It was late now and her heart sank at the thought of the following day. The circus was moving to London for a very special performance and everyone was excited about it for it would be the most important and prestigious show of their lives. She dreaded it and wished it was over. Indeed, at times like this she wished her legs were strong enough that she could climb the ladder one last time to the top of the Big Top, so that she could grab the trapeze bar tightly with her hands and leap from her platform across the arena, letting go as she swung. It had been a miracle that the fall hadn’t killed her. She wanted nothing more than for fate to have one more shot at her.
Although we never returned to Lookout Mountain together, Hitomi and I continued to live in Denver. This was a decision we had arrived at carefully for of the three most important places in our lives together – Kyoto, London and Paris – we never really felt at home in Colorado or developed a life there. Japan and London had been separate homes for both of us, where we felt comfortable and at ease with each other; and even though I had in theory been a visitor to Kyoto, it had become a second home for me and I always loved living there. And Paris was our home together. It was where we were married and were happy. The friends we made as a couple were there. However, in the end it was once again work commitments which kept us in Denver. The university offered Hitomi another year’s teaching and increased her salary; although she had every intention of returning to Europe eventually, she decided that another full year of associate professorship would be a wise entry on her curriculum vitae.
For my part, I had reached another milestone in my life. Three weeks short of my twenty-ninth birthday, my writing career turned in an unexpected direction. To date I had published two books – my travel series and my Parisian interviews – and the latter had also been published by an American publishing house with medium success. What small amount of publicity I garnered, combined with my continuing work on The Denver Examiner brought me to the attention of a glossy New York magazine, the commissioning editor of which invited me to write a piece on Bill Clinton’s growing troubles throughout the summer of 1998. The piece I wrote was a serious deconstruction of the media’s continuing fascination with the president’s sex life, the character they created for him through their writing, and to that end had a title which I had not intended to be merely humorous. However, on publication I saw that the editor had changed my title – Let Sleeping Dogs Lie – to the rather more puerile The Oral Office. Furious, I phoned the editor and argued with him for lowering the tone of the piece.
‘Look, Bill,’ he said and I could hear him chomping on his cigar on the other end of the line. ‘The thing is—’
‘First off, it’s William,’ I interrupted. ‘Not Bill – William.’
‘William then. Your piece was great. Honest it was. But it just needed a little more … I don’t know … p’zazz.’
‘P’zazz?’
‘You got it.’
‘Don’t you think The Oral Office is just a cheap gag? Doesn’t it undermine what the article is about?’
‘I’ll tell you what the article is about, William,’ he said, stressing the name now. ‘It’s about you having a dig at every crackpot reporter out there who’s getting off on the idea that they might have a little Monica of their own somewhere ready to go down on them too. Let me tell you, your piece is a lot more objective and pro-Clinton than I personally would have liked. But we’re getting very good reaction from the White House.’
I allowed myself a small glimmer of ego and satisfaction at that. I liked the fact that – pro or con – the White House suddenly had a position on me. Nevertheless, I felt it important that I should stick to my guns. ‘I just think you should have told me before you changed the title,’ I said, determined not to lose track of this point. ‘It is fairly pro-Clinton but at least the title balances that somewhat.’
‘It does, does it?’ asked the editor. ‘Explain that to me. It’s a no-meaning title.’
I sighed. ‘Let Sleeping Dogs Lie,’ I said. ‘First off, Clinton was sleeping with her, right?’
‘Wrong. He never had sex with that woman … Miss Lewinsky. Not ever,’ he cackled, his voice growing a little more hoarse as he perfected the Arkansan lilt which combined sanctimonious outrage at being accused of dishonesty with the obvious schoolboy pleasure of getting laid. ‘And he never asked anyone to lie for him. In fact, what he’s got to do right now is go back to working for the—’
‘Yes, very good,’ I said, amused despite myself at the accuracy of the impersonation. ‘Okay, maybe he didn’t sleep with her as such but you get the idea. Dogs. Well she’s no oil painting, is she?’
‘Jesus, William, have you seen the picture we ran of you beside the story? You’re no Tom Cruise yourself, buddy.’
‘And finally,’ I said in a firm voice, ignoring the dig. ‘All he’s done since this all started is lie about it. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. Now which part of that didn’t you get? The Oral Office!’ I added, disgusted. ‘Jesus.’
There was a silence for a moment as the penny – the cent – finally dropped and he exhaled with a sigh. ‘Oh now I get it,’ he said. ‘Let Sleeping … I get it now. You’re right. It is better.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, feeling exonerated.
‘Yeah, but the fact is it didn’t work until you explained it to me. You know how many people read this magazine every month? That’s a hell of a lot of phone calls for you to make. First lesson in this business, my friend. Keep it simple. Don’t try to be so fucking smart all the time and maybe you’ll get wherever it is you want to go, you know what I mean?’
Unfortunately, I had no answer to that. I did know what he meant. However, the result of their title change was – as he had suggested – that I was seen as a friendly journalist during a difficult time and, quite out of the blue, I was invited by the White House press office to interview the president.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Hitomi as I told her over dinner about the conversation I had had that afternoon with a Washington official. ‘The president of the United States wants you to interview him?’
‘I know,’ I said, laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘That’s what I said too. But the fact is they think I can do a nice piece on the guy. Explain his side of the story. They said he’s a human being too and no one in the press is willing to take that on board. Everyone just wants to demonise him. Turn him into some sex-mad humping adolescent.’
‘They’re using you,’ she said, twirling some pasta around her fork. ‘They want you to do a PR piece for them. That’s what it is.’
‘I told them that’s not how it would be,’ I said, eager for her blessing as I knew I wanted to do it. ‘They asked would I send them the questions in advance and I said not a chance and the woman just laughed and said Off the record – you’d be a fucking moron if you did. Grill him all you want. He’ll love it. He’s a match for anyone.’
‘She said that?’ Hitomi was staring at me, amazed, and I nodded. ‘So what did you say back?’
‘What could I say? I’ve been handed an opportunity to interview the president of the United States. Of course I said yes. You know my great-grandfather met a couple of presidents in his time. Andrew Johnson. Ulysses S. Grant. I think he met Grover Cleveland too, but that was during those four years between presidencies.’
‘You’re not Buffalo Bill, William,’ replied Hitomi haughtily and I stared at her, suddenly irritated by her lack of enthusiasm for what was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I said. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything. You’re the one who mentioned your great-grandfather. I thought we were talking about you and Bill Clinton.’
‘We are,’ I said. ‘I was only saying, that’s all. Come on, Hitomi. We get a couple of days in Washington. See the sights. The Lincoln Memorial. The Smithsonian. And I get to sit down and have a chin-wag with Bill Cody in the Oral Office.’ She put down her fork with a bang on the table and stared at me i
n frustration. ‘I’m kidding,’ I said, biting my lip to stop myself from laughing. ‘The Oval Office.’
‘You didn’t even hear what you said, did you?’ she asked and I shrugged as if to say huh? ‘Bill Clinton,’ she shouted. ‘The president’s name is Bill Clinton, not Bill Cody. You said Bill Cody.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I said, frustrated with myself for my error. ‘If I did, that’s only because we were just talking about him. It was a slip of the tongue, that’s all. I know the president’s name is Cody. Clinton!’ I roared, caught out again. ‘Clinton, Clinton, Clinton!’
We said nothing for a few moments and eventually, Hitomi picked up both our empty plates and carried them across to the sink, dropping them in noisily with the cutlery and turning on the tap for a moment for a quick splash of water to rinse away the sauce before it stuck. Turning around then she went directly to the sofa and sat down with her arms wrapped around herself, which surprised me for Hitomi was always meticulous about cleanliness and in all the years we had been together I could not remember an occasion when she had been able to rest before immediately washing the dishes. I said nothing for some time but finally opened a window, for it was warm in our apartment and I thought some fresh air would help alleviate the sudden tension in the room. I went to the fridge and got a can of beer, pouring it into two glasses instinctively, as was our long-held tradition, and handing one to my wife as I sat in the armchair.
‘No thanks,’ she said, shaking her head in the direction of the glass of lager. ‘You have it.’
Her sudden refusal to even drink with me pissed me off and I turned on her. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you tonight?’ I asked her. ‘I come back here with only about the most exciting piece of news I’ve ever given you and you just see all the negative sides to it. Now you won’t even have a drink with me. What have I done?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, burying her face in her hands and I could see by the movement of her shoulders that she was crying. ‘I just want a Coke, that’s all,’ she said between sobs. ‘Can’t I just have a Coke if I want one?’
Surprised and worried, I went over to the sofa and sat beside her, my arm around her shoulder. ‘Hitomi, what’s the matter?’ I asked her, for she was not a woman prone to sudden displays of extreme emotion. ‘Why are you crying?’
She took her head out of her hands and I stared at her, her mouth a little crooked by the sorrowful way she was looking at me. Her tears had made her mascara run and by trying to brush them away she had drawn two thin lines of black across her cheek, like an Indian warrior. I could see tiny puddles of tears waiting to drop from her lower eyelids and her chin wobbled slightly. ‘God, you look bloody awful,’ I said in a cheerful voice and it achieved the proper effect, for she quickly laughed and rubbed the tears away even as they fell.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Well I do, but—’
‘Then tell me,’ I said, pulling her closer to me. ‘You’ve been uptight for days. Is it work? Is something wrong there? Remember we don’t have to stay anywhere we—’
‘No, it’s not that,’ she said. There was a silence for a moment but I allowed it to continue, knowing her well enough to realise that she would tell me in her own time what was upsetting her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d believe me,’ she suggested, ‘if I said I was worrying that Bill Clinton might turn out to be a bad influence on you?’
Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ I acknowledged. ‘Some guy from south London comes to America and gets shown the fast life by the president of the United States. Me and Bill are going to go off for a wild weekend of hookers and gambling in the Nevada desert. Actually, that sounds quite fun, now that I say it.’
‘Ha,’ she said dryly.
‘The answer to your question is no,’ I said after a moment. ‘I wouldn’t believe it if you said that.’
She shrugged. ‘Would you believe it if I said I’m just prone right now to sudden and inexplicable bursts of temper? That I may turn into Crazyhitomi for the next nine months or so? Or the next seven anyway?’
I laughed and thought about it. It took a moment for her phrase to settle in my mind. In fact, as I recall it now I remember I was about to ask her something about whether she really wanted that Coke or not when I realised what she meant. I took my arm from around her shoulders and placed both hands on her elbows, looking directly into her face even as it seemed to swim around me slightly. I found that I couldn’t actually speak. She smiled and reached across to stroke my cheek. I placed a hand on her stomach as she touched me too and, for me, those few seconds stand as the point in my marriage when the two of us – the three of us – were as connected as we could ever possibly be. We were one unit. We were a family. I can feel her hand there still, ghostly.
The wild west show continued to tour America through the mid- to late-1880s with varying degrees of success. In general, massive profits were made whenever they travelled to the cosmopolitan cities which were furthest away from the experience of the west itself; Detroit, Illinois and Staten Island were among their most successful shows throughout 1885 and 1886, although cities such as New Orleans and Louisiana proved less popular. The climax of the American shows came with a one month sell-out show in Madison Square Gardens, where once again my great-grandfather found himself the toast of the New York set, a role in which he revelled for celebrity suited him.
In late 1886, Bill and Nate Salsbury were discussing their plans for the following year and found that they had little interest in continually returning to the same cities over and over and agreed that they should spread their wings a little. Having conquered America, it was time to conquer the world.
‘We should begin in England,’ said Nate. ‘It’s the natural starting point. From there, if we prove successful, we can move on to the continent. France, Italy, maybe even Russia.’
‘The English may not wish to be reminded of American victories,’ suggested Bill, wary of any remaining ill-feeling from the colonial wars. ‘They might send the army to drive us out even as we arrive.’
‘Nonsense. That’s all ancient history. And anyway, this isn’t politics we’re bringing them, it’s entertainment. We’re showmen, Bill, you know that. They’ll lap it up.’
Bill wasn’t so sure but after consulting Sitting Bull, Frank Butler, Annie Oakley and other important members of the wild west show, they agreed that they would contact a publicist in London to discover whether there was indeed a market for their particular brand of entertainment. Within weeks, arrangements had been made for a show at Earls Court in London and it was agreed that the entire wild west party would depart for England at the end of March. In the meantime, Bill set about putting together the most elaborate display of western paraphernalia and characters that he could. Although they traditionally used Indians from the Lakota Sioux tribe – those who fell directly under the leadership of Sitting Bull – he wanted to bring members of different tribes to England in order to illustrate the complexity of the Indian culture in America and the various segregations which existed within it.
To this effect, he initially hired Indians from the Kiowa and Ogalallas tribes and was once again given permission by the secretary of the interior to take these men and women from their reservation in order to represent their people around the world. There was great competition among the members of the tribes to select those who would be liberated into Bill’s employment but in general he selected his players on a physical basis, choosing the fiercest-looking men and the most beautiful women. The Kiowa were a southern Plains people who had been incarcerated into reservations after a fierce Texan war in the 1870s, while the Ogalallas were a Lakota people who had been present for General Custer’s last stand at Little Big Horn. To their number, Bill added some of the Cheyenne and the Pawnees, a tribe who had lost much of their land during the Gold Rush. Some of their more illustrious leaders were also signed up for the show’s first foreign tour. In addition to the some two hundred tribal
members and cowboys or actors, arrangements were made to transport various animals, including bears, racing horses, bucking broncos and buffaloes, across the ocean, not to mention marksmen, wagons, and even the celebrated Deadwood Stagecoach which played a big role in one of the set pieces of the show. The only disappointment to Bill was the decision by Sitting Bull not to visit England. He was superstitious about the ocean crossing, believing that any Indian who set sail would find their body disintegrating from their bones within three days; this was also a blow to Annie Oakley, Sitting Bull’s greatest friend and adopted daughter. However, he was quickly replaced with Ogilasa, better known as Red Shirt, who was Sitting Bull’s choice as representative Sioux leader in his absence.
Crowds descended on the harbours of New York on the morning they set sail for England and cheered them on as they left America. My great-grandfather stood on a raised platform on the deck, waving his hat in the air majestically as he acknowledged the applause and appreciation of the people. Only when they were out of sight did he step down and turn to face in the opposite direction, out towards the horizon, where England and the unknown lay. To a massed gathering of his friends and employees he declared it to be the most important transatlantic voyage since the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria had set sail from Spain at the end of the fifteenth century to discover the new world in the first place; now he, Buffalo Bill Cody, was returning to their ancestral heritage to show the world what they had achieved in the four centuries since then.
The voyage was a traumatic one for these unseasoned sailors and more than one of them spent a portion of the trip bent over the side of the ship, staring down at the water below as they grew more and more sick. Annie Oakley took to her bed and insisted on writing her last will and testament, convinced that death was only a matter of hours away. The Sioux Indians became nearly hysterical in their belief that Sitting Bull had been correct and they were in fact going to die. Even my great-grandfather, the famous Buffalo Bill, was unable to hold a civil conversation for the first three days, so sick was he and convinced that the decision to leave the solid land of America for the unknown world of England had been the worst of his life.