“I guess I am useful sometimes, after all.”
“Sometimes. Maybe.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will remember that in the future.”
“Not too soon. And don’t misunderstand me.”
“As a soldier you learn very fast not to misunderstand, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m glad you learned that.”
Aslan went to the door. She hesitated, then she turned toward him.
“You know, you could visit me over the weekend and bring me a dozen of the most important newspaper articles. You could give me a general overview of the situation, especially how people’s opinions have developed over the last few days.”
With a short “See you later, Mr. Beckford,” she left the office.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Aslan and Beckford sat at a small table on the hotel terrace sipping cocktails each absorbed in their own thoughts. The full sun was playing with the waves of the ocean.
Beckford tried to catch Aslan’s eyes several times with no luck. Aslan looked over at him only when she realized that he was checking out a young lady strolling along the beach in her bathing suit. Aslan felt adrenaline coursing through her body and realized in horror that what she was feeling was jealousy. She tried to shake the horrible feeling, but as she watched him undressing the young woman with his eyes, she thought: Maybe I could give him a try. Just to see what it’s like.
She looked over at Beckford again, which she could do easily without his noticing now that he was examining a second curvaceous, bikini-clad girl.
Young, strong, no deformations, Aslan said to herself. “Strange that I’ve never felt an urge with him before. Holved really shouldn’t have left me alone for this long. Beckford is really dumb—but apart from that, he is a beautiful creature.” At that moment, as if attracted by her eyes, Beckford turned to look at her.
Startled, she worried he could guess what she was thinking. She blushed a little, she could feel it, and thinking about it only deepened her blush. So inexperienced in such things, Beckford mistook the blush as a result of the ocean breeze that had picked up at that moment. Aslan smoothed her hair a little, as if the unexpected breeze had indeed ruffled it.
Without looking at Beckford she said: “How wonderful this air is for my skin!” She dropped her head back. Then, lifting her head up again and looking out at the ocean, she said quietly: “The waves come and go. They come and go forever and ever, as long as the world exists.”
She downed her cocktail suddenly and looked directly at him: “Mr. Beckford, can you explain to me why the waves of the ocean come and go without ceasing?”
“I’ve never thought about it, ma’am. And to be honest, it doesn’t interest me one bit.” He also downed his cocktail and waved to a waiter to bring two new ones. What a bore! thought Aslan. No imagination. Not an iota of poetry. Not a shimmer of romanticism.
Beckford sipped the cocktail that the waiter had just placed in front of him.
“Tacky place. Every cocktail has a touch less alcohol and a single, half-rotten lemon slice cut as thin as newspaper.”
She took a sip, swilled it around in her mouth, and then said: “I don’t think the cocktails are at all as weak as you say.”
“Possibly. Maybe I’m just used to straight whiskey, not diluted with lemon juice and mineral water—and who the devil knows whatever else these goddamned bartenders mix into our cocktails.”
“Why don’t you order whatever you want? I don’t mind. As long as you can go back to your room on your own two feet, I’m okay with it.”
She was happy that she had finally managed to steer her thoughts into neutral territory.
“Mr. Beckford,” she said suddenly, “you have been here for an entire hour and you have not said one word about what the newspapers are reporting. After all, the reason I invited you here was to hear your report about everything that has happened in New York in the last few days.
“The only reason, ma’am?” Beckford attempted an intimate grin.
“Yes, the only reason. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I came here to relax, ma’am, just like you. To enjoy the beautiful ocean, to drink the dishwater cocktails, and to feast my eyes on these beach babes. How could a poor wretch like me think about newspapers right now?”
He looked at her furtively and thought: I have one and a half days, maybe even two full nights. Anything could happen. Maybe she had other reasons for inviting me here.
Guessing what was on his mind, Aslan said icily: “Mr. Beckford, give me the news! I haven’t looked at a single newspaper in the four weeks I was preparing for the hearing.”
Beckford pulled a bunch of newspaper articles from his bag.
“Don’t read anything out loud to me, not now. Just give me a short overview of the most important things reported since I left Washington.”
“Ma’am you have unleashed storms like the country has not seen since Pearl Harbor.”
“Storms?” she asked, surprised.
“Massive storms.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in the national and international limelight. You’ve started a frenzy that probably won’t calm down again until one of your projects has been completed, no matter how many hundreds of billions of dollars it devours before it yields any profit. I only brought three hundred clippings, and I have to admit that I haven’t read the majority of them yet. But when I left my office this morning, five piles of clippings had accumulated and three girls”—he couldn’t stop himself from adding with a boyish grin—“three very pretty, buxom girls, by the way…”
“Mr. Beckford, we are talking about the news and not your exploits.”
“Exactly. I’m talking about the five piles of clippings and about the fact that I had to ask three lovely girls to sort these piles. And they couldn’t keep up with them. It was a hell of a job, I’m telling you, ma’am.”
“And what was the main takeaway of all these reports?”
“You’ll be surprised, ma’am. People seem to have forgotten everything that was of the greatest importance just a week ago. Because of you, ma’am, nobody cares anymore what’s happening in Moscow, China, Indonesia, or in the Middle East. Nobody asks how many minutes it would take a remote-controlled rocket with a hydrogen warhead sent from Leningrad to explode on Broadway in New York. The newspapers and letters sent in by readers almost exclusively deal with the question of which of your two projects would be more advantageous for traffic, and which of the two projects, the canal or the sixteen-track railway, could be realized faster.”
The only thing Aslan could manage to say was, “Really? Is that really true, Mr. Beckford?”
“Of course; however, something happened that could postpone your project for years.”
“And that would be?”
“As happens so often—indeed, almost always in our country—several groups have formed. There are four groups so far. Each of these groups is zealously trying to gain supporters. First, you have group number one. They say that the Panama Canal is good enough for us, and that both of your projects are impracticable pipe dreams. Finally, they say that there is no way to raise the necessary funds for either project, since taxes for our citizens are high enough already. Then, you have group number two. Their opinion is that if it were possible and we were to build such a ship-transportation railway, it should connect New York with San Francisco directly, straight across the northern part of the country, which would avoid the detour through Florida and Texas.