These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

Politics, such as it is, doesn’t come up again until the car nears the hotel in Bloomsbury, where Zan and his children have been put up by the university. The driver has taken the long way to show off the city, turning south to come into London by way of Hammersmith, then cutting through St. John’s Wood to Regent’s Park where he slows and points to a distant, grand red-brick mansion with white columns. “Winfield House,” the driver says.

Zan says, “I don’t think that’s our hotel.”

The driver chortles. “Your ambassador lives there. Or used to,” he adds, suddenly a bit unsure.

“Really,” Zan says with all the enthusiasm that politeness can muster. He looks at his kids to get a more accurate reading of just how boring this is; Parker’s expression confirms that it’s somewhere around Def-Con Two. Sheba has fallen asleep again. The inventor of Benadryl, Zan thinks, should get the Nobel Peace Prize. “I heard your President Kennedy lived there, didn’t he?” says the driver. “That’s what someone told me.”

Zan realizes the driver might be correct. “I believe so. As a boy.”

The driver does a double-take. “He was ambassador as a boy?”

“No, of course not. He wasn’t ambassador, his father was ambassador.”

The driver gazes at the red mansion. “They say the new man is like him, then?”

“Who?”

“President Kennedy?”

“Uh,” Zan shrugs, “maybe.” He says, “The campaign was more like his brother’s.”

“Was he the one shot?” Parker says.

“Both of them were shot.”

“The heck?”