2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [112]
Born in the 1980s, Bernstein came into the world as a citizen of the most powerful nation on earth. But within his lifetime that had all changed, and now here he was, the president of the United States, at a time when the U.S. could no longer even borrow its way out of trouble. Sure, he put on a good face and told the world how exciting the new partnership with China was, but never before had a country been forced to sell one of its cities, which in essence was what they were doing. Would he go down as the president who sold out the country or saved it? Would history show him as a visionary or a fool? It was moments like this that he used to rely on his wife to tell him that it was all going to work out. Now he needed someone else.
“Madame Secretary, I have the President on the line.” Susanna Colbert was always so happy to hear her assistant say that.
“Hi,” the President said. “Did I bother you?”
“I live to be bothered. How are you?”
“Do you want to have a bite to eat tonight?”
“Of course. With your wife? Others?”
“No others.”
“All right, I just didn’t know how formal it would be.”
“I’ll be in my pajamas. You can wear what you like.”
She laughed. Susanna was having an intellectual affair with this man, there was no denying it, and she was enjoying the hell out it. It was something that had been missing for so long in her own marriage, and obviously it was missing in his. “I’ll stop at the mall and pick up a nightgown,” she said.
“Get one for me,” Bernstein joked. “Betsy has a function to go to at six o’clock so I’ll have some downtime until nine. Come to the Oval at seven.”
The President liked eating dinner in the Oval Office. There were many places to eat in the White House; even the kitchen was fun to have a meal in once in a while. But for the ultimate in privacy, other than the residence, this was where he felt most comfortable. He didn’t want Susanna to join him upstairs. That would be crossing a line, even though mentally he’d crossed it a long time ago.
As they ate a Chinese dinner—no special meaning given to that—the President let out some of his conflicting emotions. “Do you think I have sold out the United States?”
“God, no,” Susanna said. “I think you made a brave and quite remarkable decision. Don’t the polls tell you that?”
“The polls don’t have a soul. And what the people think is temporary, anyway. Most of the time the real brave stuff gets the lowest numbers.”
“Would you rather the numbers were bad? Would that make you feel better?”
“No. I’m a whore for numbers. We all are. But it still doesn’t mean I’m right.”
“Don’t we have an ‘out’ clause?”
“Yes. After a year. But by that time it will be too late.”
“Why?”
“Because the Chinese will front-load the project. At least a trillion will be spent early. They’re not stupid. They’re not coming here to work for a year and go home with nothing. So we would still be screwed. We would still owe them money with no place to get it.”
“Well, Mr. President, it will work out.”
“I wish I could tell you not to call me Mr. President. But I can’t. That’s for the spouse only. Even John calls me Mr. President.”
“I understand. It doesn’t bother me. I rather like it.”
“I know, but sometimes the formality sucks.”
“Well, I could call you MP.”
“That’s not bad. But don’t.”
They sat for a while, eating without talking, and then the President put his fork down. He hated the next subject but this was the one person he could trust. “Yesterday, I was asked again by some right-to-lifers about my mother. I can’t stand that these fundamentalists are using her to