American Romantic (7 page)

H
ARRY
awoke at six a.m., thick-tongued, vision impaired. He lay still, coming into consciousness, patient about it, listening to the unfamiliar sound of drizzle in the trees. The cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. Harry threw on a robe and crept downstairs, hearing Chopin. But the piano was unaccompanied. He continued on into the kitchen, where he plugged in the coffeemaker and watched the rain fall. The silk-string hammock was damp with rain leaking through the ficus. He thought about cooking an egg, then decided against it. Two aspirin made more sense and he took those with a glass of orange juice, filthy-tasting army-issue concentrate. The orange juice worked its way down, sluggish as glue, metallic, altogether foul. He put his forehead against the windowpane and tried to remember the dream he'd had. Nothing came to him except bright colors. They said all memories were stored in the brain, even dreams. The key to the door was somewhere. But nothing presented itself except the bright colors. He believed his headache was retreating, thanks to the cool window glass against his forehead. He smelled coffee but made no move to pour some. Instead, he poured milk into a saucer for the cat rubbing up against his shin. Time was out of joint. Rain was an anomaly at this time of year, hot and dry in daylight and almost as hot at night; and now it was raining and the temperature eighty or thereabouts. Where did the rain come from? The rain belonged in the north. The rain mocked him no less than the silk-string hammock and the forgotten dream. He remembered that one of the colors was yellow. He had bought her a scarf yesterday but couldn't remember the color. He thought he had left it at the restaurant. He thought, One less souvenir. The rain made no sense. It was not supposed to rain. Rain was verboten until the rainy season, that was the way things were set up. Living was difficult when nothing was dependable. Probably that was why he received hazardous-duty pay, soon to be increased, according to Ed Coyle. Maybe he would take Ed to a resort hotel in one of the ancient ports. Find two girls and drink gin and tonics all day long, tell lies to the girls. The girls could tell lies back. The lies would cancel each other out. If the dream was so damned colorful it would have red along with yellow and probably some blue. Harry thought about the colors but they refused to arrange themselves. Only paint on a palette, the palette lacking a brush. No canvas, no easel. No atelier. At last he poured a cup of coffee but took too large a swallow and it burned his tongue, causing him to cry out.

 

Marcia, the secretary, said the ambassador was running a little bit late. She handed Harry the Washington newspaper, just arrived via the daily pouch from the Department. He turned to the sports page but found it difficult to concentrate on the baseball scores. A double in the ninth swept the Chicago series for the Yankees. The reliever lost the game for Boston. He looked over the top of the newspaper to find a photograph of the president of the United States on the wall, a most unusual image. He was wearing heavy spectacles and looked exhausted. The photograph was personally inscribed in an illegible scrawl. Next to it was a candid shot of George Kennan, he of the celebrated Long Telegram, counseling containment of the Soviet Union, a document Kennan insisted was perversely misinterpreted by his successors at the Department, and in Congress and the White House as well. Kennan and the ambassador had been great friends, then fell out over the Long Telegram or some other telegram, but they had apparently made up, making up being a common trait among diplomats. Really, an essential trait given the exigencies of diplomatic work. Kennan was famously difficult and the ambassador famously easygoing, so it was an attraction of opposites. Harry wondered if such friendships always came to grief. A marriage of opposites often worked out, each having an empty space that the other filled. Something like that. His mother was easygoing and his father wasn't. His father wanted today to be very like yesterday and his mother didn't. His mother was excited by tomorrow, the dawn of the new day and so forth, whereas his father saw unspecified difficulties, illness or foul weather or a moronic call on his valuable time. Harry considered himself easygoing, quick to forgive. Well, that depended on what he was asked to forgive, the specific gravity of the request. Some acts were impossible to forgive entirely or even partially. These unforgivable acts were too numerous to name. Carelessness, for example, heedless of consequence. Or all too aware of it.

Harry looked again at granite-jawed George Kennan. He had been out of government for many years but retained influence through his books and lectures. Harry tried to imagine himself at fifty or sixty years old and responsible for relations with a leader as malicious as Joseph Stalin. He could not. Hard enough even to imagine Stalin and the mountains of dead he left behind in his great experiment, corpses beyond count. Diplomacy was a great calling but you had to have the nerves for it and the wind, the confidence to look the American president in the eye and say, This is what must be done. Probably to do this successfully you had to have lived through the most desperate days of World War II, the outcome in doubt, and the Great Depression before that. You had to believe without question in the virtue of the American experiment, the project itself. Not that the nation was blessed by God. God's purposes were enigmatic. At the very most you had to believe that God was not frowning. God did not disapprove. But His thumb wasn't on the scale either.

The times have changed, Harry thought.

The men in charge were insecure, hence the war.

He closed his eyes and drifted off. God and Kennan went away. Harry conjured the German hospital ship under way on the open ocean, steaming through drizzle, everyone excited at the prospect of home, industrious Hamburg and its riotous nightlife. What did the Germans call home?
Heimat,
more than merely a dwelling or a city, a profound state of mind. Meanwhile the passengers had the featureless ocean to gaze upon, hoping that a dolphin or some other sea creature would show itself. At some point the vessel would have to put in for refueling. He had no idea where that would he. Probably somewhere in the vicinity of the African coast, one of the ancient ports like Mombasa or Aden. They would remain a few days, allowing the crew shore leave, though neither Aden nor Mombasa promised much in the way of sightseeing or recreation. Even so, they would be thinking of Hamburg and
Heimat.
Sieglinde would be dreading Hamburg, the place she disliked so. She did not care for Hamburg's past, nor the weather, the north wind and the icy rain that came with it. Neither did she care for the men, Germans of the big blond type. Perhaps that, too, was a tall tale.

Harry?

He peeked from behind the newspaper.

Harry, you're talking to yourself. You said “Aden” and then you said “Mombasa.”

I was thinking of ancient port cities.

Mmm, Marcia said. Well. The ambassador's waiting.

Announced by Marcia, Harry stepped through the doorway of the ambassador's office, not as spacious as one expected. But they were short of space at the embassy, so many new arrivals, even the ambassador was asked to make allowances. The old man was seated at his desk, telephone in hand, his feet up, scanning a telegram. He waved Harry to a chair without looking up. Basso Earle said, Give me a minute, Harry.

Harry stepped to the window and stood looking into the street while the ambassador turned his back and spoke quietly into the telephone, not a word audible, but his exasperation was palpable in the rise and fall of his voice, here and there an ambiguous grunt. Harry watched a one-legged man struggle on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on two crutches. He wore a black beret and a shabby windbreaker against the drizzle. Every step was painful. His right leg, severed at the knee, looked to be a heavy appendage. He was very old and gaunt, stubble on his chin. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment, and then he turned the corner and was lost to view.

Harry, the ambassador said.

Good morning, sir.

Listen to me. Learn something. You will be an ambassador one day. When that happens you must expect to receive telegrams and telephone calls from Washington. Any time of the day or night, usually without warning. Always be polite. Sometimes this will be difficult. More difficult than you can imagine, because what they are saying to you is so god damned stupid. But do it anyway. Be patient.

Yes, sir.

However, there are exceptions to every rule.

Yes, sir.

You will be tempted to scream at them.

I understand, Harry said.

Choose your moment for screaming. This was not one of the moments.

I'll remember, sir.

Well, he said. Let's get to business.

 

Basso Earle III was a Southerner from one of the parishes near New Orleans, a career foreign service officer of great ability who had declined to enter the family business, which was politics. In Louisiana politics was dangerous business. His grandfather did jail time and his uncle was obliged to expatriate himself to South America to await the appointment of a fresh governor. They were men who played by the rules, but the rules changed frequently and both his grandfather and his uncle had moments of inattention—call it forgetfulness—and a price was paid at once. Louisiana had the agreeable reputation of easy come easy go, a forgiving nature, a jurisdiction that looked the other way as a matter of course, and this reputation was true as far as it went. It did not include the sin of inattention. Basso Earle knew from an early age that he was an inside man, comfortable at a table or a tête-à-tête in a quiet room somewhere, not especially at ease in crowds or at lecterns or speaking into microphones. He much preferred the quiet word in a receptive ear, and while the word might be painful, his tone of voice was silky and in most instances persuasive. He avoided the press. He could make a speech but preferred not to. Ambassador Earle always took his time telling a story, his head thrown back, an easy smile in place, his hands loosely laced upon his belly—and the more important the story, the more time he took to tell it.

He said, We've had some contacts lately with the opposition. There's disagreement among our analysts as to how reliable these contacts are. That is to say, has someone strayed from the reservation or is he following instructions from his superiors? In other words, are we being played? Are we somehow being set up? They're good at games, you know. Good at chess. Very good at cards. They're born gamblers but not known, generally, for the bluff. Bluffing is not usually in their bag of tricks. Bluffing requires wit and they are not a witty people. Then the ambassador detoured into a complicated anecdote concerning his own experiences at roulette, apparently one of life's signature lessons, for at the end of it he said to Harry, Do you see what I mean?

Harry said, I think so.

Sometimes it's wise to rely on instinct.

Not always, Harry said under his breath.

What did you say?

Not always, Harry said.

Yes, of course, not always. Obviously.

Harry knew he had blundered with an obtuse remark. He smiled and said, In affairs of the heart, instinct can lead you astray.

Lust, the ambassador said.

Lust, Harry agreed.

Risk, reward, the ambassador said, returning to the matter at hand. It always comes down to that, depending on the spot you're in. We're in a spot, as I don't have to tell you. If our enemy wants to talk, isn't it worthwhile listening to what he has to say? Depending on the risk. He hasn't wanted to talk before. We've opened channels in every damned way you can imagine and it's never worked out. We've been up on tippy-toe waiting to be kissed and what we've gotten is a fish in the face. That's a Louisiana expression, Harry. It means shit. One disappointment after another. And here this comes from out of the blue.

An offer to talk, Harry said.

The word was passed up the line, one courier to the next.

Until it reached you.

It reached me, yes.

And you believe the offer is genuine.

I have a friend, the ambassador said. She is a very old friend. I met her in Paris years ago when I was head of the political section at the embassy. Adele and my late wife were very close, a pair of mischief makers. I cannot say that I approved of their friendship. Adele was a rogue, headstrong, an adventurer, very smart. But there wasn't much I could do about it, as I was putting in twelve-hour days trying to assess the various governments coming to power and losing it, only to surface months later. It was exhausting. In those years it seemed there was a new government every month or so. Adele is French but has lived all over the world. She lives here now. She grew up in this country—her father was a colonial administrator in the old days—and loves it, strange as that may sound. I think she likes the heat, and I know she likes the turbulence. She is attracted, if I may say so, to instability. She is well connected with many elements of this society, including the worst elements. Adele is a woman of the Left, well educated, sometimes indiscreet. We see each other from time to time and our relations have improved to the point where she smiles when she calls me a tool of the imperialists. That's another way of saying we understand each other. And when I put the facts of this matter to her, she asked me to wait a few days and she would get back to me after she completed what she called her “soundings.” The ambassador paused there, frowning at the word he put in quotes. There was pain in his eyes, too, and Harry had the idea he was thinking of his late wife and her friendship with the adventurer Adele. He said, It took her a week. Last night she came by the residence to tell me that, in her view, this démarche is genuine. She will not swear to it. She did not guarantee it. She believes there is some dissension among the enemy leadership and that confuses the issue somewhat. But she did insist that serious people were involved and that, all in all, it's worth a tumble from us. If we were serious also about talks. Are you with me so far, Harry?