Acts of Mercy

Fourteen

The Oval Office, ten-thirty Thursday morning.

Christopher Justice sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace, listening as the President gave an informal interview to senior correspondents from Time, the Washington Post, and Commentary. The reporters-two men and a woman-were grouped in a loose semicircle before the President’s desk; the only other person in the room was Austin Briggs, who occupied a chair near Justice’s.

The interview had been going well. Augustine was garrulous, polite, forceful; as a result the reporters, who were clearly hostile at first, were now responding more favorably to his comments on the nature of his office, on contemporary politics, on his plans for a second term. Briggs, though, seemed nervous and kept lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. Justice wondered again why the President had asked the press secretary to sit in. For that matter, he did not know why he himself had been asked to sit in, except that Augustine seemed to want him nearby more and more of late.

The reporters’ questions had gotten around now to Israel, as Justice had expected they would. The thin, attractive woman from Time was saying, “Mr. President, do you have anything further to add to your recent statement on Israel?”

The President smiled indulgently. “Only that those remarks of mine were meant as a comment on American foreign policy in general-a philosophical comment, not a statement of intention. In no way were they meant to demean the Israelis, as some of your colleagues have presumed.”

The studious-looking man from Commentary leaned forward. Of the three reporters, he had been the most hostile in the beginning; Justice knew that that was because Commentary was an intellectual quarterly circulated almost exclusively among members of the Jewish community. “Have you conveyed that explanation to Prime Minister Stein, Mr. President?” he asked.

“Through Mr. Oberdorfer, yes, certainly.”

“But reports from Tel Aviv state that the Prime Minister is demanding an immediate retraction. Apparently he was not satisfied with a simple clarification. Are we to understand, then, that you have no intention of acceding to his demand?”

“That is correct. But only because I see no purpose in retracting a misunderstood statement. It would only compound the misunderstanding, if you see what I mean-give credence to it.”

“What do you intend to do, sir, to reestablish optimum relations with Israel?”

“Well, if Mr. Oberdorfer is unable to handle the situation to our mutual satisfaction, I will ask Prime Minister Stein to meet with me here in Washington, both privately and publicly. That should eliminate any regrettably unpleasant feelings on both sides, and help clarify our positions as friends and allies.”

The man from Commentary seemed satisfied, as did the other two reporters. After a moment the short, balding man from the Washington Post asked, “Would you care to elaborate, Mr. President, on your foreign-policy views?”

“Yes, I would,” Augustine said. He selected one of his pipes, rubbed the bowl against his nose to add oil to the surface, and then buffed it vigorously with one palm. “Since the end of World War Two, our foreign policy has become the center of ideological attention; but the fact is, for many administrations it was also a means of distracting the populace from domestic problems which were not being solved. The Cold War, the arms race, escalating nuclear capabilities, the Domino Theory-all of these diverted attention from the more serious issues of racial inequality, poverty, unemployment, and so on. In short there has been a two-party consensus on foreign policy which amounts to a tacit agreement not to challenge each other on domestic affairs.”

“That’s an interesting concept, sir,” the woman from Time said, “but one I find difficult to accept. Surely you don’t mean that foreign policy has been overemphasized as a deliberate means of protecting a negative domestic status quo?”

“Not at all. I was merely pointing out that recent administrations have found domestic difficulties so insurmountable that they have concentrated instead on foreign affairs.”

There were more questions, more responses on the subject, each of them increasingly complicated and philosophical. Justice had difficulty understanding some of them; political science was a topic which sometimes bewildered him.

The discussion shifted finally to Vice-President Conroy’s Western states travails. Not only had he had problems in Montana and Nevada, but yesterday he had been traveling in a motorcade in Phoenix when a group of Navaho dissidents approached his open car and spat on him. A photograph showing the Vice-President cowering inside had appeared on the front pages of the Washington papers this morning, and more than one columnist had not neglected the opportunity to match Conroy’s posture figuratively with that of the President. After the incident the Vice-President had gone into seclusion at his hotel and had not as yet issued a public statement.

“Mr. President,” the man from the Post said, “what is your reaction to the incident in Phoenix?”

“I’m appalled, of course,” Augustine said.

The reporter from Commentary asked, “Do you feel that the Vice-President was correct in not issuing a statement after the incident?”

“I see no reason why he should have. There was nothing for him to say, really.”

“The photograph in this morning’s papers was somewhat unflattering, to say the least. Do you question Mr. Conroy’s public reaction when he was spat upon?”

“Certainly not,” the President said. “I defy any man not to show fear in a similar situation.”

“How do you think you might have reacted, sir, if it had been you instead of the Vice-President?”

“If you mean by that would I have retaliated in some way, the answer is yes.”

“In what way, sir?”

Augustine smiled impishly. “Why, I would have unzipped my fly and pissed on the lot of them,” he said.

The room became suddenly and awkwardly silent. The reporters shifted in their chairs, looking at each other, looking at the President. Briggs sat forward, the burning stub of a cigarette in one hand and an unlighted cigarette in the other; his expression was one of shock. Justice felt himself frowning, but not so much at the President’s remark as at the others’ reaction to it.

“After all,” Augustine said lightly, “fire should be met with fire and water with water.”

The silence held. When the reporter from Commentary coughed into the back of his hand, the sound seemed unnaturally loud. No one moved.

The President’s smile faded as he looked at the reporters. At length he tapped his pipe against an ashtray, as if calling for their attention, and then laid it aside. “That was a joke,” he said. “Surely you recognize a joke when you hear one.”

The man from the Post cleared his throat. “It’s hardly a joking matter, Mr. President.”

“I suppose you think it was in poor taste then.”

The reporter said nothing.

“Or do you attach more significance to it than that?” the President said. His voice was low-pitched, mild, but Justice recognized an undercurrent of irascibility in the tone. “Maybe you think it was foolish, deliberately offensive?”

There was an uneasy silence this time. Justice worried his lower lip; he could feel the mood in the room shifting back to one of hostility, knew that the President must feel it too. And yet Augustine seemed to be offended by their attitude- with cause, Justice thought, because the joke had not been all that improper-and unwilling to let the issue pass. As a result of that, if not of the joke itself, all the goodwill he had established in the past hour seemed threatened.

“No comment, eh?” the President said. “Well then, maybe the press secretary has something to say. How about it, Austin? What’s your opinion of my little joke?”

Briggs was startled. “Mr. President?”

“You heard me, Austin. What’s your opinion?”

The three reporters had turned to look at Briggs. He glanced at them nervously, said, “I have no opinion, sir.”

“No? Do you think we ought to make it an off-the-record comment?”

“Well… that might be best, yes-”

“I agree,” Augustine said. “We wouldn’t want these distinguished writers to pass it along to their readers and risk a misinterpretation of its meaning and intent. Not that they would misinterpret it themselves, of course.”

Briggs looked down at his burning cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray beside him without speaking.

The President nodded and sat back in his chair. “Now that that’s settled,” he said to the reporters, “shall we go on to another topic?”

They had been exchanging looks again, and Justice could tell from their profiles that Augustine had lost them. The woman from Time said stiffly, “I don’t believe we have any more questions at this time, Mr. President.”

“I see.” Augustine’s voice had turned cool, distant. “All right, then we’ll consider the interview terminated. Thank you for your attendance. Mr. Briggs will show you out.”

When the reporters were gone, and Briggs was gone, the President picked up the toy locomotive and sat studying it as if looking for flaws in its construction. Justice watched him for a time and then got to his feet and crossed to stand in front of the desk.

“Mr. President?” he said. “Do you want me to leave too?”

Augustine did not look up. “Yes, Christopher, I’d rather you did.”

“Yes sir,” Justice said, and wanted to say something else, something comforting. But what words could someone like him offer that would have any meaning?

He turned reluctantly and left the President alone.