of brimming glasses.
“It’s vodka. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” a smiling Grace Manning cautioned her guests. “The champagne comes later. I propose a double toast,” she said, raising her glass. “First, to the talented dancers from Ukraine who have brightened what surely would have been a dull Sunday afternoon in New York. Second, to the gentleman who arranged this exciting glimpse into his country’s cultural heritage,United Nations Ambassador Anton Zorin!”
The trim-looking Zorin downed his vodka Russian-style—in a single gulp. His glass was quickly refilled by a hovering butler. Most of the guests, but not all, sipped their vodka somewhat tentatively.
“Now it is my turn for a double toast,” the ambassador said in fluent English. “To our distinguished host, Russell Manning.” He raised his glass high. “And to Russell’s pride and joy, Medicine International, an organization that lives up to its slogan—World Peace through World Health—and by so doing contributes significantly to the relaxation of world tensions!” he enthused.
A beaming Russell Manning ran a hand through waves of silver hair. “One cannot indulge in toast-making,” he said, “without acknowledging America’s most prominent heart surgeon and noted humanitarian, Dr. Kurt Brenner. Dr. Brenner will represent the United States at Medicine International’s forthcoming Artificial Heart Symposium in West Berlin.”
Kurt Brenner acknowledged the applause with a nod and a half-smile. The silver-blue of the East River and the brighter blue of a cloudless sky were perfect backdrops for his tall, stately figure in an impeccably tailored off-white linen suit. Brenner’s eyes were velvet-brown, his face deeply tanned. His hair, in stunning contrast, was white.
He waited for his glass to be refilled. Waited, as Grace Manning had, until he had everyone’s full attention. “It looks like double toasts are in fashion,” he said with a faint smile, and wondered if the people who returned his smile were responding to his sense of humor or to the praise Russell had heaped on him. Both maybe. “To my Russian, French, and British colleagues in absentia, who will be joining me in West Berlin,” Brenner said in his rich baritone. “Andto the success of Medicine International’s Artificial Heart Symposium, which I look forward to with great anticipation.” He smiled broadly—this time for a photographer from the Soviet News Agency.
The guests lost no time in switching from vodka to champagne, and even less for descending upon the sumptuous buffet table.
“Isn’t this exciting!” exclaimed a breathless brunette version of their hostess. “Grace practically took an oath that the food’s authentic. Chicken Tabaka with garlic sauce. Fish in aspic. Pickled cabbage. Oh, and crabmeat. I hear it’s impossible to beg, borrow, or steal crabmeat in Moscow these days.”
The dancers looked longingly at the buffet table, uncertain as to whether they were allowed to approach it. Clustered in a small group off to one side, they showed no sign of the grace and vigor that had characterized their performance.
No one seemed to notice them. A couple of men in dark baggy suits stood among them. No one noticed them either.
“—cannot grasp why Americans don’t demand a standard of medical care at least as high as that found in the Soviet Union,” Ambassador Zorin was lecturing Brenner.
“You’re certainly way ahead of us there,” Brenner said diplomatically. “I’ve always admired your policy of making the health of your people a government responsibility.”
“Quite so,” Zorin said. “Once a citizen is enrolled in his or her neighborhood clinic, every medical need is met. Medical care for our children—”
“Now there’s a subject close to Kurt’s heart,” Grace Manning chimed in, taking familiar hold of Brenner’s arm.
“But of course. We in the USSR have heard a great deal about your cardiac clinic for
“It’s vodka. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” a smiling Grace Manning cautioned her guests. “The champagne comes later. I propose a double toast,” she said, raising her glass. “First, to the talented dancers from Ukraine who have brightened what surely would have been a dull Sunday afternoon in New York. Second, to the gentleman who arranged this exciting glimpse into his country’s cultural heritage,United Nations Ambassador Anton Zorin!”
The trim-looking Zorin downed his vodka Russian-style—in a single gulp. His glass was quickly refilled by a hovering butler. Most of the guests, but not all, sipped their vodka somewhat tentatively.
“Now it is my turn for a double toast,” the ambassador said in fluent English. “To our distinguished host, Russell Manning.” He raised his glass high. “And to Russell’s pride and joy, Medicine International, an organization that lives up to its slogan—World Peace through World Health—and by so doing contributes significantly to the relaxation of world tensions!” he enthused.
A beaming Russell Manning ran a hand through waves of silver hair. “One cannot indulge in toast-making,” he said, “without acknowledging America’s most prominent heart surgeon and noted humanitarian, Dr. Kurt Brenner. Dr. Brenner will represent the United States at Medicine International’s forthcoming Artificial Heart Symposium in West Berlin.”
Kurt Brenner acknowledged the applause with a nod and a half-smile. The silver-blue of the East River and the brighter blue of a cloudless sky were perfect backdrops for his tall, stately figure in an impeccably tailored off-white linen suit. Brenner’s eyes were velvet-brown, his face deeply tanned. His hair, in stunning contrast, was white.
He waited for his glass to be refilled. Waited, as Grace Manning had, until he had everyone’s full attention. “It looks like double toasts are in fashion,” he said with a faint smile, and wondered if the people who returned his smile were responding to his sense of humor or to the praise Russell had heaped on him. Both maybe. “To my Russian, French, and British colleagues in absentia, who will be joining me in West Berlin,” Brenner said in his rich baritone. “Andto the success of Medicine International’s Artificial Heart Symposium, which I look forward to with great anticipation.” He smiled broadly—this time for a photographer from the Soviet News Agency.
The guests lost no time in switching from vodka to champagne, and even less for descending upon the sumptuous buffet table.
“Isn’t this exciting!” exclaimed a breathless brunette version of their hostess. “Grace practically took an oath that the food’s authentic. Chicken Tabaka with garlic sauce. Fish in aspic. Pickled cabbage. Oh, and crabmeat. I hear it’s impossible to beg, borrow, or steal crabmeat in Moscow these days.”
The dancers looked longingly at the buffet table, uncertain as to whether they were allowed to approach it. Clustered in a small group off to one side, they showed no sign of the grace and vigor that had characterized their performance.
No one seemed to notice them. A couple of men in dark baggy suits stood among them. No one noticed them either.
“—cannot grasp why Americans don’t demand a standard of medical care at least as high as that found in the Soviet Union,” Ambassador Zorin was lecturing Brenner.
“You’re certainly way ahead of us there,” Brenner said diplomatically. “I’ve always admired your policy of making the health of your people a government responsibility.”
“Quite so,” Zorin said. “Once a citizen is enrolled in his or her neighborhood clinic, every medical need is met. Medical care for our children—”
“Now there’s a subject close to Kurt’s heart,” Grace Manning chimed in, taking familiar hold of Brenner’s arm.
“But of course. We in the USSR have heard a great deal about your cardiac clinic for
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