The American Ambassador (46 page)

“Get on with it,” Elinor said again.

“It would be best if she goes.”

“No, it wouldn't be best,” Elinor said. “I told you before. Your father and I, we're inseparable. Always have been.” She hesitated, sighing, as if she were suddenly out of breath. “Oh, Billy,” she said, her voice falling, the child's name false-sounding. The boy had brought his hands slowly to the level of the hedge so that they could see what he carried. They knew it was there, but seeing it and knowing it were separate facts; he wanted to frighten them. Pretty, sleek, heavy weapon, the quintessence of the gunsmith's art. He handled it knowledgeably, as if he knew what he was doing. Ugly piece, Bill thought, a weapon that had no sporting purpose whatever.

His son said, “Have you thought about it at all, these past few days, your career in the government? What you did and why, and the consequences.”

“Not much,” Bill said.

“You never thought you'd be called to account.”

“Not by you,” Bill said. His words made I . . . impression. It was as if he was hurling words at a wall, the word rebounding, misshapen, taking odd bounces.

“Now you know,” he said. Then, “I've been told you didn't tell them much about me.”

“That's right,” Bill said.

“I'm interested why not. I'm the enemy, isn't that so? You took an oath to defend your Constitution against people like me. Enemies foreign and domestic. Enemies without and within. I'm both. What happened to your oath?”

“Stop it,” Elinor said.

“You look old, Ambassador.”

He did not reply. He supposed it was true.

“Sick, you look washed up.”

“I had an idea that this was between us,” Bill said. “And that it can end right here. If you have me, then you won't need anyone else. Do you understand?” He watched the boy shift position, cradling the weapon, dipping his shoulder characteristically, his expression suddenly igniting. The boy wanted what everyone wanted, freedom, liberation from whatever demons haunted him. A clean bed, enough to eat, good health, however one defined well-being; a fully-booked Lubyanka, a bottle of fifty-year-old Armagnac, a country club membership. An end to the noise in one's own head, a sense that the conditions of the present moment were intolerable; to secure the future, kill the past. He waited for a reaction and when there was none. Bill added, “And there isn't anything in the oath about informing on my son. If I'm the target.”

Elinor said, “
Stop it!
”

“I thought about it a lot, though. Elinor and I decided that you were our responsibility.” He watched his son for the signal he knew would come but the boy only nodded.

“A sentimental position,” he said.

“Call it whatever you like. But it isn't sentimental. And you haven't answered my question.”

“Well, it won't end right here. That's the point.” He swung the weapon around so that it was pointed at his father's chest. “What do you suppose the consequences of this will be?”

Elinor said, “I will hate you for the rest of my days.”

He looked past her as if she were not present. “Ambassador? What do you suppose the consequences will be?”

He thought that Elinor's promise was sufficient. She would make a formidable enemy. But he tried once more to concentrate, to see things clearly. The trouble was, the entire world was present; nothing existed beyond this obscure place, a zoo in a divided city. House rules, he thought; but he did not know what they were. He said, “It could end right here. That could be one consequence. But that's up to you.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is. But there'll be more. There's always
more.
There'll be a great commotion, won't there? And fear, fear everywhere, and anger and embarrassment, and despair, at what the world's coming to. And then we'll be just a little bit closer to our objective.”

“I'm that important?”

“To me you are,” he said.

Bill shook his head, clearing it. He had heard the words, and tried to think carefully about a reply. Just then he was certain he was going to die. No power on earth could prevent it. He was thinking about the value of life, his own; but it was difficult, with the entire world present. He was an American ambassador but he could be anyone, of any sex, nationality, age, or position. It would be a life given in vain, one more private soldier fallen on an anonymous battlefield. And who would remember, a month or a year or five years from this day? Elinor would. And of course the boy, and it was only a feature of the circumstances that their memories would not agree. He moved to separate himself from her. He took his arm from around her shoulder, searching instead for her hand, finding it, squeezing. The boy was talking but he wasn't listening. He was trying to think, though there was a great roaring in his head; difficult to think, looking down the barrel of a gun. But of course that was the idea. It was one of the great ideas of Western man. Unlike his father, he would not have time to struggle, except for these few moments. The truth was, he had not expected to be “called to account” by his son or by anyone else. He did not know if that was pride or humility. He knew that with Elinor he was the happiest he'd been, and was not ashamed of his life inside the government. He whispered that to her, and she froze. He turned toward her, concentrating. If he concentrated hard enough she would understand why he must not resist. Resistance was not the point here. The point was not to run away, or to have fear. There was a natural last act to everything, and this was the natural last act for him. He remembered the swollen crocodile, turning on the surface of the African lake, blown by the wind. And that had not been how it looked from afar. As for the consequences—his question, and his son's—they would be unforeseen. They would be in the turbulent future, and they would have nothing to do with this place, where they, a family after all, now stood. New security arrangements, no doubt. Editorials. A statement from the secretary.

Elinor took a step forward, letting go of Bill's rigid hand, gesturing sharply. She uttered a rapid sentence, filled with contempt. She held nothing back. She moved toward the hedge that separated them, trying to penetrate the opacity of his eyes. It was darkening, already deep dusk. From somewhere nearby an animal coughed. She could not see his eyes, so she could not judge his intentions. Bill had moved to one side, but she had no intention of standing quietly in the darkness, listening and waiting.

This is what happened. The boy fired two shots, both of them hitting the ambassador in the chest. The power of the charge drove him back. He was flat on his back, arms raised as if to ward off further blows. He made no sound. She screamed, and lunged forward. If she could reach him, she would kill him with her hands. She blundered into the hedge, then stopped. There was a fence concealed in the hedge. She pressed into it, arms flailing. The wire bit into her stomach. She could hear her own voice, an animal's moan. She reached and kept reaching but she could not advance. Then she stepped back, shocked. The girl had come up behind her son and now stood beside him, much as she had stood beside Bill. The girl linked her arm through the boy's and they stood a moment, their arms linked, not speaking. They looked so young. The girl's red tam was bright and jaunty. They took a look around, and then a step backward, and in a moment were gone. She heard their footsteps, running away. She was alone. When it was quiet again she bent down to comfort the dying man.

 

W
ARD
J
UST
's sixteen previous novels include
Exiles in the Garden, Forgetfulness,
the National Book Award finalist
Echo House, A Dangerous Friend,
winner of the Cooper Prize for fiction from the Society of American Historians, and
An Unfinished Season,
winner of the
Chicago Tribune
Heartland Award and a finalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize.