The American Ambassador (39 page)

My father shook his head. “No, I'm not.”

“You're not?”

“I know what they are, without hearing them from you.” He continued to think.

I sat quietly, looking out the window. The doctor wrapped and unwrapped his rubber band, impatiently turning the face of his wristwatch, pursing his lips; the old man had him spooked. I turned away so that my father could not see my tears, though of course he knew. Twice I had to blow my nose. It is not possible to weep in silence. I admired him so: he had been given a sentence of death, which
might
be spared by torture. I think my father was looking into his own soul, into the marrow of his bones, to calculate the time; to figure the odds in his own way. At last he shifted, sitting up on one haunch. He put his hand out and the doctor shook it. He thanked the doctor for explaining things so clearly. Of course he had done some reading himself, on acute lymphocytic leukemia, and other, related, matters. But he would not agree to the protocol. He smiled sadly, as if distressed to disappoint medical science. “I would rather struggle with God,” he said. And he was dead in three weeks.

“The doctor, poor son of a bitch, thought he'd failed.”

Hartnett put his arm around Bill's shoulder.

“The unspoken thought was that the old man's body could be of use. They might learn something from it, its reaction to daunorubicin, vincristine, and the other toxic prophets. But he didn't see himself as a gerbil. One to be experimented upon, the results tabulated and published. I think that brought forth other memories, and a precedent that had already been set, that he did not want to see reset. He was very much of the world, and of his books. At the end all he could think about was Auschwitz.”

“My God,” Hartnett said.

“God, too,” Bill said. “God and Auschwitz.”

“Did you ever have second thoughts—” Hartnett began. A lawyer's question.

“All the time. One thought after another. And third thoughts, and fourth thoughts. But he didn't.”

“Tough man,” Hartnett said.

“Not at the end. At the end he wasn't so tough.”

“No, of course not,” Hartnett said. He was unnerved. He could not imagine the situation, he who prided himself on being able to imagine anything. Caustic benevolence, indeed! He thought to say, “And your mother?”

He remained at home, Bill said, until the very end. She cared for him, fed him, washed him, injected him. At the very end he went to the hospital, where we had our last conversation. He was very sick, in and out of consciousness. He was lying on his side because his stomach hurt. I sat next to the bed, and told him how worried I was about Bill Jr. This was about a year after the incident with the English teacher. I said that the boy had grown away from me, from us both, Elinor and me, and that he seemed to be far from home. The old man listened to me, breathing very heavily, trying to concentrate. I said that the boy was consumed with hatred, and that I was afraid. I was afraid for all of us, perhaps because things were the way Nietzsche said they were, that God was dead and that we had killed Him. To a son, a father was God. There was some ritual killing that had to take place, everyone knew that; it was normal. A boy had to find his own feet. I looked at my father and reminded him of our own bad time; perhaps we had never completely settled it. He and Mother were so close, as Elinor and I are close. I said that I felt the darkness closing around me—and at that he turned, looked me in the eye, and smiled. It was the only time that night. I was flustered, but I went on. I felt that I had to tell him everything, that I could confide in no one else. I was incoherent, but there seemed so much to say and so little time to say it. I found myself talking about true faith, and that led naturally to my oath of office, “true faith and allegiance . . . that I take this obligation freely and without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, that I will well and truthfully discharge the duties of this office . . .” It sounded like the marriage vows from the Book of Common Prayer. I was drawn back into the Constitution and from the Constitution to the government, and all this was
us;
him and me, and me and my son. This seemed to be all I had to go on; my true faith and allegiance, and of course Elinor. But somewhere with this boy there had been a profound disappointment, some monstrous evil. I did not know where it began, but I thought I knew where it would end, hence my fear. There was nothing I could do about it.

He said, “William,” his voice soft as cotton.

I said, “Probably you were right.”

He murmured, “About what?”

“The government,” I said, and then knew I didn't mean that at all. I said, “Moving on.” But I didn't mean that either, and what I did mean I could not find voice to say. I meant to tell him that what he had said so long ago was correct. There was only us after all. There was not more than just us. We were what we had, and we had our history also. We need not neglect or despise others, but they were not what we had. However, that was too much for this old man in extremis. I did not think he would find the thought consoling.

He smiled a kind of cracked half smile. He said, “You're a good man, William.”

I lowered my head. I was staring at the threads of the bedsheet. He had never said that to me before, and now I wanted him to say it again. “Do you think I am?”

He said, “Yes.” And then something seized him because he moved, groaning. He turned his back to me, seeking a more comfortable position. I put my hand on his shoulder. We were both trembling. I wanted his advice. I wanted him to tell me what to do, and how to do it.

I said, “Can you tell me—”

But he shook his head before I was finished. He had something that he wanted to say. “The boy,” he said.

I said, “Yes.”

“Your son,” he said, “my grandson.” There was a very long pause while he shivered, his teeth rattling. I could feel his muscles and bones move under his skin. I rose to lean over the bed to look at him. He was crying freely but the tears seemed to arise from some ghastly, equivocal joke because he was smiling, too, and when the words came they were droll indeed. “He needs someone to sue.”

He closed his eyes and the trembling ceased. The painkilling drugs took hold and he fell into a deep sleep. I knew it was a coma, and that it was the end. I remained at his side for a very long time, thinking about his life, and mine, and our life together. And who would he sue, given the chance? I left the room and stood in the dark corridor a minute. A bright light at the end of the corridor announced the nurses' station. I moved along the wall slowly, the wall supporting my body. I told the nurse that my father would surely die that night and that they were to make certain that when he did, he was comfortable, and without pain. They would see him struggle but there was nothing they could do about that. And I left the hospital and four hours later he was dead.

“Bill,” Hartnett said.

“I'm the fellow with the deep pockets,” he said.

“For Christ's sake, Bill! Stop it!”

“All right,” he said. “I'll stop it.”

Then Elinor was at their side, carrying three newspapers and a magazine. Bill brightened, seeing her. He made a joke, they finished their drinks, and walked to the gate.

Hartnett said, “Good luck.”

Elinor said, “We're lucky to have a week before we report. We're going to have a nice relaxed holiday, before Bill gets down to business in Bonn.”

Hartnett said, “I'll let you know what's happening at this end. I'll have the committee report by next week, the draft version. The one that'll call for hearings or not. We're clear for a while, anyway. They won't do anything for the next few weeks. Have a good holiday. Do you know exactly where you'll be?”

“Here and there,” Elinor said.

Bill smiled and stuck out his hand. They shook hands and embraced. The line began to move. Not very many people bound for Hamburg on a Monday night in November, so he and Elinor would have an easy trip, able to stretch out. Hartnett took her hand and bent to kiss her.

He said again, “Good luck.”

She said, “Take care. Thanks for coming down.”

He said, “Will you let me know?”

She said, “We'll call you in a week, Dick.”

“And I'll ride herd on the committee.”

Bill said, “Fuck the committee.”

Hartnett said, “Telephone me next week.”

Bill said, “Don't forget Richard.” He hoped that Hartnett would keep his promise to visit the boy, and stay in touch with his doctors. He knew more about Richard than about his own son, and felt closer to him.

Hartnett looked at him, having forgotten all about Richard; and then, remembering, he nodded. The lawyer watched them go. Bill had his arm around Elinor's waist, was whispering something into her ear; she turned and laughed. How extraordinary they were, Hartnett thought; they were perfectly complementary pieces of music. The lawyer moved to go, looking around him, noticing suddenly how shabby JFK had become. The international departure lounge was dirty and poorly lit, without cheer or festivity. He had known it when it was Idlewild, and the most modern airport in the world, always exciting, always filled with a fine edge of anticipation.

 

They had a drink and dinner, not talking much, and now she was sleeping. He stared out the plastic window, watching the moon glitter on the surface of the North Atlantic. He had ordered a double Cognac after dinner, trying to chase his depression; no luck. No wonder. He bought earphones and watched the movie a moment, but could not concentrate; it had to do with children and aliens, escapist fantasy, adolescent ceremony. He gave it up and noticed it only on the edges of his vision, an erratic flicker, disconcerting. Flexing the fingers of his left hand, he felt the skin pleasantly stretch, the joints cracking, tingling, alive.

Surely Hartnett would keep his promise, he was good about those things. He and Richard had become very close. Richard had told him about his girl, what she'd been like, her verve and spirit; they had just begun to think about the future together. His last day in the hospital they had taken Richard's bandages off and they had looked at each other. Tears filled the boy's eyes, and he looked away. They were both embarrassed, seeing each other for the first time. They were not what they expected. Richard had said, How do I look? And Bill replied, Fine, and indicated the mirror over the bureau. Richard had looked at his battered face a full minute and at last had nodded, It's the same face. But I'm not the same person. He'd said to Bill, You're younger than I thought. Bill smiled, amused; he looked older than his age, always had. That meant his voice sounded older still. And to hell with chronology.

He had given Richard names and addresses. If he ever needed help—

Well, thanks, he'd said. But he didn't think he'd be in Germany any time soon.

I'll write, Bill had said.

I hope everything works out all right, Richard had replied.

You, too, Bill had said.

I won't count on it, the boy said solemnly.

I won't either, Bill said.

Then we won't be disappointed, either of us, Richard said.

They shook hands, man to man; and that was that. Except Hartnett had promised to look in on the boy, say hello, see what he needed. And what the boy needed, Hartnett couldn't provide.

All right, he thought, sleep. Sleep now. In the morning, they would be in Germany. And was it not true that all modern history begins in Germany?

 

He opened his eyes and looked up. The movie was flickering lamely to its damp conclusion, enough consolation to fill a cosmic silver screen, the children reunited with their befuddled parents, the aliens dispersed to other galaxies, the children so wise, goodhearted and foul-mouthed, the aliens so tolerant, a pleasant warm future for Americans to nap to. A happy glow, though to Bill it looked like a penumbra.

“Bill?” she had been sleeping in the seats across the aisle. She touched his shoulder. “You were talking in your sleep. You were in the zone, Bill.”

“Sorry.” He had been dreaming, and the dream slipped away; he tried to catch it, having a happy memory of it, but the images were already out of reach. “Did you have a good sleep?”

She smiled. “Airline sleep is like airline food.” She was leaning over the back of his seat, her hair mussed and her eyes cloudy. He raised his head to look at her, and was struck by a sensation of utter intimacy. The sensation lasted only a moment, like the dream that had slipped away. But it left him breathless, as if his heart had stopped for a moment, leaving him suspended like an aerialist. They looked at each other a full minute, and gradually the sounds around them came into full focus, the hiss of the engines, the lift as the aircraft corrected its course, swinging east over the North Sea. He took her hand delicately, touching the pads of her fingers. Concentrating on her, he felt her reach out to him; and he felt the most unaccountable confidence in himself, in her, and in what they intended to do in Hamburg.

It was morning, a cold north light.

He said, “Are you ready for all this?”

She said, “No.”

He said, “Neither am I.”

She said, “I was thinking about the island.”

“What about it?”

“Wouldn't it be great if we were there now, just us two.”

Bill had sent word ahead that he would appreciate it if his former colleague, Harry Erickson, could meet them at the airport. He hadn't seen Harry in two years, and wanted to know how things were working out for him in the Federal Republic. When they emerged from customs he was there, his dress and manner identical with the Germans bustling around him. He was reading a German newspaper. Elinor did not recognize him at first, and when he walked up to them she thought he was a German official with unpleasant news of some kind. Then Harry smiled broadly, and she laughed. He had always seemed so tense and ill at ease in Africa, so sour and pessimistic. They went to a café for coffee, to unwind from the long journey. Bill told him they were in Hamburg for a holiday, recuperation for him, a chance to allow themselves to become reacquainted with the BRD. Harry seemed to accept that. Was there anyone he wanted to see? No one special, Bill said, it was just a private holiday. Harry was at pains to tell them how well Alice was doing, in this northern climate. The baby was now nearly a year old, a fat, happy baby, named Harry Jr. He and Alice loved Hamburg, so chilly and dry, so civilized, so commercial, so—so no-nonsense.