COCKTAIL DIPLOMACY

The U.S. President takes to TV, the British Prime Minister rises in the House of Commons, but when Nikita Khrushchev wants to tell the world, he attends a cocktail party. Last week the scene was Moscow's Egyptian embassy, the occasion a reception for Egypt's War Minister Major General Abdel Hakim Amer. Nikita easily held the center of the stage. But in a brief encounter, he was almost upstaged by an amateur, TIME-LIFE Photographer John Bryson. Bryson's account:

I SLUNK with a shy smile into the embassy drawing room. The smoke-filled hall was an epitome of sophistication, dark suits, military uniforms, low-cut dowdy dresses, foreign correspondents with R.A.F. moustaches, and a large contingent of nervous Egyptian diplomats. It was possible in a flash to spot where the important people were gathered, for not an American or foreign correspondent was in immediate sight--it is only necessary at these affairs to track the Moscow press like sucker fish to locate the big sharks at once. I went into the next room. Suddenly, as if the smoke and the crowd had cleared for an instant, there they stood, Mikoyan very stiff, Gromyko looking amazingly like Dick Nixon, bemedaled Malinovsky, a benign, kewpie-doll Bulganin and then, as two shoulders parted, on a level with them was the pink, pleasant, unsmiling face of Nikita Khrushchev.

Like a small, patient elephant, he stood there as they watched him, conscious of being the center of a crowded, shoulder-packed stare. He was short, squat, had on a brown, well-cut suit, two Red orders on the handkerchief pocket, and he held a glass of what appeared to be grapefruit juice. Now and then he would whisper conspiratorially to Bulganin or laugh over his shoulder to Mikoyan or talk with proper gravity to the beaming Egyptian War Minister. I elbowed my way in like a diplomat and began working with two cameras strung around my neck. Good-humoredly ignoring the listening, watching press, he seemed calm and in good temper as he surveyed the crowd, shook hands with the incoming Japanese ambassador. I stood only three feet from him, clicking away, looking for a flicker of a beady eye or something revealing, finding him really rather gold-toothed, charming, but thinking, "I'll bet he's seen some things." With all the cameras present I don't know why he singled me out, but all at once, without particularly looking at me, he leaned toward his young interpreter and said something. Grinning, the young man turned to me and spoke: "He says why do all the others use one camera and you use two?"

There was an excruciating moment of silence as I looked at him and he looked at me, and I realized he was talking to me and awaiting an answer.

"Different lenses and less chances to make a mistake," I said.

"He says how do you take pictures in the dark like this?"

There was a crush at my shoulders and a push from my back as the entire Moscow press corps moved forward. I was conscious of a straining forward in the mob around me, a whispered rustle of notes being made of every word, a great effort in my brain to say something to match the occasion.

"Tell him this is very fast Japanese lens and American film."

Very good humor now, smiling at me, smiling aside at Bulganin, talking fast as if he had the answer ready. Laughs, looking at me. Snap, snap.

"He says Americans have all the secrets of photography and we have all the secrets of rockets. We should exchange."

Great rustle of notes being taken around and behind me. Trying to think of something to say, I also realize it is easier to be witty with an interpreter, gives time to develop material.

"All right," I say, taking very expensive camera from around my neck and handing it toward him, "let's trade."

Kills him, he is holding stomach, laughing. Someone in press behind says "attaboy." Nikita is talking to me, also sort of for benefit of Bulganin, who is leaning in, enjoying it all. We are all pushed together close. Nikita's eyes all crinkled up, he looks like real happy peasant. Holds hand up in protest. Snap, snap.

"He says, 'I can carry that away but can you carry by yourself a rocket?' "

"Tell him if you give me one, I think I can get help."

Great rustle among U.S. correspondents, notes flapping, team is behind me, the old American spirit, attaboy, that's telling him, you're doing great.

He is laughing again, waggles head around, holds up finger to make point.

"Ah, but if you have it, what would you do with it?"

"Like in photography, when we get the film in this camera, we will see what develops."

Great laughter like he didn't get the joke. He waggles his head as Gromyko whispers into his ear; then still grinning, at me he turns to shake hands with some exotically garbed potentate. The crush around me lessens. The press ignores me. Me and Khrushchev's talk is over.

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