Exiles in the Garden (23 page)

Then the waiter was at their table with omelets for Lucia and Mathilde and steak-frites for Alec. Alec asked the waiter for a glass of red Bordeaux and listened to Lucia and Mathilde talk about the changes in Georgetown, fancier cars on the street, showier people on the sidewalk. And the dress shop on Wisconsin Avenue, still there, Alec. Where I bought my dress for the party at the d'Ans', the first time we were invited. I was so excited.

Where was I? Mathilde asked.

Not born, Alec said.

She was too. I remember the babysitter.

Yes, the nosy Russian woman, Mathilde said.

She was observant, Alec said. Through the window he watched the former secretary of defense cross the street, walking arm in arm with the gray-haired woman. Alec wondered if he thought often of those days when he was a prince of the city; now he was a former prince with a mournful countenance. Alec said, Where are you staying, Lucia?

Who is that man in the street, Alec?

Nobody you know, Alec said.

Lucia shrugged. I'm staying with Gretta. She lives at the Watergate. Since Charlie died. I couldn't be more surprised. I thought she'd return to Sweden where her family is. I've visited her several times over the years. Gretta's a different person in Sweden. Of course—a bright laugh from Lucia—she's older now and not so much of a hell-raiser. She did love Swedish men. She said that once she came to know Washington she liked it. Gretta always took a month each year in Sweden, though. You were a puzzle to her, Alec.

I was?

Yes.

Alec did not inquire further. He bent to his steak-frites, perfectly cooked. The meal could only be better with a glass of red wine, which at that moment arrived in the hand of the waiter. Lucia and Mathilde began to talk about the State Department. Mathilde said she was afraid she had made a religion of work. She worked all the time. She had no social life to speak of. Of course she enjoyed the work, otherwise she wouldn't do it, but she had the feeling also that she was missing out. Because she was unmarried and footloose they gave her traveling assignments. She loved the pace and the variety. She was good at what she did. She knew there was a reward at the end of the line, a small embassy somewhere, she hoped not too small. Not Africa, unless it was North Africa or South Africa. Probably she was too old for a family but she wouldn't mind a permanent man in her life, and he would have to be a very special character to put up with her odd hours and traveling. Whoever he was, she hadn't met him yet. Mathilde lowered her voice, speaking directly to her mother, Lucia nodding in agreement with whatever her daughter was telling her. Something in Mathilde's tone and bearing reminded Alec of his father. He saw Mathilde touch her mother's elbow, something his father habitually did when he had a secret to impart. But all she said was something about her fitness routine, a long jog in the morning, the gym whenever she could fit it in. That made Alec smile, thinking of Mathilde and her grandfather. She had no idea how much she owed the old man.

Alec?

He would never again make the trip to the hospital as he had done once or twice a week for five years. He would never again visit the cemetery with the effigy of the Confederate infantryman, young Timothy Smith. The journey had become the organizing principle of his life and now it was gone. In a few days he would be in Maine and in a few weeks back in Washington, unless he and Annalise went somewhere. His calendar was blank. He wouldn't mind a vacation abroad if Annalise would go with him. He didn't feel like working, though. Alec decided that when they finished lunch he would walk back to Rock Creek Park and stop at his father's grave, say whatever words came to him. He was suddenly very tired. His arms felt as heavy as anvils. He had barely touched his wine.

Alec looked up when Lucia said something to him.

I wonder if I can ask you a favor, Alec.

If I can, he said. Depending. He tried to keep his voice free of suspicion but suspected that he failed.

Lucia gave a little pro forma laugh and said she had a confession. She had not come to Washington for Kim Malone's funeral. She had arrived three days ago on another mission altogether. Most unexpected, most unsettling.

Yes, Alec said.

My father is here, Lucia said.

Living in Washington, Mathilde said.

Where is he living? Alec asked.

It's a kind of retirement home, Lucia said. Way out northwest.

He sent word to Mama, Mathilde said. He wants to see her.

I have no idea how he knew my address, Lucia said. I mean where Nikolas and I live in Prague. The letter came out of the blue, unfamiliar handwriting. I can't imagine why he's here of all places. My father never had anything to do with Americans or Washington. All these years I've believed he was dead. My mother assured me. She was quite positive about it. Lucia poured some Sancerre into her glass, her hand trembling when she brought the glass to her mouth and swallowed. She looked bleakly at Mathilde. The pale light of the afternoon sun touched her face in such a way as to highlight the freckles that had faded with age. Quite suddenly she looked years older. If Alec had passed her on the street he would not have recognized her.

Mama's upset, Mathilde said.

How do you want me to help, Alec said.

I want you to go with me when I meet him.

Please, Papa, Mathilde said.

I don't want to see him but I feel I must, Lucia said. His letter was courteous but abrupt. He said he wanted to see me and that I could come any time, he wasn't going anywhere. He gave me his address and a telephone number and said he would expect my call. All these years, now this, out of the blue. I don't know what he wants of me but he wants something. Money, a reconciliation, a jolly chat about how cute I was when I was three years old. That was the last time we saw each other. I don't know what he looks like. I don't know what he'll say or do.

It's important, Papa.

He's very old, you know. He and my mother married when they were teenagers. Or he was a teenager. My mother was a little older. My father has been missing for—I suppose it's near seventy years. I have no idea how he's lived or where. I have no idea what this is about or why he's here of all places. But when I got his letter I had to come. Nikolas was against it.

Why was that? Alec asked.

He didn't see what could be gained. But the point isn't gaining or losing. The point is getting it over with. I have no idea what sort of home it is. I have an address and a telephone number. That's all. I know it's a lot to ask of you today.

Please, Papa, Mathilde said.

All right, Alec said. When do you want to do this?

I want to do it now, this afternoon.

Now? He thought of his father, the visit he had planned, the words he intended to say at the old man's grave.

I don't want to wait. I want to get it over with.

Surely you understand, Papa.

Alec looked over Lucia's shoulder to the street outside, deserted, no pedestrians, no traffic. The washed-out sun cast no shadows. Alec thought the street as blank as the pages in his calendar, the current page and all the pages that came after. He had much to look forward to because the long-nosed man had come and gone. He had no obligations, nothing to detain him. Still, the city looked as if it had gone into hibernation. Alec took a swallow of wine and his great weariness seemed to lift. He had always been curious about Andre Duran, the ghost at Lucia's elbow. Alec was aware of the silence at the table. He gave Lucia a considered look and said at last, All right. I'll go with you.

The waiter arrived with the bill and Lucia put a credit card on it without looking at the total. When the waiter went away she put her hand on Alec's and left it there. She said, I don't know anything about him. I don't know what he wants. I feel I need protection.

T
HEY SAID GOODBYE
to Mathilde on the sidewalk under the washed-out sun. She had an appointment at the State Department with her boss and his deputy, unusual for a Saturday afternoon. They were coming in from their homes in the suburbs specifically to discuss the Iran mess, to see Mathilde and learn what she had picked up during her recent rendezvous in Paris. Mathilde smiled apologetically. She really, truly wanted to meet her grandfather but her duty called. Alec listened to this with a sunny smile. His daughter reminded him of his father, always tending to the public's business, scurrying off on weekends to his Senate office for urgent meetings with briefcase-bearing officials, Harry Hopkins or Cordell Hull, and later with Dulles or Herter, and later still with Rusk or Mac Bundy, returning home mildly befuddled and smelling of whiskey. The talks were always urgent. During the Nixon drought he continued to go to his Senate office on Saturday afternoons although he never described the meetings as urgent. Whiskey was involved, however.

Isn't she wonderful? Lucia said when Mathilde ran off to hail a cab.

Superb, Alec said. No question.

Always so full of pep, Lucia said.

A dynamo, Alec said.

She thinks she might get an embassy next year.

Which one?

She doesn't know. I think she wants Czech Republic or Hungary. Anyhow some country in central Europe. She wants a country that's struggling with its identity and national purpose. She believes the U.S. has a role to play in those situations. I wanted her to try for Switzerland but she wants no part of Switzerland. She says Switzerland's reserved for political appointments. Moneybags, she calls them.

Wise child, Alec said.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, our daughter an ambassador?

It certainly would be. But she should have gone with us to see her grandfather.

I don't mind, Lucia said. She has work to do.

She might learn something about struggling nations.

I don't like it when you're insincere, Alec.

Alec looked at the address and directed Lucia out Massachusetts Avenue to Wisconsin, and up Wisconsin to Military Road. It's a few blocks from the intersection, he said. Traffic was heavy and their progress slow. Lucia was silent, lost in thought. The car was warm and Alec yawned, drowsy in the heat; he was unused to wine at lunch. He closed his eyes and wondered if Mathilde had a chance at an embassy. She was overdue for one, though the Czech Republic and Hungary were usually reserved for very senior diplomats or very brilliant younger ones. Well, for all he knew Mathilde was very brilliant. Dealing with the Iranians would be a challenging experience, as you would be obliged to deploy all the witchcraft of diplomacy. You would need a sense of prophecy also, what you would want at the end of it beyond the Iranians' crying uncle. Alec felt himself drift off, aware of the starts and stops, exhaust fumes in the air, not asleep but not awake either. His head was thick with wine, his stomach heavy with steak-frites. If everything went well between Lucia and her father there was no reason for him not to slip away, allow them some privacy. Alec opened his eyes then, aware that someone was speaking, asking him a question. He felt a light hand on his shoulder.

We're at the intersection, Alec.

Turn right, he said.

You fell asleep.

Wine at lunch, Alec said.

Are we almost there?

Turn right again, he said. It's the next block.

Lucia turned into the curb and stopped.

It's the next block, Alec said.

I know, I want to wait a moment. Collect myself.

Alec was silent, then grunted a laugh. Damnedest thing, he said. I've forgotten your father's name.

Andre, Lucia said, Andre Duran.

I remember the Duran part, Alec said.

I have no recollection of him at all, Lucia said. If he poked his head in the car this minute I'd have no idea who he was, I don't know why he's called, all these years. What does he want with me? She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. What does he have in his mind?

They were parked in a residential neighborhood, large Victorian houses with detached garages, shade trees either side of the road. Alec did not know the neighborhood, and looking at it now he thought it belonged in a small town somewhere, Iowa or Indiana. Doctors and lawyers lived on the street. You could believe the prairie began beyond the next street, section after section of soybeans or corn. The houses were well maintained and several had old-fashioned TV antennas fixed to the chimneys. The sidewalks were empty. When Alec rolled down the window he heard swing music coming from one of the houses. He listened appreciatively for a moment, then realized it was sound-over for a commercial. He closed his eyes once more, waiting for Lucia.

He would be a little over ninety years old, she said.

I think we ought to get on with it, Alec said.

Give me just a minute.

I'm surprised your husband didn't come with you.

Nikolas was busy. A lecture in Budapest.

Even so, Alec said.

He has his work, Alec. Just as you used to.

Alec opened the car door and stepped out.

Where are you going? Lucia said, alarm in her voice.

Nowhere, Alec said. I need some air.

Lucia's hand went to her mouth. I thought you were fed up with me, she said, and decided to jump ship. Have done with all this.

I just need some air, Lucia.

I wouldn't blame you, she said.

Don't worry about it.

Thank you for helping me, she said.

Sure, Alec said. He looked up, focusing his bad eye on the telephone wires that split this way and that as he looked at them. Munch-lines, he thought of them, getting worse each time he checked. But his head was clearing and his stomach was settled nicely. He surveyed the street once more and checked his watch, three-thirty. In the big house on the corner an upstairs curtain moved, someone worried about strange cars in the neighborhood. He heard the bark of a dog.

I'm ready now, Alec.

Let's go, he said and got in the car.

They parked across the street from number 1007, a stone pile three stories high with a square-cut widow's walk with a railing on top. It was the house of a banker or a newspaper publisher, perhaps a merchant prince of the previous century or the century before that. The house looked to have eight or nine bedrooms at least—they had large families in those days—each bedroom window fitted with its own slatted shutters. Lucia said the house looked like something you might find in a suburb of Prague or Berlin, solid, built to last. The shutters were painted flat black. The widow's walk was white and even from a distance it was evident the structure was in bad repair, dangerous footing for a widow or anyone else who ventured there. Alec explained to Lucia that it was a design of the sort found in whaling villages like Edgartown or Nantucket, a place for the woman of the house to stand staring out to sea, expecting her absent captain from his voyage to the South Seas or the North Atlantic.