The President's Angel Read Free

nations. Sometimes one or another small country would default on a loan, or not pay interest on its debt, as happened with several Latin countries. It created economic panic. Then the banking nations, which were located north of the Equator, met in convocation and decided by a mental and mathematical prestidigitation to rearrange the terms. Feeling much better, they so advised the nations to the south. The entire system was a house of cards held together by the willing suspension of disbelief.
    â€œBut that can’t stick,” said the President, when the situation was first explained. His economic advisors assured him that it could, for the nation was enjoying unprecedented growth, due to the sales of armaments.
    â€œThe only thing holding the framework together, then, is the agreement of the banks and loaning nations to hold it together, is that right?”
    â€œYes sir,” answered the head of the Federal Reserve.
    â€œIt’s an illusion,” the President said.
    â€œIt’s not an illusion if we all agree it’s real.”
    The President thought of the story of the Emperor parading naked down the street.
    â€œAll that’s needed,” he told the head of the Federal Reserve, “is one little child to shout, ‘He hasn’t any clothes!’ The whole structure will come tumbling down around our ears.”
    â€œYou forget the rest of the story, Mr. President.” The chairman of the Chase Manhattan Bank leaned forward, grinning wickedly. The ice cubes tinkled in his scotch.
    â€œOh?” said the President. “What’s that?”
    â€œThe little boy shouted: ‘But he’s naked. The Emperor has no clothes.’ At which suddenly everyone could see the truth. The people were so shocked they turned on the child and beat his brains out with cobblestones.”
    â€œGoodness.” The President gave a laugh. The banker sank back in his chair and sipped his scotch. The two White House economic advisors looked at him quizzically.
    The banker nodded for emphasis: “Then the horses pranced, the flags waved, and the Emperor continued to sashay down the street. Everyone agreed he looked magnificent in his magic clothes.”
    At night sometimes the President thought of that. The economic recovery was based on fraudulent statistics. Rooms were filled with the calculations of computers. Forests fell for the paper on which to print the numerals that described the past or foretold the future growth of world economies.
    The President knew the fiction could not be continued forever. At some point the economists would turn the page and find themselves at the end of the book.
    The President was also concerned about the arms race. Nation after nation had nuclear weapons now: many of them overpopulated, and poor. Any one of them could detonate a weapon that would destroy a million or two of the ten billion people on the earth, leave a hole in the ozone layer, burn out the radiation shield that protected the eyes of mankind from the sun—as well as those of insects, dogs, and the pigeons in the air.
    There were fifty thousand nuclear weapons in the mid-eighties. By the time of the events recounted here, these had increased to the hundreds of thousands in landscapes plotted and pieced—fold, fallow.… Everyone agreed they did not want nuclear war, but no one agreed on how to prevent it.
    In the night, alone, the President lay awake. He was not sure if he was the Emperor or the child.
    The President’s name was Matthew. He was called Matt. His middle name was Madison, and his last name was Adams. He had won the election partly on his name. The name Adams recalled a period of principled Puritans. The name Madison recalled uneventful serenity, coupled with Virginia aristocracy. Matthew was the name of a saint, and Matt a comic book hero. His election occurred at a time when the nation felt nostalgic for high ideals. Very few people knew the President’s