United States,” Michel noted. “You appear to be having quite the revolution back there.”

“The right wingers will fall short but a lot of people will be hurt in the process. Our hope is they look so foolish they discredit themselves for at least a couple of election cycles.”

“I also read the article,” Lucie said, “I and must caution you, the enviable position of la belle France is rather recent. For a long time after the war things here were not so good.”

“And now after such a spectacular beginning Mitterand is faltering,” Michel added. “The economy does not respond. He pushes the levers and nothing happens.”

“Perhaps they’re not hooked up to anything.”

“That is the fear.”

As we left the bistro, Pat pulled me aside. “I have a tip for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You’re aware of the sickness that’s been showing up in gay men.”

“AIDS. I’m starting to follow it.”

“It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve already have lost a couple of friends.”

“What’s your suggestion?”

“How the French are handling it compared with those holier-than-thous in Washington. The government here puts money into research while we point fingers. ‘You brought it upon yourself, you deserve whatever you get.’ It’s disgraceful!”

“I’ll look into it.”

“I’ll be your research assistant – informally of course.”

MEANTIME, ON THE WORLD STAGE, Reagan-Brezhnev continued to sputter. Reagan had stepped up military funding. Deter, yes, and bankrupt the Soviet Union while we’re at it. Stretch the USSR far enough, possibly it will break, though who knew what the consequences of that might be. In early eighty-two, angered by the Communist crackdown in Poland, Reagan approved economic sanctions against the USSR and we were picking up rumors that the CIA was now free to provide covert assistance to the Polish rebels. As for the nuclear freeze movement, people continued taking to Europe’s streets to protest NATO’s nuclear missiles on their soil.

In early May, Reagan made a remark that astonished the world. Those people in the streets want a freeze, he said in a speech. I’ll go them one better – how about a reduction! We’ll reduce our delivery systems if Moscow will. Reagan’s dovelike turn floored his military advisors, though recognizing the offer covered only land-based delivery systems, not submarines where the U.S. had clear superiority, the Soviet leadership saw through it. Still, his remarks caused me some consternation. They didn’t square with my picture of the man. I cautiously filed the event away, wondering if he had something more up his sleeve.

In March the U.S. embargoed Libyan oil imports to penalize Colonel Qaddafi’s support for the P.L.O. and other terrorist groups. But internationally, the big event of the spring was an actual shooting war. On April 2 Argentina mounted amphibious landings on the British-held Falkland Islands (Malvinas, to the Argentines) in the South Atlantic 500 miles east of Argentina. Their sovereignty had been long disputed. After some difficulty, by late June the British had retaken one of the two large islands and the war was over. During the 74-day conflict 649 Argentinian servicemen were killed, 258 British. British national pride soared and the chances of the Thatcher government surviving the upcoming election substantially improved. In Argentina the military government was discredited and in elections the following year the country returned to constitutional rule.

IN MID-JUNE WE CELEBRATED THE END of the school year. Peter did well, he always did well. An almost painful copy of me at that age, he was bright, diligent to a fault, wanting to please. He excelled at math and science, but unlike me had the kind of athletic skills I only dreamt about, especially soccer which he played with passion. Success came more easily to Emma, thanks to her selective approach to learning. She knew how to direct her energy. Gymnastics interested her and she showed good if not exceptional ability. Soon after we moved to Paris it started – sparks flying between Diane and Emma, then that became a routine occurrence. The two of them disputed little things that seemed to me not worth fighting about. Hair length. what to wear to school, when could she listen to her Walkman, how often could she sleep over at Sophie’s.

Diane shrugged it off. “It’s a mother-daughter thing,” she would say.

This was news to me. What was indisputable, the little girl Diane wanted so badly had become a real handful. As for Emma and me, we got along fine. Not one to draw lines for the sake of drawing lines, at times I put my foot down but more often she got her way. That’s probably why we got along so well.

Once again, Paul Junior was odd man out. As school made more demands, his performance deteriorated. He turned in unfinished work, acted up in class. We met with his teacher who said he was having difficulty paying attention. Our pediatrician said this is not uncommon among children who have recovered from serious illnesses. Keep an eye on it – if it doesn’t come around have him see a psychiatrist. The other thing that upset me, there was nothing, no school subject, no game or activity he seemed really interested in. I’m tempted to say he was developing a tepid personality but when he turned on his wonderful smile it lit up everything and banished all negative thoughts. Until the next time.

I counted it a big improvement that my children weren’t growing up terrified of nuclear annihilation. They were curious about the protesters they saw in the papers, on television, sometimes encountering them in the streets, and we discussed why they were out there, but it wasn’t the grinding type of fear I lived through. Nor were they haunted by the specter of eternal damnation, the approach of their CCD teachers night-and-day different from my nuns and brothers.

One day in mid-July, just after Bastille Day, I arrived home to find a letter from Gus.

Dear Paul,

Akiko died, on the 30th. She didn’t want a fuss so we kept it very small. I was going to call but I figured with the distance and anyway you’re busy. The last year was very hard. She needed a wheelchair to get around. At one point it looked to be under control, but not so. Her last days were peaceful and at the end she was serene, Dylan Thomas to the contrary notwithstanding.

I trust you are doing well and look forward to seeing you one of these days.

Your friend,

Gus

I sat down and re-read the letter. Tears came to my eyes. Be good to her, God. Poor Gus. I looked at my watch. Nine hours, it’d be mid-morning there. I went into the study Diane and I shared and picked up the phone, then I put it down. What kind of friend am I? I’d known for a year Akiko was ill and what did I do? Nothing. Okay, a letter at Christmas, but no call, no visit, nothing. I remembered their coming to see me... my face felt warm. I had let my friend down. I took a deep breath. Suck it up. I picked up the phone and punched in Gus’ number. He answered on the first ring.

“Gus, it’s Paul.”

“Paul, how are you?”

“Terrible. I just received your letter.”

There was a pause on the line. “It was her time, it’s for the best. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.”

“I am sorry, Gus, really sorry. I wasn’t much of a help.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had plenty of help.”

“Is somebody there now with you?”

“The neighbors have been great, people from the Department. I’d be a blimp if I ate everything they brought over. Good thing I have a freezer.”

“I don’t know what I can do but try me. I can always move my schedule around.”

“How about a beer tonight? We’ll hit Larry Blake’s, just like the old days.”

“How about five? Your time.”

“Let yourself in, we still don’t lock the door.”

“You haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“That’ll be the last to go.”

“You teaching this summer?”

“No. I took spring semester off, too. I’ll go back in the fall, but between us I don’t know how much longer I want to do this.”

“Listen, I’ll call you in a few days. You’ve got my numbers here, I expect you to use them.” I could hear Diane and the kids coming in. “My brood returns.”

“How are they? How old’s the oldest now?”

“Peter’s ten.”

“I don’t believe it. Listen. We’ll stay in touch. Count on it.”

I sat there staring into space. Gus was how old now? Mid-forties in sixty-three, well into his sixties... that long ago. Diane pushed open the door which was ajar. “You in there?”

“I was on the phone to Gus. Akiko died.”

“Oh, dear. That’s what the letter was. When’s the funeral?”

“Two weeks ago. It happened two weeks ago.”

She frowned. “I thought you were his good friend. Why’d it take him two weeks to let you know?”

I sighed. “You know, Diane, I didn’t ask him that. The man just lost his wife. Obviously he wanted privacy.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I did like her but I always thought he was an arrogant blowhard. I have never understood what you see in him.”

“He has plenty to offer.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“There’s a lot about me and my friends you don’t understand.”

She turned her back. “I’m going for a walk. You feed the kids for a change. See how mister big shot likes that.” Over the television noise I heard the door slam. Oh well, I thought, a night alone with the kids isn’t so bad.

If you’re thinking we weren’t getting along, Diane and I, you’d be right. Usually we did okay, though most of the fun had gone out of our life together, which really bothered me. I’d been thinking about this a lot recently, trying to reconstruct what happened, why it happened, but I couldn’t pin it down.

I went into the kitchen. Emma greeted me with a big “What’s for dinner?”

“Dunno, let’s take a look.” I went over to the fridge. A casserole dish held some familiar remains. I lifted the waxed paper. “Mac and cheese, that’s what.”

By now Peter had appeared. “Yuck! We had that last night.”

“Peter, my mother had a saying. ‘I hope you never get worse.’ Got that? ‘I hope you never get worse.’”

“Can’t we at least have some hamburger in it?”

“If we have any.”

I was reading in the living room when Diane returned. It was nine-thirty. She blew by me and went straight to our room. Anticipating this I had retrieved my pajamas and clock and hung tomorrow’s clothes in the hall closet. In the morning she showed up in the kitchen as if nothing at all had happened. I knew there’d be no apology, but she did deign to accept a cup of coffee I’d just brewed. A positive sign. Any port in a storm.