Neal Stephenson - Interface

Patty poked her head around the corner and said, "Did it again, Your Grace?"

"Bitch," he said, throwing the coffee drenched Washington Times at her. Then he grimaced, doubled over in his chair, and rested his forehead against the desktop for a moment, his shoulders heaving.

Eleanor, horrified, looked at Patty for a cue. Patty didn't seem to notice. She winked at Eleanor and said, "We have a very formal office."

While Patty cleaned up the mess, Eleanor helped Caleb to a small conference room next door and let him collapse in a chair. Then she sat down across the table from him.

Marshall, slumped down low in his chair, said, "In all seriousness, Eleanor, I thought long and hard about this appointment. I have very little time left. My problem is not arthritis. It's galloping bone cancer. I have, maximum, three months of useful activity left."

"Oh, god, Senator, I'm so sorry-'

"Spare me. And call me Caleb."

"Is there anything-"

"Yes. Shut up and listen for a second."

"Okay," Eleanor said.

"I'm stuck in a party that was once for the individual, and now it's dedicated to controlling the individual. The Bible thumpers and the single-issue people and all of those other control freaks have no idea of what the United States is all about. And they are going to win. But I will make my contribution. And here it is."

Resting on the table was a book, bound in leather, Western-style. Imprinted on the cover in gold leaf was:

POLITICAL WILL AND TESTAMENT

SEN. CALEB ROOSEVELT MARSHALL

Marshall put his hand on the book and shoved it across the table at Eleanor. She caught it before it tumbled into her lap. "I have a press secretary, of course," Marshall said. "And he has a whole goddamn staff of flacks. I'll continue to use them for the run-of-the-mill announcements and contacts with local bubble heads. I want you to work on this and wait for the phone to ring."

"Senator, I thought you were going to bury me in a corner of your staff somewhere."

"Well, I'm not."

"But your constituents are going to hate you."

"Eleanor, I don't give a good fuck. Get to work."

Eleanor carried the book into an adjoining office, a small but nice one with a view of the Capitol. Patty was already in there, straightening a few things up. Eleanor's stuff had been moved in and unpacked. Her personal things all looked humble and shabby in the magnificent building.

Patty was sniffling. "I love that man, Eleanor," she said. "He's the most decent person in this town, and he's dying."

"How many people know?"

"Most of the Hill."

Eleanor settled into her leather chair behind the immense wooden desk and looked at the walls, decorated with Hopi and Navajo art. On one corner of the desk was a recent photo of both their kids, and on the other corner, from Ray del Valle, a dozen roses with the note, "Knock 'em dead, tiger."

Before she could open the Senator's book, the phone rang. It was Patty.

"Dr. Hunter P. Lawrence on the line for you, Eleanor."

"Okay, put him through."

Eleanor heartily disliked the professor. He was one of the new breed of talking heads who had turned civilized shows like Meet the Press into the intellectual equivalent of the World Wrestling Federation. The format of Lawrence's show was simple: a victim would be invited to sit in the center chair and then two commentators from the alleged left wing and two from the alleged right wing would abuse them. If they weren't abusive enough, the Professor would step in and stir them up. It got great ratings.

"Hello?" she said.

"Ms. Richmond, this is Dr. Lawrence of Washington Hot Seat. Welcome to town."

It was strange to hear that famous voice coming out of her telephone. She felt as if she knew the man, even though she didn't. "Thank you Dr. Lawrence. How may I be of service to you?"

"We'd like you to appear on our show next week," he said cheerily.

"Oh, that's very flattering, but I'm sure that I wouldn't be of much interest."

"Oh, on the contrary. You gained great visibility when you took the neo-Nazi apart. Your advocacy for the Hispanics also was impressive. Your relationship with that troglodyte Marshall is a subject of conversation. And let's be blunt, there aren't that many highly visible black women. We're so tired of the usual suspects."

Eleanor had come to work in a state of new-job euphoria. If Dr. Lawrence had reached her a few minutes earlier, she might not have taken offense. But hearing about the bone cancer had changed her mood. She hadn't even had time to process the bad news yet; she felt edgy and deranged.

"What's the matter, Dr. Lawrence? Did Aunt Jemima cancel at the last minute?"

A long silence. "Uh-"

"If all you want is a black female, why don't you just go east of Rock Creek Park for once in your life, and just pick one off the street? Some of those girls clean up real nice."

"We don't really want just anyone."

"I could recommend a few nuns from my old school who might be able to give you some pointers on treating other people with common courtesy. Once you've learned all about that, why don't you call my token black female ass back up and talk to me again." Eleanor hung up so hard that the telephone bounced.

Marshall, in the conference room next door, howled and wheezed with agonized laughter.

"You have a problem, Caleb?" Eleanor shouted.

"You're some P.R. whiz," he shouted. "He even called you personally - he usually has one of his munchkins do the scheduling."

"You got me in a bad mood."

"It was perfect. This story will spread all over town and you'll be even more in demand than you are now. You couldn't have done better."

"Whom should I be nice to?"

Marshall hooted, "Not one of those cold-blooded, cock-sucking sons a bitches. They crank out these talking-heads programs like bad sausage. They have to fill air time every night. Their Rolodexes are full of white men and everyone nags them about it. If they put you on TV, then they can point to you and prove how radically diverse they are."

"Oh. I thought it was because of my cogent analysis."

"That too," Senator Marshall said.

The phone rang again a few minutes later. This time it was Anita Ross of the Style section of the Post. "Ms. Richmond, we've heard how you stiffed Dr. Lawrence. We'd like to do a feature on you for the Style section."

Marshall was still sitting within earshot, apparently having nothing better to do with his time, so Eleanor hit the mute button and shouted, "It's the Post."

"Fuck 'em."

"Ms. Ross," Eleanor said, "why not call me in a couple of weeks, when I've had the chance to get settled in. Why, the ink on my badge is hardly dry."

"You'd better know that by taking on the Professor, you could become an instant culture hero. But only if the story gets published."

"A culture hero in five minutes? Not bad."

"Some have come and gone here in fifteen minutes," Ms. Ross said pointedly.

"Well, its been nice talking to you," Eleanor said. "Call back in twenty minutes and see if I'm still around."

"Nicely done," Marshall said. "What do you think of my thoughts?"

Eleanor realized that Marshall was waiting for her to look into the book. "I really can't say. I haven't had a chance to open it up yet."

Marshall tottered into her office, audibly grinding his teeth from pain. "Go ahead, have a look, I'll just stretch out here on this couch."

Eleanor picked up the book and opened it. The first page was blank, and the second, and the third. She riffled through the pages. They were all blank.

"Senator, what is this?"

"It is my tabula rasa. A work in progress. You're going to ghost­write it for me. Just like the old song says, 'Ghost writers in the sky.'"

"What do you want me to write?"

"Don't trouble me with details, woman. I don't have much time left."