Minister Andebu leaned across Emma’s plate to speak to Thomas “Tommy” Jackson,
mayor of Memphis. Emma put down her fork to listen.
Mayor Jackson, rotund and jovial with wisps of brown hair standing sentinel over his bald
spot, looked startled. He had been focusing intently on his plate, prying apart his
banquet chicken and mixing the meat with his mashed potatoes and boiled carrots. The
delicate pattern of his Haviland dinner plate lay obscured under the orange mounds.
“Who’s threatening you? Not this lovely young lady, I hope?” He smiled at Emma and
patted her hand where it rested on the tablecloth. She returned his smile and gently
withdrew her hand, disguising the move by reaching for her wine glass and taking a
small sip. Pinot Noir, one of her favorites.
“I have received my first death threat since arriving here,” the minister said. “I never had
such a thing in Norway. The phone call was from ‘an anonymous friend’.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Minister,” Mayor Jackson said. “I get death threats all the time.
Everybody’s got an opinion, and they all think it’s the Word of God. Can’t take them too
seriously.”
“I suppose. All part of the American cowboy mentality – never show fear.”
Emma said, “Perhaps you should discuss added precautions with the festival’s security
detail. I can put you in touch with the key personnel on the Secret Service team.”
“Not to worry. I have already discussed these threats with your Madame Vice President
when I met with her last night. She seemed…” he paused “…unconcerned.” He smiled
thinly at her, then glanced away.
Emma cringed inwardly. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to smooth over the vice
president’s aloof manner. “I assure you,” she said, “Vice President Diener wouldn’t take
any threat lightly. I’m sure she’s already notified the proper agencies of your concern.”
Emma knew, of course, the vice president had not actually done so, or it would have
been in the pre-party briefing, but she herself would rectify this oversight. The vice
president’s security detail had emphasized that all members of her entourage shared the
responsibility for the veep’s safety, and, presumably, the safety of her guests.
“Did you say you met with her yesterday?” Emma continued. As junior scheduler on the
vice president’s staff, she was responsible for keeping track of her meetings. Had she
been kept out of the loop, or did she forget something important? She’d better not slip
up if she wanted the job of chief scheduler when the vice president moved into the Oval
Office in two years’ time. As much as she loved her job, she wouldn’t be satisfied until
she’d left the EEOC for the West Wing.
Minister Andebu scraped the last of his potatoes onto the back of his fork. “We met, but
rather impromptu. She asked me to visit her suite for coffee. It was just the two of us.”
“Probably just a courtesy call, then.” Emma pondered this and cut into another bite of
her chicken. The vice president didn’t do “impromptu”. Emma was certain the president
had not asked Madame Veep to meet with the minister informally. What was going on?
“Actually, it was a little unusual,” the minister continued. He glanced to his left. The vice
president sat two seats away, just on the other side of the minister’s aide, Lars. Her
back was turned to the minister and she was engrossed in conversation with the
organizer of tonight’s dinner.
Minister Andebu leaned in closer. His whiskey-soaked whisper was louder than Emma
expected, and his voice vibrated in her ear. “Vice President Diener asked me about the
proposed oil deal between our two countries, saying that President McCullough asked
her to review my position before our trip to Camp David. But your president told me I was
to negotiate only with him. When I said that I was not prepared to discuss the Norwegian
agenda at this time, she changed the subject.”
“Maybe she only wanted to welcome you without the pomp of a formal visit?” Emma
asked. She took another sip of wine. A red bit of confetti fell from her glass, drifting to
the edge of the elaborate centerpiece. The table in front of her groaned with a festive
elegance. Silver pitchers of water sweated on the starched linen tablecloth; miniscule
Waterford salt-and-pepper shakers guarded each place setting; and silverware lined up
in orderly rows.
Minister Andebu glanced at the vice president again. She had concluded her
conversation and turned back to her meal. “We can discuss this later,” he said.
Emma wondered what the minister would reveal. As a low-level staffer, she was rarely
the recipient of international confidences. Had the Veep done anything to offend her
guest or was the minister’s odd behavior some cultural misunderstanding?
She smoothed the red crushed silk fabric of her dinner dress. She knew, from having
practiced in her hotel room, that its skirt rippled and flowed when she spun around.
Perhaps after dinner, when the tables were cleared away, she and the minister’s aide
could dance. Though with her luck, she’d probably have to whirl a round or two with the
mayor as well.
When the festival organizer cleared his throat and welcomed the 200-plus diners, Emma
focused on the podium. This evening’s gala in the Peabody Hotel launched the annual
Memphis in May festival. Each year the festival honored a different country with cultural
and musical performances and a barbeque contest. This year’s festival featured Norway,
and the aristocracy of this Southern city had gathered to mingle and welcome two
unusually prominent guests: the Vice President of the United States and the Norwegian
Minister of Energy and Petroleum.
The waiters cleared the entrees and poured cups of strong coffee with dessert. When a
waiter placed her dessert plate in front of her, Emma looked up. A new waiter stood
behind her shoulder, one she did not recognize. “Where’s the other waiter?” she asked.
He looked at her strangely, his mono-brow furrowed. “Other waiter?” She could not place
his gruff accent.
“The guy who said he would be our waiter tonight?” The one who’s much better looking
than you, she thought. The first one had blond hair in a neat ponytail, blue eyes, and a
cleft chin. This troglodyte with his pock-marked face was nowhere near his league.
“No other waiter.” The man slapped her plate down. “Please enjoy your dessert.” He
selected a plate from his tray for the minister, placing it carefully in front of him. After
serving the mayor and the vice president, his tray was empty and he left.
“Now, what do we have here?” the mayor asked. “Cookies and cake?” He sniffed. The
odor of strawberries mixed with almonds.
“The cookies are kransekaker, Mayor Jackson,” Minister Andebu answered, “made from
almond paste. The cake is blotkaker, white cake layered with strawberries and cream.
Traditional desserts from Norway.” He picked up his fork and began on his cake.
***
Einar Andebu finished his blotkaker and leaned back in his chair. The vice president now
stood at the podium, and he listened to her speech with scant attention. Pretty basic
stuff – greetings to the people of Memphis, thanks to the festival planners for inviting her
to attend, welcoming remarks to him, the ‘distinguished visitor from Norway’.
He wished for a cigarette, but reached for his coffee cup instead. Taking a few sips, he
set down the cup and picked up a small kransekaker ring, inhaling its almond odor.
Kransekakers were one of his favorites. The festival organizers had provided an
excellent meal.
The first bite tasted bitter. Not enough confectioners sugar, he decided, taking another
nibble. Bleah. He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and washed it down with
the remains of his coffee.
His stomach clenched almost instantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a low
moan came out. The vice president’s young assistant glanced over, then turned her
attention back to the podium.
He panted, trying to catch his breath. He felt confused and giddy. Struggling to stand up,
he staggered against the young woman’s shoulder. His stomach heaved, but he fought
down the rising tide of nausea. The brilliant lights from the chandelier overhead dazzled
his eyes, swirling together into a blinding maelstrom.
The woman turned to him. In her face, he could see mirrored the panic he felt. Sweating
profusely, he reached for her arm and squeezed. His fingertips on her arm were blue. He
tried to assimilate that information, but confusion muddied his brain. He wanted to tell
this girl something important, but what was it?
He gulped more air. He could see that the girl was shouting, but her words had no
meaning. Another wave of panic swept over him and he vomited savagely.
His body convulsed, banging his head into the banquet table. His wine glass sloshed its
dark contents over the harsh white tablecloth, a trail of crimson leading to the floor.
