Heartsong

by James Welch

  Now he possessed something of the same feeling as he had had then, a feeling of almost breathless excitement. So little really happened to him at the consulate, other than the business of bureaucracy, that Bell had taken to manufacturing his own excitement, the occasional burst of hopefulness that was invariably dashed by the reality of business as usual. With a little sniff of disgust, he thought of his futile effort to woo the lovely but now stone-cold Margaret Whiston, as he watched Agnes set a cup of tea on the desk before Atkinson.

  At least Agnes was reliable, steady as an old horse. She was only three or four years older than Bell, but he thought of her as something of a spinster aunt, probably because she had been at the consulate through three consuls general and showed no sign of ever having been attached to any of them—or anyone else, for that matter. She was tall, erect, and unfashionably thin, but her dark blond hair was luxuriously done up in a bun.

  “Well, Frank, how are things going with that hemp business?” The consul was still breathing hard from a trip to the bathroom. Bell estimated that he weighed at least 250 pounds, most of it straining the buttons on his waistcoat. With his small, shaved head, pug nose, and pudgy fingers, he looked like a fat, healthy baby with muttonchops. In spite of his ridiculous appearance, he commanded the respect of all those who talked with him for more than ten minutes. At sixty-six, his mind was strong and incisive.

  “Same as always. Monsieur Latrielle wants to ship the finished product, but the cordage outfit in Boston wants the raw material. It’s a real stalemate, but we’re working on it.” Bell watched Agnes set the cup of tea on the desk before him. The backs of her hands were ridged with thin blue veins and were a bit more waxy—almost translucent—than he had noticed before. “Thank you, Agnes.”

  “That’s good, Frank. We have to resolve this thing as soon as possible. You know those Irishmen back there—they’re almost as stubborn as these Marseillais.”

  “I have a meeting with Latrielle tomorrow at noon. I think he’s softening a little—although he still says it’s to his disadvantage to ship the raw stuff. I think this might be his last shot.” But Bell had noticed an air of distractedness about Atkinson, not at all usual. He wondered if the consul’s wife had taken a turn for the worse. Again, that feeling of excitement, this time accompanied by a modest guilt, wormed its way into his bones. He took a sip of tea to occupy the momentary space that had developed between him and the old man. He half expected Atkinson to say something like “I’ve been here too long, Frank, it’s time to go home, you can take over here.” Had the moment arrived, at last? He sneaked a glance over the rim of his cup toward Agnes, who sat at a little desk where she took notes of meetings. Her face betrayed nothing, as always.

  But Atkinson pushed a piece of paper across the polished mahogany desk toward Bell. “We’ve got a problem,” he said in a weary voice.

  Bell picked up the paper. The first thing he noticed was the name in the upper left-hand corner, handwritten in a neat script: Charging Elk. Beneath it was a round stamp: Ville de Marseille—Archives. To the right of the name and stamp, he saw a standard form, but the words that caught his eye, written in bold letters, were “ACTE DE DÉCÈS,” followed by “de Charging Elk.” He glanced at Atkinson, barely seeing him but noticing that the consul’s eyes were fixed firmly on him. He quickly returned to the death certificate. “6 Janvier, 1890... décédé à Marseille, ce matin, à quatre heures à l’Hôpital de la Conception, âgé de trente-neuf ans. Indien de la troupe de Buffalo Bill Célibataire; né dans le Dakota (Etats Unis d’Amérique); de passage à Marseille; Fib de . . .” This last space was left unanswered. Who knew who his parents were? Even if it was Charging Elk.

  Bell looked up at Atkinson with a smile. “Somebody made a mistake. This is Featherman. He died on the 6th. And he was thirty-nine. I saw the information the representatives of the Wild West show provided the hospital.”

  Atkinson had made a steeple of his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his leather chair. His eyes weren’t quite closed but they seemed heavy. Bell wasn’t used to seeing Atkinson like this and he suddenly felt a wave of alarm come over him. Why was the consul so grave over a simple case of mistaken identity? “I’ll go to the hospital first thing in the morning and straighten out this mess. Obviously they’ve made a mistake. It’s a simple matter, really.”

  Atkinson broke the steeple by curling one hand into a fist. He covered it with the other hand and cracked the knuckles. He picked up his teacup and swiveled toward the long windows that looked out over a courtyard. Bell looked beyond him toward the closely pruned limbs of a wintering plane tree. If nothing else, the French were immaculate gardeners. The public gardens were always put away nicely for winter.

  “I’ve been here for nine years now, Frank.” Atkinson seemed to be talking to the plane tree. “And I’ve come to realize—often to my amusement—that nothing here is simple. That’s why we, the American Consulate, exist—to make things simple, if we can. We try to facilitate these trade agreements, we try to grease the wheels, to make sure Americans are treated right, without offending the government bureaucrats or the manufacturers or the growers. Sometimes we even resort to bribery—not the flashy money under the back table stuff, but you’d be surprised what I have to promise these people, Frank.” Bell heard a little sound, almost like a chuckle, come from the shiny head just visible over the tall back of the chair. “Things get done eventually, but sometimes I wonder at what cost, Frank.”

  Now Bell was more puzzled than alarmed. What had brought all this on? Surely the matter of the death certificate was not a problem. Perhaps the old man was just plain tired of the constant battles, the pressure to promote, i.e., sell, relations between the French and the Americans. It was true that Marseille was unlike any of Bell’s previous postings. Panama had been and still was virtually a colony, ripe for the taking—the Americans took out all the coffee and sugar and bananas for a pittance. Similarly, in Peru, the Americans had almost a monopoly on the guano and nitrate deposits. And Morocco didn’t have any resources worth getting into the perpetual conflict with the Spaniards and French and Brits; consequently, it had been the easiest of Bell’s previous postings. But it was in Marrakech that Bell realized how easily he could become one of the complacent foreign service zombies he had seen throughout his career. There are some countries, some climates, that seem to encourage a kind of peaceful slothfulness, a desire to end one’s career, no matter what age, on the veranda of a tucked-away paradise where employees become servants and drinks are served promptly at five of a hot afternoon.

  Bell allowed himself a little smile, in spite of the gravity of the situation—he hadn’t moved up the ladder the way he had thought he would when he applied for the foreign service, diplomatic corps, right out of Yale, but getting posted to Marseille was a big step in the right direction. The energy here was extraordinary—ships bringing in products from everywhere, taking away things to other major ports, including those of America. Since the Suez Canal opened, some twenty years ago, Marseille had become the busiest port in Europe. Sometimes Bell just walked around the crowded port, watching the barrels of olive oil, the crates of wine, the tanned hides, the boxes of Marseille soap being lifted onto the ships, and he always thrilled at the commotion of commerce. It was really the place Bell wanted to be for a few more years. He could stand the wheeling and dealing that now seemed to have drained the enthusiasm of the old man. He still had the brio—and now the knowledge if not the experience—to take over running the consulate. He just needed a chance, damn it all.

  In the quiet gloom of the tall dark-paneled room, lit only by an electric chandelier, Bell felt quite alone in his revery, though he was aware of the scratching pen of the secretary, but even that seemed less an act of the present duty and more a transcription of his thoughts. The notion that he was so transparent made him uncomfortable, so he quit thinking and confined himself to staring at a plaster bust of Benjamin Franklin, America’s first ambassador to France just a litt
le over a hundred years ago. Oddly enough, the familiar bald dome and the fringe of long hair over the upturned frock collar reminded him of the fortune-teller’s lair on La Canebiere. There had been a bust set on a pedestal between the window and the red velvet curtains—but surely not Benjamin Franklin.

  Just as Bell was beginning to think that he had somehow missed being dismissed, he was startled by the energy with which Atkinson whirled about in his chair and clanked his cup down in its saucer.

  “But we do have a problem, Frank, and this is what it is. I’ve already sent a man—Horgan, in domestic affairs—over to La Conception, and he was informed, quite emphatically, by the doctor who signed this piece of paper”—he stabbed a freckled forefinger at the death certificate—“that the man who died on the sixth of January was your Indian, this Charging Elk.”

  Bell noticed that the consul general had said “your” Indian, and the familiar sense of dread—that he was responsible for Charging Elk, for good or ill—returned and sent little pricks of fear up his spine. But he determined not to accept responsibility for something he had no control over: “It’s clear that the doctor’s wrong. I’ll go over and talk to him myself. We know it was Featherman who died on the sixth. Its indisputable.” Bell had used “we” purposely to defray responsibility. But he still didn’t know what the problem was. My God, what was the problem?

  “You don’t understand, Frank. The doctor is covering his hind end—excuse me, Agnes—and will not accept that he made a mistake in identifying the Indian. Horgan said he made quite a scene, accusing us of questioning his integrity, his professionalism, and so on. He practically threw poor Horgan out into the street.” Atkinson again sounded that strange chuckle that seemed to require no change of expression, certainly no mirth. Bell was surprised that he hadn’t noticed this mannerism before.

  “So, as far as the good doctor, and the city of Marseille, and, of course, the Republic of France, are concerned, Charging Elk is dead, plain and simple.” Atkinson again made a steeple of his fingers and stared over them directly at Franklin Bell. “What are you going to do about it, Frank?”

  Bell didn’t know what to say. The consul was apparently blaming him for the doctor’s intransigence. Bell tried to figure out what he had done wrong. The only problem he could see was that Charging Elk had escaped from the hospital. I suppose the old man might think that was my fault too, he thought. Of course, I had visited the Indian in the hospital, along with our French liaison officer, but how were we to know he couldn’t speak English or French? Bell turned his attention to the bust of Franklin and pursed his lips. Damn, he thought, if I could only have communicated with Charging Elk. If I could just have assured him that he would be joining the Wild West show again, he would have relaxed and stayed in the hospital. But how could I? Anyway, how would that have prevented the doctor from reaching the same conclusion, that it was not Featherman but Charging Elk who died at the Hopital de la Conception?

  A strange combination of fear and anger crept into Bell’s mind. He had really not been put in this position before. But he remembered that some of the older hands in the consulate, at some festivity or another, had said straight out that Atkinson was frustrated because he had not been offered an ambasssadorship to any country worth a hill of beans. He had a spotless record and had got things done wherever he had been. At one time, he had been a bright light and moved rapidly through the ranks. But now he was stuck in Marseille and would likely end his career here. Of course, these old hands had sneered at the notion that Atkinson thought he could beat the politics of such appointments. Hardly any career diplomats became ambassadors, especially those in the Consular Service. That was a pure fact. But now Bell felt a little abused that he should become the object of Atkinson’s frustrations. It just wasn’t fair.

  What really hurt Bell was that he considered himself Atkinson’s protege. He had learned more in his first three months on the job here than he had in his previous nine years in the foreign service. It was true that he and Atkinson hadn’t become bosom friends, but one doesn’t expect that kind of relationship with one’s superior, especially given the age difference. Still, Bell thought they had a relationship of mutual respect and understanding, perhaps even a kind of amiable—dare he say it?—father-and-son, or at least mentor-and-student, relationship. And now this.

  “Sir, am I to understand that I’m being accused of—what?—lack of judgment, failure to follow procedures? What? As far as I know, Charging Elk is alive, living temporarily with the French family, awaiting the opportunity to rejoin the Wild West show. I assume that the French authorities are still moving ahead with the documentation and will allow him to leave as soon as possible. It all seems very cut-and-dried.”

  In the momentary silence, Bell could hear Agnes Devoe’s pen scratching dryly on her pad. In that curious way the mind works in tense situations, he suddenly thought she must be French. Devoe was a French name, wasn’t it? But her English was perfect. And a French national would not be allowed this close to the consul general.

  “First of all, I’m not accusing you of anything, Frank. Certainly not.” Atkinson sat back with a smile and threaded his fingers behind his shiny head. The waistcoat gapped between the buttons, showing ellipses of starched white shirt. Atkinson suddenly seemed at ease, almost puzzlingly so, and Bell dared to hope that the worst had passed. But the old man went on: “The problem we have before us is quite simple—according to the French authorities, Charging Elk is dead. You and I know, of course, that this is utter nonsense, but I’m afraid we are going to have to convince them that this is the case. And I’m afraid that is going to be quite a chore, one requiring a bit of tact—we don’t want to offend the doctor further, but we need him, or perhaps the local medical board, if necessary, to change his verdict. Otherwise”—and here Atkinson actually lowered his voice, as though the room might be unsecured—“there is no way that we can get Charging Elk documented and out of the country.”

  “But what about Featherman?” An idea was beginning to form in Bell’s mind. “Two Indians stayed in Marseille, one died, the other lived. Could we have documented Featherman if he had lived?”

  “Good point, Frank. Yes, I suppose so. According to the doctor—whose name, for your information, is Durietz—Featherman is the Indian we have on our hands.”

  “Then who’s to know our Indian isn’t the one named Featherman?”

  “I see where you’re going with this. I don’t know. I don’t know if I like it.” Atkinson had swiveled to face the window again. By now the stubby limbs of the pruned plane tree were barely visible in the darkness. The limbs reminded Bell of the menorahs in the windows of the Jewish neighborhood next to his in Philadelphia. Forbidden territory.

  “I don’t think the French care which Indian lived and which died. I hate to say this, but one Indian is as good as another to them—no insult intended.”

  “And what about us, Frank?” Atkinson’s voice had become reedy with fatigue. “Do we care?”

  Bell realized that his remarks must have sounded a little too cold-blooded. He hastened to correct that impression. “Of course, sir—I was just thinking of how to expedite Charging Elk’s return to his show. If he has to assume Featherman’s identity to do it, wouldn’t that be more expeditious than trying to fight through this red tape? Really, I have Charging Elk’s interest in mind. I’m sure he would want us to hasten his repatriation, no matter how.” Bell thought of something else, perhaps not true, but possibly so. “I sense the Soulas family is a bit impatient with the progress of things. I believe we suggested that his stay with them would be brief—a matter of days—and already it’s stretched into nearly three weeks. Madame Soulas especially seems a little anxious.”

  For the first time, Bell’s argument seemed to arouse a positive reaction in the consul. He swiveled slowly toward his desk, picked up the death certificate, then slowly raised his eyes to stare at Bell. But this time, there was just a hint of amusement, maybe even a little admiration. At l
east, Bell interpreted it that way.

  “Maybe you’ve got something here, Frank. Tell you what—talk it over with James, then get back to me. We’ll clear this up, one way or another.”

  Bell almost moaned in despair. Winton James was the legal affairs attaché. He was just about Bell’s age, a Quaker and an unwavering bureaucrat. He would never fall for this scheme. Atkinson could override James’s objection, but he wouldn’t. The only hope Bell could see was that James might think the whole idea was the consul general’s—with a little help from Bell.

  Atkinson was already shrugging on his coat, an expensive black wool coat with a brown seal-hair collar. He looked at himself in the hall-tree mirror beside the door, setting his bowler hat at just the right angle on his slick head. He picked an umbrella out of the rack and leaned against it, glancing at Frank in the angled mirror. “Good night, Frank. See what James thinks about this idea of yours. Could be interesting, to say the least.” The consul opened the door and stepped into the hall. “A bientot, Agnes. Put that death certificate in the safe, will you? And don’t forget your umbrella. Bonsoir, all.”