The American Ambassador (44 page)

E
LINOR SAID
, “Hello, Bill.”

“Where is he?”

She looked at him. He was standing behind a hedge. The hedge was waist-high and in his green loden coat he looked to be part of the scenery, a motionless green man. He seemed bigger, thicker around the shoulders, but perhaps that was only the coat. His hair was longer than it had been the last time, in Hamburg, neatly combed, the color more natural. He was clean-shaven, the skin drawn tight over the bones; the planes of his forehead were straight as rulers. She took a step forward but he shook his head. His face carried authority. It was a hard male face. Not a Washington face or a Boston face or a Lake Forest face, God knows; not an American face.

“
Where is he?”
Again, in rapid German, as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough. Perhaps that was it, Bill Jr. speaking to her in German, his lips curling around the words; it was easy to sneer in German. She noticed that his shirt collar was frayed, and missing its top button. She replied in English, “He's here, somewhere in the zoo. Or are we in the Tiergarten now? He'll be back in a moment, you know Dad. He took another path, perhaps he's lost his way.” Then, smiling, her tone still conversational: “I spoke to your friend, and looked at the sketches she made. She showed them to me. She's good, she's a talented girl. And very pretty. Lovely dark eyes, we noticed her at the entrance, and knew right away that she was your friend. It was not difficult. We've always known your tastes, Bill.” He said nothing, nor did his expression change. She thought it was like talking to a sardonic tree. She said, “Dad was here a minute ago.”

“How many are with you?”

“No one's with us, we're alone.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No security?”

She said in German, “Do we need security?”

He nodded slowly. “Listen. I want you to get him, and bring him here.”

“What is her name, your friend? Or is she your wife? You've been together so long, are you married?” She wanted him to know that he was not a total mystery to them. She thought that if he once spoke familiarly, the mask might fall. Or break. She was obliged to believe that he wore a mask, had taken a role, because he spoke to her as though she were a casual acquaintance, or a servant. The laundress, someone to patch his collar and replace the button. She was no more than five feet from him but the space between them was charged, a magnetic field. She could feel it. They spoke across a great chasm.

“Get him now, and tell him to return here.”

“Then what?”

He said, “You leave. Tell him to return here alone.”

She said, very slowly, in English, “We travel together, your father and I. We always have.” His face seemed to flush, but in the drizzle and the gathering dusk it was hard to tell. She said, “We are inseparable, as you know.” Except right now. She had no idea where he was, and she wasn't sure where she was. The Landwehrkanal separated the zoo from the Tiergarten, and she could not remember if they'd crossed the little bridge. He had gone one direction, she another. Wherever she was,
he
wasn't there. And she wanted him near her. She wanted them together. She wanted him to talk to the boy, he had always been more successful at it. She said, “We used to be inseparable as a family, your father and I, and you. All the odd places we lived, do you remember Africa at all, when you were very little? The time your father was hurt, and I burst into tears over the telephone when I heard the news. You were right there beside me, and reached over to touch my arm, but I couldn't stop crying. We didn't know whether he was dead or alive. Do you remember that?” She leaned forward, feeling the drizzle on her cheeks, trying to recognize him as a part of her. She said, “I liked meeting your friend. She must have a name, what is it?” He lifted his chin, as if about to speak; but he said nothing. “And I have a name, too. Why don't you use it? Or don't you need names? In the new order, will names be eliminated, like private property? A nation of nameless citizens, parents, sons, all nameless. Interchangeable parts, everyone anonymous, like the modern art I hate so. White on white on white.” She hesitated as her voice rose, her temper nearly out of control. His eyes moved left and right, and it occurred to her suddenly that he was not listening to her. It was as if he had the ability to suspend his hearing. Her words moved around him, like rushing water around a boulder. She felt herself growing lightheaded under his erratic gaze, opaque as marble.

He said, “Get him.”

“Don't use that tone of voice with me.” Her mouth went dry. She had never allowed herself to be bullied.

He said, “So?”

“You want him, you get him.”

“Yes,” he said.

“What is it that you want from him, Bill? Or from me.”

“I remember Africa,” he said in English. “The rains, the heat, the little Ford car, the market, the houseboys. The boy who cooked. The boy who cleaned. The boy who mowed the lawn and tended the flowers. The boy who mixed the drinks. And what was he then, a second secretary? Lowest rung of the ladder.”

“You were very young,” she said. She tried on a smile, but it didn't fit. “You were only a little boy. You have a remarkable memory, Bill. We worried so about taking you to Africa.”

“Why were you so worried?”

She shrugged, it was so long ago.

“There must be a reason.”

He seemed genuinely interested, and when she replied that they were worried about the insecurity of the countryside—the government's authority did not extend much beyond the capital military district, and its hold even there was fragile—and disease in general, he smiled thinly. She added that they had wanted very badly to see the African continent, not that they had much choice. The Department's postings were to suit the Department's convenience, not the convenience of a Foreign Service officer. Certainly not second secretaries, or their wives or children. “We were given all the shots,” she said, “except you were so young. There were one or two shots they refused to give you, fearing a reaction. It worried us because Africa was Africa.” She said, “But no one got sick, and your father and I and you, too, loved Africa.”

He said, “Remember, a year later, when I began to have nightmares?” He was speaking German again, so softly she had to lean forward to hear him. “I had them every night, for a long time. What was I? Five years old?”

“I don't remember,” she said truthfully. “I don't remember that you had nightmares. Why? Do you remember them?”

“No,” he said. “But they were frightening. Of course so much is frightening to a five-year-old. Yet at that age, a child is resilient. I have forgotten the plot of the nightmares, but I remember the effect. I remember what it was like, alone in the bed.”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully. “You had the room closest to the flower garden, at night with the windows open . . .” Her memory stirred, then lay still, disclosing nothing. She did not remember the nightmares. Both she and Bill were heavy sleepers, and Bill Jr. was a very heavy sleeper. “The garden outside your window, remember how sweet-smelling it was? We were very happy there.”

“We were? I don't remember.”

“How strange. You, with your good memory. The rains, the heat, the little Ford car . . . the houseboys.”

“I remember very well the call that night. When, as you say, you burst into tears over the telephone. The houseboy came to get me, to take me back to bed. They were all whispering, ‘the boys,' back in their ‘quarters,' the two rooms they were allotted. We were waiting dinner. I remember the black skins of the boys, and my skin so white. I laid my forearm across the forearm of the houseboy, an X in black and white. My arm so small, his so thick. I remember thinking that he could snap my arm like a twig, though of course he would never do such a thing; not then. He told me a story, putting me to bed. You were on the telephone with the embassy.” He looked at her standing in the drizzle; they forgot everything that wasn't convenient, that would not contribute to their good opinion of themselves. He thought she had aged in the four years since he'd seen her, thick around the hips, her hands crabbed. She was clasping and unclasping her hands, moving her wedding ring around her finger; and her voice had thickened, too. It was a voice comfortable with fatalism and confusion. He thought she was just this side of sullen, protecting what was hers. “And the next day, the drive to the airport, and then to the hospital in the airplane. I wanted to stay with the houseboy, but you insisted.
He wants to see you
, you said.
Don't you want to see your father?”
He let the thought hang, watching her flustered reaction. “It was a small airplane, I suppose it was an asset of the CIA. Everything is, in that part of the world. Your escort let me touch the barrel of his Browning, his ‘piece,' black as the forearm of our houseboy. Shall I call the houseboy by name? You called him Charles, though of course that was not his real name. It was the name you gave him, for your convenience. A name you could pronounce.
Charles, fetch the drinks. Charles, see to the dishes. Charles
, always willing.”

“It was his name,” she said.

“His
Christian
name,” he said. “But he was not a Christian.”

You should have heard the buzz of conversation in the houseboys' rooms, when they learned what had happened. The
baas
had been attacked and injured, upcountry where the government's writ did not run. The
baas
had shown his white skin, the passport of the ruling classes, and it was not magic after all. The
baas
had lost his juju. His blood had been spilled. Things were never the same after that, were they? That day, our boys entered the twentieth century. Remember when they saw us off at the door, waving as we left for the airport in an embassy car, driven by your escort? So subdued, they averted their eyes; they knew they were the enemy. It was the beginning of reality for them. The
baas
had raised their consciousness, wouldn't you say? Charles had packed something for the
baas
, some fruit I think it was, and your escort sent it sailing out the window, back at their feet; you didn't even notice. Then we were in the plane, but the airstrip where we were to land was insecure, so we circled and circled, until assured that a landing was safe. You never said a word, just sat and looked out the window, as we circled. We were told to put down, there were no rebels in the area. Remember that shantytown, the rain forest all around us, so green? We landed in a shower, your escort so handy with an umbrella. He was out of his mind with fear, he had the umbrella in one hand and the Browning in the other. You held my hand as we ran to the car, your escort very nervous because the driver was a black. And the short drive to the hospital—the streets were empty except for government troops on every corner. We assumed they were government troops because they were in uniform; but they wore the other uniform, too, faces black as night. You couldn't wait to get to him. You ran down the corridor, I remember the sound your wet shoes made. You were crying then, too. And ran to him in the bed. I tried to keep up but you were faster. You just flew down the corridor, you were so anxious to see him. From the doorway I watched you bend over him, climbing on the bed, your skirt hiked up over your thighs. He was laughing, so happy to see you. I see your ringed hand, his face on the pillow. He was bandaged, and there was blood on some of the bandages. Blood on the doctor, blood on that Kraut friend of his. Blood on the sheets. I stood in the doorway, waiting. No one saw me. But as the poet said, Who cares for the roses when the forest is burning?

He was conscious of his voice, low and guttural, and her wide eyes. She drew back, and he could see the whites of her eyes. He was looking for some flicker of recognition, but he did not see it. So he took another step into the past, speaking still in German. “It was strange then. And even stranger in retrospect, though I remember everything. Every single thing. You were very angry, do you remember how angry you were? Spitting nails, you said later, when you could talk about it. Such an injustice, him wounded and in bed, in pain, almost killed. For what? you said.” He raised his voice to a falsetto, mocking her.
“Who do you think you are, you two, Jack Armstrong and Siegfried
?
I have been worried to death.“
He watched her closely now as he turned the screw. “You looked up from the bed, your hair mussed, your face wet. I had never seen an expression such as that. Certainly I had never expected to see you with such an expression, you who were so composed and even-tempered, so well-bred. You said something to that fascist friend of his, the one who works for the Bonn administration. You were sitting on the bed with his head in your lap, looking at him but talking to the fascist. Saying how
foolish
, how
reckless
, they had been. Challenging the savages. But thank God, no one was killed, meaning that
they
had not been killed. The fascist was grinning. You were spitting nails at the fascist, but he kept shaking his head. He had his arm in a sling and was leaning against the wall, smoking; so self-satisfied. He looked as if he'd stepped off a yacht, so debonair, expurgated. Then the fascist commenced his explanation, everyone quiet and attentive while he talked. The important work that they were doing, the bad luck that followed. The fascist said something in German, a quotation of some sort, and everyone laughed. Then the Kraut doctor pulled out a bottle of Champagne, popped the cork; the cork hit the ceiling. Smiles all around. After all, things could have turned out—differently. Worse than they did turn out. The white men were alive. The white men had survived. After a while, I went outside. There were boys playing ball, it must have been soccer. They were older than me, playing with a ragged soccer ball, dodging puddles. When they saw me, my white skin and blue eyes, they ran. So I was alone in the courtyard, wondering why they had run away. Were they afraid? What power did I have that they would be afraid of me, a five-year-old boy. Or was I someone necessary to avoid? I stood outside his room. I heard you laugh, once, and I looked inside. His face was gray as ashes but he was grinning as you fed him a sip of Champagne. One sip only, the doctor said. You fed him as you might have fed an infant. A thin line of Champagne dribbled down his chin, and you wiped it away with a cloth. I heard a noise then and looked behind me. Your embassy escort was standing outside the door, swinging the Browning by its grip; he was an enormous man, very muscular, very frightened. Perhaps it was the first time he had ventured outside embassy ghetto. The boys were well away by this time, standing across the road; they were standing quite still, looking at the glowering white man with the Browning. He had been watching me all this time, but when he saw me look at him he went inside.
He stood just inside the door, his shadow visible; his shadow, and the shadow of the Browning. I wanted to go across the street with the others, but I dared not. I was afraid that if I crossed the street, he would shoot me. So I stepped into the middle of the courtyard and kicked the soccer ball, a feeble kick in their direction. It was their ball, and they were entitled to it. It bounced across the road and hit a tree. They made no move to fetch it. I was ashamed of my cowardice, I knew I had let them down; and I knew that we were on the same side. I turned my back on your escort and walked away, around the side of the building, trying to lose myself; low windows, the sills were eye-level. The rooms were empty and dark, with their doors open; I could hear your noise, laughter and commotion down the long hall. All the rooms were empty, except the last one. Three blacks, a man in bed, two young nurses attending. His riñe lay beside the bed, old and not at all lethal-looking; not like the Browning. The nurses were doing something to his stomach, but he neither moved nor cried out. His face was opaque, almost featureless but filled with life, as life teems under the skin of the ocean. I knew that somehow he was connected to the ambassador, and what had happened in the bush. He turned suddenly and our eyes met. I could feel the ignition. What must he have thought, a white boy outside his window? The nurses were oblivious, whispering, applying a dressing to his stomach. We stared at each other, and he made no move. We communicated by other means. Perhaps he saw under my skin what I had seen under his. When one of the nurses turned and caught sight of me, she gave a little gasp, turning toward the man in the bed. His eyes never left mine, but he nodded his head curtly. The two nurses conferred, then one of them left his side and came to the window, and pulled down the shade. But not before he had put his forefinger to his mouth, the universal signal; not that I needed to be told. Not that I needed to be reminded to keep silent about the wounded black man in the dark room. Not that I needed to be threatened, either. I walked back the way I had come, stopping again at the ambassador's window. The laughter was quieter now. Someone suggested that you leave, he needed rest. I saw you rise and walk to the door. You were holding a cup of Champagne. When you got to the door you did a dance, a kind of boogie. Then the fascist German said, Where's Bill Jr.? And you said, I don't know. I think he went outside. He's so young and Bill's so tired and beaten up. . . . Hearing that, I left the window and walked across the street, retrieved the soccer ball, and gave it a good kick. The boys were still there. One of them caught it, and they ran away. The sun was so hot, the puddles were already evaporating. I stood in the courtyard, watching the man with the Browning, and remembering the wounded man in the bed: one of the nurses had dipped her hands into a cup of water, and patted his mouth, moistening his lips. They had been so silent and efficient, and clandestine. It occurred to me that they loved him, whoever he was. It was some time after that, the nightmares began.” At the end his voice was so low it was almost a whisper.