Is Journalism Worth Dying For__ Final Dispatches - Anna Politkovskaya [181]
He spoke for perhaps another half-hour, about freedom and universal human values. Powell frowned periodically, Condoleezza was inscrutable, the black suitcases whispered about some manifestly practical matters, and the First Lady listened to her husband with the practised pose of all American First Ladies: her back straight, her head proudly raised a little, turned three-quarters towards him. Her faced expressed a calm, steadfast love which had stood the test of time, and unshakable admiration. For the entire half-hour.
All she allowed herself was an occasional nervous tapping of her right leg when something her husband was saying apparently did not impress her.
Bush enjoyed being at the lectern. He only occasionally squinted at the papers, previously arranged by his speech writers, and appeared to be speaking largely off the cuff. When he had finished, he walked directly towards us for handshakes. He had a slightly strange manner of exchanging a few brief words with one person while already extending his right hand to the next, with a gesture which suggested you were supposed to take it yourself. He is a simple man.
Nevertheless, Bush’s grip was firm and his hand was not clammy, which was something. Russia’s leaders melted, almost all of them, standing there with hands outstretched in anticipation.
The hand-shaking ceremony took another half-hour before the President and his retinue left the room. We were kept in our enclosure for a further 15 minutes, and then set free to go with the wind.
A SICK DOG IN THE BIG CITY
September 2005
Last summer our dog died. He was very, very old. Our loyal Dobermann, Martyn, was 15, exceptionally long-lived by Dobermann standards. He was a remarkable dog who loyally protected us through the long years of the chaos of perestroika, the total gangsterism of the three years of “primary accumulation of capital,” and today’s dissolution of freedoms, when life is again not without risk. Shielded by Martyn we felt safer than we would have behind a posse of bodyguards. He adored us and our friends, and unerringly identified and ruthlessly chased away anyone ill-intentioned. But he never bit anyone. In Martyn’s presence we quarrelled and did not always manage to make up; we met and parted; and through it all he loved us unreservedly, even, on one occasion, swooning with love. Only during the last 45 minutes of his life was Martyn not there to serve us, when he lay down and lapsed into unconsciousness. Then it was we who served him, cupping our hands beneath his heart until it stopped beating.
Six months later we were missing him terribly. Life without Martyn was like living without an intravenous drip of love. We realized that he had been a powerful drug, a perpetuum mobile generating and projecting joy at us. Even as he was dying Martyn did not forget, occasionally raising his eyelids, to wag his stump of a tail and smile. After he died, two cats and a wonderful parrot moved in, so we had little to complain about. Yet every evening we were conscious that, although they were great, we were suffering acute emotional deprivation without a dog.
Then the children found a remarkable offer on the Internet. He looked nothing like Martyn, which was a must. He was not long-haired, which was also important because that was what we were used to. As far as we could tell from the information, he was friendly. A bloodhound puppy, a kind of basset hound on long legs, with eternally sad eyes and long ears.
We went to see the breeder. She kept saying,