The Beginning Hour

THE BEGINNING HOUR ‘A golden age of poetry and power Of which this noonday’s the beginning hour.’ I The slim, black-haired man finished his coffee, threw some money on the table and left the café. Mexico City was still busy this late in the year and in a few minutes he was just one of the hundreds strolling along the crowded streets. Not that there was anything unusual about him anyway – he was casually dressed, was wearing sunglasses and had a camera slung over his shoulder. He stopped now and then to look in some shop windows or at some leathers but he didn’t buy anything. Further along the street he came across a line of taxis waiting for business. He strolled over and leaned in at the open window of the first and gave the driver an address before climbing in the back. Fifteen minutes later they had left the crowds behind and were driving slowly along a backstreet of non-descript buildings and drab grey government offices. The black-haired man was leaning forward in his seat, glancing at all the buildings as they passed. When he spotted the one he was looking for he gave no indication that he’d seen it and asked the driver to stop further along the street at the address he’d given earlier. After the taxi had gone, there was an oppressive quiet about the area, broken only by the distant hum of the traffic from the busier part of the city. He waited on the corner awhile, the hot afternoon sun beating down on him. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he headed back down the empty street, casually glancing round now and then. As he approached the building he wanted, he looked at his watch. He had timed it perfectly. He smiled and walked into the Cuban Embassy. *** Inside, the small reception room was cool after the dusty heat of the street. He removed his sunglasses and mopped his face with a handkerchief. Across the room, a door opened and a clerk appeared. There was no conversation. The black-haired man reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his passport and handed it over. The clerk glanced at the name and the photograph then withdrew. He was staring at an oil painting of Fidel Castro when the door opened again. He turned and a uniformed, bearded man was standing in the doorway. The man was holding his passport and smiling, his teeth white against the dark beard. He held the door open and in heavily accented English said, “Come in, Mr Oswald. We’ve been expecting you.” *** Two hours later, Lee Harvey Oswald was sitting at a table at another of the city’s many outdoor cafés. He drank some coffee then took out an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He opened the envelope and with a slightly trembling hand, removed the single small sheet of paper. All that had been typed on it was - N22. He took out a small notebook and flicked it open to November. Running his finger down the column of dates, he came to the twenty second. Next to it was written – Dallas. He replaced the notebook then burned the small sheet of paper, letting the ashes fall and grinding them underfoot. He leaned back in his chair and drank some

more coffee. N22 – November the twenty second, in Dallas, Texas. Two months to make his arrangements. Two months until the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. II Rain sleeked down over the White House. It formed small pools on the manicured green lawns and the long sweeping drives. From a small, unlit office in the sprawling buildings, a man watched it hammering against the windows. He liked to slip away to this rarely used side-room from time to time while the elite argued about policies in the main offices. He’d made some important decisions here, decisions which had been incorporated into current legislation but the enormity of what he’d arranged with Oswald completely overshadowed all of them. Sometimes the sheer immensity of what he’d done stunned him and he could only sit and stare. More so now, with Dallas only a few days away but then the familiar cold logic would reassert itself and he’d realise his decision had been correct. He poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling through the late November gloom. It was all like a dream this Kennedy presidency. A big dream. A thousand day dream - but it was a dream we’d all wanted. Every one of us. Me included. We’d all wanted so badly to believe in that dream and Kennedy was the one who put us all to sleep to dream it. Well now it was time to wake up. To wake from this dream of life before we all slipped into a fucking coma. He sipped his drink and looked out at the rain. He drew heavily on his cigarette and watched the smoke drifting against the window. Ash fell on the uncarpeted floor but he never noticed it. He shook his head as he thought of all that foolish idealism, that ridiculous Kennedy idealism…between the idea and the reality always falls the shadow…Kennedy was the idea and the price they were all now paying was the reality. And there was an immense black shadow hanging over the country. The shadow of Vietnam, of the Bay of Pigs, of the Cuban Missiles Crisis, of problems with Congress, of race riots. He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, feet up on the desk, hands clasped behind his head. Jesus, this Vietnam thing looked like it was getting out of hand, even though they’d had the best advice on it. General Douglas MacArthur himself had said don’t get involved in any land battles in Asia. MacArthur! The top military mind in the country. So what did the Kennedy administration do? Send in troops. Advisers. Twenty thousand of them now in full combat gear. He sneered in the darkening room. Advisers! He shook his head angrily. And the two Cuban fiascos – the shambles of the Bay of Pigs invasion followed by the Missiles Crisis a year later. And what did the Kennedy elite do after the Missiles Crisis? Ordered all those ICBMs. Naturally the Russians found out and naturally they started their own arsenal. So from now on they would have to match each other weapon for weapon. What kind of world will that bring? Christ in the future when these times are re-examined they’ll blame Kennedy for starting the nuclear arms race. And that stone-hearted bastard Khrushchev had thrown up the Berlin Wall after the Cuban shit too! Just two years and ten months in power, Jack and so far you’ve managed to separate East from West with a wall, behind which each side is madly trying to out-manufacture the other in nuclear arms! So much for idealism. So much for the great Kennedy dream. It has to stop now. Before any more damage is done. Before people wake up themselves and see their expectations shattered. Christ, it’s not exactly as if the dream’s running smoothly here either.

Already you’re having big problems with Congress, Jack. Well what the hell did you expect after you and your elitist White House fraternity alienated them? Cooperation? No wonder they’re blocking some of your economic policies and you can’t get your campaign promises fulfilled. And Civil Rights? You jumped on that bandwagon when you thought it was heading in the right direction and where did it lead? Race riots, lynchings, more problems in the South than ever before. Murders that are turning people like Edgar Evers into martyrs. He sighed and shook his head then stood up and walked over to the window and looked out. The sky was dull and the rain showed no signs of stopping. He watched it awhile as it fell into the small pools on the lawn. All his cold logic made sense as he knew it would and the earlier doubts vanished. “Your dream’s turning into a nightmare, Jack,” he said softly, “and somebody has to wake us up. Now!” The country would be stunned when it happened. Sure it would. People would be dazed awhile but everybody’s dazed when they first wake up. It takes time to adjust to reality again but once people were fully awake, they’d start to forget all about their dreams. There was one major point about it all that still bothered him though. He walked back to the desk and opened his brief-case. He took out the book and glanced at the now familiar cover. He’d read it some time ago and after he’d set up the deal with Oswald, a particular line from it strayed into his mind. He opened the book at the corner he’d turned down and stared at the sentence he’d underlined in red ink. He read it to himself quietly a few times. It comforted him that the problem had been acknowledged hundreds of years ago. “Comfort from what?” he asked himself. He was too honest not to give a truthful answer. “From having to face the consequences,” he answered softly. He sighed and slipped the book back into his brief-case then left the office. III Oswald raised the curtained window about a foot then studied it from behind the table. Too high. He lowered it a few inches then studied it again. It would do for now. He unzipped the case and piece by piece, removed the rifle. He looked down the barrel, checked the firing mechanism, ran his hand along the stock. Then he cleaned and assembled it. There was a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner of the room and he kicked some books out of the way and dragged it over to the table. The floor creaked as he moved but there was no-one around to hear him anyway. He sat down and laid the rifle across the small sandbag he’d already placed on the table. The barrel rolled smoothly across the top but he’d need to wedge it somehow till he sighted it. He reached over and chopped the sandbag with the edge of his hand then laid the barrel in the groove. It held. He settled in the chair, the stock snug against his shoulder and looked through the sights. The crowd across the street jumped into blurred nearness. He slowly revolved the sights until they swam into sharp focus. He slipped his finger round the trigger and steadied the barrel with his other hand. Faces. They were just faces. A lot of faces. He picked one. A man. In a baseball hat. Smiling. Talking to his neighbour. Could see his lips moving. See his teeth. The man leaned back and laughed. Opened his mouth wide. Oswald pulled the trigger and blew off the back of his head. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. He smiled, lifted the rifle and swept it up and down the street. A minute adjustment to the sights. Flatten out the sandbag. He stood the gun against the table and took out a small cardboard box from his

jacket pocket. Three hollow-nosed bullets nestled inside on some cotton wool. He loaded them in slowly and clicked one into the breech. He was ready. He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the dull sky. A chill breeze blew in the window but he never noticed it. From far below, the noise of the crowd drifted up to him, a dull roaring. Something occurred to him and he smiled and pulled himself back from the sky. He picked up the rifle and peered through the sights. A slight sweep. Found what he was looking for. Stared and felt his finger tensing on the trigger. NOT NOW! DON’T PULL NOW! He smiled and eased off the pressure and laid the rifle on the table. The man in the baseball cap had been eating popcorn. IV He was still brooding over the implications of the sentence he’d underlined in the book. Sitting in a small ante-room in the Dallas hotel, staring out the windows. The weather matched his mood. The sky was a dirty grey and still held the threat of rain. Earlier, he’d seen the Agents pulling the top up on the presidential limousine, then it had cleared a little and they’d taken it down again. Strange, he’d thought at the time, how the weather might have cancelled an assassination. But then if it didn’t happen today, it would happen some other time. He opened his briefcase and took out the book. It flipped open at the page he’d turned down and he read the passage again. It still bothered him. More so than any of the other after-effects and they were going to be bad enough. It went against everything he’d been taught but there was no way round it. Arranged any other way, the implications would still be the same. The one redeeming feature was that given different circumstances it would never have entered his mind. If the President had been somebody else, it would never have been considered. It was being done for the country. No other reason. He smiled in the darkening room. He was beginning to believe his own rationalisation. He stood up and walked over to the window. Down in the cordoned-off courtyard the Agents were making their final check on the limousine. You’re wasting your time, he thought. He watched them until they finished and the outriders mounted their Harleys. The courtyard was now full of people milling around. Governor Connally and one of his aides appeared. It was time. V The crowd began cheering further up the street. They were coming. He glanced down. All craning their heads away to the right. The sky’s pulling me. Up. Pulling me up….Leave the sky alone. Held out his hand – only a slight tremor. Saw the hand pick up the rifle. Felt the stock smooth and hard against his cheek. The crowd in focus. Flags. Waving flags. Seconds stretched out inside his head. Someone turned the volume down in the crowd. A white helmet on a Harley. Then another. Like they were sailing along. Not touching the ground. The limousine floated in. A small American flag fluttering on the bonnet. Looks so clean. Kennedy looks so clean. Smiling and waving. Saying something to Jackie. Glancing round. Eyes met. Then away. HE LOOKED AT ME! HE LOOKED AT ME! Can’t kill a man so clean. LOOKED AT ME! PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER! NOW!! He pulled. Connally lurched to the side.

No noise from the crowd at all. Why so quiet? Why so quiet? The second bullet shattered Kennedy’s head. Saw him jump then fall against Jackie. Fired again. It hit. Leaned back. Laid the rifle down. Head on the table. Oh man, the way he jumped way he jumped…why’d you fire three fire three…just to make sure make sure… Someone turned the volume up in the crowd.

VI in.

They’d just seen it on television back at the hotel. It was difficult to take

“The President’s been shot!” somebody screamed in the hall. Others were openly weeping. A couple of women became hysterical but everybody was too stunned to do anything about them. “But we only said goodbye to him a short time ago,” the Manager said to those beside him. Nobody heard him. In his room on the top floor one of the off duty desk-clerks had also seen it on tv. “It happens every day,” he muttered, turning the sound down and walking over to the door. He looked out into the corridor. No-one around. He slipped along to the lift and took it down to the ground floor. The entrance hall was full of confused, weeping people. He smiled and took the lift back up to the second floor. It was deserted. So was the suite Kennedy and his aides had used for their brief stay. He searched the main rooms looking for anything that might have been left behind but there was nothing. “There must be something,” he said to himself. “People always forget something. Clothes or papers or maybe some jewellery.” In one of the small ante-rooms he almost missed it. A book lying on the window ledge. He picked it up and flicked it open. The inscription on the inside cover said, ‘To Jack from Jackie.’ He grinned. It was Kennedy’s! He slipped it inside his shirt and strolled back to the lift. The corridor was still deserted. Back in his room a re-run of the shooting was being shown on tv. He glanced at it then took out the book. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. “Big deal,” he said and flipped through the pages. Maybe some notes or pictures shoved into it. There was nothing. He read the inscription again. It was definitely Kennedy’s. There would be a good price for this once the heat had died down. Better leave it for a few months though. There’s gonna be some shit flyin after this one. He flicked through the book again in case he’d missed something and noticed that the corner of one of the pages had been turned down. He glanced at the page and saw that part of a sentence had been underlined in red ink : ‘Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon gainst self-slaughter.’ He frowned and shook his head. It meant nothing to him. He strolled over to his wardrobe, opened it and unlocked a drawer inside it. He shoved the book way at the back under some papers. Nobody would find it there. Probably nobody would be looking for it anyway. He grinned and locked the drawer. VII Two days into his presidency, Lyndon B. Johnson sat alone at his desk in the Oval Office. He picked up his private telephone and dialled a number from memory. When a man answered he asked a pre-arranged coded question. When the correct

answer was received he spoke another coded sentence then hung up. As it had been planned with the late President Kennedy, he had just spoken to Jack Ruby.