ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS. One of those Were You There? moments. The commotion caused by the arrival of a figure in a wheelchair went beyond applause. He looked so frail captured in that spotlight, yet so unmistakably here. The shock would have been less if Christ had arrived, or the Lindberg baby, or Father Christmas. Then everyone down in the Biltmore Bowl—apart, obviously, from Lars Bechmeir—stood up and put a hand across their hearts as the band played God Bless America. It was a spine-tingling moment, and most of the servants up on the balcony with Clark and Officer Doyle joined in as well, even though Irving Berlin was a Hebe and now lived in Canada. Images were thrown on a silver screen of golden America prairies, snow-white American mountains and white American families. As the audience subsided, a fresh spotlight chased teasingly over them to settle on Herbert Kisberg.
He was seated at one of the regular tables just like everyone else, but now he stood up, and once again the audience erupted at the sight of that blonde hair and Rushmore jaw. Herbert Kisberg waved, smiled. Herbert Kisberg touched his bow-tie and parting as if either might need straightening. He was pulling back his seat now, crossing the floor toward that other spotlit figure as the rest of the great space fell murmurosly dark. Then the spotlights merged, and there were happy gasps, for here they were, together—the genius who had discovered the Bechmeir field, and the kingly man who would soon be president. Kisberg was even standing, Clark noticed, in such a way that all the shots and the newsreels would clearly show the Liberty League flag which had been unfurled across the wall behind them. Something Penny Losovic had said about the futility of what he and Barbara had tried to do came back to him. What could it ever have amounted to? A few garbled words? Some smudged print on cheap newspaper? Kisberg seemed to be made of bronze or gold. He already looked like the statue which would surely be put up to him at the Washington Mall by a grateful nation twenty years on.
If Herbert Kisberg seemed a solid presence, Lars Bechmeir, slumped in that wheelchair with owlish glasses reapplied, looked so frail that you feared some final extra surge of light, noise or attention might blow him away. It looked as if it had already been too much for him, and he’d have to retire soon. But then something happened. Lars Bechmeir began to move. First, to raise his own trembling hand to touch the princely one Kisberg had laid upon his shoulder, and then to mutter something which caused Kisberg to furrow his brow. Then, both Lars Bechmeir’s hands settled on the arms of his wheelchair and made a series of straining motions which all the onlookers eventually understood to mean that he was attempting to stand.
A rush of puzzlement. But no, Lars Bechmeir was already half out of his seat and in danger of falling forward until one of the nurses who’d been hovering in the background like big-titted angels stepped up. A puzzled tableau followed amid gasps and shouts of encouragement, until Herbert Kisberg really had no option but to grab Lars Bechmeir firmly across the shoulders and help him the rest of the way to his feet.
The famous pair stood there, teetering, and the fate of the evening seemed to teeter with them. Was this just some antique spasm, or did the old man actually know what he was doing? Then, as Lars Bechmeir shuffled sideways and around, and it became apparent that, yes, the guy could move to some degree, the purpose of his efforts became clear. He wanted to get onstage.
Applause clattered like rain through the long moment that Herbert Kisberg helped Lars Bechmeir walk. Each rise in the steps to the stage was a struggle, and Bechmeir seemed to falter more when he reached the apron in front of the Fred Waring Orchestra beneath a Liberty League emblem. But there was a sense of determination as well. The will of the audience, and of everyone listening to Wallis Beekins’ soon-to-befamous, breathless commentary across the nation, and even the pull of the twinned spotlights, seemed to draw the old man on. The journey toward the central microphone was a drama in itself, and those who watched it on the newsreels after would often comment that you still wondered if he was going to make it.
He did. Lars Bechmeir stood, still half-supported by Herbert Kisberg, and with a microphone stand before him. He gripped hold of it with one hand, then gave a series of odd, shivery gestures with his free arm. Unmistakably, he was pushing his helper away, and Herbert Kisberg stepped back and the spotlight which was on him blinked out, leaving Lars Bechmeir standing alone.
The old man fumbled his glasses from his ears with what looked like impatience, or even anger. They clattered and bounced when he cast them across the boards. There was something sharper, and somehow redefined, about the gaze which now swept the crowd.
“I’m not…” He began. The microphone wobbled. He cleared his throat and gripped it tighter. “I’m not standing here to say the things you expect to hear. Nor am I the man you imagine me to be…”