The American Ambassador (16 page)

Once, late at night, she saw her father on television, sitting at a round table with other men, talking about public affairs. His performance surprised her, the other men listened to him with respect, almost deference. Dressed in a sober dark suit, he had affected a little black mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a raffish professor, though she knew he called himself a journalist. For a moment, she was not certain it was he. She had to look closely at the screen. He seemed to have changed his personality along with the clothes and facial decoration. He was apparently very witty, for the other men laughed appreciatively at things he said. And he, too, would chuckle, a man entirely aboveboard and at ease, a man comfortable on French television discussing public affairs, his dark side concealed. She watched him carefully, wondering how he did it. The sound of his laughter was unfamiliar to her, however. She had rarely heard her father laugh. He never laughed at home.

There was much she tried to forget, and much she could not remember. Gert had left the school at eighteen; her real life seemed to begin at that time. She was skilled with her hands and a willing worker, and through the school found employment with a dressmaker in the Sixth Arrondissement. She enjoyed the back room of the dressmaker's shop, with its bolts of expensive, brightly colored cloth, old Singer sewing machine, and silent mannequins. She listened to music while she worked. Her wages were not high, but she was content; she was as content and untroubled as she had ever been, working with needle and thread, and the machine.

One afternoon Gert was pressed into service as a model. An important customer was in the shop and the regular model had called in sick and so the dressmaker, with an air of resignation, asked her to fill in. She proposed this not without misgivings, for she thought Gert a strange young woman—of course, naturally, coming from the school. But in the event the dressmaker was astonished. With her slender figure and air of complete self-absorption, Gert was an immediate success, a natural in the salon. She could model anything, from sportswear and lingerie to the most formal ballroom gown. With the right make-up, she looked almost Asian, with her high cheekbones and Slavic eyes; with no make-up at all, she could pass for a troubled American teenager, an innocent abroad. The dressmaker thought her sympathetic and advised her to sign up with one of the large agencies, her look was very much the mode; put you in combat fatigues, the dressmaker said cynically, and I guarantee the cover of
Elle.
Gert did not understand the reference to combat fatigues, nor to
Elle.
But she said no. She was happy in the shop, sewing and modeling. She did not mind when the customers looked at her, for she was not expected to say anything. She was not expected to have personal contact with them. They could look at her and she did not have to return the look. When they spoke to her, she was not obliged to reply (and she was thought enchanting, a grave gamine). She could remain within herself, an inhabitant of her own world, or worlds. She said none of this to the dressmaker, contenting herself with a simple
Non, merci, Madame.
And of course the dressmaker did not press the point, recognizing a bargain when she saw one.

Gert saved her salary, cashing the checks and putting the money in a hatbox she kept under her bed. Of course she said nothing to her father, who in any case did not inquire about her work. She remained at the shop for three years, until one afternoon, having coffee in a café, she met a young American. He spoke German to her, anticipating somehow that German was her nationality. She was charmed by the young American's voice, so soft and sure. He seemed to glide over the gutturals of the German language. She thought his voice as soft and sweet and full of promise as Mick Jagger's.

When he first spoke to her, she did not reply. She had not listened to what he said, only the rhythm and timbre of the words. Often when she had coffee in a café, men tried to speak to her.

He asked her if she wanted to go walking along the quai.

She looked at him boldly, but did not reply.

He turned back to his newspaper, the American paper in Paris. They were seated side by side at small tables. It was May and the sun was warm. She was drinking coffee and he a beer.

Why did he think she was German?

After a moment, he said, It's a nice day for a walk. We could walk on the quai, and then walk over to St. Germain, look in the bookstalls. See what's happening, he said in English. He did not smile but his voice was warm. Check out the Frogs, he said. Do you speak English? No matter, I would rather speak German.

She looked away in confusion. She did not speak English. Her eyes flew upward. She saw pigeons floating and diving, and in the distance the square sullen façade of Notre Dame. Her eyes made a transit of the rooftops of Paris, so familiar to her now, and then she looked at him again, sideways. He was absorbed in the American newspaper. He was dressed in blue jeans and a gray sweater and sneakers, unmistakably an American except for his saturnine face, well formed with full lips and large ears, and a cleft chin. A northern European face, she thought, distinctive, well groomed. She could not see his eyes but believed them to be blue. A distinctive blue-eyed young American then, but subdued; there was a kind of hush about him, so different from the forward Americans who came into the shop.

He turned to glance at her as he turned a page of the newspaper. The sun turned the hair on his arms golden. She quickly looked away, Addling with her coffee cup.

He said, Would you like another?

She stared at her empty cup, feeling her face go hot.

I'm having another beer, he said. Or we could go to St. Germain.

Instinctively she shook her head.

He had said, in the softest German, Who are you afraid of?

And she had answered, My father.

Well then, he had said—rising, carefully folding the newspaper, putting a few coins in the saucers, hers and his, taking her hand and helping her to her feet and finding no resistance—well then, we are comrades. My father is afraid of me.

They walked only a little way that afternoon, along the quai in the direction of St. Germain. They stood for a minute, watching the barges on the Seine. Her shop was around the corner and although she had the afternoon off, she needed an excuse. She could feel herself being pulled into his orbit, like a moon to a planet. She was trying to make sense of his remark, spoken so casually yet with a kind of dramatic flair. His voice was soft as cotton. She wondered what there was about him that his father was afraid of; he did not seem menacing. Then she wondered vaguely what his father looked like, and what kind of person he was. Probably he was an agreeable person, without brutality or guile, even though he was an American; she reflected that Americans were frequently afraid. To an American the world was a dangerous place, though this young American seemed fearless enough. He said something and moved a little away from her. She liked to look at him, so tall and robust, loose-limbed and well mannered. He was looking into a bookstall now, thumbing through volumes, as if he had forgotten about her. She turned and walked across the street. He called after her to wait and she stopped and looked at him. The sun was in her eyes, reflecting off the river, blinding in its brilliance. He had put on dark glasses and she could not see his eyes. She explained that her hour was up, she had to go to work; she couldn't take a walk to St. Germain or anywhere. He cocked his head, having failed to hear what she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. He asked when he could see her again. She indicated the café up the street. She was often at the café, at noon and again after work. He asked her where she lived, an address or a telephone number. Do you live alone? Are you in the book? He was standing with his hands in his pockets. They were talking across parked cars. He smiled and spoke his name. She didn't hear, and shook her head. Then he asked for her name so that he could look her up in the telephone book. Where did she work? He made a little pantomime of writing her name and number. They could meet again for coffee, and take a walk to St. Germain. He did not make a move in her direction, and that gave her confidence. She lifted her head high, as she did when she modeled the most expensive gowns.

Guten Tag
, she said.

They met the next day, and the next. He did not ask her any more questions. They talked of neutral things, or rather he did. He explained that he was a student, in Europe to study. He was studying politics and social change at the Sorbonne, he said. But his studies were not demanding and he had free time, except most evenings he went to lectures, at the university and elsewhere. He did not have many friends in Paris so he went to the lectures
faute de mieux.
The lecturers were stupid but he went anyway: French logicians, he said, jacking off. He had used the American expression and when she looked at him, wrinkling her nose, obviously puzzled, he had explained in street German. She blushed, then laughed, imagining French logicians masturbating on a well-lit stage in a drafty lecture hall at the Sorbonne. Her laugh delighted him, and he elaborated. Sometimes they masturbated each other, but mostly it was just themselves, each to his own, one on one. A complicated masturbation, he said, the lecturers looked like circus contortionists, and of course they continued long after orgasm. It was a measure of their ingenuity and endurance, and mastery of the theoretical material. That was the point of it, to wring every last drop of semen from their exhausted testicles, beating themselves up in the process and, it went without saying, seducing the audience.

She laughed and laughed.

He went on: The audience. A hundred students, mostly French with some English and Germans, and little bands of publicized nationalities with grievances. Vietnamese and Chinese at the rear of the hall, separated by a wide aisle, declining to recognize each other. Dutch, South Africans, Egyptians, Cubans, Palestinians, Portuguese, Basques. Half a dozen Americans, four black, two white. Five women, one man. The Portuguese were interesting, always making careful notes, rarely speaking. They were a dark, wet people, superbly sullen. He had attempted to strike up conversations with the Portuguese, but it was impossible. CIA. They thought I was CIA, he said. It was also difficult to speak to the Dutch and to the Palestinians, and to the American women; they all thought he was CIA. He got on well with the lecturers, however. The lecturers spoke of “objective conditions.” So many stations of the cross, or points on the compass. They had a childlike faith in “objective conditions,” social, economic, political, sexual.

They know nothing, he said.

Then: Do you want to know how little they know? I'll show you.

He disappeared into a wine shop and emerged with a parcel. They continued to walk, near the Louvre now. The great formal garden spread out before them. He put his arm around her, nuzzling her neck as if they were lovers. She did not object, understanding that this was part of his demonstration of how little people knew. Still, she liked his arm around her, and the way he smelled, and his soft talk. She knew he would protect her, though the garden was peaceful. It was dusk and strollers were about. Lights winked on. They fell into step behind a middle-aged American couple. The woman's voice was high and hectoring; it was a complaint about money, he said. He translated for her, muttering into her ear as a lover would. They had been cheated in a restaurant, the god damned French, thieves. The man walked slowly, using a cane. They were well-dressed Americans, obviously prosperous; no doubt on their way to the Crillon or the Ritz for a cocktail. Walking very slowly now, the man indicated a bench; he wanted to rest. He guided her to the same bench. The prosperous Americans sat at one end of the bench, they at the other. He kissed her, lightly on the mouth, and spoke a few words of German. The American woman nudged her husband. He said, You are very beautiful.

After a moment, he rose and took her by the hand and they walked back the way they had come, to the Louvre. He did not pause to nuzzle or kiss her. He was walking quickly and when they had gone a few hundred feet he stopped, and they turned around. The American couple were still sitting. While they watched, the man struggled to his feet and they moved off together, in the direction of the Place de la Concorde. The woman was still complaining.

He said, See how easy it is.

They walked back to the bench, where he retrieved his parcel, a bottle of Beaujolais.

If it had been a bomb, he said, “Boom.”

Oh, she said.

Objective conditions, he said.

Boom, she said.

He said, They are representatives of the American race. The objective conditions of the American race, though premature. He said they reminded him of his grandparents, the grandfather who drank too much and the grandmother who was never silent. She was a handsome athletic woman who never shut up. She believed she was being cheated always; the proles were out to get her. An ignorant woman married to a drunk, both of them with money to burn. But they didn't burn it, they drank it up, or bought furs, or a swimming pool for the back yard, and club memberships, and congressmen. But they could not buy security, the house in Lake Forest was double- and triple-locked; it had dogs, a costly security system, and live-in servants, and still they were frightened. For good reason. They talked of the way things used to be, and would never be again.

She said nothing, looking at him with curiosity. He had spoken rapidly in German and although she had listened carefully, she had not understood it all. Yet it thrilled her, hearing about his grandparents; she thought she knew him better now. She looked at him and saw not just him but others, forebears; an American world, people with money to burn, a grandmother who never shut up and a grandfather who drank. She wondered whether these were his mother's or his father's parents. Now she took his arm, leaning into him. The American couple were almost out of sight.

He said, My father's father, my other grandfather, one tough
mensch.
He's dead now, cancer. He knew when to fight and when not to fight. A worthy adversary, not like the other one. He lived in America but his heart was in central Europe. He never really left central Europe. He liked listening more than talking, knew that things were different, and wanted to know how, and what. He already knew why.