However, whimsicality from Sally Watson was rare. For another surprise about her had been her seriousness. Somehow Dilman had expected a certain degree of frivolity in a wealthy, spoiled child. Instead, he had a social assistant who had proved punctual, earnest, dedicated, agreeable to working all hours, and who had the initiative to go beyond the scope of her East Wing office, to take over the handling of his engagements outside the White House. Once or twice he had almost forgotten to be cautious with her about his private affairs.
As she approached, smooth brow furrowed, it was difficult for him to reconcile with the young lady’s angelic face one bit of gossip that he had heard. A few evenings ago Sue Abrahams had repeated a tidbit that Mrs. Gorden Oliver had passed on to her: that Kay Varney Eaton had been out of the city an uncommonly long period of time, and that the Secretary of State had been seeking solace in the company of Miss Sally Watson. Sue Abrahams had not repeated the gossip to titillate, but to keep Dilman informed of all that she heard behind his back. She doubted if the Arthur Eaton-Sally Watson thing was true, and had been pleased when Dilman discounted it entirely. Dilman had said that he could not conceive of an amorous relationship between a dignified, circumspect, older career diplomat like Arthur Eaton and a relatively superficial, inexperienced, too-well-known young single girl like Senator Watson’s daughter. What had Nat thought? Nat had shrugged, hummed a few bars of “September Song,” and they had laughed and dismissed it.
Now, waiting for her, Dilman superimposed Nat’s shrug on Sally’s gilt-headed Aphrodite loveliness. Anything was possible, of course, but in this central city of professionally prying eyes it was unlikely that a sophisticated statesman of international renown would dare risk his reputation over any bachelor girl. Improbable, he told himself again, and accepted Sally Watson in her previous virginal and unsullied state.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I need you for a few minutes-tonight’s dinner-”
“I’m sorry, Miss Watson, but can’t it wait? I’m running behind-”
“Just one minute, then. I suppose it’s not all that important, but-”
“All right, Miss Watson. Do you mind telling me on the way to the office?”
They walked to the elevator as Sally checked the markings on different sheets of her papers.
“The platform is up in the East Room, and it’s completely decorated,” she said. “Very pretty. I just called the Hay-Adams and the Statler Hilton, and the whole Hollywood contingent is in, safe and sound. I can’t wait to hear Herbie Teele, and I adore Libby Owens, don’t you?”
Entering the elevator, Dilman was less enthusiastic than his social secretary about the entertainment that was to follow the State Dinner. Allan Noyes, the Party chairman, had been the first to suggest it. The six famous Hollywood and New York performers had been staunch and vocal supporters of T. C. and the Party, and had raised a small fortune to help finance his election campaign. Now they had been the first to volunteer their support of the new President. Their quotations in the syndicated movie columns had been embarrassingly extravagant in praise of Dilman, whom none had ever met.
This type of show-business liberal, no matter how sincere and well intentioned, had always made Dilman uneasy. They made too much of a point of loving anyone black or yellow or brown, no matter what the character and worth of the object of their extrovert affection. When the entertainment group had heard of Dilman’s first State Dinner, they had offered their services through Noyes. Dilman had been indecisive about them, preferring no entertainment at all, or, at least, something more conservative. And then Illingsworth had learned that President Amboko was an inveterate moviegoer, and that he would be delighted to enjoy some of his American cinema idols in the flesh, and that had pushed Dilman into agreement.
Dilman had not minded Trig Cunningham, the rough and fearless star of a half-hundred swashbuckling and soldiering epics, or Betsy Buckner, the sinuous national Love Object, or Tilly Reyes, the rubber-featured lady clown, or Rick Wade, the disheveled guitar-strumming adolescent. They were white. His objections were to two other members of the troupe, Herbie Teele, the lanky, fork-tongued comedian known for his acid integration monologues and his coterie of young white female worshipers, and Libby Owens, the magnificent singer of sad blues songs. They were Negro. Dilman did not want them, not so soon, not the first day after the national mourning ended. But President Amboko wanted them. So did Sally Watson, apparently. And so they were here and in the wings.
“Yes, it’ll be interesting,” he found himself saying. “I hope they exercise some caution. President Amboko may be a little touchy about certain jokes.” He meant himself and not Amboko, but he could not bring himself to be so naked in front of this girl. He hated Negro jokes told by Negroes, and Negro songs sung in public by Negroes.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. President. Mr. Illingsworth’s assistants are attending a rehearsal at the Hilton this afternoon.” Sally was busy with her bundle of papers. “The routine for the dinner has finally been worked out.”
“Go ahead.”
“All but the honored guests will arrive by the south grounds-go through the South Portico entrance to the first-floor corridor, where the Marine Band will be playing. I’ll be there with my staff, and we’ll show everyone the seating plan and give them their escort cards. Then we’ll get them into the East Room. They’ll have about twenty minutes there before your arrival.”
The elevator had stopped. Quickly Sally opened the door, and waited for Dilman to step out before following him. Dilman, whose mind was on the press conference briefing, walked hurriedly, so that Sally had to skip every few steps to keep beside him. As they traversed the ground-floor red carpet, she continued to speak.
“President Amboko and his entourage, with Mr. Illingsworth, will come in by the Pennsylvania Avenue side-the North Portico entrance-around five minutes after eight. You will welcome them in the Yellow Oval Room, and have perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to chat with President Amboko. After that, all of you will go down the stairway. Photographers will be permitted to take pictures-”
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m told it is the custom followed by T. C. and most others before him.” She glanced at Dilman, who nodded assent, and then she went on. “The Marine Band will be playing ‘Hail to the Chief’ as you take Amboko into the East Room. Then, since we’ve been forced to combine the reception with the dinner, you, Mr. President, and Amboko, and his entourage, will form the receiving line, and as guests file past, they will go on to their tables-one main table, and smaller ones-in the State Dining Room and wait for you to take your seat. You will offer the first toast, after the dessert.”
A White House policeman had sprung forward to open the door, and Dilman emerged outdoors with Sally onto the colonnaded walk that went past the indoor swimming pool, and turned toward the West Wing executive offices. He sniffed the air, cold and invigorating, peered at the blue-gray cloudless metallic sky, and resumed his march to the briefing.
“According to Mr. Illingsworth,” Sally was saying, “after dinner you can lead President Amboko upstairs for a private conversation in the Yellow Oval Room, while the other guests go into the Red, Green and Blue Rooms for champagne. Then, Mr. President, you will show him to the East Room for the performance.” She slowed, searching her papers, and Dilman slowed his stride with her. “The final total-we sent 104 invitations and admittance cards-”