The room was cold. Not uncomfortably so, but with the specific, polished chill of marble floors and high ceilings in a historic building. The air smelled faintly of furniture wax and the wool of military dress uniforms. The only consistent sounds were the muffled clicks of camera shutters and the low, simultaneous drone of two interpreters whispering into headsets.
President George W. Bush and President Vladimir Putin sat at a small, ornate table. The document before them was brief—a mere three pages. The Strategic Offensive Reductions Treaty. They each had several pens. The act was ceremonial, a practiced ritual of statecraft. Bush signed an ‘G,’ then passed the pen to an aide. Putin inscribed a crisp ‘V.’ Another pen was selected. The scratching of nibs on paper was inaudible over the whir of video cameras.
Their body language was the real text. Brief, tight smiles exchanged not with each other, but toward the lenses. Shoulders angled, not quite facing. They stood for the handshake. It was firm, lasting precisely the count a protocol officer had likely dictated. Their eyes met, held, conveyed nothing beyond the required acknowledgement of the moment. Then they turned, side-by-side but separate, to face the applause that was not for them, but for the idea of the thing they had just signed. The treaty promised to cut deployed nuclear warheads by two-thirds. It contained no verification measures. The room felt no warmer when they left.