of their lives. She bristled at that, as I knew she would, the idea she could be so selfish; but I could see also that it hit home: they would be fine without her.
It didn’t end there, of course. It went on, cyclically. I could have recounted, in my mandarin manner, the reasons that led to her cataclysmic decision and led me to aid and abet the same. But it wasn’t the time. Why try to staunch an unstaunchable wound? I let it flow, and when I felt that it was ebbing, I made whatever poor and inadequate interventions I could.
I apologized. That helped a little. More than I could have predicted. I talked briskly of the boys’ futures. That pulled her up a bit. More than anything, I tried to hold my nerve and remember the times when she was so seemingly out of control that I feared nothing would bring her back to terra firma again—the screaming, the hurling of heirlooms, the bingeing and vomiting, the cutting of her arms and her legs. There are very few aspects of life that remain private from a private secretary.
She did survive those times. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, as they say. That’s a little glib for my tastes. Yes, she is tough, the toughest. But certain materials, as they harden, are always in danger of shattering. She knew it, and I knew it: she had had enough, more than anyone should be expected to endure, and it was my duty, my privilege, to help her escape—if I may resort to a cliché—the gilded cage.
Amid the heartbreak, her life strewn out in column inches across the floor, it has to be said, there was some comfort and strength to be drawn. I was supposed to be in Washington, continuing the research for my book. I spent two weeks with her and day after day she sat, or sometimes lay, reading the cuttings and weeping. And eventually she began to take a little solace: she was loved.
Whosoever had loved her previously had not loved her enough. There were many. I count myself among them. Although I escaped even temporary banishment from her circle (one of the few to be thus distinguished) I can recall some sticky moments when the fierceness of my attachment, my devotion, my unwavering loyalty, my willingness to talk on the telephone at three a.m., was called into question, subjected to her obsessive scrutiny. Many employees were sent to the guillotine (not, perhaps, as many as the press implied), severed not so much for any misdemeanor as for failing to take her fully inside their hearts. Friends fell by the wayside, cut off by the simple expedient of changing whichever of her private numbers she had given them. The causes, ostensibly, were wide and varied—a hint of betrayal, a perceived slight, a boredom setting in—but the underlying cause was always the same. A lack, as she saw it, of their true and undying love.
As for the lovers. Well. As for them. They did not always come up to the highest standards. I think I may safely say that without jealousy clouding my judgment. I seek neither to excuse nor condemn them, but merely to observe the extraordinary difficulty of their task. Her need for love is as wide as that sky out there and as impossible for an unwinged mortal to fulfill.
Does the love of an entire nation suffice instead? “Lawrence,” she said, “all these people. All these people . . .” and could go no further. I could scarcely believe it myself, although I had borne witness to that scene. The sea of flowers, the poems and letters, the candlelit vigil at KP. I saw them, children and adults, of every class, every color, every creed. I saw a policeman wipe a tear away. I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair whisper a prayer. I saw a woman in a sari lay a wreath. I saw a man in a Burberry coat lean against a complete stranger and sob.
I cannot say what I felt that evening, after the official declaration of her death, when I had flown back to London. That night I stayed up with the mourners, I walked amongst them, shared their flasks and their sorrow and listened,
It didn’t end there, of course. It went on, cyclically. I could have recounted, in my mandarin manner, the reasons that led to her cataclysmic decision and led me to aid and abet the same. But it wasn’t the time. Why try to staunch an unstaunchable wound? I let it flow, and when I felt that it was ebbing, I made whatever poor and inadequate interventions I could.
I apologized. That helped a little. More than I could have predicted. I talked briskly of the boys’ futures. That pulled her up a bit. More than anything, I tried to hold my nerve and remember the times when she was so seemingly out of control that I feared nothing would bring her back to terra firma again—the screaming, the hurling of heirlooms, the bingeing and vomiting, the cutting of her arms and her legs. There are very few aspects of life that remain private from a private secretary.
She did survive those times. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, as they say. That’s a little glib for my tastes. Yes, she is tough, the toughest. But certain materials, as they harden, are always in danger of shattering. She knew it, and I knew it: she had had enough, more than anyone should be expected to endure, and it was my duty, my privilege, to help her escape—if I may resort to a cliché—the gilded cage.
Amid the heartbreak, her life strewn out in column inches across the floor, it has to be said, there was some comfort and strength to be drawn. I was supposed to be in Washington, continuing the research for my book. I spent two weeks with her and day after day she sat, or sometimes lay, reading the cuttings and weeping. And eventually she began to take a little solace: she was loved.
Whosoever had loved her previously had not loved her enough. There were many. I count myself among them. Although I escaped even temporary banishment from her circle (one of the few to be thus distinguished) I can recall some sticky moments when the fierceness of my attachment, my devotion, my unwavering loyalty, my willingness to talk on the telephone at three a.m., was called into question, subjected to her obsessive scrutiny. Many employees were sent to the guillotine (not, perhaps, as many as the press implied), severed not so much for any misdemeanor as for failing to take her fully inside their hearts. Friends fell by the wayside, cut off by the simple expedient of changing whichever of her private numbers she had given them. The causes, ostensibly, were wide and varied—a hint of betrayal, a perceived slight, a boredom setting in—but the underlying cause was always the same. A lack, as she saw it, of their true and undying love.
As for the lovers. Well. As for them. They did not always come up to the highest standards. I think I may safely say that without jealousy clouding my judgment. I seek neither to excuse nor condemn them, but merely to observe the extraordinary difficulty of their task. Her need for love is as wide as that sky out there and as impossible for an unwinged mortal to fulfill.
Does the love of an entire nation suffice instead? “Lawrence,” she said, “all these people. All these people . . .” and could go no further. I could scarcely believe it myself, although I had borne witness to that scene. The sea of flowers, the poems and letters, the candlelit vigil at KP. I saw them, children and adults, of every class, every color, every creed. I saw a policeman wipe a tear away. I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair whisper a prayer. I saw a woman in a sari lay a wreath. I saw a man in a Burberry coat lean against a complete stranger and sob.
I cannot say what I felt that evening, after the official declaration of her death, when I had flown back to London. That night I stayed up with the mourners, I walked amongst them, shared their flasks and their sorrow and listened,
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