"I'm Baker McKurty," he said shaking her hand.
"Baker?" she repeated.
"I usually go by 'Bake.'" He accidentally gave her a wink. One had to be very stable to wink at a person and not frighten them.
"Bake?" She looked a little horrified — if one could be horrified only a little. She was somehow aghast — and so he pulled out her chair to show her that he was harmless. No sooner were they all seated then appetizers zoomed in. Tomatoes stuffed with avocados and avocados with tomatoes. It was a witticism — with a Christmassy look though Christmas was a long way away.
"So where are all the writers?" Linda Santo asked him while looking over both her shoulders. The shiny hair flew. "I was told there would be writers here."
"You're not a writer?"
"No, I'm an evil lobbyist," she said, grinning slightly. "Are you a writer?"
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," he said.
"You are?" She brightened. "What might you have written?"
"What might I have written? Or, what did I actually write?"
"Either one."
He cleared his throat. "I've written several biographies. Boy George. King George. And now George Washington. That's my most recent. A biography of George Washington. A captivating man, really, with a tremendous knack for real estate. And a peevishness about being overlooked for promotion when he served in the British army. The things that will start a war! And I'm not like his other biographers. I don't rule out his being gay."
"You're a biographer of Georges," she said, nodding and unmoved. Clearly she'd been hoping for Don DeLillo.
This provoked him. He veered off into a demented heat. "Actually, I've won the Nobel Prize."
"Really?"
"Yes! But, well, I won it during a year when the media weren't paying a lot of attention. So it kind of got lost in the shuffle. I won — right after 9/11. In the shadow of 9/11. Actually, I won right as the second tower was being hit."
She scowled. "The Nobel Prize for Literature?"
"Oh, for Literature? No, no, no — not for Literature." His penis now sat soft as a shrinking peach in his pants.
Suzy leaned in on his left and spoke across Bake's plate to Linda. "Is he bothering you? If he bothers you, just let me know. I'm Suzy." She pulled her hand out of her lap and the two women shook hands over his avocado. He could see Linda's nails were fake. Or, if not fake, something. They resembled talons.
"This is Linda," said Bake. "She's an evil lobbyist."
"Really!" Suzy said good-naturedly, but soon the sculptor was tapping her on the arm and she had to turn back and be introduced to the sculptor's son.
"Is it hard being a lobbyist?"
"It's interesting," she said. "It's hard work but interesting."
"That's the best kind."
"Where are you from?"
"Chicago."
"Oh, really," she said, as if he had announced his close connection to Al Capone. Anyone he ever mentioned Chicago to always brought up Capone. Either Capone or the Cubs.
"So you know the Presidential candidate for the Democrats?"
"Brocko? Love him! He's the great new thing. Honest. Practical. One of us! He's a writer himself. I wonder if he's here." Now Bake, as if in mimicry, turned and looked over both his shoulders.
"He's probably out with his terrorist friends."
"He has terrorist friends?" Bake himself had a terrorist friend. Midwesterners loved their terrorist friends! Who were usually balding, boring citizens still mythically dining out on the sins of their long-ago youth. They never actually killed anyone — at least not intentionally. They aged and fattened in the ordinary fashion. They were rehabilitated. They served their time. And, well, if they didn't, because of infuriating class privilege that allowed them to just go on as if nothing had ever happened, then they raised each other's children and got advanced degrees and gave back to society in other ways. He supposed. He didn't really know much about Chicago. He was actually from Michigan, but when going anywhere he always flew out of O'Hare.
"Uh, yeah. That bomber who tried to blow up federal buildings light here in this town."
"When Brocko was a kid? That sixties guy? But Brocko doesn't even like the sixties. He thinks they're so… sixties. The sixties took his mother on some wild ride away from him."
"The sixties made him, my friend."
Bake looked at her more closely. Now he could see she wasn't Asian. She had simply had some kind of plastic surgery: skin was stretched and draped strangely around her eyes. A botched eye job. A bad facelift. An acid peel. Whatever it was: Suzy would know exactly.
"Well, he was a young child."
"So he says."
"Is there some dispute about his age?"
"Where is his birth certificate?"
"I have no idea," said Bake. "I have no idea where my own is."
"Here is my real problem: this country was founded by and continues to be held together by people who have worked very hard to get where they are."
Bake shrugged and wagged his head around. Could he speak of people having things they didn't deserve, in a roomful of such people? Now would not be the time to speak of timing. It would be unlucky to speak of luck. She continued. "And if you don't understand that, my friend, then we cannot continue this conversation."
The sudden way in which the whole possibility of communication was now on the line startled him. "I see you've researched the founding of this country." He would look for common ground.
"I watched John Adams on HBO. Every single episode."
"Wasn't the guy who played George Washington uncanny? I did think Jefferson looked distractingly like Martin Amis. I wonder if Martin is here?" He looked over his shoulders again. He needed Martin Amis to get over here right now and help him.
Linda looked at him fiercely. "It was a great mini-series and a great reminder of the founding principles of our nation."
"Did you know George Washington was afraid of being buried alive?"
"I didn't know about that."
"The guy scarcely had a fear except for that one. You knew he freed his slaves?"
"Hmmmm."
She was eating; he was not. This would not work to his advantage. Nonetheless he went on. "Talk about people who've toiled hard in this country — and yet, not to argue with your thesis too much, those slaves didn't all get ahead."
"Your man Barama, my friend, would not even be in the running if he wasn't black."
Now all appetite left him entirely. The food on his plate, whatever it was, splotches of taupe, dollops of orange, went abstract like a painting. His blood pressure flew up; he could feel the pulsing twitch in his temple. "You know, I never thought about it before but you're right! Being black really is the fastest, easiest way to get to the White House!"
She said nothing, and so he added, "Unless you're going by cab, and then, well, it can slow you down a little."
Chewing, Linda looked at him, a flash in her eyes. She swallowed. "Well, supposedly we've already had a black president."
"We have?"
"Yes! A Nobel Prize-winning author said so!"
"Hey. Take it firsthand from me: don't believe everything that a Nobel prizewinner tells you. I don't think a black president ever gets to become president when his nightclub-singer mistress is holding press conferences during the campaign. That would be — a white president. Please pass the salt."