"Why
do we study coup d'etats in a course on politics?" asked
Jacob Foxx, Assistant Professor of Government at Harvard.
Foxx slowly surveyed
the packed lecture hall, letting the students stew for
a moment in their own silence. The five-hundred-odd
seats in Lowell Lecture Hall were full. A few students
were even squatting Indian-style in the aisles. Without
question, his course, "The Pathology of Politics," was
now the most popular in the Government Department. Not
the great Galbraith in the Economics Department nor
the celebrated Schlesinger in the History Department
had as many students in their lectures.
"No takers?" Foxx asked,
breaking the silence. His wiry brown hair, which flopped
over his brow like a schoolboy's, made him look more
relaxed than he was "Then let me answer my own question."
After pausing a moment, he began. "The coup in its purest
form is an act of' statecraft. Its objective is not
overthrowing the mythic political system nor paper constitutions,
but the instruments of power that control the state.
Perhaps it is not in your standard textbooks, but the
coup cuts to the heart of the study of politics."
Like an orchestra conductor,
Foxx punctuated each point he made with both hands slicing
the air. Finishing this brief introduction, he stepped
back from the lectern. He tended to slouch slightly
when he relaxed. Being nearly six feet four inches tall,
he was somewhat self-conscious about his height. The
undergraduates seemed quite impressed with his lecture.
This was only his third year at Harvard, and already
his course had received a rave review in the "Confidential
Guide to Classes" published by the Harvard Crimson.
It described Government 233a as "the hottest thing going
on in an otherwise dead Government Department." And
it was especially kind to him, noting that "Professor
Foxx avoids the usual humdrum about legalities, constitutions,
etc. Instead, he applies his own Machiavellian cunning
to political power." It concluded its recommendation
with "New, original, and requires very little outside
reading." Actually, the review had proved something
of an embarrassment. His colleagues in the Government
Department were teaching courses about the very sort
of constitutions and formalities his course derided.
The review added fuel to an already burning fire. Foxx
knew from remarks made at faculty meetings that his
colleagues considered his presentation overly dramatic
and overly conspiratorial. On the other hand, he was
undeniably drawing more students than any other lecturer.
They would have to take that fact into account when
he came up for tenure in the spring.
While the class watched,
Foxx quickly drew a maze of circles, squares, arrows,
and interconnecting lines on the backboard behind him.
"Think for a moment of government as a labyrinth," he
resumed. "Painted on the outside Walls of this labyrinth
are figureheads— a president, Congress, Cabinet members.
To find the power, it is necessary to enter into the
maze itself. Here, in nameless bureaus are faceless
men that keep records, reports, and dossiers." He paused
to allow the students to catch up with him in their
note taking.
A hand shot up in the
front row. Foxx instantly recognized it as belonging
to Brixton Steer. Even down to the bow tic, young Brixton
looked like an exact replica of his elegant father,
Ambassador Steer. Since Brixton was also his tutee,
Foxx knew how conscientious he could be. "Question,
Mr. Steer?"
"If I understand you
correctly, Professor," Steer began over-deferentially,
"you suggested that elected officials are merely fronts
for hidden power elites."
"You got it. The modern
bureaucratic state," Foxx replied.
"Then I don't quite
understand why coup d'etats often aim at overthrowing
these figureheads?" Steer sat down, knowing his question
would be answered.
Foxx said, nodding
as if he were taking in its fullest implications. He
welcomed questions because they broke the tedium of
the lecture, and allowed him to refocus the students'
attention. "I did not mean to minimize the important
function of elected leaders. Even though they do not
exercise real power in this model, they still symbolize
it in the public's imagination. The first objective
of the coup d'etat is to capture the real nerve centers
of government. This may be a military communications
center, a counterintelligence agency, the censorship
authority, or whatever. Once the coup controls the inner
machinery that collects and disburses information, it
controls the government. If the coup-makers want to
publicly identify this change in power, this requires
some sort of symbolic coup d'etat-which is what we read
about in the newspapers. It involves overthrowing and
possibly arresting the elected leaders. Such a symbolic
coup should not be confused with the real coup which
preceded it."
Foxx could see that
he was losing the interest of the class. The signs were
unmistakable: papers could be heard rustling, eyes began
wandering around the amphitheater, and shoes scraped
together. He could almost feel the students becoming
fidgety. He had been too analytical in describing the
coup d'etat, he thought. What students at Harvard demanded
was not disembodied concepts but interesting anecdotes—
anecdotes they could repeat in their houses and clubs--
they could use later to impress their friends.
"Consider, for example,
what really happened in Venezuela in 1948." As he began
his anecdote, he could see students perking up their
cars. It reminded him of police dogs responding to a
subsonic whistle. "I happened to be in Caracas that
year doing research on my thesis. The real coup occurred
in October, when the counter elite seized control of
such power centers as the liaison with the U.S. Military
Mission in Caracas, which then operated all the military
airports in Venezuela; the Central Telephone Exchange,
which controlled communications between the capital
and the provinces; the anti-subversive unit of the National
Gendarmerie, which held dossiers on key politicians;
and the State Security Agency in the Ministry of Interior,
which could neutralize any pro-government military unit
by issuing fake marching orders. After they had gained
real power, the coup-makers in turn waited until November
fifteenth, 1948, before overthrowing the President and
closing down Parliament."
He hesitated for a
brief moment, seeing his tutee, Arabella, out of the
corner of his eye. She was entering the lecture on mock
tiptoes.
When she reached the
third row, a young man in a charcoal suit and white
buck shoes offered her his seat. She had that effect
on men. She sat in his stead, easing one leg over the
other, she dangled her calf so that her toe just touched
the floor.
Foxx touched his hand
to the back of his neck. It was damp, the first sign
of anxiety. "The coup may thus provide us with the only
glimpse we will ever get of the actual power structure."
Arabella couldn’t help
but smile at her tutor’s performance. He reminded her
of a man on a tightrope, who smiled to impress the audience
with his utter confidence while betraying his fear with
short tentative steps. At times, she held her breath,
sure that he would fall flat on his face with some point
he was making, but he always managed, somehow, to regain
his balance. At Oxford, where Arabella had studied Philosophy,
three years, she had never seen a professor quite like
him. She thought that he was pushing his "hidden power
structures" much further than logic allowed, but his
enthusiasm to clear away the underbrush made her head
spin, like when she had drunk too much champagne.
His lecture concluded,
as it always did, just as the chimes began ringing.
He was nothing if not punctual. He always tried to avoid
watching the students as they filed out. Experience
had taught him that even the briefest eye contact might
cause students to linger and ask half-articulated questions
about the nature of politics. He knew by the time the
last chime struck the lecture hall would empty out.
Like everyone else, students were creatures of habit.
Turning to the blackboard, he began erasing the maze
of symbols.
Foxx whistled a tune
he couldn't quite remember as he walked across the Yard.
It was only November, but the frost had already defoliated
most of the trees on in Harvard yard. He tried to protect
himself against the cold wind by hunching his shoulders,
though he knew it was a illogical gesture.
His office was on the
third floor of Littauer Center. It wasn't very large,
but he had taken pride in furnishing it with the few
possessions he care about. His ex-wife Lulu, a luscious
Parisian photographer, had bought the Spanish colonial
desk in Venezuela. It was all he had to show for his
four years of service there or, for that matter, his
four years of marriage. Lulu turned out to be a lulu:
She went to France to visit her parents and never returned.
Eight months later, he received a note from her saying,
"Sorry but I don't breed well in captivity. Divorce
papers on route."
The leather Chesterfield
sofa he had bought soon after receiving Lulu's letter.
He got it at Turtle’s auction house in downtown Boston.
Its previous owner, a professor of Art history, was
famous for seducing his tutees on it. Its seventy-six
inches of black pleated leather turned out to be a perfect
length for him to snooze on. Over it was his latest
acquisition, a Belle Epoch etching by Beardsley.
The shelves were conspicuously
empty of books. As far as he was concerned, few books
had been written on politics that deserved to be reread.
On the floor was an Armenian dragon carpet. It had been
a gift from his mother. She never said where she had
gotten this museum piece— or very much else, except
on a “need to know” basis. She had refused even to tell
him even his father's proper name. All he had ever learned
of him was that he was some sort of international businessman.
Most of Foxx's youth was spent traveling through Europe
with his mother. She usually identified him as a nephew
or cousin. He played along with this deception, arranging
his identity and cover story to fit hers. Only after
die died in a car crash did he begin to establish his
own identity, first as a political scientist at UCLA,
then as a propagandist in Venezuela, Now, at thirty-three,
he was an Assistant professor at Harvard.
Sitting at his desk,
he leafed through the report on his desk called “'Praetorian
Politics." He would be presenting it at the colloquium
he had been invited to in New York that Friday.
His eye than fell on
a post card. It was the latest move in the correspondence
chess game he had been playing for two years with an
opponent whom he had never met. He slid out the chess
set from his desk drawer. It was more interesting than
his presentation. Was his opponent attempting to lure
him into a trap? He scribbled a counter move on a postcard.
A knock on the door
interrupted him. Through the translucent glass, he could
see a student's silhouette. "One moment, please," he
called. He put the chessboard back in the drawer— he
want his students to think of him as a compulsive game
player— and returned the report to his desk.
"Sorry to break in
on you like this," Arabella said, standing in the open
doorway. "I was hoping that we could re-schedule my
tutorial."
"Isn't it scheduled
for later this afternoon?" "Yes, 4 pm. But my sister
Tina left a message she is going to call me at home
then. Can't be in two places at one time, though I sometimes
wish I could. She is coming to Cambridge. Perhaps I
can bring her to your lecture, Professor Foxx."
"why not. Is she interested
in politics: "Pathological politics," she corrected.
"No, not really. Tina's interests lie..." She was quite
content to let her sentences dangle in midair. Men usually
rushed in to complete them favorably for her.
"Elsewhere," Foxx completed
the sentence on cue. "When would you like to do the
tutorial?" Is this a convenient time."
He picked up the report
on his desk as to show how busy he was “I have to edit
this paper..."
She had that confidant
glint in her eye saying, as if to say she knew something
he didn’t know. He wanted to tell her to come back the
following the week, just to teach her a lesson about
who was in control. Instead, he heard himself say, “"But
I can do that later paper later. Sit down, please”
Leaving the door slightly
ajar, she made her way to the Chesterfield. The sun,
streaming in the window behind her, revealed the outlines
of her lithe body through a loose gauze dress. She slid
into the sofa, tucking her legs under her skirt, with
great agility.
He again felt those
tell-tale beads of perspiration forming on his neck.
He hoped she did not see them. He had known Arabella
only since September, when she had transferred from
Oxford to Harvard. He had been impressed first with
her mind. Although she was only nineteen, she applied
the rigor of a trained logician to everything said in
her presence. She relished challenging whatever points
he made. A belle dame sans merci. But it was her body
that came to unnerved him. "Have you had a chance to
read the chapter on the labyrinth, Arabella?"
“Every word, twice.”
She poised her head, sphinx like, on a bridge she made
for it by clasping her hands together.
"Do you agree that
possessing a blueprint to the labyrinth of government
is in itself tantamount to power?"
"The terms of your
argument are clear enough. The power to control a government
resides in the agencies that control intra government
communications. If a potential usurper can identify
and locate these agencies, his chances of success are
increased."
"That's an excellent
summary of the thesis." He liked the terse way she stated
things, like precise hammer blows on a nail head.
"It's your basic assumption
I question." As she spoke, her ryes remained fixed on
him.
"Yes?" He swivelled
uncomfortably in his chair, opening himself to her attack.
"You assume that power
will be concentrated in a few key Centers, but what
if it is widely distributed throughout a government?"
"Even if power is dispersed,
communications will inevitably be focused in a few command
centers."
"Why inevitably?" She
spoke without hand gestures. Her body held its positions
as tenaciously as her mind.
"Because that is the
model that I've chosen to describe: a nation in which
communications are transmitted through closely held
channels." He strode over to point out the relevant
section on "Selection of models" in the manuscript she
was holding.
"Then isn’t it' tautological."
"Its political science.
We describe empirical situations. We have givens."
“But then its conditional,
not inevitable, right?”
"It's inevitable under
those hypothetical conditions," he shouted at her.
“Do you have a fever?”
she suddenly interrupted. “You’re soaking wet.”
She reached out towards
his shirt. Without thinking, he grabbed her wrists,
arresting them in mid air, clamping on invisible handcuffs.
He didn’t want her to feel the nervous sweat or know
what she aroused in him.
She pulled away with
a jolt and started moving back, towards the door.
He closed his eyes,
wondering if she would complain to the Dean. The last
thing he could afford was a scandal: HARVARD TEACHER
MOLESTS TUTEE was the headline he was envisioning as
the door banged shut.
But she was still in
the room. After locking the door, she was walking towards
him. Then, putting her arm on him for leverage, she
slipped into his lap. "I still say it's a tautological,
but so are you.”
That was it. Only two
months earlier Harvard summarily dismissed an Assistant
Professor of History for just such all indiscretion.
Yet, he knew that it was no use pretending that he could
be a rational calculator in this situation. He could
feel his excitement growing. He wanted Arabella more
than anything else. Up until now, it had been merely
a secret fantasy that he had managed to repress.
It took him only a
minute to unbutton her dress, and, with a firm tug,
pulled it over her head. Raising her hands in mock surrender,
she allowed him to finish undressing her.
She pressed her lips
to his lips with determination. Then her her right hand,
expertly guided by his own, began undoing his zipper.
Suddenly he heard footsteps
shuffling down the corridor. "You can't believe what's
happening in Washington," a distant voice was saying.
Foxx recognized it as the voice of Professor Edward
Wiley, the antitrust expert, who taught at the law school.
"Are you telling me that they are going to drop the
cartel case, Wiley?" said Professor W. L. Lock, Chairman
of the Government Department. Lock's office was next
to Foxx's.
Foxx froze as he listened
to Wiley and Lock chatting in the hall. They paused
for a moment, and then continued into Lock's office.
"They are now claiming
that national security transcends the criminal code
of justice," Wiley continued in an agitated voice.
"Bosh, it's crude oil,
that's all," Lock replied.
Foxx could hear Professor
Wiley in the next office explaining: ". . .The cartel
controls everything, ships, pipelines, refineries. If
the truth be known they control the British government.
The risks would be enormous...”
He could no longer
concentrate on what was being said in the adjoining
office. But Arabella seemed to enjoy their enforced
secrecy.
"Enormous, indeed,"
she echoed.
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