“Bobby’s going to change all that.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is. And I’m going to invite you to the White House to admit that you were wrong.”

Verena went to the door. “Good-bye, George.”

“I can’t believe it ends like this.”

“The maid will see you out.”

George found it difficult to think straight. He had loved Verena for years, and had assumed they would marry sooner or later. Now she had ditched him for a Black Panther. He felt lost. Although they had lived apart, he had always been able to think about what he would say to her and how he would caress her next time they were together. Now he was alone.

The maid came in and said: “This way, Mr. Jakes, if you please.”

Automatically he followed her to the hall. She opened the front door. “Thank you,” he said.

“Good-bye, Mr. Jakes.”

George got into his rented car and drove away.

• • •

On voting day in the California primary, George was with Bobby Kennedy at the Malibu beach home of John Frankenheimer, the movie director. The weather was overcast that morning, but nevertheless Bobby swam in the ocean with his twelve-year-old son, David. They both got caught in the undertow and emerged with scratches and scrapes from being dragged over the pebbles. After lunch Bobby fell asleep beside the pool, stretched out across two chairs, his mouth open. Looking through the glass patio doors, George noticed an angry mark on Bobby’s forehead from the swimming incident.

He had not told Bobby that he had broken up with Verena. He had told only his mother. He barely had time to think on the campaign trail, and California had been nonstop: airport mob scenes, motorcades, hysterical crowds, and packed meetings. George was glad to be so busy. He had the luxury of feeling sad only for a few minutes every night before falling asleep. Even then he found himself imagining conversations with Verena in which he persuaded her to return to legitimate politics and campaign for Bobby. Perhaps their different approaches had always been a manifestation of fundamental incompatibility. He had never wanted to believe that.

At three o’clock the results of the first exit poll were broadcast on TV. Bobby led Gene McCarthy 49 percentage points to 41. George was elated. I can’t win my girl, but I can win elections, he thought.

Bobby showered and shaved and put on a blue pin-striped suit and a white shirt. Either the suit, or perhaps his increased confidence, made him seem more presidential than ever before, George thought.

The bruise on Bobby’s forehead was unsightly, but John Frankenheimer found some professional movie makeup in the house and covered up the mark.

At half past six the Kennedy entourage got into cars and drove into Los Angeles. They went to the Ambassador Hotel, where the victory celebration was already getting under way in the ballroom. George went with Bobby to the Royal Suite on the fifth floor. There in a large living room a hundred or more friends, advisers, and privileged journalists were downing cocktails and congratulating one another. Every TV set in the suite was on.