Paul Theroux - Blinding Light

Ava stared at the board for a long while, then made a move, another fatal one. As Steadman plucked at her chess piece, Ava said, “I’m not going to help you. I won’t be part of it. Go to the White House blind if you like. What a mockery!”

He said, “It’s the truth. It’s who I am. Me at my best.”

Then he moved. She glanced down to see the trap. He said, “Checkmate,” and only then did he raise his eyes to her.

She recognized the bloodshot and glassy stare of his blindness as he sat triumphant over the chessboard. She put her hands in her lap and looked old and prim and distant.

He knew she would not howl again. No one could do that twice, with such a cry of horror. But she didn’t have to. He still heard it within himself. The sorrowing sound had deranged something in him — no longer a sound, but a pain lodged deep inside him, something torn, an ache that had displaced all his desire.

EVEN WITH THE invitation propped on the mantelpiece and the decision to go settled, Steadman kept receiving phone calls and faxes to verify additional details: his and Ava’s Social Security numbers, ages, birthplaces, home address, and — though Steadman had been explicit about his not needing help — a “Special Needs” form to be filled out and faxed back. Another form in the invitation package indicated that because rooms were unavailable, they were not being invited to stay the night in the White House. Attached to this was a list of hotels that offered special rates to White House dinner guests, with parking instructions, and “handicapped accessible” was mentioned here, too.

“‘Special needs’ describes me perfectly.”

“Why do you insist on doing this?”

He had to think a moment before he realized she didn’t mean the decision to accept the invitation but rather his insistence on attending the dinner blind. But he said nothing. His mind was made up.

Black tie had also been stressed — everything that was stated was stressed — and it was repeated that the chancellor of Germany was the guest of honor. Nothing was left to chance.

The morning of their departure, Steadman called Wolfbein to tell him the news and to ask for advice. Wolfbein was a friend of the president and a frequent overnighter at the White House.

“You putz,” he said, and he bantered, pretending to be hurt because he had not been invited. Then he urged Steadman always to remember to call him “Mr. President,” and not to bring a camera, and to observe protocol. “It’s ground zero. It’s the center of the world.” Wolfbein then became concerned. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. I can see through walls and around corners.”

When he put the phone down he was aware that Ava was behind him, leaning away, in a posture of disapproval.

She was silent on the way to Boston, silent on the plane to Washington, and it was only when they arrived at Reagan Airport that she spoke.

“I see the Jordans.”

Vernon and Ann Jordan approached and said hello. They had just arrived from New York, en route to the same dinner party.

“How’re you doing?” Vernon demanded in his hearty direct manner, fixing Steadman with a smile.

“X-ray vision,” Steadman said, tapping his dark glasses.

That pleased Vernon, who laughed loudly, his muscular body radiating light and health and humor. He was a man who smiled easily and whose casual manner masked a shrewd intelligence and fastidious discretion. Yet he was genuinely friendly, and near him Steadman felt that he was in the presence of a man of power, a smiling sorcerer who remembered everything he saw or heard.

“You know my wife,” Vernon said, and turning to Ann, said playfully, with a little bow, “Hello, wife.”

“I know you from the hospital,” Ann said to Ava. “We are all so thankful to you for your wonderful work.”

“Can we offer you good people a lift?” Vernon asked.

They accepted the ride with gratitude, feeling rescued, for they had traveled in silence and had arrived in Washington bewildered. And now, having been swept into the limo, they were treated to Vernon’s running commentary about the landmarks they were passing — the Pentagon, the Jefferson Memorial. He narrated tactfully, describing their beauty, using his enthusiasm for detail as a way of hiding the fact that he was doing this for a blind man.

“And here we are at the Willard. We’ll see you folks later.”

The formalities at check-in were brief and efficient, questions asked and ignored by Steadman, who brushed at his watch face with his fingertips and said, “We have to get a move on.”

He had taken a dose of the drug in the morning. He took another one in the hotel room after he changed into his tuxedo. Ava sat apart from him in the cab to the White House; she was remote, she disapproved, she was sorry she had come. A shadow of unease lay across her features, while Steadman’s were bathed in light.

After they were dropped at the side entrance, following the instructions on the map, they showed their IDs and were escorted (“This is the East Room”) to where there was a receiving line and drinks being served. Steadman was aware of a glazed and shimmering room filled with excited strangers.

“I’m right beside you,” Ava said.

“I know,” Steadman said. And then, “Do you believe this?”

The smells of fresh flowers and floor wax and new paint gave the place a hum of something venerable, the glory of an old hotel restored to luxury. All this with the contrasting odors of perfume and aftershave lotion and polished leather. But more conspicuous than anything was the insinuation of decay beneath the sweaty faces and the glitter, the corruption and the untruth, like the decrepitude that stank under the White House timbers — Steadman could smell it all.

The discomfort, the awkwardness, was palpable, too — bumped shoulders, loud greetings, the hyperalertness of strangers. But though no one seemed at home there — the whole gleaming structure was like a stage set — they were all energized by simply being in the place. With an intensity that was like a fever of madness, the guests seemed to Steadman like heavy animals in unnatural postures, tottering on their hind legs. They were clumsy, they were eager, they chattered and bantered in a way that made them seem skittish and tickled. Their attention was brief but vibrant, glittering for an instant and then flashing elsewhere, as they roved — the men especially — swinging their arms, shouldering forward, glancing sideways. Steadman was reminded first of ungainly athletes and then of greedy goodhearted apes.

Approaching the receiving line, Steadman was cued to the keen attention — gestures more obvious than murmurs — of people making way for him. They stood aside and let him pass, no one touching him, until the large warm arm of the president rested on his shoulder. With a firm fond hug, the president held on.

“So glad you could make it. And you, too, Doctor,” the president said, gripping Ava’s elbows. Then he turned and said, “This man is truly one of my favorite writers. And I can tell you, he’s a hero. Slade Steadman, this is His Excellency…”

But Steadman was grasped again, and the chancellor said, in a slight accent that made him seem kindly and precise, “Yes, in Germany as well. So good to meet you.”

He heard the soft bubble-burst of camera flashes and felt his face warmed as his picture was taken. He knew the others were smiling, he could tell by a tightness in their voices, but he did not smile. He tried to look serene and untroubled, indifferent to the cameras, for he knew these pictures would travel.

“You’ve probably been to Germany.” The voice was unmistakably Vernon Jordan’s. And Steadman was hugged and Vernon said, “How you doing now?”