- DINNER AT THE WHITE HOUSE
She felt uneasy. It was the waiting. She didn’t like being kept waiting very long, even if she was about to be received by the President in person.
She tried to settle into a more comfortable position on the nineteenth century couch and stretched her legs on the plush carpet.
She concentrated on the lacunar ceiling, then glanced absentmindedly at some colonial style furniture.
The objects took on an air of solemnity in the dimness of the room, due to a peculiar play of light.
She got up, took a few steps around a huge walnut table, then stopped in front of an old picture over the unlit fireplace.
She recognized the portrait of President Monroe, author of "America for Americans".
She looked around the room and felt uncomfortable again.
She wondered why the White House seemed so unwelcoming.
A hand was laid for a moment on her shoulder.
Cyclonette spun round.
The President tried to smile at her, showing long yellowish teeth.
His face was serious, drawn. The shadow of an obstinate beard showed against his pale skin just like on TV. From close up he looked older than his age. He looked appraisingly over Cyclonette’s agile body, her long ash-blond hair which fell softly over her shoulders, and her cold blue eyes.
He seemed to appreciate what he saw. He tried smiling again, but without much success.
- Glad to meet you, Cyclonette. – he said almost warmly – Mr.Kennan speaks very highly of you. Can I fix you a drink?
- Thank you, Mr. President. I need something to warm me up. It’s
pretty damp in here. – replied the girl, smiling.
- You’re right, dear. The White House is a bit damp. – agreed the President – Come here, Cyclonette. I’ll fix you some real good champagne.
He beckoned her to follow him down a long dim corridor.
There was dead silence and not a soul in sight anywhere.
They reached a room. It was smaller than the previous one, but better lit.
The furniture was modern. A table was set in the centre.
Cyclonette noticed a silver bucket with a vintage bottle of Veuve Cliquot.
- I’m sure you’ll enjoy the dinner I’ve had prepared for us. There’s lobster and oysters and Beluga caviar. We can talk better over dinner, can’t we, dear?
The girl noticed the President’s confidential tone and was almost pleased. She felt at ease now.
- Call me Daddy, dear. – whispered the President.
The girl didn’t show much surprise. She knew that the President, like some of his predecessors, was susceptible to female charm. Besides, she remembered some recent examples.
- You’re really embarassing me, Daddy. You see, I don’t often use such familiar pet-names for my President. What would our upright ancestors say?
- To hell with our ancestors and their uprightness!
He tried to smile, but only partially succeeded as usual.
- If you know how to use your brains and hands like you use your tongue, I really think we’ve made a good choice. Have some Cliquot. The temperature’s just right.
He handed her a crystal glass full of champagne. They drank slowly, in silence.
The President motioned the girl to sit down at the table. Dinner was delicious, a real gourmet meal.
They ate in silence, exchanging only a few words.