Autumn leaves

National Review, Oct 27, 1997 by Martin Peretz

ONE OF THE JOYS OF A DIStrict autumn is the leafy view from the breakfast nook of the Naval Observatory, the Vice President's official residence. Sitting in that sunlit aerie one recent weekend, relaxing with Vice President Gore, sipping Sumatra Dark Roast (with a touch of cinnamon -- thanks, Tipper!) one could almost forget the swirl of controversy that surrounds this handsome couple. "The autumn leaves are lovely," I murmur, over a "Bach for Brunch" CD. "Such wonderful colors," I say. "Actually," the Vice President counters, "the colors, as you call them, are not strictly lovely. Some of the brighter reds betray a soil too rich in copper and manganese. And the yellows used to be a lot yellower." "Oh." "In fact, most of the trees you see growing on that slope -- all the way down to Rock Creek Park -- aren't even indigenous to this area." "They aren't?" I ask, my curiosity piqued. "No, Marty, they're not. This whole river valley was just one big swamp." "No trees at all?" I ask, thunderstruck by the vision he has presented. "Um, no big ones, anyway." I am struck by the way he holds those two competing images in his head -- the swampy origins of the District (an apt metaphor for these swampy, politicized times) and the blazing oranges and reds of the imported trees, Trees, like him, who make an uneasy home here, even though they, like him, have lived here for most of their lives. I share this thought with the Vice President. His brow furrows. "But Marty," he says, "I'm not a tree."

YEARS AGO, WHEN I HAD JUST purchased this magazine, I had lunch with the young senator from Tennessee. I knew him from my Harvard days --when I, a professor, and he, an undergraduate, effortlessly switched places. In those war-torn days, he became my teacher. And except for the end of each semester, when I invariably gave this serious and also very witty young man an "A ," it was he who did the lecturing and I who took the notes. We had lunch at the Palm restaurant, across the street from our editorial offices. I ate too quickly, excited perhaps at the sight of my former student. A piece of steak went down the wrong way. I gasped and clutched at my throat, which experts say is the wrong thing to do. Meanwhile, the junior senator from Tennessee was explaining, in measured tones, his thinking on an upcoming Contra-funding battle. I turned a deep blue. He sketched out decision trees on a cocktail napkin. As much as I didn't want to choke to death, I also didn't want to interrupt his complex and original decision-making process. It was a difficult moment, solved, happily, by the senior senator from Massachusetts, who, passing by our table, gave me a such a hearty clap on the back that the piece of food dislodged itself. Years later, I shared this anecdote with the Vice President. He, ever attentive to near-death experiences and the political lessons from them, wondered why I was eating meat. I could offer no explanation. "It was the Reagan '80's," he finally posited. "Civilization had broken down."

I'VE OFTEN WONDERED HOW, exactly, he came to lose the primaries in 1988. It wasn't for lack of support. Readers of TNR know only too well how hard we fought for him. As we pull on our rain boots for a brisk walk, I put the question to him. "Money," he says. I look at him curiously. "Money?" I ask. "Money," he answers. I burst out laughing. His deadpan humor, even in the face of the relentless partisan attack machine, remains intact. His gift for mockery, his ironic sensibility (Gore the shameless pol! Gore the partisan hack!) still put me away. "I'm not kidding, Marty. You'd be surprised what you can do with money." I clutch my sides. I gasp for air.

LATER THAT DAY, SITTING IN the warmly decorated sun room, going over the page proofs of this issue of TNR, I compile two lists. The first list is composed of those staffers who have refrained from using "Al Gore" and "Independent Prosecutor" in the context of suggesting that the latter is appropriate for the former. The second is a list of those staffers who have, shall we say, not. Gore holds the second list in strong, expressive, healing hands. "Are you going to fire these people?" he asks, in his quiet though firm voice. "No," I say. "I'm going to give them all a raise!" We break out in grins. The Vice President leans back and chuckles wildly. As our laughter dies down, he becomes grave. "No, but seriously, Marty, you're going to fire them, right?"

YEARS AGO, IN A BRUTAL Boston winter, the young undergraduate came to a tutorial to find his favorite professor, me, laid low by an influenza of 19th-century ferocity. He brewed a healing tea, and made a hot poultice of sage and wheatberry. He saved my life.

ATTORNEY GENERAL JANET Reno's bizarre decision to continue investigating this man, and, let us be honest here, to pander to her overlord, Bill Clinton, is one of the sadder sideshows in this political circus. Gore and I talk this over as we stroll the grounds of the Observatory. He is, as always, generous to the President. About his fundraising phone calls he is also pragmatic. "We had to win, Marty," he says. I nod agreement. Lost in our thoughts, we absentmindedly walk through a deep and muddy puddle. I stop to wring out my socks. Gore looks at me quizzically, then down at his own dry feet. "But how can anyone walk through a puddle and not get their shoes wet?" I wonder aloud. The Vice President shrugs. He, uncharacteristically, has no theory to offer. But I do. He doesn't walk through the puddles. He walks above them.