The driver of the car clears his throat and ventures into something that Zan guesses he’s been considering since Heathrow. “Well done, then,” he says, “you Yanks.”
“Sorry?” says Zan.
“Well done,” the driver nods in the rearview mirror, a tentative smile, “the new top man. You did it!”
Zan looks at Parker, and Parker looks back at his father and shrugs. It’s a few seconds before Zan understands; everyone wants to talk politics these days. I should introduce this guy to the woman who harangued me on the plane, he thinks. See how “well done” she thinks it is. “Oh,” Zan says, “yeah, it’s. . kind of unbelievable, really.”
“Think he’ll turn it all around, then?” says the driver.
“Everyone hopes so. Almost everyone, anyway.” Zan realizes that, seeing Sheba, the driver assumes he knows how Zan voted: Is this cause for indignation? An assumption made solely on the basis of Sheba’s color? On the other hand, well, the assumption happens to be correct, if not the reasoning. “She was for the other guy,” Zan jokes to the rearview mirror, pointing at Sheba in his lap.
The driver laughs, maybe with some relief that he hasn’t given offense. After a pause he says, “Funny place, the States. Given the bloke you had before, I mean.”
“Yeah,” says Zan, “funny place.”