by Keith Yocum
He did not know where he was going, or really why he was leaving the hotel. He felt compelled to do something other than sit in the steak bar.
He kept walking, noticing the unusual odors of a foreign city—even the auto exhaust had a stronger diesel odor about it. He kept a steady, almost heady pace with the few commuters he encountered.
Crossing the street turned out to be dangerous for Dennis; twice he forced cars to swerve around him as he looked left instead of right as he crossed.
After a while, he found himself across the street from an ornate brick building; it was lit up spectacularly like a night launch at Cape Canaveral. At the top of the three-story, corner building was a Victorian cupola with the word Hotel lit up. He could see people inside a pub on the ground floor, and he made his way toward it.
He found an open spot at the bar, ordered one of the beers he saw on tap, and glanced down the bar. Some men were alone, savoring every sip of their ice-cold beers before they headed home for dinner with the family. A few old-timers hunkered expertly over their beers, elbows planted firmly on the mahogany, looking like they were just starting a long evening of imbibing.
Groups of young men and women did what they did in bars everywhere: laugh, flirt, and drink very fast.
Dennis moved quickly through his first drink, taking in the surroundings and feeling vague amusement at the energy level of the pub. Most traditional businessmen’s bars he haunted around Northern Virginia and DC were glum, quiet places for settling in for a night of CNN or meaningless sporting events on the TV above the bar.
This pub had some serious drinkers, he could see, but also a smattering of young people giving it a celebratory feel.
“You a Yank?” the man to his right asked.
Dennis turned to see a tall, smiling, leather-faced man in his late sixties.
“Yeah,” Dennis said. “How can you tell?”
“Your accent, mate.”
“Ha. I barely said anything.”
“Doesn’t take much.” The man smiled. “Name’s Rusty.”
Dennis reached out and introduced himself, conflicted about whether he was up for company. Sometimes Dennis simply wanted to sit at a bar by himself, nurse his drink in near-isolation, and go home. Other times, he could talk for hours with a stranger about the most arcane subjects except, of course, politics and religion. Those two subjects are verboten to public drinkers everywhere.
“Here on business or pleasure?” Rusty asked.
“Definitely business. Always business; I never travel for pleasure.”
“Ah, then, you’ve come to the right place,” he said. “In Perth you can work and enjoy yourself at the same time. It’s a bonza place: one of the best cities in the Western world. It’s our best kept secret, Dennis, and we’d just as well keep it that way.”
“Well, if I could get used to the cars driving on the other side of the street, I might actually survive this trip,” Dennis said. “I think I was almost hit three times coming here.”
“Ah, right. Every now and then a tourist is struck crossing the street. Bloody unfortunate, I’d say.”
Dennis found himself drawn into an entirely pleasant conversation with Rusty, who displayed the proper bar etiquette that made for engaging, noncontroversial discourse. Besides, Rusty started using Dennis’s name immediately, making him feel even more comfortable. He was the perfect, distanced companion for Dennis.
Perhaps it was his strange mood, or maybe it was Rusty’s gentle, welcoming behavior, but Dennis soon found himself acting very un-Dennis-like. He blurted out the litany of his travails, from his wife’s death to his depression, and even his problems with his boss.
Rusty was very attentive and commiserated with Dennis.
“Ah well, Dennis,” he said, “a death in the family is a real tough one. But you’re still tickin’, mate! You know, my wife passed away three years ago. It’s been a tough few years, but I feel like I’m coming out of my shell now.”
“What helped you get through it?” Dennis asked.
“Well, my religion helped some,” Rusty said. “I was raised Catholic. It’s the only religion I know. Just going to Mass every Sunday, sitting there and contemplating life’s challenges—about our miniscule little lives in this great universe—well, it helped.”
“I don’t go to church,” Dennis said. “Hell, maybe I should start.”
“And my family was helpful. My three grown children were very attentive and kept me busy. And there’s nothing like playing with your grandchildren to take your mind off your own problems and be reminded that life continues.”
“I don’t have much of a family,” Dennis said. “Just a daughter, and we’re not really close.”
“Well, get close, then,” Rusty said effusively. “What are you waiting for?”
“I mean, it’d be kind of weird for me to suddenly start acting like we’ve been so tight all these years,” he said. “I mean, how do you just do that?”
“Nonsense,” Rusty said. “You just do it. There’s no bloody book on how to do these things; you just do it, mate. The worst thing you can do is not try.”
Dennis looked at his bar mate. “Rusty, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m retired. Been retired for years.”
“What did you do when you did work?”
“I was an upholsterer.”
“What did you upholster?” Dennis asked.
“Seats, what else?”
“For furniture?”
“Well, no, for the railroad,” he said. “I upholstered and repaired seats for the railroad.”
“For the railroad,” Dennis repeated.
“Right,” Rusty said, taking a big sip from his frosty glass.
“How long did you do that for? I mean upholster seats for the railroad?”
“Thirty-one years, six months, and three days,” Rusty said. “But who’s counting?”
Dennis laughed. “Well, I have to say that I’ve traveled around the world and met a lot of people, but I’ve never met an Australian railroad upholsterer before.”
“Well, mate”—Rusty slapped him on the shoulder—“there’s no telling the people you’ll meet in this crazy world. But don’t forget—and I hope I’m not being too preachy here, Dennis—that it’s never too late to mend the things in your life that need mending. You seem like a bloke who’s got a lot on his mind, so it’s good to stand back and take the long view, if you see what I mean.”
“Does it look like I’ve got a lot on my mind?”
“Well, yes, a bit, mate.”
“Mmm.” Dennis took a sip.
“No offense meant, but sometimes you Yanks think you have to solve the world’s problems. The most important things in life are your family and your mates. The world at large comes in a distant third in my book. We old-timers have a saying—no worries, mate—that sort of sums up my approach to life.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rusty paid his tab and announced he was at his daily limit of beer and was going home. He said good-bye to Dennis and wished him well.
“Hope I didn’t bend your ear too much tonight,” Rusty said.
“No, not at all. It was fun talking to you,” Dennis said.
“Remember,” Rusty said, “no worries.”
***
Judy was in a bad mood. Earlier that morning Phillip had called her to say he was going to stop by that evening to pick up some of his belongings. He told Judy he might bring his fiancée, Claire.
Judy argued briefly with him about blowing off the weekend with Simon so he could spend it with Claire, but as so often happened while they were married, Phillip simply dismissed her concerns with: “Oh, come on, Judy.”
She pulled up in front of the hotel at 1:00 p.m., and Dennis waved politely. She only nodded in return. They exchanged greetings in the car but remained silent as she navigated the busy downtown Perth intersections.
Stopped at a traffic light, Judy revisited the anger and haunting humiliation she felt from the recen
t divorce. I should have known he was having an affair with that woman, she thought. It was so obvious and I was so stupid. Judy was unsure what was worse: the stupidity or the humiliation.
Dennis stared out the passenger window at the landscape. The weather was pleasant enough. Judy eventually entered a winding highway that went past the wide, languid, gray-colored Swan River.
“So what did you tell this English professor that we wanted to talk to him about?” Dennis said.
“I told him that we were investigating the disappearance of a Yank—an American. He said he was saddened by Mr. Jansen’s loss and would cooperate in any way.”
“Why did he say loss?”
“I suppose everyone assumes that there’s foul play involved, Mr. Cunningham. It’s been reported in the newspapers.”
“You keep calling me Mr. Cunningham. My name’s Dennis.”
“I’m sorry, Dennis. I agree it does sound a little too formal.”
Dennis looked away at two small sailboats plying the river, their white, synthetic sails nervous with trapped air.
Out of the blue, he said, “I met a guy last night in a pub: an old fellow. He was very friendly, relaxed, and talkative. He kept repeating, ‘No worries, mate.’ I don’t know why, but it just kind of resonated with me. He was this old-time Aussie philosopher, and it was quite amusing.”
“You’d need to go pretty far into the bush to find someone talking like that. Your pub mate was a throwback to another era, I’m afraid, Dennis. Most of us don’t have the luxury of taking life like that. It’s a little more complicated these days, unfortunately.”
“Well, he was nice and relaxed,” Dennis said absently, staring at the sailboats tacking sharply. “In contrast to my boss.”
Judy shot a puzzled glance at her passenger.
“What happened with your boss, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, nothing really. He just threatened to fire me yesterday.”
“Truthfully?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The consul general here complained about me. The Agency had me on a short leash, and I was warned not to bruise any egos, but I’m afraid I did a bad thing. It’s stupid, really. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes.” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure they’re overreacting.”
Dennis felt strange. He had no business telling this woman anything about his professional life, but this morning, driving west on the Stirling Highway on the west coast of Australia, he didn’t much care.
Talking to Judy and interviewing this English professor would keep him away from falling into a funk. If he could just keep moving, he’d get through the day just fine.
***
Professor Wells found it difficult to sit still, and Dennis smiled in amusement.
“Well, it was unusual to have someone from outside the community join the society, but it certainly wasn’t unprecedented,” the professor said, emphasizing particular words by pronouncing them slowly and flicking his boney right hand. “You see, poetry is such a specialized and refined art form that it appeals to a very small group these days.”
“How did he relate to the other members of the society?” Judy asked.
“Rather well, actually.”
“Did he write his own poetry?” she asked.
“Oh my, yes, he did. We encourage that, of course.”
“What did you think of his poetry?” Dennis asked.
“It was fine and, well, very American,” he said. “Free verse—unstructured mostly—but charming, I suppose, in its own way.”
“Did he prefer a particular poet, or type of poetry?” Judy asked.
“My word, yes!” he said, clasping his hands together as if he were washing them rapidly in cold water. “He adored the war poets.”
Dennis looked at Judy for some guidance, but she returned a blank stare.
“War poets?” she asked. “I’m afraid Mr. Cunningham and I are not familiar with the war poets.”
“The war poets: Wilfred Owen? Siegfried Sassoon? Rupert Brooke? That lot?”
“I’m afraid not.” She looked at Dennis for confirmation.
Professor Wells launched into an impassioned description of the British poets of World War I and their literary legacy. It went on for at least fifteen minutes until Judy deftly brought him out of his lecture.
“Did Mr. Jansen have any particular friends that he made in the society?” Judy asked.
“Well, no particular friends, I would say, or at least none that I can think of.”
They chatted for another thirty minutes, Judy and Dennis taking turns questioning the professor.
Dennis reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Professor, can you tell me whether you recognize this poem?” He handed it to the professor.
Professor Wells studied it for several seconds and then read it out loud:
Not Kimberly
Nor the way of the lake
But a Savory treat!
For all Europium
“I don’t recognize it,” he said, passing it back to Dennis.
“I found it in Mr. Jansen’s office and assumed he wrote it,” Dennis said.
“Well, there are only four lines, and not particularly good ones at that,” the professor said. “Is this the entire poem?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I have.” Dennis sighed and stood up.
Judy followed suit, thanking Professor Wells for his time.
Dennis was in the hallway before he stopped abruptly and pushed his head back into the professor’s office.
“Excuse me, Professor. Who was his favorite poet? His favorite war poet?”
“Oh, that would be Owen—Wilfred Owen. Absolutely. Jansen loved his poetry: could recite ‘Insensibility’ from memory.”
“Insensibility?”
“One of Owen’s poems,” the professor said. “A remarkable poem, really. He suggests that losing your humanity is worse than losing your life.”
When they had settled into the car, Dennis blurted out: “Hey, Judy, do you mind if we don’t go back to the hotel right away? Do you want to grab a drink? Or take a walk?”
Looking at her watch, she tried to hide her surprise. “Well, let me think. I suppose we could have a drink. Do you have somewhere in mind?”
“No, not really,” Dennis said. “Actually, is the ocean far from here?”
“Just down Stirling Highway. Not far. Actually, I know a place. A bit touristy, but should be nice on a day like this.”
Chapter 11
Judy nursed her sauvignon blanc, taking small sips while concentrating on Dennis, who continued to behave differently than she had seen before. The Ugly American had been mysteriously replaced by the Uncertain American.
She judged, given his disclosed struggles with his boss, that Dennis was indeed in the midst of some kind of crisis. She found his vulnerability compelling. She almost—not quite, but almost—felt sorry for him.
They went to a restaurant called Indiana, an ornate concrete building nestled into the sandy slope above Cottesloe Beach, north of Fremantle. Dennis and Judy sat in chairs behind huge windows overlooking the beach. Surfers knifed through the water below them. A stone breakwater to the left ran 150 yards into the ocean perpendicular to the beach.
“May I ask where you got the poem?” she asked. “You hadn’t mentioned it before.”
“I found it behind a filing cabinet in Garder’s office. I’m not sure it’s even his without a handwriting analysis, but I thought I’d try it on the professor.”
“The professor was very idiosyncratic, wasn’t he?” Judy said. “It’s good to see that people can be so passionate about their favorite subjects.”
“Did you notice that when he got excited, he’d almost hop off his seat?” Dennis said, mocking the professor by lifting himself off his seat and gesturing with his hands.
Judy laughed. “He was amusing.”
She took another sip
of her wine and watched a young woman in a glistening black wetsuit paddle to catch a wave. The surfer made a brief run and then cut back over the top of the crest to the calm on the other side.
“You know I used to be really good at this work,” Dennis said. “They loved me, even if they didn’t always approve of my methods.”
“What kind of methods?” she asked.
“My primary method involved being a jerk.”
“Oh,” she said chuckling, “I think I’ve seen a little of that method.”
“You know it’s funny, but people will invariably show their real colors if you stress them, just throw them off kilter. It works extremely well. I’ve interviewed some of the most practiced liars in the US government. These are mostly agents and station chiefs whose entire life is a lie. They’re trained to pretend they’re a businessman from Nebraska, or a low-level employee at a consulate in Ankara, so when they lie about other stuff, it just comes easy to them.”
“So that’s what you do? Investigate for the CIA? They didn’t tell me.”
He nodded. “I’m in the OIG, the Office of Inspector General for the Agency.”
“So this feller, Jansen, was he not a consulate employee?”
Dennis looked at her closely; she was not authorized to know any of this, but he didn’t care. He suddenly liked talking to her, and if it meant he’d have to break a few rules, so be it.
“No, he was an agent: pretty low-level guy. Real name was Garder.”
“I see. That would explain you and the other two who came before you.”
“Yeah. We’re just trying to figure out what happened to him, but I’m afraid I’m going to end up where I started. He’s MIA. Doesn’t seem right that he just took off on a bender; my guess is that he was the victim of a random murder, but you never know. Sometimes they just take off with a lot of money or get snatched by a foreign service.”
“Mmm,” she said, “but tell me, if you don’t mind. You said earlier that your boss is no longer happy with your performance. How can that be if you show results?”
“Well, over the years I did bring in some big cases, but things sometimes went wrong.”
“Oh.”
“I guess the worst case involved the station chief in Nicaragua.” Dennis stared at the surfers. “In the early 1990s, after the Iran-Contra fiasco, there were allegations that the Agency was turning a blind eye to the importing of drugs into Arkansas, of all places. It was a preposterous charge really, but sometimes it seems the more outlandish the charges are against the Agency, the more likely they are to be believed by the media. The newspapers reported the allegations, and Congress got involved. The OIG was ordered to investigate. I was on that team. It was a tough assignment, but we delivered the goods. The Agency wasn’t at fault.”