Thanks for everything, Bill

When the phone rang early on February 28^th, not only did I know who it was, I knew why he was calling.

"Good morning, Andrew," I said, while getting the coffee machine going with my other hand.

"Good morning, Commander," he replied. "Sad news, isn't it?"

"Indeed," I agreed.

And indeed it was. The death of William F Buckley, Jr., had been announced the previous day. I didn't know him, but Andrew and his family had known him, albeit distantly, for years.

Bill was the acceptable face of conservatism. His ideas and beliefs were the result of a rigorous process of thought and an encyclopaedic knowledge of history, philosophy and theology.

No self-righteous neo-con, Bill had a social conscience as well as his conservative principles. If he was 'the scourge of American liberalism,' as Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. called him, it was because he exposed the flaws in the logic of liberal populists. Bill was the scourge of sloppy thought and lax language wherever he found it, left, right or center.

Amazingly, English was his third language. Few can achieve the command of English as a first language that Bill had, and one can only speculate what being on the receiving end of his Spanish or French must have been like.

What enabled Bill to endure, win new admirers, if not converts, and continue to be widely read and respected was his humor and wit.

Few of our generation will forget his performance on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In where he spontaneously parried well aimed lances and barbs, delighting the audience and inquisitors alike.

Unlike many - most - celebrity politicians and writers, Bill was no one-trick pony. He succeeded in personal appearances, on television and in print. The subjects of his non-fiction ranged widely; his novels are eminently entertaining, and his thousands of articles provided a contrapuntal continuum for two generations.

He enjoyed being a gadfly and knew that he would probably not succeed in elected office, rightly evaluating his chances at the polls.

"He liked your writing," Andrew said.

"I never wrote anything for him," I replied.

"No, but you ghost-wrote enough for me. When he read the stuff in Atlantic, he knew I hadn't written it," Andrew said. "He asked me who did."

"What did you tell him?" I asked, curious that I had never had an invitation to write for National Review.

"I wouldn't tell him," Andrew said.

"Bastard! Why not?"

"I needed you to write for me."

Well, it might have been Bill's loss, but probably not. I wrote to him once, though. I was in my first or second year at college and was enjoying my subscription to NR and antagonizing my professors - after all, it was 1967. I sent him a letter suggesting that he take up novel writing. I was, at the time, enjoying Evelyn Waugh and thought WFB could do something similar and contemporary for America.

He wrote back. A short note on NR paper saying that he'd thought about it, but was afraid to. Unfortunately for me, the note doesn't refer to novel writing but stands vaguely alone.

"Well," Andrew said, "when it gets to lunchtime over there, raise a glass to him."

"No fear."

Requiescat in pace

A great 2008?

I seized the initiative as part of my new year initiative to be more successful, and called Andrew. When I got past the security and call filtering, I pretended to sound as though the process hadn't been a major inconvenience. (I've got too many passwords to remember without having to remember ones necessary to speak to supposed best friends.

"Long time!" Andrew said cheerfully. I resisted giving reasons why, wishing I'd stuck to email this time, too.

"Just wanted to wish you, Sabine and the children a happy new year," I said.

"It's going to be quite a year," he said.

"It will. Presidential elections. Low-carbon mania. Increased guilt-trips for anyone who travels to work more than a few hundred yards. Inflation. Looks like being a great year to hibernate through," I said.

"You really think it will be that bad?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"With the Fed cutting interest rates instead of putting them up, it's going to be near chaos," I said. "Property prices will continue to inflate, but be spongy; no one will be encouraged to save a dime, and company profits will be hit by trying to cut greenhouse gas emissions. Trying to convince people that it's worth paying more for things they throw away anyway because it's 'greener' will only appeal to the dedicated fringe," I said.

"You're being very cynical," Andrew replied.

"Why shouldn't I be? We've had a Republican president for eight years who has done more for Hilary Clinton's campaign than Bill has. The economy's shot full of holes and losses are stacking up. The Chinese are buying Wall Street and the stock market goes up because all the twelve year olds who work there think it's a great thing because they can keep their jobs for another 24 hours."

"It's the American Way 2.0," Andrew said.

"I preferred the American Way 101," I replied.

"Well, you're coming up to retirement. Why not just take it as an audit. Happy new year!"

What do we think we're doing?

It had been a while since I'd called Andrew. Email had been taking its toll on personal communication.

"What's going on in Washington?" I asked.

"That's what I keep asking myself," he replied. For someone who had his eye on the White House, I thought this was a rather vague attitude.

"So what don't you understand?" I asked.

"Everyone keeps going on about reducing waste, reducing consumption, saving energy, cutting 'food miles' and leading a more basic life," he said.

"It's much the same here," I agreed. The potential banning of foie gras as had happened in Chicago was a frightening prospect.

"What do the people who propose this sort of thing think is going to drive economies, provide employment and put food on the table if we strangle business this way?" he asked.

"I'm glad someone else is asking that question," I said. "I was in London last week, and the British are talking about charging people for using the roads. Now, gas is already about $8.00 a gallon there, the trains are not only expensive, but full, so if people have to pay $5.00 just to drive to work - as well as pay for parking - then either they'll have to find other jobs, or they'll demand more money to pay to get to work."

"That won't be good for inflation," Andrew said, seeing the danger immediately.

"No, it won't. But the environmental lobby is almost as powerful as the disabled and gay lobbies now and few politicians have the nerve to speak against them."

"The lack of logic is worrying," Andrew agreed.

"The best joke is that the telephone company is now charging £4.50 per quarter as a payment processing charge - and the consumer organisatons are pretty laid back about it."

"Say, that's a pretty good idea," Andrew said. "We could charge everyone $10.00 for processing their income tax, and raise billions without puttng up taxes. Terrific!"

America & Alcohol

"What is is about America and alcohol?" I asked when Andrew telephoned me at two in the morning.

It wasn't what he had called about, but I didn't want to discuss financing foreign aid at that time of the morning.

"I don't know, what?" he asked.

"How does it make sense that you can get married at 16, have two or three children, celebrate your fifth wedding anniversary and still not be able to buy a bottle of wine?"

"You've lived in France too long," he replied with some annoyance.

"It's a perfect example of how Americans will attack the wrong end of a problem," I said. "I have no problem in keeping young people who are at school from drinking - but by the time they're 18 and could theoretically be drafted - like you and I were - and, of course, they can voite - so why can't they legally have a beer?"

"Because of prohibition," Andrew said wearily. "America never got over it. Most Americans aren't used to drinking at home, so they get smashed when they are away from their families."

"So the law is made to restrict the minority?" I asked.

"Don't be clever. Do you know how many people are killed each year by drunk drivers?"

"I'm not saying that people should drink and drive. I'm saying they should be able to learn how to drink and then be able to at about the same age as they can get married," I said.

"Politicians won't touch this one," Andrew said. "The lobby is too strong."

"So that's it?" I demanded. "Common sense goes down the drain? The great democratic experiment collapses at what Mencken called 'The Great Experiment.'?"

"Please don't start with the Mencken quotes," Andrew said painfully.

"Children should learn to drink with their parents, or family friends at least. Watered wine - not spirits - with meals," I began.

"But children don't eat with their parents. Half of Americans don't eat at a table: they eat on their laps or little tables watching television," Andrew said.

"And they don't drink?"

"Not at meals."

"Your family did. Mine did. Sarah's did."

"That's different," Andrew said, getting annoyed now.

"Are you saying it's a class thing?"

The silence on the line was deafening.

"Okay, then. But have a listen to this: If you drew a map of where Catholics and Protestants live in Europe, you would also be drawing a map of where people preferred their food preserved in glass bottles and jars, or in tin cans."

"What?" came a faint plea.

"And the same map would define who drank wine, and who drank beer."

"Say that again."

"Okay: Catholic areas prefer food packaged in glass to food packaged in tin cans, and they drink wine. Protestants prefer tin cans and drink beer. Think about it: France, Spain and Italy - Catholic, glass and wine. Germany, The Netherlands, Britain: Protestant, tin cans and beer."

"Amazing," Andrew said, the light beginning to dawn.

"Now, go make a similar map of America and see what it tells you."

The Code Bonaparte

It was about time to start thinking about opening a nicely chilled bottle of Tariquet when Andrew called.

“You know, when you were talking to my about Pamphylian treasures a while back, I thought you’d been on the Pernod for too long,” he began. “Now I’m not so sure. This Da Vinci Code nonsense has flushed out a whole new crop of conspiracy theories, hidden ciphers, and secret societies and the number of people who believe them is astounding.”

“I know,” I said. “I have to wade through lines of tourists on Da Vinci Code tours around the Louvre when I cut through. Some of them can’t believe that the old meridian DOESN’T actually line up with the inverted pyramid. They think it’s been moved to hide the real location.”

“The geography’s all wrong, too, isn’t it?” Andrew asked. “Versailles is to the southwest Paris, not the northwest.”

“Yes, and you cross the Place de la Concorde and the Crillon Hotel before going up the Champs Elysées. Books used to have editors who were literate,” I said.

Andrew considered this.

“Look, I don’t know about the Pamphylian Treasure, but it looks like Napoleon might have hidden something somewhere,” he began. “I just finished reading a biography and all the ingredients are there:

“Napoleon was extremely good at map reading and navigating on land; he was mathematically astute, as his calculations of armaments and supplies demonstrate; he was a complete master of military equipment; and – this is the clincher – large amounts of his plundered treasure never reached Paris.”

Andrew waited for a response.

“And you are suggesting. . . .” I prompted.

“Well, he melted the gold, plundered from churches in Northern Italy during his early campaigns, into – I don’t know – bullets, cannon, something - and hid it somewhere.”

“Sounds almost credible. You should write a book,” I said. “Send it to me, I’ll edit it. Do you have any idea where he might have hidden this treasure?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Andrew said. “I reckon its at the bottom of a lake.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s less likely to be stumbled upon. It would have been difficult for individuals to recover, but a small military operation could retrieve it easily enough. Gold wouldn’t tarnish, and once it was at the bottom, it wouldn’t matter if the black paint wore off.”

“This has possibilities,” I said. “What lake?”

“That’s tougher – it would have to be fairly convenient and easy to get to. He might want it nearby so he could keep an eye on developments in the area.”

“So you think it’s in Paris?” I said. “Not in the Seine?”

“No, not in the river,” Andrew said. “Too much traffic, prone to flooding that could scatter it along the bottom. A lake is better, no current. No heavy traffic.”

“Let me guess, the middle of the long lake at Versailles.”

“’X’ marks the spot,” Andrew laughed.

I thought of the great cross-shaped basin that was the ornamental long lake.

“That lake was built to hide something in. Look at the satellite maps – you can see it from about twenty thousand feet!”

“Next time you’re over, Andrew, we’ll get a metal detector and go for a boat ride. In the meantime, see if you can find the clues that lead to there.”

The Pamphylian Treasure

"Andrew," I began immediately, "is the CIA doing some bizarre archeological work?"

"What, like Raiders of the Lost Ark?" he answered, catching on quickly, as any good movie fan.

"Yes, exactly like that, but not the lost ark, or the Holy Grail, nor yet Cleopatra's tomb."

"There's not a lot left" he said, laughing. "What's led you to this speculation? You're not normally let to pursue myths and legends, apart from tracing abandoned railroad lines in New England when you're home long enough."

"Yes, but they're real enough," I said. "Beanie Rice was in town the other day with Solange, and we went to see them at her parents.

"Well, you know how sometimes you hear two random bits of information within a short time of each other, and they fit together with a click?" I continued. "That's what happened.

"An old friend of Sabine's was around about a month ago with a colleague from one of the Sorbonnes. He made a throw-away comment about some archeological work in Turkey having been abandoned a few years ago because the area was to be flooded to make a reservoir. The archaeologists moved out and the engineers moved in. A dam was built, turbines installed, the lot, but the valley was never flooded."

"I remember this," Andrew said. "There was a television documentary about it. Roman mosaics and villas - that sort of thing."

"That's it. Only, apparently, the engineers have now moved out and the oil companies have moved in."

"Sounds typical," Andrew said. "So what did Beanie say?"

"It was a casual remark," I said. "He wasn't giving away secrets."

"No, he wouldn't," Andrew agreed.

"It's not an oil company's anyone's heard of. It's based in Indonesia. No known backers in the oil trade. That was the second piece.

"The third is something I stumbled on myself. It's a line in a minor Russian short story from the 19^th century that talks about the flight of the Trojans after their defeat, and how before dispersing to other destinations, a good number of them regrouped in Pamphylia. They planned to return so they hid the rest of the Trojan treasure.

"Now the coast of Pamphylia has always been a notorious place for pirates, and some of those pirates were descended from the rump of the Trojans."

"So you think the oil company is the CIA in treasure-hunting mode?" Andrew asked.

"The CIA has plenty of people who know about oil, and Beanie isn't one of them," I said.

"True. But is he a treasure hunter? No," Andrew said, "but he's a hunter. You could be right. Bus is there a Pamphylian treasure?"

"Not until someone finds it."

The Need to Think Small

It was about 7.00 a.m. Washington time, but I wanted to talk to Andrew.

An adherent to the work ethic, he was awake, dressed, and dealing with correspondence.

"What's up, Commander," he asked cheerfully, referring to my dubious Naval rank.

"I know all my friends back in America think that I've become some suspect European, and I have to admit that day after day of listening to essentially anti-American newscasts makes one a bit critical, but occasionally there are a few grains of truth among the chaff," I began.

"Anything's possible," Andrew said.

"You know that Americans are accused of being simplistic: my country right or wrong; if you're not for us, you're against us, and all that."

"Go on," Andrew said.

"Well, I'm coming to think that this is true - at least in the case of dealing with rather a lot of countries," I said. "The trouble is that there is trouble seeing beyond the first label. It doesn't matter what it is, but the label sticks, and it appears that policy is made according to the label."

"Go on," Andrew repeated.

"I don't know if it's politicians or the news media, but the desire to talk about foreign policy seems based on the idea that everyone on a country or region is the same.

"You know well enough, Andrew, that anything - ANYTHING - you can make up about America is probably true about ten million people, but it wouldn't be fair to judge the nation on that criteria.

"I think the same is true of America's perception - or portrayal - of other countries," I said. "The need to present the big picture hides the ultimate truths that can only be seen in detail."

"For example?" Andrew asked.

"Okay," I began, "Recent American history seems to demonstrate that there is no appreciation - or even concept - of the role of tribalism in the world. Just because most of the US has amalgamated, more or less, doesn't mean that this has happened elsewhere. Look at the problems in Africa: modern national boundaries have very little relationship to the ancient tribes. As a result, civil wars and serious corruption flourish.

"The same is true int he Balkans," I pressed on. "The US had little idea of the tribal influences at play there - or what it takes to suppress those influences. The same is true in Afghanistan, Iraq and even Israel. Without appreciation of the myriad minorities, how can workable policies be formulated? Some of these people are genetically programmed never to agree with each other: rationality doesn't enter into it."

"That's a generalization," Andrew said.

"Yes, it is, but in this context, it is not without validity," I retorted.

"It seems to me," I said, "that the US would be better off forgetting the big picture once in a while and concentrating on the detail. I am sure that Washington had very little idea about the Mujahidin before it started giving them stinger missiles and teaching them how to make car bombs."

"I can't dispute that the intelligence was crap," Andrew said candidly.

"It was the same in Vietnam," I said. "We never understood the mentality, even when we were told."

"I well remember Fire in the Lake," Andrew said, referring to a brilliant book by a young Frances Fitzgerald which looked at the nature of the Vietnamese, their history and politics. It had been a best-seller, but hadn't changed American foreign policy. Not until Nixon decided that the way to get elected was to promise to end the war, which to his credit, he did.

"Could no one see Hamas winning in Palestine?" I challenged. "A people who had been suppressed for fifty-odd years and whose one real political party had failed to improve things significantly? Was it really that unexpected? If so, there should be hundreds of resignations from intelligence agencies and news media analysts's departments."

"How does thinking small help?" Andrew asked.

"I know the world has changed, but take a look at the Eisenhower administration: Ike only took big risks when the possible gains were big. He took small risks when the gains were small. We seem to have forgotten that principle and are taking enormous risks when the gains are very doubtful, indeed."

"You mean Iraq?"

"I mean Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korean, Iran - all those places where some creative thinking would bear real dividends. The US doesn't have to be confrontational. And before you say it, yes, there are some people who only understand tough action. Unfortunately, most of them are in America.

"People behave how they are treated. Every teacher knows that: treat students well, professionally, fairly - firmly, too - and they will respond in kind. Treat them as though they're about to attack you, and they won't disappoint that expectation, either."

"So you would advocate?"

"Finding out what things are really like in a country; find out what people really want - and talk to those who don't just want tanks, land mines, jets, missiles and rifles. Cut through the special interest groups and see what the needs really are. And don't confuse the message. Bombing the Taliban while dropping aid to the Afghan people just confused things, especially when the wrong people got the deliveries."

That's true enough," Andrew conceded.

"Most people just want to get on with their lives in peace, and we should be able to accept that they may not love us, or yearn for a democracy they cannot yet comprehend," I said.

"I feel like I'm being driven back to Emerson and Thoreau," Andrew said. "I'll let you know when I've reread some of them."

"Don't forget: The ink of the scholar is more sacred than the blood of the martyr."

"Did Emerson say that?" Andrew asked.

"No. Mohammed."