The Last President. Michael Kurland

from the tournedos. The chef makes béarnaise as though he were dueling with the saucepan. Do you like veal? The veal is superb. I’m going to have the sweetbreads myself. This is the only place west of the Avenue Georges Cinque where they really know how to handle sweetbreads.”

      Kit, whose idea of lunch was a cheeseburger, no fries, and a vanilla malted, studied the menu intently while St. Yves continued his guided tour of the entrees. When the waiter came over, Kit, in a spirit of rebellion, ordered a small steak, medium rare.

      “The ris de veau a la maréchale, Charles,” St. Yves ordered, closing his menu and tapping it thoughtfully on the table. “With a small salade maison to begin—not on the side, you understand, but before—and perhaps a bottle of the Haut Brion sixty-seven.”

      Charles nodded, extracted the menus, and went off. St. Yves leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared at Kit. “We don’t know much about you,” he said.

      “Who’s we?” Kit asked. “And what do you want to know?” He suddenly felt very much on the defensive. St. Yves had that effect on people.

      “Oh, we know all the usual stuff,” St. Yves said, picking up a fork and revolving it over and over between his hands. “Your birth date, your schooling, college grades, extracurricular activities, the first girl you ever laid, all that stuff. You’re a patriotic, loyal American. But of course with your background you’re not old enough to be anything else. The closest thing to a subversive in your family is your Uncle Harry.”

      “Uncle Harry?” Kit asked.

      “Right. Your mother’s older brother. He joined the Young People’s Socialist League in 1932. Didn’t you know?”

      “No. The subject never came up.” Kit now had no idea of what was going on. What could St. Yves want to know that wasn’t already in his file?

      St. Yves focused his attention on Kit. “What we want to know are your political beliefs,” he said, lacing his long, slender fingers together under his chin. “Your concept of where this country is headed, what its goals should be, and what you feel you should do about it. What I’m asking you, I suppose, is what you think it means to be an American. If this sounds too patriotic, or any bullshit like that, I’m sorry.”

      “I don’t think patriotism is bullshit,” Kit said. “I think sometimes it’s misplaced, and goes over into chauvinism.”

      St. Yves looked warily at Kit. “Who’d you vote for in November?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course.”

      “I will tell you,” Kit said. “I didn’t vote.”

      “Is that straight?” St. Yves said, sounding surprised. “You live in the most political town in the world, work for the President, and you didn’t vote?”

      “That’s right. I feel I have to remain completely non-political. I have to do my job honestly and fairly, no matter what party’s in power and no matter who’s elected president. So I don’t want to get involved with the process to the point that it would matter to me.”

      St. Yves put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned back. “That’s probably the most naive political philosophy I’ve heard espoused since I left the third grade.”

      “You asked me and I told you,” Kit said, the annoyance showing in his voice. “I guess the basic fact is that I’m not that interested in the political process. Most politicians, as far as I can tell, are either idiots or crooks, and yet they keep getting voted back into office. And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it either way.”

      “Don’t get pissed,” St. Yves said. “I didn’t mean to sound disapproving. I just wanted to find out whether you’re for us or against us.”

      “Us?”

      “The President.”

      “I think he’s a good man, and I think he has guts. Going to China took guts.”

      “Right,” St. Yves said. “Hes a gutsy guy. Ah!” The conversation died out while they paused to watch the maître d’ compose a salade and place it in front of St. Yves. “A chef d’oeuvre as always, Charles, thank you.”

      Charles smiled and left, to be replaced a few seconds later by a tall man with a blond crew cut who paused in front of the table. “Edward! How are you?”

      St. Yves looked up from the salad which was commanding all of his attention. “Mr. Vandermeer.” He pushed back his chair.

      “No, no,” Vandermeer said, “don’t get up. Tell you what, I’ll sit down for a minute.” And, pulling a chair out from the next table, he turned it the wrong way and straddled it, leaning forward across the bentwood back. “You must be Kit Young,” he said, staring at Kit through his steel-rimmed glasses. “Billy Vandermeer.” He stuck out his hand to be shaken.

      Kit took Vandermeer’s hand and received a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “A pleasure,” Kit said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Uriah “Billy” Vandermeer was the mystery man of the administration. When the President had taken office, Vandermeer’s position had seemed no more important than that of an appointment clerk. But now, with the second term about to begin, and Vandermeer the chairman of the newly created Domestic Council, even Cabinet officers had to check with Billy to get in to see the President. And instructions from Billy were the closest most staffers got to orders from the President. A shadowy figure, often ignored by the press, he was the man who got things done; he and Charlie Ober, head of OMB, more than any other men, held the reins of power in the White House.

      “As it happens,” Vandermeer said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’ve been meaning to thank you personally for the help you gave us over at the Second District Police Station over that business at the Watergate.”

      “I was just doing my job.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and even as he said it Kit realized it sounded inane.

      Vandermeer leaned forward, pushing the chair over until the back was resting against the table. “That may be, and it says a lot about you that you feel that way, but you did that job very well. All cleaned up, and without a ripple. And now you’re going to be working for us, and I’m glad to have you aboard.”

      Obviously it hadn’t sounded as inane to Vandermeer as it did to Kit. And now he was going to be working for them? For whom had he been working for the past six months?

      “Excuse me,” Vandermeer said, and he jumped up, most upsetting the chair, and waved at a slim blonde girl who had just appeared in the entrance and was looking around. “My daughter,” he explained. She waved back and started toward them, maneuvering between the crowded tables with the unconscious grace of a Borzoi. Her long blonde hair cascaded off her shoulders and down the back of the tan shirtwaist dress that clearly had not been bought within a thousand miles of Washington, D.C.

      “Hi, Dad,” she said, reaching the table and giving her head a shake to settle her hair back into place.

      “Hi, love,” Vandermeer said. “Gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Kathy. Kathy, this is Edward St. Yves and Christopher Young.”

      Kathy gave St. Yves her hand. “Mr. St. Yves,” she said, her eyes opening wide, “my father has told me a lot about you.”

      St. Yves laughed. “If the things he’s said about me are only half as nice as the things he’s told me about you, then ‘One may not doubt that somehow, good shall come of water and of mud’.”

      Kathy’s face lit up with a bright, wide smile. “‘Somewhere, beyond space and time’,” she said, “‘is wetter water, slimier slime!’”

      “I’ve always thought so,” St. Yves agreed, deadpan.

      Vandermeer looked from St. Yves to his daughter. “What are you two babbling about?” he demanded.

      “Oh, Dad,” Kathy said. “It’s only Rupert Brooke. Only one of the