The President's Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

wave of repression throughout that Empire, the crackdown being strongest on the news. Therefore no one knew what was going on. Rumors spread also of a military buildup or preparation for invasion.
    The secretaries felt the undercurrent of electricity in the Presidential Palace. It gave them pleasant shudders of excitement, for they knew the importance of their work. They hurried back upstairs, to eat their wet cardboard sandwiches at their desks.

    In the staff dining room, Jim Sierra sat at a table spread with a linen cloth. Linen napkins were folded into fans in each water tumbler, and the silverware gleamed. He ate with Norman Schwartzjenna, the Chief of Staff, with Steve Dirk, Internal Affairs, and with Bill Garcia, External Affairs. The conversation always revolved around politics and the President.
    Not long before, at a state dinner, the President had sat in brooding silence. He had twirled his wineglass and glowered under his brows at the assembly, too absorbed to talk to the white-haired wife of a mining magnate on his left, or to the dyed-blond wife of the prime minister of a large European country on his right. Fifty sophisticated people, the First Lady at their head, had therefore carried the conversation by themselves. Which they did, and well enough, though the President’s silence cast a pall. He was not his usual light, laughing, wicked, witty self.
    Then, at dessert, the President had suddenly turned to the visiting dignitary from India, seated beyond one of his own dinner partners, caught his eye, and interrupted:
    â€œDo you believe in God?”
    â€œOh yes.” The Ambassador had nodded amiably. “God, yes. Everyone wise worships a deity.”
    Official Washington thought the Ambassador a fool. He spoke in a lilting English that placed the rhythms on all the wrong words. He smiled at the slightest notice, the grin opening his dark face.
    â€œThey don’t worship the same one, though,” the President shot back. “And no one can agree on how God works. Is it a beneficial force or—”
    â€œYes, beneficial, very good.”
    â€œâ€”a punishing, threatening God?”
    â€œYes, punishing too. Very hard.” He nodded, always smiling. It was such inconsistencies that made the President view him with contempt.
    â€œSometimes he is playful too, do you not think?” the Ambassador continued. “We have a view of God as a little child playing in a garden with his toys. Do you like that? He is very playful, God.”
    â€œAnd what do you believe in, Mr. President?” asked Emily Stanhill, the wife of the mining magnate.
    He turned from the Indian Ambassador and stared at her without answer, and at that moment another guest leaned forward curiously: “What’s the question?”
    The President recovered himself. “The question is: Is there a divine intervention in the affairs of man? In fact, is there anything at all, divine or not? Is there a God?”
    â€œOh, of course there is.”
    â€œThen second, is He looking out for us?” cried another at the table. “That’s the question! What’s God’s responsibility to Man?” He sat back triumphantly, challenging his dinner partners, either side.
    â€œAnd after that,” said the mining magnate’s wife, “what is our responsibility to God? Do you pray, Mr. President?”
    The President shot her a startled look, but before he could respond, the butler was at his arm. It was time to rise for coffee in the East Room and hear a chamber orchestra.
    â€œNo,” he said, offering her his arm. “Do you think I should?”
    In the East Room they sat on uncomfortable, small, gilded chairs with red velvet seats. The President, seated beside the First Lady, was observed to be lost again in thought. At the conclusion of the first piece, he rose, bowed gravely to his wife and guests, and left.
    The next morning the public relations office went bananas with