Edge of Eternity (123 page)

She set the table and washed the salad and grated the parmesan cheese. Then she took a shower and put on a cotton summer dress in her favourite shade, turquoise. She thought about putting on lipstick and decided not to.

The evening news on TV was mostly speculation. Nixon had had a meeting with Vice-President Gerald Ford, who might be President tomorrow. Press secretary Ziegler had announced to the White House reporters that the President would address the nation at nine, then had left the press briefing room without answering questions on what he would speak about.

George arrived at seven-thirty, wearing slacks and loafers and a blue chambray shirt open at the neck. Maria tossed the salad and put the pasta in boiling water while he opened a bottle of chianti.

Her bedroom door was open, and George looked inside. ‘No shrine,’ he said.

‘I threw away most of the photographs.’

They sat at her small dining table to eat.

They had been friends for thirteen years, and each had seen the other in the depths of despair. Each had had one overwhelming lover who had gone: Verena Marquand to the Black Panthers, President Kennedy into the hereafter. In different ways, both George and Maria had been left. They shared so much that they were comfortable together.

Maria said: ‘The heart is a map of the world, did you know that?’

‘I don’t even know what it means,’ he said.

‘I saw a medieval map once. It showed the earth as a flat disc with Jerusalem in the centre. Rome was bigger than Africa, and America was not even shown, of course. The heart is that kind of map. The self is in the middle and everything else is out of proportion. You draw the friends of your youth large, then later it’s impossible to re-scale them when other more important people need to be added. Anyone who has done you wrong is shown too big, and so is anyone you loved.’

‘Okay, I get it, but—’

‘I’ve thrown out my photos of Jack Kennedy. But he will always be drawn too large on the map in my heart. That’s all I mean.’

After dinner they washed up then sat on a large soft couch in front of the TV with the last of the wine. The cats went to sleep on the rug.

Nixon came on at nine.

Please, Maria thought, let the torment end now.

Nixon was sitting in the Oval Office, a blue curtain behind him, the Stars and Stripes on his right and the President’s Flag on his left. The deep, gravelly voice began immediately. ‘This is the thirty-seventh time I have spoken to you from this office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of this nation.’

The camera began a slow zoom in. The President was wearing a familiar blue suit and tie. ‘Throughout the long and difficult period of Watergate, I have felt it was my duty to persevere, to make every possible effort to complete the term of office to which you elected me. In the past few days, however, it has become evident to me that I no longer have a strong enough political base in the Congress to justify continuing that effort.’

George said excitedly: ‘That’s it! He’s resigning!’

Maria grabbed his arm in excitement.

The cameras pulled in for a close-up. ‘I have never been a quitter,’ Nixon said.

‘Oh, shit,’ said George, ‘is he going back on it?’

‘But, as President, I must put the interests of America first.’

‘No,’ said Maria, ‘he’s not going back.’

‘Therefore I shall resign the presidency effective at noon tomorrow. Vice-President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office.’

‘Yes!’ George punched the air. ‘He’s done it! He’s gone!’

What Maria felt was not so much triumph as relief. She had woken up from a nightmare. In the dream, the highest officers in the land had been crooks, and no one could do anything to stop them.

But in real life, they had been found out and shamed and deposed. She had a sense of safety, and realized that for two years now she had not felt that America was a secure place to be.

Nixon admitted no faults. He did not say that he had committed crimes, told lies, and tried to put the blame on other people. Turning the pages of his speech, he referred to his triumphs: China, arms limitation talks, Middle East diplomacy. He finished on a defiant note of pride.

‘It’s over,’ Maria said in a tone of incredulity.

‘We won,’ said George, and he put his arms around her.

Then, without thinking about it, they were kissing.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

It was not a sudden burst of passion. They kissed playfully, exploring each other’s lips and tongues. George tasted of wine. It was like discovering a fascinating topic of conversation they had previously overlooked. Maria found herself smiling and kissing at the same time.

However, their embrace soon turned passionate. Maria’s pleasure became so intense it made her breathe hard. She unbuttoned George’s blue shirt so that she could feel his chest. She had almost forgotten what it was like to have a man’s bony frame in her arms. She relished his big hands touching the private places of her body, so different from her own small soft fingers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw both cats leave the room.

George caressed her for a surprisingly long time. She had had only one previous lover, and he had not been so patient: by now he would have been on top of her. She was torn between pleasure in what George was doing and an almost panicky need to feel him inside her.

Then at last it happened. She had forgotten how good it felt. She crushed his chest to hers and lifted her legs to pull him farther in. She said his name again and again until she was overwhelmed by spasms of pleasure, and cried out. A moment later she felt him ejaculate inside her, and that made her convulse one more time.

They lay fused together, breathing hard. Maria could not touch him enough. She pressed one hand into his back, the other on his head, feeling his body, almost fearing that he might not be real, this could be a dream. She kissed his deformed ear. His panting breath was hot on her neck.

Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. The world around became real again. The TV was still on, broadcasting reactions to the resignation. She heard a commentator say: ‘This has been a truly momentous day.’

Maria sighed. ‘It sure has,’ she said.

*  *  *

George thought the ex-President should go to jail. Many people did. Nixon had committed more than enough crimes to justify a prison sentence. This was not medieval Europe, where kings were above the law: this was America, and justice was the same for everyone. The House Judiciary Committee had ruled that Nixon should be impeached, and Congress had endorsed the Committee’s report by a remarkable majority of 412 votes to 3. The public favoured impeachment by 66 per cent to 27. John Ehrlichman had already been sentenced to twenty months in prison for his crimes: it would be unfair if the man who had given him his orders were to escape punishment.

A month after the resignation, President Ford pardoned Nixon.

George was outraged, and so was just about everyone else. Ford’s press secretary resigned. The
New York Times
said the pardon was ‘a profoundly unwise, divisive and unjust act’ that had destroyed the new President’s credibility at a stroke. Everyone assumed Nixon had cut a deal with Ford before handing over to him.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ said George to Maria in the kitchen of his apartment. He was mixing olive oil and red wine vinegar in a jug to make salad dressing. ‘Sitting behind a desk at Fawcett Renshaw while the country goes to hell.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I want to go back into politics.’

She turned to face him, and he was puzzled to see disapproval on her face. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘The congressman for my mother’s district, the Ninth Maryland, is retiring in two years. I think I can get nominated for the seat. In fact, I know I can.’

‘So you’ve already talked to the Democratic party there.’

She was definitely angry with him, but he had no idea why. ‘Just exploratory discussions, yes,’ he said.

‘Before you talked to me.’

George was startled. Their romance was only a month old. Did he already have to clear everything with Maria? He almost said that, but bit back the words and tried something softer. ‘Maybe I should have talked to you first, but it didn’t occur to me.’ He poured the dressing over the salad and started to toss it.

‘You know I just applied for a really good job in the State Department.’

‘Of course.’

‘I think you know I want to go all the way to the top.’

‘And I bet you’ll do it.’

‘Not with you, I won’t.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Senior State Department officials have to be non-political. They must serve Democratic and Republican congressmen with equal diligence. If I’m known to be with a congressman, I’ll never get a promotion. They will always say: “You can’t really trust Maria Summers, she sleeps with Congressman Jakes.” They’d assume my loyalty was to you, not them.’

George had not thought of that. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘But what can I do?’

‘How much does this relationship matter to you?’ she said.

George thought her challenging words masked a plea. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a little early to talk of marriage –’

‘Early?’ she said, getting angry. ‘I’m thirty-eight years old and you’re only my second lover. Did you think I was looking for a casual fling?’

‘I was going to say,’ he said patiently, ‘that if we do get married, I assume we’ll have children and you’ll stay home and take care of them.’

Her face was flushed with outrage. ‘Oh, is that what you assume? Not only do you plan to prevent me getting any further promotions, you actually expect me to give up my career altogether!’

‘Well, that’s what women usually do when they marry.’

‘Is it, hell! Wake up, George. I realize that your mother devoted herself from the age of sixteen exclusively to caring for you, but you were born in 1936, for Christ’s sake. We’re in the seventies now. Feminism has arrived. Work is no longer something a woman does merely to pass the time until some man condescends to make her his domestic slave.’

George was bewildered. This had come out of the blue. He had done something normal and reasonable, and she was spitting with rage. ‘I don’t know why you’re so goddamn ornery,’ he said. ‘I haven’t ruined your career or made you a domestic slave, and I haven’t actually asked you to marry me.’

Her voice went quiet. ‘You asshole,’ she said. ‘You total asshole.’

She left the room.

‘Don’t go,’ he said.

He heard the apartment door slam.

‘Hell,’ he said.

He smelled smoke. The steaks were burning. He turned off the heat under the pan. The meat was charred black, inedible. He tipped the steaks into the garbage bin.

‘Hell,’ he said again.

Part Eight

YARD

1976–1983

51

Grigori Peshkov was dying. The old warrior was eighty-seven, and his heart was failing.

Tania had managed to get a message to his brother. Lev Peshkov was eighty-two but he had announced that he was coming to Moscow, in a private jet. Tania had wondered if he would get permission to visit, but he had managed it. He had arrived yesterday and was due to visit Grigori today.

Grigori lay in bed in his apartment, pale and still. He was sensitive to pressure, and could not bear the weight of the bedclothes on his feet, so Tania’s mother, Anya, had placed two boxes in the bed, tenting the blankets so that they warmed him without touching him.

Though he was weak, Tania still felt the power of his presence. Even in repose his chin jutted pugnaciously. When he opened his eyes, he revealed that intense blue-eyed stare that had so often struck fear into the hearts of the enemies of the working class.

It was a Sunday, and family and friends came to visit. They were saying goodbye, though naturally they pretended otherwise. Dimka and Natalya brought Katya, their pretty seven-year-old. Dimka’s ex-wife Nina turned up with the twelve-year-old Grisha, who had the beginnings of his great-grandfather’s formidable intensity, despite his youth. Grigori smiled benignly on them all. ‘I fought in two revolutions and two world wars,’ he said. ‘It’s a miracle I lasted this long.’

He fell asleep, then, and most of the family went out, leaving Tania and Dimka sitting at the bedside. Dimka’s career had advanced: he was now an official of the State Planning Committee and a candidate member of the Politburo. He was still a close associate of Kosygin, but their attempts to reform the Soviet economy were always blocked by Kremlin conservatives. Natalya was chair of the Analytical Department at the Foreign Ministry.

Tania began to tell her brother about the latest feature she had written for
TASS.
At the suggestion of Vasili, who was still working in the Agriculture Ministry, she had flown to Stavropol, a fertile southern region where the collective farms were experimenting with a bonus system based on results. ‘Harvests are up,’ she told Dimka. ‘The reform is a big success.’

‘The Kremlin won’t like bonuses,’ Dimka said. ‘They’ll say the system smacks of revisionism.’

‘The system has been operating for years,’ she said. ‘The regional First Secretary there is a real live wire. A man called Mikhail Gorbachev.’

‘He must have friends in high places.’

‘He knows Andropov, who goes to a spa in the region to take the waters.’ The KGB chief suffered from kidney stones, an agonizing ailment. If ever a man deserved such pain, Tania thought, Yuri Andropov did.

Dimka was intrigued. ‘So this Gorbachev is a reformer who is friendly with Andropov?’ he said. ‘That makes him an unusual man. I must keep an eye on him.’

‘I found him refreshingly commonsensical.’

‘We certainly need new ideas. Do you remember Khrushchev, back in 1961, forecasting that the USSR would overtake the US in both production and military strength in twenty years?’

Tania smiled. ‘At the time he was thought pessimistic.’