America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

The next evening, the central garden was brightly lit.

Arthur and Isabella arrived at the venue on time, holding their invitations, and entered the venue under the guidance of the waiters.

Arthur, dressed in that dark blue suit, looked dashing and didn't appear to be a junior editor at all.

Isabella walked beside him, wearing a silver-white dress and only light makeup. Her cool and aloof demeanor outshone the heavily made-up girls around her.

As they entered, the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies in the banquet hall exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, scrutiny, and a barely perceptible wariness.

"Who is that?" someone asked in a low voice.

"Never seen you before. From Boston? You don't look like an ordinary person."

"Whose daughter is that over there? She's got quite the air about her..."

Amidst a murmur of discussion, the crowd suddenly parted.

It turned out to be Jimmy Walker walking over, followed by several people.

Walker was dressed in an elegant suit, holding a glass of champagne, and wearing a standard, polite smile.

He stopped in front of Arthur, his gaze lingering on Arthur for a moment, then on Isabella, a hint of amazement in his eyes.

"Welcome, welcome. It's an honor for New York to see such an outstanding young man at my ball."

He first nodded to Isabella with an elegant gesture.

"Welcome, charming lady."

Then he looked at Arthur, like a cat looking at a mouse under its paws.

"Mr. Kennedy, you have excellent taste. I used to think you were only sensitive to words, but I never imagined your aesthetic sense was so outstanding as well."

Arthur ignored him, subtly shifting his body to shield Isabella behind him.

"Mayor, you're too kind. I'm just an ordinary person who came to watch the fun. This wonderful ball might provide some material for me to record."

"Write it down?" Walker smiled and patted Arthur on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, young man, there's plenty of interesting stuff tonight. Come on, we've saved you seats at the head table, let's have a good chat."

The two looked at each other, neither looking away, and the atmosphere was somewhat awkward.

Then, Walker smiled, gestured for them to proceed, and the people behind him made way for him.

Arthur felt Isabella's hand trembling slightly.

He took her hand in his own and squeezed her fingers. Although he didn't say a word, Isabella seemed to understand what Arthur meant, and she squeezed her fingers back slightly.

A moment later, the group sat down at the main table, where the flickering candlelight cast shimmering shadows on their faces.

"Arthur, my child."

Walker put down his knife, took out a check from his pocket, which was already signed, pressed it with his fingertip, and slowly pushed it in front of Arthur.

"Five thousand US dollars. This is just the beginning. I can also offer you a position at the city hall, deputy head of public relations, how about that?"

"All you need to do in the next 'Mr. Silas' story is to write: Silas discovers that the bricks on those bridges are actually the cornerstone of New York's prosperity. It's that simple, isn't it?"

Arthur was stunned.

A brick? Did this mayor really take that casually scribbled metaphor as a threat? And even rush to bribe him?

He glanced at the check. Five thousand dollars—no small sum. He looked around; the well-dressed people were all watching him, waiting for his reaction.

Do you think I can be bought off with five thousand dollars?

Besides, I've seen the movie "The Runaway Mayor" myself. You, Mayor Walker, will have to exile yourself to Europe in less than two years.

Joining your city hall now is no better than getting into the palace through connections in 1911.

So Arthur pushed the check back.

"Mr. Mayor, I appreciate your kindness. But I don't quite agree with your approach."

Walker's smile vanished instantly.

"Don't want to be a minister? Then you can only be a prisoner."

He leaned forward a little more.

"Agent Fox will find something in your apartment that will keep you on Rikers Island for life."

He paused, then turned his gaze to Isabella, his expression indifferent, as if she were an ornament.

"As for this young lady..."

Walker gestured with his chin toward a burly follower beside him.

The man grinned, walked around the table to Isabella's side, and reached out, his thick fingers darting towards her chin in a flirtatious manner.

"The little girl's dress is quite pretty, it's a pity she followed the wrong person."

The attendant's voice was full of mockery.

"What future can you have following a poor editor who's about to sink into the Hudson River? You can still leave now, maybe... the mayor can point you in a better direction."

Walker chuckled softly, and the servants at the table laughed along. They thought the girl should be terrified, screaming and running away.

But Isabella didn't.

Just as the hand was about to touch her, she jerked back and then slowly, very slowly, stood up.

Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt tightly, her face flushed red, but her eyes burned with a light she had never seen before.

She looked at Walker, her lips trembling, but she managed to squeeze out a sound.

"Mayor, your actions just now, as well as the actions of your subordinates, may have violated the Federal Civil Rights Act."

Her voice was very soft, almost inaudible amidst the laughter, but she enunciated each word clearly:

"According to the 1925 case of Gitroën v. New York, even state executives have no right to interfere with citizens' freedom of publication. Furthermore, personal harassment and threats violate the constitutionally protected human dignity."

"The search you mentioned is unconstitutional without due process. Mr. Arthur's writings are protected by law, and so am I... my personal safety."

The air fell silent for a moment.

Then Walker burst into laughter, laughing so hard he almost fell over, as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Law? Jurisprudence?"

He looked Isabella up and down, his eyes full of contempt.

"My little girl, did you just memorize a couple of lines from some cheap law book and dare to come here to act? In New York, my word is law."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"Looking like you, you might be good at dancing on Broadway. Talking about law here? It's disgusting."

"Security! Get these two arrogant idiots out of here!"

"etc."

Arthur didn't look at the two security guards who were walking over. He stood up slowly and straightened his cuffs.

Then he picked up a silver fork from the table and gently tapped the crystal glass in front of him.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The crisp sound echoed through the gradually quieting hall.

Arthur walked around the dining table and onto the small platform in the middle of the banquet hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening."

"I'm a junior editor at the New York Daily News. Everyone's been talking about Mr. Silas lately, so I thought I'd take this opportunity, since the mayor is here, to tell you a story about him."

The two security guards stopped and looked at Walker, somewhat bewildered.

Walker didn't speak, he just stared coldly at Arthur.

"The story is called 'Mr. Silas's Will'."

"Everyone knows that Mr. Silas is quite good at comforting himself."

"He lost all his money in the stock market, yet he could look at the declining chart and say, 'Great, I've finally achieved asset lightweighting.'"

"He got his wallet stolen, and he could proudly announce: 'I hired a professional running companion for a small amount of money, and he even kept my wallet safe for me.'"

A few dry laughs rang out from the audience, but quickly faded away.

"But Mr. Silas is not alone." Arthur paused, his gaze sweeping over every face in the audience.

"He's sitting right here among you. He is, in fact, New York itself."

"Everyone in this city plays this game. When the city hall officials see a crack in a bridge, they'll say, 'That's not a crack, that's a ventilation hole designed for airflow.'"

"When Wall Street tycoons see a bubble about to burst, they say, 'That's not a crash, it's just a crouch to jump higher.'"

"In his will, Mr. Silas wrote: 'I leave 'blindness' to those sitting at the head table, because they need this disease to put their minds at ease.'"

"I leave the 'pretending to sleep' to all the gentlemen of this city, because as long as you keep your eyes closed, the fire that is burning over you will only be fireworks in your dreams."