No Parking

Soviet Ambassador Anatoli Dobrynin is a cordial man, admired by Washington hostesses for his charming mimicry of bourgeois social graces. So special was his position that he had been accustomed to entering the State Department by driving into the basement garage and then riding a private elevator to the seventh floor, where the Secretary's office is located.

All this changed at 5 p.m. on Jan. 29,1981, when Dobrynin called on me for the first time in my new capacity. In a maneuver that was savored for its subtle nuances and vivid symbolism, Dobrynin's car was made to back out of the garage and proceed to the main entrance, where the flustered Ambassador dismounted into a thicket of microphones and cameras.

I wish I could claim credit for this inspired gesture, which conveyed so aptly the change in American attitudes toward Moscow. The situation arose, however, not from geopolitical considerations but from bureaucratic pique. American ambassadors in Moscow had been kept in sterile isolation, and the Soviet desk of the department initiated the decision to take away Dobrynin's parking privileges as a means of getting the Soviets' attention. When Dobrynin entered my office, he managed to conceal any chagrin he may have felt as a result of being treated as an ordinary mortal.