Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “I’m just going to stand here and admire you,” he said. “You know, Doctor, I’ve always been attracted to beautiful, clever women. Do you think that says something about me?”

  She laughed and led him into the pretty house.

  “Come and sit down. You look as though you could do with a drink.” She poured him the beer he asked for. When she sat down, her eyes were serious.

  “I don’t suppose you want to talk about the horrible thing that happened to my mailman.”

  “No,” said Mark. “I’d prefer not to, for a number of reasons.”

  Her face showed understanding.

  “I hope you’ll catch the bastard who killed him.” Again, those dark eyes flashed to meet his. She got up to turn over the record on the stereo. “How do you like this kind of music?” she asked lightly.

  “I’m not much on Haydn,” he said. “I’m a Mahler freak. And Beethoven, Aznavour. And you?”

  She blushed slightly.

  “When you didn’t turn up last night, I called your office to see if you were there.”

  Mark was surprised and pleased.

  “Finally I got through to a girl in your department. You were out at the time, and besides she said you were very busy, so I didn’t leave a message.”

  “That’s Polly,” said Mark. “She’s very protective.”

  “And pretty?” She smiled with the confidence of one who knows she is good-looking.

  “Good from far but far from good,” said Mark. “Let’s forget Polly. Come on, you ought to be hungry by now, and I’m not going to give you that steak I keep promising you. I’ve booked a table for nine o’clock at Tio Pepe.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “Since you managed to get your car parked, why don’t we walk?”

  “Great.”

  It was a clear, cool evening and Mark enjoyed the fresh air. What he didn’t enjoy was the continual urge to look over his shoulder.

  “Looking for another woman already?” she teased.

  “No,” said Mark. “Why should I look any further?” He spoke lightly, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He changed the subject abruptly. “How do you like your work?”

  “My work?” Elizabeth seemed surprised, as though she never thought of it in those terms. “My life, you mean? It’s just about my entire life. Or has been so far.”

  She glanced up at Mark with a somber expression on her face. “I hate the hospital. It’s a big bureaucracy, old and dirty and a lot of the people there, pretty administrative types, don’t really care about helping people. To them it’s just another way of earning a living. Only yesterday I had to threaten to resign in order to convince the Utilization Committee to let an old man remain in the hospital. He had no home to go back to.”

  They walked down 30th Street, and Elizabeth continued to tell him about her work. She spoke with spirit, and Mark listened to her with pleasure. She showed a pleasant self-assurance, as she told him about a soulful Yugoslav who would sing incomprehensible Slavic songs of love and of longing as she inspected his ulcerated armpit and who had finally, in a misplaced gesture of passion, seized her left ear and licked it.

  Mark laughed and took her arm as he guided her into the restaurant. “You ought to demand combat pay,” he said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have complained, other than to tell him that his singing was always out of tune.”

  The hostess led them upstairs to a table in the center of the room, near where the floor show would be performed. Mark rejected it in favor of a table in the far corner. He did not ask Elizabeth which seat she would prefer. He sat down with his back to the wall, making a lame excuse about wanting to be away from the noise so he could talk to her. Mark was sure that this girl would not fall too easily for that sort of blarney; she knew something was wrong and she sensed his edginess, but she did not pry.

  A young waiter asked them if they would like a cocktail. Elizabeth asked for a Margarita, Mark for a spritzer.

  “What’s a spritzer?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Not very Spanish, half white wine, half soda, lots of ice. Stirred but not shaken. Sort of a poor man’s James Bond.”

  The pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant helped to dispel some of Mark’s tension; he relaxed slightly for the first time in twenty-four hours. They chatted about movies, music, and books, and then about Yale. Her face, often animated, was sometimes serene but always lovely in the candlelight. Mark was enchanted by her. For all her intelligence and self-sufficiency, she had a touching fragility and femininity.

  As they ate their paella Mark asked Elizabeth why her father had become a senator, about his career, and her childhood in Connecticut. The subject seemed to make her uneasy. Mark couldn’t help remembering that her father was still on the list. He tried to shift the conversation to her mother. Elizabeth avoided his eyes and even, he thought, turned pale. For the first time, a tiny ripple of suspicion disturbed his affectionate vision of Elizabeth, and made him worry momentarily. She was the first beautiful thing that had happened for quite a while, and he didn’t want to distrust her. Was it possible? Could she be involved? No, of course not. He tried to put it out of his mind.

  The Spanish floor show came on and was performed with enthusiasm. Mark and Elizabeth listened and watched, unable to speak to each other above the noise. Mark was happy enough just to sit and be with her; her face was turned away as she looked at the dancers. When the floor show eventually ended, they had both long finished the paella. They ordered dessert and coffee.

  “Would you like a cigar?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “No, thanks. We don’t have to ape men’s vile habits as well as their good ones.”

  “Like that,” said Mark. “You’re going to be the first woman Surgeon General, I suppose?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said demurely. “I’ll probably be the second or third.”

  Mark laughed. “I’d better get back to the Bureau, and do great things. Just to keep up with you.”

  “And it may well be a woman who stops you becoming Director of the FBI,” Elizabeth added.

  “No, it won’t be a woman that stops me becoming Director of the FBI,” said Mark, but he didn’t explain.

  “Your coffee, señorita, señor.”

  If Mark had ever wanted to sleep with a woman on the first date, this was the occasion, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  He paid the bill, left a generous tip for the waiter, and congratulated the girl from the floor show, who was sitting in a corner drinking coffee.

  When they left the restaurant Mark found the night had a chill edge. Once again he began looking nervously around him, trying not to make it too obvious to Elizabeth. He took her hand as they crossed the street, and didn’t let it go when they reached the other side. They walked on, chatting intermittently, both aware of what was happening. He wanted to hold on to her. Lately, he had been seeing a lot of women, but with none of them had he held their hand either before or afterwards. Gradually his mood darkened again. Perhaps fear was making him excessively sentimental.

  A car was driving up behind them. Mark stiffened with anticipation. Elizabeth didn’t appear to notice. It slowed down. It was going slower as it neared them. It stopped just beside them. Mark undid his middle button and fidgeted, more worried for Elizabeth than for himself. The doors of the car opened suddenly and out jumped four teenagers, two girls, two boys. They darted into a Hamburger Haven. Sweat appeared on Mark’s forehead. He shook free of Elizabeth’s touch. She stared at him. “Something’s very wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Just don’t ask me about it.”

  She sought his hand again, held it firmly, and they walked on. The oppression of the horrible events of the previous day bore down on Mark and he did not speak again. When they arrived at her front door, he was back in the world which was shared only by him and the hulking, shadowy figure of Halt Tyson.

  “Well, you have been most charming this evening, when you’ve actually been here,” she said smiling