Fall of Giants

Gus was worried but not surprised. The Japanese had been talking about this for a week or two. It had already caused consternation among the Australians and the Californians, who wanted to keep the Japanese out of their territories. It had disconcerted Wilson, who did not for one moment think that American Negroes were his equals. Most of all it had upset the British, who ruled undemocratically over hundreds of millions of people of different races and did not want them to think they were as good as their white overlords.

Again it was Cecil who spoke. “Alas, this is a highly controversial matter,” he said, and Gus could almost have believed in his sadness. “The mere suggestion that it might be discussed has already created discord.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

Cecil went on: “Rather than delay the agreement of a draft covenant, perhaps we should postpone discussion of, ah, racial discrimination to a later date.”

The Greek prime minister said: “The whole question of religious liberty is a tricky subject, too. Perhaps we should drop that for the present.”

The Portuguese delegate said: “My government has never yet signed a treaty that did not call on God!”

Cecil, a deeply religious man, said: “Perhaps this time we will all have to take a chance.”

There was a ripple of laughter, and Wilson said with evident relief: “If that’s agreed, let us move on.”

{IV}

Next day Wilson went to the French foreign ministry at the Quai d’Orsay and read the draft to a plenary session of the peace conference in the famous Clock Room under the enormous chandeliers that looked like stalactites in an Arctic cave. That evening he left for home. The following day was a Saturday, and in the evening Gus went dancing.

Paris after dark was a party town. Food was still scarce but there seemed to be plenty of booze. Young men left their hotel room doors open so that Red Cross nurses could wander in whenever they needed company. Conventional morality seemed to be put on hold. People did not try to hide their love affairs. Effeminate men cast off the pretense of masculinity. Larue’s became the lesbian restaurant. It was said the coal shortage was a myth put about by the French so that everyone would keep warm at night by sleeping with their friends.

Everything was expensive, but Gus had money. He had other advantages, too: he knew Paris and could speak French. He went to the races at St. Cloud, saw La Bohème at the opera, and went to a risqué musical called Phi Phi. Because he was close to the president, he was invited to every party.

He found himself spending more and more time with Rosa Hellman. He had to be careful, when talking to her, to tell her only things that he would be happy to see printed, but the habit of discretion was automatic with him now. She was one of the smartest people he had ever met. He liked her, but that was as far as it went. She was always ready to go out with him, but what reporter would refuse an invitation from a presidential aide? He could never hold hands with her, or try to kiss her good night, in case she might think he was taking advantage of his position as someone she could not afford to offend.

He met her at the Ritz for cocktails. “What are cocktails?” she said.

“Hard liquor dressed up to be more respectable. I promise you, they’re fashionable.”

Rosa was fashionable, too. Her hair was bobbed. Her cloche hat came down over her ears like a German soldier’s steel helmet. Curves and corsets had gone out of style, and her draped dress fell straight from the shoulders to a startlingly low waistline. By concealing her shape, paradoxically, the dress made Gus think about the body beneath. She wore lipstick and face powder, something European women still considered daring.

They had a martini each, then moved on. They drew a lot of stares as they walked together through the long lobby of the Ritz: the lanky man with the big head and his tiny one-eyed companion, him in white-tie-and-tails and her in silver-blue silk. They got a cab to the Majestic, where the British held Saturday night dances that everyone went to.

The ballroom was packed. Young aides from the delegations, journalists from all over the world, and soldiers freed from the trenches were “jazzing” with nurses and typists. Rosa taught Gus the fox-trot, then she left him and danced with a handsome dark-eyed man from the Greek delegation.

Feeling jealous, Gus drifted around the room chatting to acquaintances until he ran into Lady Maud Fitzherbert in a purple dress and pointed shoes. “Hello!” he said in surprise.

She seemed pleased to see him. “You look well.”

“I was lucky. I’m all in one piece.”

She touched the scar on his cheek. “Almost.”

“A scratch. Shall we dance?”

He took her in his arms. She was thin: he could feel her bones through the dress. They did the hesitation waltz. “How is Fitz?” Gus asked.

“Fine, I think. He’s in Russia. I’m probably not supposed to say that, but it’s an open secret.”