“Chuck? Jack Kennedy. We met at the McCarthy hearings, if you remember.”
“I remember, Mr. President.”
It wasn’t someone imitating the President, though he did sound like one of the comedians who imitated him. I had told very few people that I’d met him seven years before.
“Good. The reason I’m calling is that we’re having a dinner at the White House in honor of some of the country’s scholars and artists and I wonder if you’d—”
“Take some pictures? I’d be glad to.”
He laughed. “No, that wasn’t what I had in mind, though that would be fine. I want you to be one of the guests.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” I felt very foolish. “I’d be delighted.”
Typically, I had tried to think of excuses for not going.
“And Mrs. O’Malley too.”
“I’ll ask her, Mr. President.”
“Good, good. I’ve enjoyed your books very much, particularly the ones on Germany.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Is Mrs. O’Malley as beautiful as she is in the books?”
“Even more beautiful, Mr. President.”
“Great. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again and meeting her.”
“I’ll ask her to come, Mr. President.”
Would she come if I told her she was invited?
Is the Pope Catholic?
Jack Kennedy was reputed to be a womanizer. But the invitation for Rosemarie did not sound like womanizing was on the President’s mind. Admiration, rather.
I walked back down the stairs to the darkroom where Rosemarie was experimenting with color prints.
She still saw Dr. Stone, though now only once a week or so.
“Who was on the phone, husband mine?”
“The President.”
“The president of what?” She pulled off the protective gloves she wore when working with chemicals.
“Of the United States.”
She laughed, “We sound like one of those comedy acts. Who was it really?”
“It really was Jack Kennedy. He wanted to invite you to dinner. He said I could come too.”
“I can’t!” she wailed.
“Why not?” So maybe the Pope wasn’t Catholic.
“I have nothing to wear.”
No worry about the papacy. “I imagine you can find something simple and inexpensive in time. White, please.”
“What else!”
Some of the distinguished artists and writers and scholars had handsome wives (only a few women were invited in those days on their own credentials). Some did not My Rosemarie, in the fullness of her glory as she approached thirty with serenity, was easily the most beautiful woman in the White House that night.
When she was asked what she “did,” she invariably replied “Mother” and held up five fingers.
I would add, “She’s my assistant and agent and boss and she sings with a chamber group.”
She would throw back her head and laugh.
Later on in our marriage this act would not do at all.
A tall black-haired Irishman took us aside as we came into the East Room.
“Pat Moynihan, Labor Department. The President would like to talk to you briefly afterwards, if you don’t mind,” he bowed with infinite Edwardian courtesy to Rosemarie, “Mrs. O’Malley.”
I would learn later that he too was married to a dark-haired, pale-skinned Irish wife and understood the protocols.
“Certainly.” Rosemarie bowed back, playing the Queen/Empress role to the hilt.
I decided that I wasn’t really needed at the dinner.
“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” I told her.
“Shush,” she whispered back, flushed with pleasure, I would add.
“Best breasts.”
“Charles, please!” The marine band began to play again. “Now stop ogling and dance with me. That’s ‘The Tennessee Waltz.’”
“I know what it is.”
Not true.
The glitter and the glamour of the night reminded me of Handel or Johann Strauss: music, laughter, clinking glasses, handsome men, beautiful women, sparkling conversation, bright gowns, glowing china and silver—surely an imperial capital.
Then I decided that certainly not in the London of the early Georges and probably not in the Vienna of Franz Joseph had there been so much style and elegance. This was the empire.
“What thinking, husband mine?”
“That the little redheaded kid should be on the outside with his nose pressed up against the windowpane.”
“Don’t be silly.” She frowned disapprovingly. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re a genius? You belong here more than most of these people.”
I wasn’t so sure, but if my Rosemarie believed it, that was probably enough.
It was the night the President, God be good to him, delivered his famous line: “The only time in the history of the White House when there was more talent in this room was on nights when Thomas Jefferson dined by himself.”
Pat Moynihan never would admit it, but surely it was his line.
Afterwards we were ushered into the Oval Office for brandy—only the President, Pat, and the two of us.
Rosemarie declined the brandy with a regal smile and a slight wave of her hand.
The President and my wild Irish Rosemarie knew who they were at once. Two splendid Irish monarchs on a state visit to one another. The little red-haired runt was a harmless court jester invited along because he was occasionally amusing.
“I’ve read your new book on Germany with great interest.” The President lit his cigar. “I like the balance and objectivity. It’s hard to keep your head screwed on properly when you’re talking about our enemies turned allies, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” I stumbled over the words, “I don’t believe in collective guilt, however.”
“Neither do I. Well, I suppose you wonder what I want from you? As you know, I’ve tried to broaden the base of our ambassadorial appointments. There’s no reason why we should be limited to business and professional diplomats when there’s a lot of other talent in our society, is there?”
I still didn’t see what was coming. “Certainly not, Mr. President.”
“I’ve consulted with a number of knowledgeable people”—he riffled a stack of papers on his desk—“and they agree that you are a remarkably gifted and multifaceted man. In addition to what you’ve accomplished in photography, you’ve written a brilliant book on the success of the Marshall Plan. So I’m asking you if you would be willing to serve as our ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany.”
Two trains of thought ran through my head, like a dual-track tape playing in a hi-fi system. The first track listed all the reasons to say no: I was too young. I had no experience. I lacked the skills of a diplomat. I was afraid of facing Trudi and Karl again. I was afraid to separate Rosemarie from the help of Dr. Stone. I had five children. I did not want to be an ambassador.
The second track told me that I had already made another serious error in my ongoing comedy.
Do I have to tell you what it was? Of course not.
I was about to politely decline. But before I could speak, Rosemarie intervened, cutting short the words her husband would regret saying for the rest of his life.
“Surely, Mr. President, we’ll be honored and delighted to represent you in the BRD.” Clancy lowered the boom. Again. With the proper technical name for West Germany. “When do we leave?”
Chicago, Grand Beach, Tucson
1986–1999