The American Ambassador (25 page)

He said, “This room is stuffy, don't you agree? We need a walk outside.”

“It's still raining,” Max said.

“Only a drizzle.”

“Gert will stay here?”

He nodded. “Until we return.”

Max said softly, “You have a destination?”

He said, “No. I just thought, a little walk, a walk in the zoo.”

O
N THE STREET AGAIN
, they both paused and looked left and right. The Volkswagen was gone, and there was no Volvo in sight. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalk, except for an old man and his dog. Max watched the old man a moment, then they began to stroll through the rain in the direction of the zoo.

He said to Max, “Did you know your father well?”

“Of course,” he said, “he was my father.”

Bill was silent. They walked on to the intersection. Bill said, “What did he do? How did he make a living?”

“He was a factory manager. The factory made wheels for military vehicles, staff cars and troop carriers. My father used to say that an army did not travel on its stomach, but on his wheels.” He smiled. “He died in 1928 when the factory closed. Everything closed in 1928, the entire country closed down, the inflation, reparations to the victors. The spoils of war. I was nine years old, but I remember him very well, he was an excellent plant manager. His plant set records in the war, I mean production records. They gave him a small pension when the factory closed, but still my mother sold the house. We lived near Danzig.”

“He would play with you as a child?”

Max looked sideways, puzzled. “Play? No, we didn't play. Why would we play? I played with my classmates.” Up the street was the fading
waa-waa
of an ambulance siren. Max began to walk a little more quickly.

“You admired him?”

“A terrible injustice was done my father. The swine who owned the factories, my father's factory and other factories, simply closed them down. Put a padlock on the gate, and a sign: Factory closed until further notice. And went to live in Baden-Baden with his wife and his mistress. He was waiting, he told my father, for discipline to return to Germany. Still, my father could not bring himself to question what had been done, or to criticize. He had known the family for many years, the old baron as well as the young one. My mother was a vocal woman, in her opinions a radical. My father was always a company man, but then the company let him go. Because of his loyalty, he was a serf in their eyes. So I loved him, but I did not admire him.”

They walked on, crossing the boulevard to the zoo. A group of children were waiting at the ticket window, spirits undampened by the rain. They stood in line behind the noisy children.

Bill said, “When did you become a Marxist?”

“I have always been a Marxist. From the earliest time that I can remember. Some of my friends when we were boys wanted to be army officers or lawyers or businessmen or civil servants. I always wanted to be a Marxist. I looked on it as a career, as my father looked on his career. Perhaps as your father looks on his career.”

“My father always wanted to be a diplomat,” he said.

“A reactionary.”

“He would say patriot.”

Max made a noise, and they both laughed.

At the ticket counter, Bill fumbled for coins and Max paid. The ticket seller looked naturally to Max and, as naturally, Max had the correct change in his hand.

“My father is in Washington now.” They were looking at the zebras, who were huddled together in the rain. One of the children threw a piece of chocolate, and was admonished by his companions. “He is doing his patriotic duty in Washington. They have put him into a hospital. That is the last I have heard.”

Max said, “He is ill?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “My father has always been healthy.”

Max said, “I know a little of his career, but not much.” They were walking along behind the children. “I have looked at his C.V. But a C.V. conceals as much as it discloses, no?”

Bill said, “He has done their work in Africa, and also in Bonn. And in Madrid. I have watched him in his office, on the phone and talking to people, and at receptions. Very smooth and controlled. He is a very smooth American diplomat, good with languages. Often droll. Of course he is a company man.”

Max said, “And the company will never let him go. No padlock on the gate. No sign saying closed until further notice.”

“They might, depending on the circumstances. Depending on what happens. But they would let him go very quietly, and arrange for other work.”

“Yes,” Max said. “But he would have his pension.”

“Oh, yes,” Bill said. “They are very good about that.” He paused and looked through the iron gates at the Cape buffalo, huge, horns the length of baseball bats.

Max said, “What would cause them to let him go?”

“Ugly creatures, aren't they?”

“A scandal, I suppose,” Max mused. “A scandal of sex or of money. The Americans rarely have scandals of politics. I mean loyalty.”

“He has never cared about money,” Bill said.

“Sex then,” said Max.

Bill shrugged. Possibly.

“Not loyalty, surely,” Max said.

“He is an excellent diplomat. He has many commendations, including one from Bonn. He does their work expertly. Any ministry would be happy to have him. He is a professional in every way, and proud of his professionalism. Did you know he was first in his class to become ambassador?”

Max looked at him. “Class?”

Bill smiled, turning away slightly so that Max would not notice his amusement. He said, “Foreign Service class. He was the first of his class to become ambassador, and that was his ambition. Always had been. He was very young when he realized his ambition. It made him proud, naturally, he and my mother both. They felt—vindicated. I suppose that was what it was. What do you think. Max? It must have been the same with you, so successful at a very young age, wanting terribly to do something, and doing it. Setting a goal and achieving it, as a young man wet behind the ears. But he had a great record, and he never turned down an assignment. You would understand that, Max. Wherever they wanted him to go, he went. He served the President, and it didn't matter which President.” The Cape buffalo was standing motionless, staring at them. The children had moved off a little way, ignoring the animals, kicking a bright red soccer ball. Bill remembered the day the ambassador received word of his appointment. They had dinner together, the three of them. His father and mother drank too much Champagne. They were noisy and unbuttoned, congratulating each other, his mother so flirtatious, the ambassador so cute. They poured him a glass of Champagne but he did not drink it; he did not care for wine. The ambassador made a sloppy toast, and his mother laughed and laughed. Bill turned to Max, having one more thing to add, but the older man had stepped away and was standing quietly looking at the ostriches. The cries of children rose around them. “The ambassador is one of their prizes, Max. Always on display. Something about him reminds me of that creature,” he said, pointing to the sullen Cape buffalo. “Very still, stupid-looking, large, dangerous.”

Max nodded slowly. He had the air of a man who was listening carefully.

“So it is a fine career. He has seen the world. The secretary of state is his friend.”

Max said, “The Americans are very successful at concealing scandal. The most successful of any country, and are the first to object to scandal elsewhere. It would surprise me if they let him go, a man first in his class. A man who is friends with the secretary of state. It would be an embarrassment to them. What would cause them to let him go?”

He watched the children skylarking, the ball passed and deftly kicked. One of the boys showed promise. He asked, “How did your father die?”

“He was tired. They called it a heart attack.”

“Did he take a long time to die?”

“It was very quick.”

“I would like his to be slow.”

Max smiled, raising his eyebrows. He did not understand Americans. He did not understand what animated them. They had an insufferable belief in the rightness of their own actions. They had no discipline, and were never predictable; they were not patient. He thought of them in negatives, not this, not that. And of the American young, he knew nothing.

“Strike at the heart of things,” Bill said.

“Yes,” Max said nervously.

There was a sudden cry, and in a moment two boys were tugging at Max's sleeve. The ball had gotten away from them, it was Johann's fault, a mis-hit ball. Inept Johann stood to one side looking at his shoes. But there it was in the buffalo's cage, and what could be done now? Max looked at the boys and shrugged. He was deep in his own thoughts, wondering how far to push the American.

One of the boys said, “It's a new ball.”

Max said impatiently, “Let's move on.”

The boy turned to Bill, so tall, who was standing on tiptoe, looking into the cage, measuring the height of the iron fence. “My father bought it for me only yesterday, and now stupid Johann—” The ball had come to rest between the animal and the fence, a spot of brilliant color in the gray cage. The buffalo had not moved. He gave no sign of noticing the red ball. Bill took off his raincoat and handed it to Max, moving a few steps away, looking at the fence now at an angle. He looked around for a guard but saw no one. There was just him and Max, and the two boys, and Johann miserable on the sidelines.

Max said, “Don't be foolish.” He slung the raincoat over Bill's shoulder. “This is not your affair.”

“How high is the fence, Max?”

“I have no idea.” He turned away, clenching his fists. “This is absurd.”

“Do you want to make a bet, Max?”

The boy said, “It's only a buffalo, sir.”

“How badly do you want your ball?”

“Very badly,” the boy said. “It is new. My father will be very angry.”

“Will he beat you?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy said.

“With a strap?”

“His fists, sir,” the boy said. He seemed about to cry. “He will beat me with his fists.”

“You are a big boy, you could fight back.”

“He is my father, sir.”

Bill turned to Max and smiled sardonically. Then he handed the boy his raincoat and commenced to rock back and forth, heel to toe, practicing, finding his rhythm. He tucked his trousers into his socks, took off his wristwatch, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. The boys moved back, looking solemnly at one another, very quiet now. Johann opened his mouth as if to say something, then didn't. One of the boys glared at him, raising his open palm.

“You can wait over there, Max.” He pointed to a bench under a giant elm. “An innocent bystander, that's you. Give a shout if you see anyone.” He kicked twice, very high, unlimbering. He knew he could scissor over the fence, had scissored higher many times in school and in college. But he had not jumped in a year or more, and then it was a makeshift bar in a public park, his audience Gert and two friends. He closed his eyes, recollecting the look of things when he was in college, the other athletes, the timer, the bar, the sawdust pit, the little knot of spectators in the infield. It was good that he was wearing sneakers. Suddenly he felt wonderful, exhilarated with a fine anticipation. He was concentrating now, deep-breathing, collecting oxygen. He took his belt in a notch and loped to the fence, stopping at the last moment. He calculated its height again, noted the place on the pavement from which he would kick off, and took a last look around. He walked back, his hands on his hips, his eyes on his shoe tops. It was all mental. Again he began to rock, breathing deeply, synchronizing his arms. He forgot about the boys and the rain, the red soccer ball and the angry father who struck with his fists. The animal was on the edges of his vision. When he began his loping run he knew that all the pieces were in place and when he jumped, sublimely airborne, he looked back to see Max stationary under the elm tree, his hands plunged into the pockets of his coat, looking like the unwilling subject of an old photograph, menacing, grainy, a souvenir from the last century.

He landed right foot first, slipping to one knee, then to all fours. He gagged, aware at once of a thick animal stench coming at him in waves. Rising, he saw his sneakers were covered with black shit; his hands were wet where they had touched the ground. But the stench was the animal itself. The beast stared at him with brilliant dark eyes, still unblinking, but his right foot beginning to twitch. He had last seen buffalo in the bush of central Africa, bad-tempered, unpredictable creatures, deceptively clumsy. Great trophies, the ambassador had said, focusing his Nikon, clicking away from the safety of the embassy Land-Rover. The red ball was in front of him and without taking his eyes off the animal he bent to pick it up and in one loose motion threw it behind him, high over the fence. The animal lowered its head, and tapped the ground with its right hoof, a strangely dainty gesture. He could hear its breathing. Behind him he heard laughter, the boys chattering. Max said something and they fell silent. He did not turn around but moved crabwise, his hands at his sides, to get a sense of direction and the distance back to the fence. Six paces, no slipping in shit, no dry runs. The animal took a step toward him and he stopped, straightening. He could not remember about their eyesight, whether it was weak or strong; he thought weak. He remembered the guide moving the old Winchester off-safe when the ambassador got out of the Land-Rover to take the picture, focusing on a grazing sleepy buffalo. This one was not sleepy, nor in the wild. He stood facing the buffalo, his heart pounding. He felt a great surge, and stepped forward, standing now with his arms folded across his chest. His own eyesight was unnatural: he thought he could see into the animal's soul. Then he was talking, mouthing the words, directing his language to the animal. Come and get it, ugly bastard. Beautiful bastard. He knew the animal would not move, he could feel his own will overpowering it. He stood sideways now, between the buffalo and the fence. The animal snorted and shook its head, moving at last. But by then he had taken his six quick steps and lofted himself over the iron gate, sailing it seemed for minutes, scissoring over the spikes to land again on all fours, Max a few steps away. He noticed for the first time that it was raining hard. Rain dripped off Max's hat. There seemed to him an enormous silence, broken only by the drip of the rain and the pounding of his own heart.