When I Stop Talking You

As soon as Hammer heard about this the calls started. He had tried to get on the list for the state di

But it was a no go, I couldn't do it, and Hammer finally gave up. Or so I thought. Then the night came. And Hammer showed up. No invitation? So what? There he was. I'm not sure how he got there, and do not remember the whole backstory, but Bush, who had known Hammer for years and was at that time a private citizen, said something like, "Of course, of course, he's here, let him in."

Bush introduced Hammer to Deng Xiaoping, who was thrilled to meet Hammer because he had known Lenin-so thrilled, in fact, that he insisted on being seated next to Hammer at the di

A few years later, I threw two parties at my house for Yitzhak Shamir because I really admired him. He was then prime minister of Israel. Shamir was a tough guy and a real hero. Hammer was at both parties, helping Shamir hit up the people at the di

Shamir was smart. He knew that in order to get to us, he had to get to Hammer, and to get to Hammer, he need only play on his vanity. So, at the end of di

Hammer, never shy of a spotlight, then said, "Uh, yes, Mr. Prime Minister. We will drill and the Jewish state will have its oil!"

Hammer went to each of us later, saying, "One million from you, one million from you, one million from you, and we find that oil."

When he came to me, I said, "Hey, Armand, I know a better way to get oil."

"What's that, wise guy?"

"Let's just sink a bit into the Saudi Pipeline."

I kicked in the money, though. It was always that way with Hammer. He was a very good salesman. (They never did find oil in Israel.)

Hammer became even more active as he got older. He wanted to go everywhere and see everything. His bags were packed, his plane was fueled, he was ready to travel with a change in the news. In the summer of 1982, while we were in the air on our way to South Korea, we got word that Leonid Brezhnev, the Russian premier, had died.

"Turn it around," Hammer told his pilot. "We're going to Moscow."

The pilot leaned on the stick, the plane banked steeply.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"We've got to be at that funeral," said Hammer. "It's where the action is!"

"I can't just go to Moscow like this," I said. "I don't have the clothes for it, for one thing."

"Look, Jerry," said Hammer, "history is not asking your permission. It's telling you. A man has died."

"Brezhnev was anti-Semitic," I said. "And I don't need to see him buried."

"He's been my friend forever," said Hammer. "I've got to be there."

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not going to the funeral."

"Don't worry," said Hammer. "I couldn't get you a ticket anyway."

We landed in Paris, where we were met by Soviet pilots, who flew Hammer's plane into Moscow. In those days, they did not let private jets fly into Russia, unless they were flown by Soviet pilots. I saw the vice president's plane on the runway in Moscow, Air Force Two, with the government crest on its side. "Look," said Hammer, "your friend is in town."

Hammer took a car to his apartment-he had houses and apartments all over the world-and I checked into a hotel. I called the U.S. Embassy and asked to talk to the vice president. Within a few seconds, Bush was on the phone. "What the heck are you doing here, Jerry?" he asked.

"I came with Armand," I said. "He came for the funeral."

"Are you going to the funeral?" asked Bush.

"No," I said. "Armand can't get me a ticket."

"I'm sorry, Jerry, I can't get you a ticket either," said Bush. "The Russians only gave us five, and I have Barbara with me, George Shultz and his wife, and Arthur Hartman, the ambassador. We don't even have a seat for his wife!"

"Don't worry," I told Bush. "I don't even want to go. Hammer dragged me here."

"I will call you when it's over," said Bush. "We'll have lunch at the Embassy."

"Great."

I hung up.

A minute later, the phone rang. It was Hammer. "Get dressed," he said, "I got you a ticket. We're going to the funeral."

It was a cold, bleak day. I got dressed and went down. Hammer was waiting with a car. We drove. The streets were gray cinder block after gray cinder block, same color as the sky. The people on the street looked gray, too. The Kremlin was surrounded by tanks and soldiers. When the car stopped, Hammer popped out as if he were on springs, handed me my ticket, and raced ahead. There was a checkpoint. When Armand went through, the soldiers saluted. When it was my turn, they started to talk in Russian, guns were pointed at me. I had a ticket, but it said "Florence Hammer"-Armand's wife. That is what set off the guards. I started shouting, "Armand! Armand!" It took a moment for him to hear me, to recognize his own name-he was getting old. Then he came back, pushed his way through, started talking to these guys in Russian. They calmed down as soon as they saw him, lowered their guns, apologized-not to me, to Armand.

We looked for our seats. It was like a Yankees game, when you keep getting closer and closer to the field and wonder, Jeez, who does this guy know, how good are these tickets going to be? We were on the carpet, a dozen feet from the casket, sitting with Castro, Qaddafi, and Arafat, all my favorites. The Politburo marched past me, the generals and the Red Army band. I was on all the broadcasts. As I sca

What a day! It was like stumbling into a history book. After the service, a Russian big shot came over and said, "Dr. Hammer, we want you and Mr. Weintraub to please come with us to the tomb to say good-bye to the premier before we put him in the wall."

We were taken to the wall of the Kremlin, where they buried the big shots. The world press was there. In front, it was just me, Hammer, a few Russians, and the casket. The Russians took hundreds of pictures of Hammer and me posed with the box. Each time, before the flash went off, Hammer broke into a big smile. It was his instinct. Don't let the cameras catch you looking morose! I finally said, "Hey, Armand, did you forget? Your friend died."

People age in different ways. Some go on and on, while others drop off the table. One day they are a hundred percent themselves, the next day, even if their body is still walking, a crucial piece is gone. Armand progressed like a western sunset, each moment deepening the beauty that had only been suggested in the afternoon. His pace quickened, as if he wanted to get as much as possible done, as if he wanted to finish strong. We took one of our last trips in 1984, to the Olympics in Sarajevo. We had no plans to go. Like much else with Armand, the decision was made all of a sudden, and for no reason at all. He just wanted to travel, see, experience.