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Authors: William Safire
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him down.”
A pause. “That saddens me. The Berner has been a faithful companion.”
“You owe it to him, then, to put the animal to sleep before the onset of great pain.”
“I understand, Doctor. How long do I have?”
“Three or four days. No longer than a week. I feel for you, ma’am—I lost one of my own not a couple of weeks ago. It’s sad, but necessary.”
“You’re right, of course. I will do what a responsible pet owner must do.”
POUND RIDGE, NEW YORK
Viveca Farr confronted herself with a direct question: What does a legendary reporter drink? Irving Fein was coming to see her, at Matt’s instigation. She decided he’d probably drink Scotch.
She checked the bar in the den; plenty of Scotch. No bourbon; she had finished the bourbon herself the other night. White wine? She was ready to bet Irving Fein would never ask for white wine. Maybe red wine. She hesitated, then pulled down a bottle of the cheaper stuff, sank the screw in the cork, and deftly opened it. “Breathe,” she told it, and poured herself a glass.
Matt had suggested this first meeting be held in his office, but Viveca didn’t want the agent to act as her chaperon; she wanted to handle the world’s greatest investigative reporter, as he liked to bill himself, all by herself. She could have had him come to her apartment on Central Park West, near the studio, but that was decorated in whites and silks and Man Ray photos; even so, now that she thought of it, that might have been better. Living in a storied stone house in Pound Ridge—Tudorstyle, eighteen rooms, on four landscaped acres—was as pretentious, in its way, as calling yourself the world’s greatest reporter.
She could hear him saying “What a goddam palace” and thinking of her as some kind of princess complaining about a pea under the mattress. Impressing him that way was a mistake, but this is where she came to escape from the television crowd on weekends when all its Manhattan members traipsed out to the Hamptons as one impenetrable mass. She could explain how rich she was not, what a regular person she was, if that turned out to be important to him; she suspected that it would. From that one glimpse of him in Matt’s waiting room, thejournalist struck her as one of those prestigious smart-asses who resented success in others whom they considered lightweights, success they assumed was too easily gained.
She was fearful he would see through her in a minute. She couldn’t write; she could ask a list of questions with fervor, but she lived in dread of a surprise answer that required a follow-up. Who needed this?
It wasn’t that she was dumb, or not naturally curious, but there had been little time to become a policy wonk on the way to television news celebrityhood; by the time your brain became convoluted enough to understand the nuances of foreign affairs and economic dreariness, your face was too wrinkled to attract an audience. All the producers who brought her along too fast later criticized her for coming up too fast, for not “paying her dues.” One year she was running copy, the next year she was on the air, station managers pushing her for their ratings, viewers taking her every word so seriously. The reviewers all used the same word to describe her delivery: “crisp.” Would Irving Fein be hungry? She put out the potato chips.
Waiting for her potential new collaborator, Viveca looked in the bar mirror; the slight worry line between her eyes added to the illusion of authority. Her makeup was understated for this occasion, the blond hair mid-length, carefully casual, no spray glazing her head the way it had to be on camera. Her face’s saving grace, she knew, was its slightly crooked nose; the imperfection added character. Nobody wanted a fashion model doing the news. What was wanted—sought desperately, by producers and advertisers—was mastery without age, good looks without glamour,
gravitas
without weight. On the air, she had the rare ability
A pause. “That saddens me. The Berner has been a faithful companion.”
“You owe it to him, then, to put the animal to sleep before the onset of great pain.”
“I understand, Doctor. How long do I have?”
“Three or four days. No longer than a week. I feel for you, ma’am—I lost one of my own not a couple of weeks ago. It’s sad, but necessary.”
“You’re right, of course. I will do what a responsible pet owner must do.”
POUND RIDGE, NEW YORK
Viveca Farr confronted herself with a direct question: What does a legendary reporter drink? Irving Fein was coming to see her, at Matt’s instigation. She decided he’d probably drink Scotch.
She checked the bar in the den; plenty of Scotch. No bourbon; she had finished the bourbon herself the other night. White wine? She was ready to bet Irving Fein would never ask for white wine. Maybe red wine. She hesitated, then pulled down a bottle of the cheaper stuff, sank the screw in the cork, and deftly opened it. “Breathe,” she told it, and poured herself a glass.
Matt had suggested this first meeting be held in his office, but Viveca didn’t want the agent to act as her chaperon; she wanted to handle the world’s greatest investigative reporter, as he liked to bill himself, all by herself. She could have had him come to her apartment on Central Park West, near the studio, but that was decorated in whites and silks and Man Ray photos; even so, now that she thought of it, that might have been better. Living in a storied stone house in Pound Ridge—Tudorstyle, eighteen rooms, on four landscaped acres—was as pretentious, in its way, as calling yourself the world’s greatest reporter.
She could hear him saying “What a goddam palace” and thinking of her as some kind of princess complaining about a pea under the mattress. Impressing him that way was a mistake, but this is where she came to escape from the television crowd on weekends when all its Manhattan members traipsed out to the Hamptons as one impenetrable mass. She could explain how rich she was not, what a regular person she was, if that turned out to be important to him; she suspected that it would. From that one glimpse of him in Matt’s waiting room, thejournalist struck her as one of those prestigious smart-asses who resented success in others whom they considered lightweights, success they assumed was too easily gained.
She was fearful he would see through her in a minute. She couldn’t write; she could ask a list of questions with fervor, but she lived in dread of a surprise answer that required a follow-up. Who needed this?
It wasn’t that she was dumb, or not naturally curious, but there had been little time to become a policy wonk on the way to television news celebrityhood; by the time your brain became convoluted enough to understand the nuances of foreign affairs and economic dreariness, your face was too wrinkled to attract an audience. All the producers who brought her along too fast later criticized her for coming up too fast, for not “paying her dues.” One year she was running copy, the next year she was on the air, station managers pushing her for their ratings, viewers taking her every word so seriously. The reviewers all used the same word to describe her delivery: “crisp.” Would Irving Fein be hungry? She put out the potato chips.
Waiting for her potential new collaborator, Viveca looked in the bar mirror; the slight worry line between her eyes added to the illusion of authority. Her makeup was understated for this occasion, the blond hair mid-length, carefully casual, no spray glazing her head the way it had to be on camera. Her face’s saving grace, she knew, was its slightly crooked nose; the imperfection added character. Nobody wanted a fashion model doing the news. What was wanted—sought desperately, by producers and advertisers—was mastery without age, good looks without glamour,
gravitas
without weight. On the air, she had the rare ability
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