Goodnight, Mr. Kissinger - Part II

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I hoped the second time Kissinger saw me, since it was already several weeks from our first meeting, that he would not remember me. Instead, as soon as I brought him the menu, he greeted me affably, "James, right? From Bangladesh?"

"You are very kind to remember, sir," I said trying to put on my best faux-English politeness. It worked well with the older crowd.

"James is a bit of a student of world politics, even geography, if I remember correctly," said Kissinger to a blonde budding newswoman who was his dinner companion that night.

"Again, you are too kind, sir. May I bring you some water? Or, call the sommelier?"

"Sure, sure, there will be time enough for all that. Tell me first what you think of this terrible attack," said the old man easing into a winged leather chair. The old fox was not to be diverted easily. Once during the meal, and then again when I brought him the check, he tried to trap me into political talk. I would not have expected Kissinger to be the kind of big man who engages underlings, let alone service staff, in chats of any kind. But, clearly I piqued some perverse interest in him.

I persuaded the Head Waiter to assign me to the front part of the restaurant, adjoining the bar-lounge area. They preferred to have the good-looking actors work that area. People like me, people with personality, we were told, were needed in the main dining room, where the more demanding older customers were usually seated. Luckily the Head Waiter, a bushy-browed gay Englishman of great Old World charm, had taken a liking to me, and I managed to get my area changed.

The next time Kissinger walked in, I could watch him with relief from a distance. I was talking a young couple into ordering our hideously over-priced special of the night -- a "Kobe Wagyu" beef with cockle clams Agar Agar in a seaweed soy sauce. It was the latest invention of our famous Spanish Chef, a diva of insufferable proportions. In the middle of my sale, suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the Head Waiter with a twinkle in his old eyes.

"Kissinger asked for you," he murmured in my ear, and turning to the young couple in his cheeriest tone, "May I continue taking your orders, please?"

This was more interest than I expected or required from Kissinger. No doubt the man had a streak of sadism in him. He would not stop pestering me with probing questions about the state of my country. One day he asked me if I thought it was a matter of time before a Bangladeshi would be caught in a terror attempt.

"Why just attempt, sir, why not an actual attack?" I blurted out, on the verge of losing control.

"I can't imagine they would have the competence, can you?" said Kissinger with a smile.

I could feel the vein in my scalp throb. I placed the wine bottle back in its silver bucket before I was tempted to swing it down on Kissinger's face. After that second encounter, I could not stop thinking about harming Kissinger. Not since my teenage years, had anyone or anything sparked such sustained fantasies of violence in me. A steak knife would of course be the obvious choice of weapon in this context. I was not sure I would be entirely beyond committing such a bizarre attack.

My entire past, I realized looking back from the calm perch of my new life, was strewn with acts of petty violence. I used physical force to impose my will, whenever my personality or reasoning was not enough. It came easily with people against whom a certain degree of violence was permissible in my culture - students, servants, urchins, neighborhood toughs. But, I pushed the boundaries of even other relationships. Once I took a rude parent by the arm to walk him out of my room. I banged on the table of my startled principal to make points. Another time I shook a policeman almost senseless for trying to shake down my scooter-driver. All those actions -- more than I could actually list -- pointed inevitably towards the excess of my last action.

So many people in the world -- from Chile to Cambodia -- had a cause, at least as justified as mine, against Kissinger, yet was I the first to have access both to his person and to dangerous weapons at the same time and place? How many times had he been exposed to the possibility of a stray, lunatic assault?

Kissinger came to The Solstice at least once a month; usually for dinner, and never failed to engage me in what he must consider friendly banter.

If I really wanted to hurt him, all I would have to do is wait for his next visit. I would watch him from the bridge to the serving station, eyes glazed and lower lip hanging, signs of a glutton, or just age, slowly passing morsels of rich food from his plate to his mouth on the tips of a silver fork. I could snatch that fork away and stab him in the eye faster than any security man could bat an eyelid. Besides, they were easily distracted with a plate of appetizers. Realizing that I had him in my hands seemed to have a calming effect on me. No matter what impertinent comments he made, I thought to myself, Old man, you have no idea how close you are to danger!

I wondered if he was rude to people from every country whose independence he had opposed. Or, did he detect some streak of defiance beneath the veneer of my professional politeness that prompted him to make rude remarks about my country? I expected the animal instinct to be strong in a man like him. Instead of outright injury, I toyed with the idea of insults. Splashed wine, stinging slap.

The more I thought about it, I also realized that no injury I could cause him would get either Kissinger himself or the world to see him as I wished. Still, part of me wanted to be provoked to the point of explosion, no matter what the outcome. Could you get deported for mouthing off a former Secretary of State? Could such rashness be construed as a threat to national security?

Of course, even the slightest of actions entertained in my fantasies would certainly cost me my job, if not throw me in jail. For all my pride, I found that that was deterrent enough. I don't understand why life's restraints work so well on people like me, but not on the likes of Kissinger or the killers of 1971, when it comes to wreaking harm. Why can some people, literally, get away with murder, becoming ministers, or dining on Pemaquid oysters, while we can only stew in impotent rage?

I chose as a sign of protest the habit of leaving it to other waiters to see Kissinger off. I refused to pull his chair or fetch his coat. Dodging these tasks became an art, made easy by the fact that four other waiters were perfectly happy to step in for a big man. The Head Waiter himself loved attending to his biggest clients so much that he did not seem to notice that I was absconding from my proper role.

I started working fewer nights, having finally relented to offer private lessons to some Bangladeshi students. Some of them struggled to pass high school, while others strove to earn good scholarships. These tuitions paid very little, but I found that they formed a good balance with my restaurant job. Instead of cursing Kissinger all the way back from work on the 7 train I jotted down little points for the next day's lessons. I was sure I could get many more of my students qualified for college than they seemed to think possible.

I had saved up enough money to buy a place of my own, though I chose to send it back to my brother. I told them to buy an apartment in Dhaka. I started taking a Bangla paper now and then to my diner in the mornings; football scores of teams I once rooted for brought a strange glow of warmth to my heart. The novelty of meeting a figure like Kissinger began to fade. He stopped seeming like history embodied. I began to realize the impossibility of finding satisfaction in the event of a great wrong. I asked my students, during a lesson on the Liberation War, "Can you forgive those who don't even know that they need to be forgiven?" I drew blank stares, and diverted the discussion to other topics.

I thought of writing a letter to the student whom I had hurt. Even though I was sure he could never forgive me.

Kissinger's provocations did not abate. I see you have once again topped the list for corruption. What is it with your people? Don't you really think it might do better as a province of India? The man's capacity for offense was endless. But his comments could not touch me anymore. Indeed, when he came to The Solstice soon after the Bangladeshi Independence Day, I reminded him of the fact, knowing full well he might use it as an opening. "Not much to show for thirty some years, except billions in aid and debt?"

"So it would seem from afar, Mr. Kissinger. But not up close," I contradicted, taking a chance. At any rate, the man's predictability amused me.

That night I finally saw him off. I fetched his coat and opened the door, towering over his short, stooped figure, moving slowly under heavy coats.

"Thank you, James," said Kissinger, as he stepped into the cold March night for the warm cocoon of a waiting limousine.

"Goodnight, Mr. Kissinger," said I, drawing the door of the Solstice behind him to a close.

Kazi Anis Ahmed is director of academic affairs, University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh.