Transatlantic Observer

Thanks for everything, Bill

2008-03-12T12:37:00.007Z

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?

2007-12-31T10:33:00.000Z

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?

2007-05-31T13:14:00.000Z

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

2006-08-21T22:22:00.000Z

"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

2006-07-25T07:40:00.000Z

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

2006-04-09T12:45:00.000Z

"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

2006-02-20T19:08:00.000Z

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."

Christmas Message

2005-12-24T12:11:00.000Z

[Message left on Andrew's ansering machine] Merry Christmas to you, Sabine and the twins, and everyone else in the Trumbull and du Mouncey dynasty! We're thinking of you in Paris and hope you can come over early in the new year.
Here's soemthing for you to ask in the Senate next time you're there, Andrew: "Why will countries do anything - ANYTHING - except feed the hungry?"
I mean, we give hundreds of thousands to things like the Lesbians Against the Bomb Playgroup, and prop up the US cotton growers with THREE BILLION dollars for a crop that is only worth ONE billion dollars.
Why can't we in the US redeem ourselves and just feed the starving?

Happy New Year!

The Art of Politics

2005-08-10T06:53:00.000Z

While it can be hot in Paris during the summer, and the Metro a sticky experience, it is nothing like New York, Philadelphia or that reclaimed swamp, Washington, D.C. I can only think that the air conditioning at Andrew's house had broken down when he called me on Saturday morning at the sensible hour of 8.30 a.m., Paris time.

'Am I a Philistine?' he asked when I answered.

'I wouldn't have said so,' I replied. 'Has someone accused you of not being able to find Germany on the map?'

'We've just got back from a party at an art gallery,' Andrew said. 'It was a charity opening for one of Sabine's causes. Very nice, black tie, plenty of food and drink. But the ART. . . .'

'Oh, no one goes to those things for the ART,' I said, pouring another coffee.

'No?' he sounded hopeful. 'Then, I'm not alone?'

'Let me guess: you were set upon as a Neanderthal politician who couldn't possibly understand what was being said by these clever young and expensive artists.'

'So you don't understand what's going on, either,' he asked with the dawning joy of one who has just discovered another suffering from the same obscure disease.

'No,' I said. 'I understand perfectly what's going on.'

'Then it's not just rubbish?' he asked, fearing the answer.

'No, it's rubbish,' I said. 'Don't worry about that; but it's also an elaborate game.'

'What are the rules?' Andrew asked.

'Ah, now there's the problem,' I said. 'There aren't any.'

'Then how - ?'

'The first thing to understand is that a lot of art schools and university art departments stopped teaching drawing and the basic disciplines more than a decade ago. You can tell the work of someone who is a draughtsman from one who isn't instantly.'

'Yes, I think I can manage that,' Andrew said, but still sounding uncertain.

'The trouble is that the schools didn't replace teaching drawing with anything else,' I continued. 'Where as at the great academies and schools, students used to be able to go into the "life studio" nearly any time of the day and find a model there an a dozen or so people just drawing, they don't do that now."

'Go on,' Andrew said.

'Well, today's art is supposed to be about "making a statement" but the people making these statements not only are unable to draw or paint, but their minds haven't received a decent academic education either. This doesn't apply to all of them, of course. Even David Hockney recently bemoaned the fact that too many artists could draw anymore, and that is the cornerstone of art.'

'So a lot of the rubbish I look at IS just rubbish?'

'Absolutely. However, being able to tell the difference between merde and something good isn't always straight-forward, but as one who understands issues and arguments, you shouldn't have a problem.'

'Hmm,' Andrew said, thoughtfully.

'What does Sabine say?' I asked, knowing that his Paris-born wife, and my sometime sister-in-law, would have an opinion.

'Oh, she tells me that I'm an educated man and that I should trust my considered judgement,' Andrew replied.

'And so you should. And so should everyone else. Otherwise, we're headed for the Dark Ages Part II.'

'Is there any way of being reasonable certain that something's good?' Andrew asked.

'You said it yourself: is the draughtsmanship good? If so, that's your clue to spend a bit more time with it and see what it has to say. On the other hand, if something looks like giant dog poo cast in bronze, then the chances are, that's what it is, and any incontinent bitch can make that statement. Who wants to spend time contemplating dogshit?'

'Please! There's a good chance my line is tapped,' Andrew protested.

'Then I shouldn't ask about the shipment?'

'Definitely not.'

This was a routine we had to keep the security services amused. While one of the most steady and reliable senators, Andrew Trumbull had a streak of mischief where intruding authority was concerned.

'So I comment on things that are well made, and ignore all that is rubbish.'

'Exactly.'

'And if someone says I just don't understand?'

'Ask them to explain it,' I replied. 'If they can't, or what they say sounds stupid, just laugh and say, "Well in that case, it should be called The Emperor's New Clothes." Mind you, the shallowness of some artists is such that they wouldn't even undertand that.'

Andrew considered this.

'Okay,' he began hestiatingly. 'But one final thing: how long do I have to put up with bronze bullshit in my living room?'

Trial by jury

2005-06-21T07:00:00.000Z

It must have been important because it was mid-afternoon when Dominique, our receptionist, put Andrew through to me.

'I see your friends across the channel are going to dump trial by jury,' he said.

'Yes,' I said. 'Lord Goldsmith doesn't think juries are capable of hearing "complex fraud" cases.'

'That's un-American!' Andrew exclaimed.

'The British have a long history of that,' I observed. 'They also managed to dispose of the principle that spouses can't be compelled to testify against each other.'

'When did they do that?'

'About thirty years ago. It's part of the ant-terrorism legislation.'

'But this trial by jury stuff is important,' Andrew protested. 'Will the change in the law pass?'

'Of course it will. Parliament is mostly made up of lawyers. What lawyer wouldn't welcome the chance of getting rid of juries?'

'Only ones who still believed in Magna Carta,' Andrew admitted.

'Can you see an alternative? The government has lost a lot of very expensive prosecutions,' I said.

'Once again,' Andrew began, 'the wrong end of the problem is being addressed. If the laws were clear, then so would their violation. Now it's not in the interest of politicians or civil servants to write laws that are easily understood because it could put a lot of people out of jobs. Given that mentality, then dumping trial by jury is perfectly logical.'

'Do you think there are cases that are too complex for juries?' I asked.

'No, but there are laws that are too complex for lawyers. You have to be able to understand something before you can explain it to someone else in your own words. If lawyers understood the laws, they could do that. Once again, it's the wrong end of the problem that they're trying to fix.'

'So, ultimately, it won't be just complex fraud trials that could be conducted without juries.'

'You've got it,' Andrew said. 'Fortunately, we're a long way from that in America.'

'But in Britain, if trial by jury is finished, what will come next?'

'HMS Pinafore,' Andrew said and hung up.

What Are Companies For?

2005-05-20T12:52:00.000Z

It was my turn.

I called Andrew as soon as the mail had arrived and didn't bother to check the time in Washington.

He sounded disgustingly awake when he answered, even though I knew it was about 4:00 a.m.

"Andrew!" I exclaimed heartily. "I've got a question for you."

I was sure he had a question for me, too, and that it would begin, "Just what the hell do you think . . . ."

"Go on, Commander," he said as cheerfully as if he had just finished his second cup of coffee and several slices of toast with bacon.

"What are companies for?" I asked.

"They make things and sell them, or they sell services," he answered.

"That's what I thought," I said.

I heard another cup of coffee being poured.

"Well, you know Sarah and I are negotiating to buy a small publishing company from an American branch of a Japanese conglomerate?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, word about the sale has got out and so the corporation issued a statement to the press and shareholders," I said.

"That's normal," Andrew said.

"Ordinarily, I would have agreed," I said, "but listen to this: 'Yanamaki Corporation of America, Inc. and its subsidiary division, YCIA Press, have as their first goal the delivery of value to shareholders and will enter into agreements that will maximize that value.'"

"And you thought you were buying a publishing business," Andrew said.

"Yes."

"Look, General Motors' biggest business is now financial services. The cars have become a necessary vehicle - sorry - to generate the brand to leverage that financial business."

"What about the cars?" I asked.

"Does it look like any of the major car makers care about cars?" Andrew asked. "Look at them, you can'te tell them apart, and they all look like suppositories. With a French wife, I see a lot of them, so I know."

"Are there businesses that care about what they actually do and not just about delivering shareholder value?" I asked.

"Not with turnovers over half a billion dollars," he said. "I't sad, but true. Of course, in Europe, you're still recovering from the notion that it's not the business of a large company to make anything, they just exist to provide jobs."

"Fair point," I said, remembering my recent encounters with various telephone companies.

"Everyone knows that companies are in business to make money," Andrew began, "but advertising the fact is, I agree, pretty tacky. I mean, when I buy a book that you've published, I don't want to be reminded that I just paid for another Tom Collins for you in your retirement; I want to be exciting about the prospect of reading something good by an intelligent writer."

"Exactly," I said.

"I'll tell you what you do: Call Yanamaki - this is a good time of day to do it, too - and tell them you want to reduce your offer because they've just reduced the net worth by reminding the world that YCIA Press doesn't give a damn about contributing to the timeless sum of world culture, but seems only to care about the next quarter's bottom line. You should get at least a 30% reduction."

"Do you want a commission if I get a reduction?" I asked.

"No, I can't be seen to make any money from being in the Senate. I'm just in charge of spending it."

Pop Goes the Atmosphere

2005-03-18T14:38:00.000Z

Things had been quiet for a weeek or two and I was getting into the habit of uninterrupted sleep – always a mistake. I had just rolled over, having noted that light was peering around the curtains, and was about to drift off when the telephone rang.

'Hello, Andrew,' I said.

'It's not too late is it?' he asked.

'No, I was planning to get up in about an hour,' I said.

'Look, I'mk just back from some late meetings. We've got to do something about the increase of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.'

'Andrew, I thought you knew that was all bad science and statistical mumbo-jumbo,' I said.

'Sorry. I'll rephrase that: “We've got to be seen to be doing something about carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.”'

'I get the picture, senator.'

'Any ideas?' he asked hopefully.

By chance, something had occurred to me in a café earlier in the week.

'You'd really like this issue to go away, wouldn't you?' I asked.

'We all would. Both parties.'

'Okay, what you need is someone to fight this battle for you. No one is listening to the small groups, and they haven't any money, either,' I said.

'You're right there,' Andrew agreed.

'You need a big organization with big money to launch a big campaign and expose the nonsense.'

'Right again,' he said. 'Who have you got in mind?'

I took a deep breath.

'Coca-Cola.'

There was no reply.

'I think you're breaking up,' Andrew said.

'Coca-Cola,' I repeated. 'And Pepsi, and 7-Up and all the others.'

'Er, why, commander?'

'Because they are the leading manufacturers of carbon dioxide. Everytime a kid opens a can of soa, the CO₂ level goes up. What's more, this isn't natural carbon dioxide, it's manufactured. If their protests don't work and kill the issue, then, it's taxable.'

'Keep talking,' Andrew said.

'The carbon dioxide in soft drinks has never been part of nature, so it's not being naturally released as from a fossile fuel. It's no more dangerous, but it didn't exist until shortly before it was forced into a can.'

Andrew remained silent.

'Does this apply to mineral water?'

'Only to the mineral water that isn't naturally gaseous,' I said, adding, 'Mercifully, it doesn't apply to champagne.'

'Arguably it does,' Andrew said, 'because the CO₂ wouldn't form unless those ingredients were brought together.'

'True, but it's not like soft drinks that are force fed the stuff. Besides, champagne is already taxed.'

He considered this.

'So what do I do?' he asked.

'Introduce legislation to require all soft drink manufacturers to find a CO₂ alternative within five years,' I said. 'Better still, get someone else to do it and curl up and watch the fun.'

Heat and Hate

2005-03-06T10:06:00.000Z

'What's the weather like?' Andrew asked without saying hello.

'I can't tell, it's dark,' I said, picking up the lamp I'd knocked over on the way to the telephone.

'I mean do you think it's getting any warmer? Or colder?' he asked.

'Is this a global warming question?' I asked.

Silence.

'Yes,' he said eventually. 'It is.'

'And you're asking me?'

'I wanted some reliable opinions.'

'Andrew, you have access to the best kept weather records in the world. You can see anything you want.'

'Yes, but - '

'But what?'

'None of data make sense,' he said.

'Why?'

'It depends too much on the selection you choose,' Andrew said. 'I want to get this right. We're about to spend billions on trying to do something about it.'

'Don't bother,' I said.

'What?'

'Don't bother. The Antarctic ice is getting thicker, reversing a 6,000 year old trend; some glaciers are melting, but others are growing; we could just be coming out of a mini-ice age. You remember Mr Kappelman going on about that at Adams Hall.'

'Yeah, I do,' Andrew agreed.

'What was the other thing he was always saying?' I challenged.

'That data of even a thousand years wasn't enough to interpret geology - and by implication, weather patterns.'

He said this grudgingly, but he had remembered correctly.

'So what's your conclusion?'

'That there isn't enough data. That we couldn't do much anyway,' he said.

'That's about the size of it, but it doesn't mean we should de-forest the planet or pump too many toxic chemicals into the atmosphere or into our water supplies.'

'These aren't the answers people want to hear,' Andrew said. 'We keep getting hit with the fact that we're the world's largest energy consumer.'

'The US is also the world's largest manufacturer,' I said. 'Twenty percent of everything that is made is made in America. Of course we're going to consume more than 5% of the energy. But that doesn't give us license to waste resources - though there's enough natural gas in America for the next 600 years, and enough coal for thousands. Making fuels like methane, alcohol and so are easy, too.'

'You make it sound like there's nothing to worry about,' Andrew said.

'No, there's a lot to worry about: bad science, politicians rewriting results - like they did with the asbestos report, and the IPCC document in 1995. There's danger in politicians strangling the economies of the world and de-railing development in poor countries because of some mistaken ideas about the ecosystem.'

'If I vote against these measures, I could lose my seat.'

'Sounds like you've got to get some help educating the public.'

Dreams & Smoke

2005-02-04T08:51:00.000Z

Three a.m.

'Hello, Andrew,' I said, picking up the phone after stumbling out of the bedroom.

'Do you think anything can be done about the drugs problem?' he asked.

Where was the Armagnac?

'I've been in meetings all day listening to just about everyone telling what a hopeless situation the whole thing is - from trying to stop farmers growing opium, to failures at customs and ineffective enforcement on the streets, poor medical care, no coherent rehabilitation, lack of support for users' families, no money - '

'It can be done, Andrew,' I said.

Silence.

'What?' he asked, eventually.

'The problem can be cracked, if you excuse the expression.'

'How?'

'It's quite simple, but there just isn't the political will,' I said.

'I'm the politician, let me be the judge of that,' Andrew answered, but not without humor.

I paused, trying to think how to begin. Then I got side-tracked thinking about what I was doing trying to solve America's drugs problem at three in the morning on a transatlantic line from Paris.

'Have you ever had a bad habit you wanted to break, Andrew?' I began.

He thought a moment.

'No,' he said.

I could just reach the Armagnac, but couldn't find a glass.

'Okay,' I began. 'A friend of mine said that he was trying to get out of the habit of starting his car before putting on his seat-belt. Someone told him that the best way to do that was to change the whole ritual of what he did once he got into the car. It would be easier to put in an additional step than to try to switch starting the car and putting on the seat-belt. Are you with me?'

'It's not rocket science, Commander,' Andrew said, probably beginning to wonder why he called.

'Well, my friend changed his pattern so he puts the keys on the dashboard, fastens his belt, then picks up the keys and starts the car. It's his habit now. After a few months, he can drop the step of putting the keys on the dashboard.'

Silence, then:

'Okay. . . did it work?'

'Oh,yes.'

'So how does this solve America's drugs problem?'

'You have to shift the focus from drugs to something else,' I said.

'Like what?'

I held my breath.

'Outlaw tobacco,' I said.

'What?!' came the cry from across the Atlantic.

'You're half there already,' I said. 'Smokers are nearly socially acceptable now anyway. By making tobacco illegal, the drugs trade will go back to 1950s levels. The smuggers will start shipping tobacco; the farmers in Colombia will start growing it; it will regenerate Cuba's economy without running up the United States' foreign aid bill, and cigarettes are much easier to find than small packets of drugs. Smoke is easier to see, so users can be caught.'

'But what about the American tobacco industry?'

'Pay them off with the money currently going to people being paid not to grow poppies,' I said.

'That will cost a fortune.'

'More than the cotton industry does now, Andrew?' I asked. The US cotton growers receive more in annual subsidies from the government than the market value of the crop - and doesn't save people's lives.

'Can I get back to you on this?' Andrew said.

Democratic lanuguage

2004-12-03T23:41:00.000Z

It must have been lunchtime in Washington because Andrew called me at work, which he seldom did. The office was a recently refurbished top floor of an old building in 75003, in the Marais. It combined old world elegance with bright halogen desk lamps and plasma screen monitors.

‘Do you think everyone should be made to learn English?’ he asked.

‘It depends who you mean by “everyone,”’ I said, looking at my watch and wondering if he’d delay our standing arrangement to go to a café after work. We had a long policy, established by Fabienne’s father and uncle, to close half an hour earlier than other offices, but to meet to discuss business informally at a café. It was a Thursday, a day we frequented a café that was not my favorite, so I let Andrew talk.

‘This is another of those things that you can’t talk about,’ Andrew said.
‘In land of the free and the home of the brave? Don’t you have freedom of speech anymore?’ I asked with some alarm.

‘Well, neither does Europe,’ he retorted.

‘It’s not in the European constitution yet,’ I said. ‘They’re working on it. Anyway, what can’t you talk about now?’

‘The English language. It’s impossible to say that you think that the English language is what holds this country together,’ he said. ‘Look at the problems of multi-lingual countries; time and again they collapse into tribalism. Hell, even Canada shows signs of coming apart when the French Canadians get worked up.’

‘I read that California is now more than 50% Spanish-speaking,’ I said.

‘It is,’ Andrew said. ‘Can you imagine what would happen if the prime minister of Spain came for a visit and did a De Gaulle?’

‘California libre viva?’ asked.

‘Exactly,’ Andrew said. ‘We could find ourselves losing states simply because Washington wasn’t able to communicate with them. I mean, suppose a Spanish-speaking senator was elected.’

‘Well, I guess the Senate would start to look like the United Nations, with simultaneous translators,’ I said.

I could hear Andrew sigh.

‘More than anything, it’s that we haven’t learned by the mistakes of others,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s one thing having signs in two languages like in Spanish and Catalan, in Spain; or English and Welsh in Wales, but here, Spanish is being used because English is not being taught.’

He paused.

‘That was the comment of my constituent,’ he continued. ‘This guy has a little boy who’s in his First Communion class down at the local Catholic church. The kid comes home and tells his father that he’s found out that are two First Communion classes, and will he have to go to both?’
‘Boys and girls?’ I asked, dimly remembering the 1950s.

‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘English and Spanish.’

It was my turn to be silent.

‘You’re joking?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Andrew said.

‘In Massachusetts?’

‘In Massachusetts.’

‘I thought if there were a second language there it would be Italian or French,’ I said, remembering the names of my former classmates in grammar school and junior high.
‘If the kids were segregated because they were black, or Serbian, or Chinese there’d be an uproar,’ Andrew said. ‘Why don’t people see this as the same ghetto-ization?’

‘Hasn’t the court already ruled that separate is not equal?’ I asked.

‘For some reason, it doesn’t seem to apply when discussing this.’

‘Is there some inalienable right not to integrate into mainstream American society?’

‘I guess that’s it,’ Andrew said.

‘I don’t expect there will be an amendment to clarify ‘freedom of speech’ to ‘freedom of speech as long as it’s in English.’

‘Not a chance,’ he said.

‘But the consequence – '
‘Indeed, the consequence,’ Andrew echoed. ‘The consequences are simple and predictable. The communities become isolated, then unemployed, then alienated, then discontent, then rebellious and possibly secessionist, then there’s a civil war.’

‘No doubt along the way, the government will pass legislation making it illegal not to hire something because they can’t speak English.’

‘That’s not even funny,’ Andrew said.

'Call me again soon,' I said.

'Next time I have something I can't talk about.'

The need to know

2004-11-03T13:48:00.000Z

I could hear the phone ringing as the elevator rose to my floor. It was one of those typical old French elevators, all brass, glass, mirrors and no walls. It was like being a canary in a cage being hoisted up a stairwell by some mischievous children or a demented old lady. I seldom got into the thing without thinking of Leopold Gideon, the character in the old film, Charade, who descends in such a cage to his death, sneezing. His last loud sneeze is transformed into a scream, and the lift returns to the main floor bearing his body in blood-soaked pyjamas.

The phone was still ringing when I unlocked my door. The combination of the persistence and the late hour told me who my caller was.

'Hello, Andrew,' I said, trying to slip off my dinner jacket.

'Oh, good, you're in,' he said.

'I'm just back from the opera,' I said.

'What did you see?'

'Salome,' I said. 'My head was full of lust, blood and passionate rhythms before the infernal telephone intruded.'

'Did she take everything off in the "Dance of the Seven Veils"? he asked.

'You're a United States Senator,' I said. 'You can't be heard asking questions like that. You have the morality of the nation to uphold.'

'Ah, but you're in Paris, and I can use the example to condemn the decadent Europeans,' he replied. 'What ever inspired you to see such debauchery?'

'Your mother invited us,' I said. Indeed, the ambassador's wife had invited Sarah and me to join them.

Mrs Trumbull had called with two spare tickets.

'We were supposed to go with an African Prime Misister and one of his wives,' she explained, 'but there was a coup in his country last night, and the ambassador couldn't possibly be seen with him after that. Chris is very fond of Strauss, and it would be a shame to waste the tickets.'

So we sat in a grand box with a view of everything and everyone, and they had a grand view of us. The ambassador generated a flutter of applause as he and Mrs Trumbull entered the box, and eyed Sarah and me with curiosity mixed with disappointment. They did seem to enjoy looking at Sarah. She had her hair up, and being quite tall, her backless dress was rather dramatic. Probably as revealing as the fifth veil.

'Are we getting old,' Andrew asked, shaking me from my reverie.

'No faster than anyone else,' I said.

There was a disapproving silence. I pulled on the end of my bow tie, slipped it off and unbuttoned my collar.

'When was the last time you heard the phrase "military-industrial complex"?' he asked.

I decided the cummerbun had to go, too.

'About 1957,' I said. It was hard focusing on this conversation with thunderous music and powerful voices still echoing in my head. the image of a head on a salver and a half naked girl kissing it didn't help either.

'Seriously,' Adnrew said in the voice he only used for talking to idiots and Democrats.

'Sorry. I guess about 1874,' I said. 'How about you?'

'On reflection, about 1976,' he replied.

'Well, it made it to the bi-centennial, then,' I said. 'It's definitely yesterday's phrase. You didn't use it, did you?'

'Yesterday.'

It was time to treat him to some silence.

'And what happened?' I finally said, putting him out of his misery.

'No one seemed to know what I was talking about,' he said miserably.

This was bad news for a rising political star.

'You know,' he continued, 'some one who could come up with a really good new phrase could become as famous as Marshall McLuhan.'

'I wouldn't say that too often, either,' I said.

'You know what I mean though, don't you?' Andrew persisted.

'I rather like "media-marketing paradigm,"' I said, lying back and kicking off my shoes.

'What does it mean?' he asked, intrigued.

'It means that things are whatever the media and marketing people would have you believe. Ther are no facts, only opinions. No one remembers anything except what the media wants them to remember. History is mutable.'

By the time I had finished the explanation, I was nearly believing it.

'Is is a real phrase, or did you just make it up?' Andrew asked suspiciously.

'According to the media-marketing paradigm, it doesn't matter,' I quipped easily.

'Media-marketing paradigm,' he repeated to himself thoughtfully. 'I wish I'd said that.'

'You will, Andrew. You will.'

The campaign for real campaigns

2004-10-18T07:23:00.000Z

Andrew was rather down when he called me Wednesday evening. Even though he isn't up for re-election this year, the whole campaign business was clearly getting to him.

"I don't think I've ever been as unexcited by a campaign as I have by this one," he said. "It's all too calculated, to manipulative and . . . and there's something else that I can't quite put my finger on."

This was going to be a long one, so I pulled the stopper from the bottle of Armagnac, poured a good measure, sat down and put my feet up. If I smoked, this would be a good time for a cigar, too. Cigars help measure the amount of time that passes on these occasions.

"Both candidates have good plans. Neither is what anyone could call a loser, but - hell, it's dull!"

"I thought this was a real cliff-hanger," I said.

"Oh, the result is going to be close, but it's hardly going make much of a difference who gets in," Andrew said. "Remember when Goldwater wanted to bomb the hell out of the North Vietnamese and was labeled a reactionary. A year later, what did Johnson do?"

"I remember."

Boy did I remember. Andrew did too. Conversations about Vietnam dominated our high school and college years, as well as the several years we spent in the military after that.

The line went quiet for a while. Sometimes Andrew would just think on the Washington-Paris phone line. Well, he was paying for this one.

"Andrew," I began, "I've thought of a way that you can differentiate your presidential campaign once you get to it. It's nearly fail-safe and will put a real gulf between you and whomever you run against."

"Not now," he said plaintively.

"Yes, now, Andrew," I said. Sometimes he, like all politicians, just needed to be told.

There was a whimper of acquiescence.

"I think what might be at the root of your uneasiness about this campaign is that no one is selling dreams," I began.

"What?" he asked, rallying.

"No one is selling dreams," I repeated. "All they're selling is fear and security. No one is selling a wonderful, bright, affluent future with better health, education, prosperity or any of that stuff."

"But no one believes that stuff any more," he protested, engaging with the idea.

"That doesn't matter. Who were the most inspiring presidents since World War II?" I challenged.

Andrew didn't think long.

"Kennedy and Reagan."

"Why?"

"They both looked as they enjoyed being president. They looked born to the job. They inspired confidence. They had impossible dreams."

"Yeah, like a man on the moon and the fall of the Soviet Union," he said, his voice coming alive.

"And what are we being offered now?"

"Greater surveillance, less mobility, more inconvenience, higher prices to pay for it all," he said.

"That's the way it looks from this side of the Atlantic," I said. "No one's got anything positive to get behind. There's not a single idea that's inspiring or exciting."

"Keep talking," he said, finally sounding like his normal self.

"The man on the moon was the perfect project. He knew that even with full backing, it wouldn't happen in his presidency, even if he went the full eight years. The dream would live on, even if a later administration cancelled it. It was good for jobs, too. If it worked, it was Kennedy's baby; if it was cancelled, it was Kennedy's visionary 'what might have been.'"

"You've got it, on both counts," Andrew said enthusiastically. "We're being offered nothing this time around. Just like you said, just fear and inconvenience."

"There's another thread here, too, Andrew," I interrupted. "Politicians are great at coming up with new ideas. The trouble is that most of them are "solutions" for things that aren't problems. Just talk fodder giving them something to say. What a real campaign needs are solutions to things that are actually problems."

"That and a dream," Andrew said.

"You've got it."

The quality of life

2004-10-11T19:28:00.000Z

In mid-October, there can be days when the sun feels like early summer, and the evening stay warm. The tables outside the cafés are full until after eleven and the streets radiate the day's warmth.

Morris Quint, the poet, had been over to sort out his lastest volume of poetry, and he, Fabienne Defarge, Sarah and I had gone for a simple supper, then moved to a café further along Saint Germain than American tourists could usually be bothered to walk.

Morris had always had a thing about Fabienne, and had unashamedly written a number of poems about her. Though primarily a poet of New England in the tradition of Robert Frost and Robert Francis, whenever Quint was in France, he wrote about it.

It was an easy evening with good conversation, laughter, argument and lots of wine and coffee. Sarah and I were back at the rue de Bac shortly before midnight and fell onto the bed and were asleep within seconds.

At around three, I woke up and realized I was still dressed. As I changed, I went to the kitchen to get a tumbler of water and passing the telephone, was seized with the idea of calling Andrew. It wasn't late enough to wake him up, but it just might be inconvenient.

"Hello?" he said.

"Ah, Andrew! I've had a brilliant idea," I said.

"Tell me tomorrow. I'm on the way to bed," and he sounded about to put the receiver down.

"It could make you go down in history," I said.

"Let me get my notebook," he said and the line went quiet for a while.

"Okay, mon vieux, gived it to me," he said.

I could imagine him slouching in the arm chair next to the phone with receiver tucked on his shoulder and the notebook on his knee.

"It's about quality of life, Andrew. If you can improve the quality of life for people, they will remember it, and you will have made a real difference."

"Sounds expensive," he said.

"Okay, listen to this. Nine-five percent of America has warm springs, summers and falls. Alaska is the five percent that doesn't. Okay, I'm making the numbers up, that's why you have an assistant who can debate the issue with someone else's legislative assistant," I conceded. "But remember, you can still become president even if you lose Alaska."

"I get the picture. Go on."

"How many sidewalk cafés are there in America? How many places where people can eat and drink unhurried, unhassled?" I began.

"Careful," Andrew siad.

"Okay, don't talk about the drink. Stick with eating," I said. "How many? Not a lot. Why?"

"Well, trading on a public footpath is a legal issue; there are ordnances, by-laws, and all that," he said.

"Dump them."

"What?"

"Dump them," I repeated. "Letting a café owner rent a bit of sidewalk will bring in a lot more money than passing by-laws. It could open whole areas of wasted space in city centres."

"Go on," Andrew said tentatively.

"You need trees, too," I said. "After the Dutch elm disease trashed all our cities and towns, how many replanted them? Not many. That was forty-five years ago. There'd be great trees there now. They don't cost much, and they add value to property and quality to the life of the people who live near them."

"How do you figure that?"

"How many trees are there in poor neighborhoods, or cheap developments - even after twenty years?" I challenged.

"Not many, I guess."

"Turn it around. How many affluent neighborhoods are there without trees - I'm not talking Phoenix or Albuquerque, here, but civilized places."

"Can I afford to lose Arizona and New Mexico?" Andrew asked.

"Yeah, and Nevada; but think trees," I enthused. "School children could have tree=growing projects. They could grow acorns, chestnuts, horse chestnuts and maple trees. Hell, they could even grow sumacs - they actually sell them here in nurseries."

"Some perv would grow poison ivy," Andrew said. "And then, sue the school district."

"So what?" I said. "Are you going to let a handful of cretins condemn American cities to being botanical wastelands?"

Silence.

"Andrew, this is brilliant. It's cheap, effective, revenue-generating, profit-making and all the towns that go for it first will have tremendous amounts of free publicity and rising property values."

"It does sound good," he said eventually. "Is this why the quality of life is so good in France?"

"It certainly is," I said. "But two hour lunch breaks and five week annual vacations help."

Saying the unsayable

2004-10-08T10:29:00.000Z

After a busy morning at the office negotiating with the author of Anthropomorphic Resonance for Beginners, I managed to escape to catch the last races and Longchamps and was pretty tired by the time I got back to rue de Bac.

I was reading about the latest government scandal and about to doze off when the phone rang. I put Le Figaro down and answered.

"Hello, Andrew," I said.

"Good guess, Commander," he replied casually. "I need your help on something. You're a PR guru and wordsmith - "

"I haven't done PR for years, Andrew, and that was for the government when I was travelling in steel."

"Well, this is for the government, too, and battleship style PR is what I need," he replied.

"It was a light cruiser."

"I won't tell, if you don't," he said. "Look, there is a serious problem in the US, and it's something that no one will address."

"The role of the Vice President?" I asked.

"No, the strength of the handicapped lobby," he said, his voice deadly serious. "No politician in his right mind will oppose any proposed program for the disabled. Only the lamest of lame ducks would ever contemplate it."

"A lame duck might need some disability concessions," I said.

"Very good. Ha-ha. But the problem is very real," he said.

"You've been talking to a constiutent again, haven't you? I warned you about that," I said.

Andrew Trumbull's family had been talking to constituents for more than 160 years. His family had been ambassadors, representatives, senators and governors from western Massachusetts since Van Buren was president.

"I had a school principal drop in to see me," he began. "He's not a constiutent, but from New York. He was a friend of Matt's from his Bowling Green days."

Matthew Ryan, PhD., was a classmate of Andrew and me. He was now headmaster of Adams Hall, and had an on-again, off-again marriage with Andrew's cousin, Emily Trumbull, but that's another story.

"This principal told me that in his primary school of 700 pupils, he has 22 autistic children. Each one has his own assistant, and every two has a teacher with an MA in special education."

"That's thirty three staff," I said.

"Yes, and there are several special needs administrators, coordinators and extra medical personnel," Andrew said.

"Why are are there so many autistic children? Are they near a nuclear power station?"

"I'll get to that," Andrew said. "No one disputes that all childeren need care, help and teaching, but his complaint was that his most qualified staff were spending all their time with those children least able to make a contribution to the community.

"He's a very caring man. High values, and comes from a dedicated Christian tradition, but he simply asked me, 'Shouldn't the able children have the same resources allocated to them for their eductation?'"

"That's what equality of opportunity means, isn't it?" I asked.

"You'd think so," Andrew sighed. "I don't want to jeopardize opportunities for the disabled, but this pusilanimous acquiescence at the expense of mainstream education needs attention, and everyone is too afraid to do it."

"And that's why you called me?"

"Yes. No. I mean, I don't want you to do anything about it, but is there a way into this problem?" he asked.

I thought a moment.

"I think only one thing will work," I said.

"What's that?" he asked, not daring to be enthusiastic.

"The issue has to be raised by one or more representatives, senators or governors who are themselves suffering from some disability," I said. "If anyone else does it, they're dead meat."

"There are a few I'd like to handicap myself," Andrew said.

"I know what you mean," I said, tossing my Longchamps betting slips into the wastebasket. "Oh, you were going to tell me why your principal friend thought there were so many autistic children at his school."

"The state of New York requires every child to have 22 injections before he can enter public school."

Medical matters

2004-10-07T06:59:00.000Z

Andrew called me Thursday night, well, morning, actually, as he never paid attention to the fact that there was five hours' difference between Washington and Paris.

"Don't go to the doctor's!" he exclaimed, not saying hello, sorry I woke you up, or how did dinner with the ambassador go.

"I wasn't planning to," I said, trying to find the switch on the table lamp but knocking the stopper out of the decanter instead. As long as it was open, I poured a drink and settled into a chair.

"I've just come from a discussion where someone said that the third largest cause of death in America is medical malpractice! It's right up there after heart disease and cancer," he said excitedly.

"Not enough red wine and olive oil," I said. "The French don't suffer from heart disease the way we do."

"Medical malpractice kills more people than murderers, car accidents, breast cancer, Alzheimer's and diabetes combined!" he continued excitedly.

"Physician, heal thyself!" I said, toasting with a rather subtle Beaujolais.

"Everyone hates lawyers, but it seems the doctors are the real villains," Andrew said.

"I can't see doctor jokes coming into vogue," I said. "Doctors might be inept, but by and large they're likeable. Unless they drive BMWs."

"Yeah, well, that's true of all BMW drivers," he agreed, finally calming down. "But this is a great opportunity."

"Opportunity? For whom? Undertakers?" I asked.

"No, to put in my presidential platform," he said. "'Trumbull attacks third major cause of death in the US,'" he said, testing the ring of the headline. "That's not bad, is it?"

"It's better than 'Trumbull crucifies doctors,'" I said.

The line was silent for a moment and I contemplated refilling my glass.

"This could come under the heading of things the public are better off not knowing," he said eventually.

"I'm sure it comes under 'national security,'" I said.

"You think so? Good."

"Good night, Andrew."

Senator Incitatus

2004-09-29T12:07:00.000Z

Andrew called me up the other day from Washington. He caught me on the way to dinner with his father, the Ambassador to France. We were due to meet at the Bistro Melrose near Place Clingancourt.

Andrew had spent the day on the floor of the senate "wondering what had become of democracy."

He said that he had had a sudden revelation which helped him make sense of the current state of American politics. "The trouble is," he began, "we're all thinking 1776 and the idealism of the early Republic. Our current foreign policy, economic policy and domestic policy doesn't fit well with that.

"What we should be thinking is 'Roman Empire.' If you look at the action of the government, at home and abroad, you realize that the prime business of everyone in government is to remain in government. This ranges from the Supreme Court to the girl who does the photocopying in the Bureau of Printing and Engraving.

"If you think of Claudius, Caligula, Nero, Galba, Otho and that lot, it makes a lot more sense," Andrew continued. "Things should settle down again when we get to our equivalent of Vespasian."

"So do we have a Senator Incitatus?" I asked.

Ah! Here was something he didn't know.

"That was Caligula's horse," he said after a moment. "The only female senator of the Roman Empire."

This talk of horses wasn't doing much for my appetite, knowing how it turned up with regularity on French menus. The idea of tucking into a senator was even less appealing.

"I want the central plank of my presidential election platform to be that as president, I am completely replaceable," Andrew declared. "There's a succession of about fifty people, and it took a lot of Congressional time to sort it out. It would be a pity if it never got tried out."

"Wouldn't that take a nuclear attack?" I asked with some shock, trying to dress while holding the phone.

"No, just food poisoning at some dreadful state dinner."