Intimacies

by Katie Kitamura

  You know, he continued after a pause, the first time I saw you I thought: I like this woman, because she is not truly from the West. But in the end, you are part of the institution that you serve. Across the room, the junior associate was very still, his head bent over his papers. The former president exhaled slowly. Even so, you must see that the justice of this Court is far from impartial, you come from a country that has committed terrible crimes and atrocities. Under different circumstances your State Department would be on trial here, not me. Everyone knows this to be the case. As for your race—he paused, his eyes shifting toward me. Well, the less said about that terrible history the better.

  I could not stop the sharp intake of breath, the heat that gathered in my skin. There was very little air in the room. In the corner, the light on the security camera blinked. The former president continued to watch me. He smiled, as if we were simply making conversation. But then his face stiffened, the congeniality and charm withdrew. He leaned back into his chair. You sit there, so smug. As if you are beyond reproach, he said. He turned to look at me, his face mere inches from mine. But you are no better than me. You think my morals are somehow different to those of you and your kind. And yet there is nothing that separates you from me.

  He sat up again and made a curt gesture of dismissal. You may go, he said as he adjusted his tie and leaned forward to examine the papers before him. Slowly, I stood up and gathered my things. My legs seemed to drift beneath me and I almost stumbled as I pulled open the door. I was not able to look at the former president as I left the room, I did not say goodbye. As I made my way down the corridor the junior associate came hurrying after me. He called out and I stopped, leaning against the wall. He stood before me, his face bewildered.

  Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let him speak that way to you?

  Because he didn’t say anything that was untrue.

  We stood for a long moment. We understood each other and yet we did not agree. The junior associate was a man who believed himself to be objective. He could not imagine his own complicity, it was not in his nature. But I was different. I wasn’t one of them, I didn’t have it in me. He shook his head and turned to go.

  He doesn’t even mean it, he said over his shoulder. It’s a manipulation. It’s what he does.

  I know, I said.

  I turned to go. I walked away so quickly that I was almost running and then I was running. I collected my bag and I pushed through the doors and emerged out of that darkness and into the cold outside. The cars rushed by me, I heard a horn blare and I jumped back. My hair whipping across my face. I couldn’t return to the Court. I walked instead toward the sea, onto the dunes, I walked until I could see the water and the sound of the tide blocked out the road and the city and the Detention Center and the man inside. I stood there for a long time and then I sat in the sand. The sun was dipping down slowly toward the water.

  I took out my phone and called my mother in Singapore. It would be late there, but I thought she might still answer. She did after the first ring, we were not in the habit of regularly speaking and I immediately heard the concern in her voice. Is everything okay? In that moment I did not know how to answer and then I told her that I needed to decide whether or not I would stay in The Hague. The wind had picked up and she said, I can’t hear you, the line is so bad. Where are you? I’m on the beach, I said, it’s the wind.

  Oh, she said and her voice seemed to calm. We took you to that beach once. The one in Den Haag?

  The dunes, I said. On the edge of the city.

  Yes, she said. We took you there one weekend, the weather was terrible. Your father didn’t mind though. You ran up and down the dunes with him until you were both worn out and then we ate poffertjes. Do you remember those? Have you been eating them? You loved them when you were little.

  I don’t remember coming here as a child.

  To Den Haag? I suppose you were very young. We traveled a lot in those days. She didn’t seem to realize that she was saying anything of significance, perhaps to her it was only a small and mundane fact of family history. Still, her voice was warmed through with nostalgia. The wind was pressing the hair into my face again and I pushed it aside and looked around. I tried to see the landscape clearly, I tried to understand the feeling of recognition that now overcame me. My mother had fallen silent, and now she asked if I was really okay. You seem very far away, she said and her voice sounded suddenly wistful.

  I’m fine, I said. I’m okay.

  We hung up moments later. But I remained on the beach and when I rose to my feet the sun had set long ago, and I had been sitting in darkness for some time.

  * * *

  —

  The case against the former president was formally dismissed two weeks later. We had all known it was possible, the prosecutor’s brief, once submitted, had been less than convincing. There had been weaknesses to the case from the start, problems in proving chain of command. From a moral perspective, the man was guilty; from a legal perspective, the man was likely innocent. That both those things were possible was of course understood. But it was another thing to see the case fail before us, to see the cracks begin to widen one by one. I saw uncertainty spread through the building, blooming like mold.

  Even before the case was dismissed, the apportioning of blame had begun. I viewed this activity from a distance, but I knew that within the various departments it was swift and vicious, and I was not the only one to wonder how long the prosecutor would last. For several days, there were a great many journalists at the Court—in the lobby, the corridors, on certain days they virtually occupied the cafeteria, thrusting chairs in place to form groups as they huddled over their coffee, their manner always urgent and professional. We regarded them with both suspicion and awe, they possessed the ability to direct attention to a particular event, person, or place with the press of a button, and they were now using that power to direct the world’s gaze on the Court.

  We interpreters were only extras passing behind the central cast and yet we moved with caution, we had the sense of being under observation. We understood that the story of the trial was being written, and also the story of the Court, whose reputation would be deeply affected by the case. The former president had already released a statement denouncing the Court as a tool of Western imperialism and an ineffectual one at that, for obvious reasons he felt vindicated by the collapse of the case against him. Most of the journalists came to the Court only for opening and closing statements. Having been absent for the many months and years of the trial, they had returned to observe the final moments and attendant chaos. They had mere fragments of the narrative, and yet they would assemble those fragments into a story like any other story, a story with the appearance of unity.

  One afternoon, I saw that a group of journalists had gathered in a cluster in the lobby. From a distance and over their heads and outstretched devices, I saw Kees, standing at the center. He was gesticulating to the assembled crowd and I saw the conviction with which he relayed his message, everything was calculated, from the way he looked into the camera to the way he made eye contact with the individual journalists, the careful articulation as he brought his thumb and index finger together, then splayed the fingers out in a single sweeping movement of muted, respectful triumph.

  He finished his statement and then there was a rush of questions, phones thrust closer to him, journalists calling his name. He leaned forward as he listened to the journalist who had prevailed, and then—as if he had felt my gaze in particular upon him, out of the half a dozen people looking at him, half a dozen or perhaps more—he looked up from the woman who was asking her question, up and across the lobby, to where I stood. The expression on his face was unreadable, but there was no question that he was looking at me. Several journalists turned to see who or what he was looking at. He stared a moment longer and then nodded once—almost certainly in farewell—before lowering his head once more to
the journalist.

  That same week, I told Bettina that I would not be able to accept her offer to remain at the Court. She did not seem that surprised, perhaps she had been expecting it given the delay in my response, perhaps it didn’t matter given the disorder engulfing the Court, or perhaps she had begun to suspect what I already knew, that I was not suited to the work. Still, she asked me in a mild voice if there was any particular reason why I was declining the position. I told her the truth: that I did not think I was right for the job. Her face grew sympathetic, and I tried to elaborate, I told her that in the end I did not think I was truly qualified for the position.

  Your qualifications are excellent, she said, her forehead creasing in confusion. And your work has been consistently very strong. We would not have made the offer if there had been any question about your qualifications. She paused. There is also the issue of temperament. Some people do not have the right temperament for the job and perhaps you are one of them. If that is the case, it is better to know sooner than later, for your own sake but also for ours.

  I nodded. I saw that she had already started to dismiss me in her mind. I had the feeling that I had wasted her time. She was right to say that it was a question of temperament, and that I did not have the correct kind. But I no longer believed that equanimity was either tenable or desirable. It corroded everything inside. I had never met a person with greater equanimity than the former president. But this applied to all of them—to the prosecution and the defense, to the judges and even the other interpreters. They were able to work. They had the right temperament for the job. But at what internal cost?

  That night, I ventured out to get something to eat, walking to the closest Chinese restaurant. When I entered, the young woman at the register addressed me in Mandarin, her manner hopeful. Her face clouded over when I shook my head and from that point she treated me with greater disdain than seemed normal. I thought—I want to go home. I want to be in a place that feels like home. Where that was, I did not know.

  * * *

  —

  I met Adriaan at a café in his neighborhood. We had been in the habit of going there together and I had been several times while I was still staying in his apartment. But it now felt alien, as if I had returned after a long period of exile. The expectation of his arrival had altered the place. I sat down at a table in the corner of the café, my body so leaden I did not think I would be able to stand again. It had been a week since Adriaan had returned to The Hague, but we had not yet seen each other, we had only spoken on the telephone once, several days earlier.

  There had been a brief silence when I answered the phone, and then he said, I’m glad you answered. You left the apartment. His voice was mild, but at the same time it expressed something sharper, and heavier, and I realized then that it had not been without meaning for him, the silence between us. You were gone for longer than I expected, I said. I tried to keep the words from saying too much, but I could not speak of expectation, of what I had once thought to hope, without feeling something yawn open inside. He was very quiet, and then said that it had been complicated in Lisbon, but that he was back, and that it would be best if we could speak in person.

  And so we arranged to meet in the café. He arrived not long after I did and I rose to my feet as soon as he came in the door. He crossed the room toward me. I was startled by the physical tumult I experienced in his presence, a feeling that I had almost forgotten. It had been two months since we had last seen each other. We kissed on the cheeks, like mere acquaintances, and then we sat down at the table. He appeared different in some way that I could not immediately identify, as if another version of himself were poking through the familiar exterior.

  I saw the news about the trial, he said.

  I nodded.

  People must be very upset.

  I don’t think it’s the existential threat to the Court that some people are saying it is. But it’s not good, no one is happy about it.

  Did you ever interpret for him?

  I realized again how long he had been gone.

  Yes.

  What was he like?

  He is petty and vain but he understands the depths of human behavior. The places where ordinary people do not go. That gives him a great deal of power, even when he is confined to a cell.

  I saw some of the coverage from Lisbon, on the television.

  I nodded and looked away. I saw him, in this city I did not know, in an apartment with Gaby and the children, perhaps watching the very journalists I had seen narrate the story of what had taken place. That other life bloomed before my eyes, and the sight of it was more painful than I could have imagined.

  I’ve never been to Lisbon.

  It is a beautiful city, he said, as if he could not help but be honest. Very different to this one. Gaby would like the children to stay in Lisbon, but it is difficult. They miss their school here, they have their friends, they cannot simply stay in Portugal because their mother wishes it. At the same time, they need their mother, of course.

  Adriaan was hesitating, he did not want to tell me very much more about whatever had taken place in Lisbon, or perhaps he did not know how to put it into words. He looked suddenly tired, and I understood that what had happened had been its own thing for him, in the way that these past months had been for me, and it occurred to me that many years into one possible future, we might be living together in some state of sustained harmony, that against the odds we might yet have succeeded in growing old together. We could be one of those couples whose mutual understanding had such depth and history that we no longer needed to explain things to each other, our routines set long ago, our knowledge of each other, and of our relationship, absolute. And still we might never have told each other what took place these past two months. This time would remain a blind spot in the rearview mirror of our relationship, around which we would carefully maneuver, until the act of that accommodation became second nature, until we no longer even noticed it.

  Does that mean that Gaby will remain in Lisbon? I asked. Yes, he said quietly. The children will stay here with me and go to Lisbon during their school holidays. It is not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, I tried very hard to convince Gaby of this fact. But she was adamant. And so I brought the children back with me and we are here once more. In many ways, it is a relief. I am relieved. It is not what I hoped for the children, but I had not realized until I returned to The Hague how much the situation had weighed on me. It is good to have this clarity, however imperfect the outcome.

  He paused. I hope you will meet them soon. My children.

  I was offered a permanent contract at the Court.

  That is wonderful news.

  I declined.

  I see.

  But I saw that he did not see, or that he was not certain of what the words meant, whether in telling him I had declined the position at the Court I was also telling him that I would no longer be living in The Hague, that I would never meet his children, that there was no possibility of a future between us. I’d had to make the decision without him, I’d had to make it alone. After a moment, he raised his eyes to my face.

  Because of the work? Or because of me?

  The question was blunt, but I saw that he needed to know, his face was a pure articulation of that need. I looked across the table and at last understood the meaning of what he had just said, that Gaby would be staying in Lisbon and that he had returned to The Hague, that he had come back. It was almost too much to comprehend. Before I could speak he continued.

  I’m sorry that I didn’t call more often while I was in Portugal. I’m sorry for the long silence. He shook his head. Things were more difficult than I expected. The truth is that I should have been better prepared, after all I was married to Gaby for over fifteen years. But I did not understand how much things between us had deteriorated. He looked at me and lowered his voice. I am sorry about Gaby. I did not know
that she intended to go to the apartment, I did not know that she would be in The Hague at all. I would never have inflicted that on you knowingly.

  There was a pressure to his voice, to the way he spoke, and I saw that he understood, or was beginning to understand, how it had been for me those weeks he was away. And although there were things I had intended to say to him, words that had passed through my head many times, words that I had believed needed to be spoken between us, I said only this: I understand. I could understand anything, under the right circumstances and for the right person. It was both a strength and a weakness. I looked at his face and I thought it possible that after all, that despite everything, Adriaan was that person for me.

  Perhaps you could leave the Court, Adriaan said, but remain in The Hague?

  I reached across the table. He looked down at my hands, as if they were unfamiliar, or as if he were only now seeing them again. He grasped them tightly and looked up at me.

  I went to the dunes the other day, I said. They’re beside the Court, and yet I had never walked on them. I had never gone down to the water. It was hard to believe this place had existed all this time. That this open expanse of sea had been just outside my field of vision. I looked down, I didn’t know exactly how to proceed, the words seemed to say so little. Then I learned that I’d been there before, that I’d spent time here in The Hague with my family as a child.

  I fell silent. Perhaps in the end it was not something I could explain—the prospect that had briefly opened, the idea that the world might yet be formed or found again. It was only a simple stretch of sand, the same water that lapped on the shore elsewhere. And yet for a brief moment I had felt the landscape around me vibrate with possibility. I had been trying for so long to put things in their place, to draw a line from one thing to the next.