by Ward Just
“I really hate it here,” the boy said.
So he wanted to talk. Bye-bye, Kurt. North said, “They said you’re lucky to be alive, and that you’ll be all right, good as new. No spinal damage, and your head’s all right.” One of the pleasures of the Foreign Service was staying in touch with friends, and he and Kurt could have quite a run in Bonn, until the administration selected a Sun Belt banker or entertainment lawyer to show the flag. North’s was an interim appointment, and when the new man arrived he would drop a rank. It did not make a great difference, though; he would run the embassy, more than likely. As Kurt would run the Foreign Ministry.
He said, “No, it isn’t.”
North came back again. “What happened on the motorcycle?”
“Gravel. I spun out.”
“Christ,” North said, turning away. He had given Bill Jr. a trail bike when he was fifteen and on the second day he owned it he had run into a ravine and broken two fingers, and given himself a concussion. Elinor was furious and refused to speak to him for a week. Had refused, in fact, to speak to both of them.
“My girlfriend was killed.”
“Christ, I’m sorry.”
“She was a savage all right.” The boy didn’t say anything more for a moment. North closed his eyes again. He said, “I took the curve too fast. I’d never been on that road before. She was holding on. It didn’t seem fast at the time, but it was.”
“I’m very sorry,” North said. He was listening now.
“Thank you,” the boy said, “But it’s all shit. Shit as far as the eye can see.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” he said. “I’m not even from here. I’m from Worcester, Mass. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here anyway. It was her idea, she wanted to go to the concert. So we climbed on the bike and rode down here, ten hours.”
He slipped away again, thinking about Kleust. He hadn’t heard from Kleust for a while.
“I’d rather be home, to tell you the truth.”
“Worcester’s a nice town,” he lied.
“You’re from Mass,” the boy said. “I’d guess Boston. I can tell by the accent, though there’s a lot around that accent. Like, it’s a band with too much acoustic guitar. The bass line gets lost and you don’t know where you are, jazz or R and B or rock or what. It’s true what they say about people who can’t see, their hearing improves. I’ve got dynamite hearing. You must’ve lived a lot of places, though Boston’s still there somewhere.”
North smiled, “Back Bay.”
“I figured,” the boy said. “All you guys sound alike.”
“I haven’t lived there for over twenty-five years.”
“Your wife has a nice voice, quiet.”
“Yes,” he said.
“But she’s not from Mass.”
“No, Chicago. From around Chicago.”
“No kidding,” he said. “My sister lives in Chicago. But she still talks like Mass.”
“You never lose it completely,” North said.
“You got any kids?”
“One,” he said.
“He hasn’t been around,” the boy said.
“He’s out of the country,” North said. He fingered a cigarette out of the package on the night table, then put it down. “He’s a—student.”
“What’s he studying?”
North thought a moment, then said, “Law. He’s studying law.”
The boy grunted. “My dad’s a lawyer.” He didn’t say anything for a moment; the atmosphere was suddenly charged. “They all talk the same. They all talk as if there’s some secret room somewhere and they’re the only ones who have a key, and you’ve got to pay them to get it. Then they talk at you, talk talk talk. And then they let you watch while they open the door and say some mumbo-jumbo.”
North laughed.
“And it only costs a hundred dollars an hour.”
Maybe in Worcester, North thought.
“If you’re lucky,” the boy said.
“Go back to sleep,” North said.
“I’m wide awake now.”
“You need your sleep.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“We can talk tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with now? You woke me up.”
“Well, I’m tired.”
“They’re all shit,” the boy said.
North said nothing.
“So your kid’s going to be a lawyer.”
“That’s what he says,” North said. That’s what happened when you told an innocent lie, a story meant less to deceive then to deflect. You got Watergate. It made him uncomfortable, and he wished now that he’d said he wasn’t sure, which, while not precisely truthful, was not a complete lie, either.
“They’re great, the lawyers. They’re terrific with people, their relatives especially. They’ve got a real human touch. That’s why my old man hasn’t come down to see me, or telephoned either. Probably afraid I’d die of a heart attack if I heard his voice.”
North said nothing to that.
“His secretary checks with the doctor every morning, though.”
“Well,” North said.
“But maybe your kid’ll be different. Maybe he’s a great guy and’ll make a great lawyer.”
“I’m not counting on it.” North said.
“Maybe it’ll be cool,” the boy said.
“Maybe,” North said.
“I suppose he’s telephoned.”
“No,” North said.
“Well, he’s in the great tradition, then.”
“Look,” North said, then paused.
“Sorry,” the boy said, “I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
“He’s not studying to be a lawyer. He’s in Europe, that’s all.”
“Sounds like fun,” the boy said.
North closed his eyes, feeling drowsy. He knew that sleep was near. “I suppose so,” he said.
“I’ve never been to Europe.”
“Well, you’re young.”
“You’re sure he isn’t a lawyer?”
“I’m sure,” North said.
“He sure sounds like one,” the boy said.
3
THEY WERE PUNCTUAL, Hartnett and Carruthers, arriving within minutes of each other, cool and tidy from their air-conditioned cars. And they were cordial, shaking hands and talking about Sunday’s game. Carruthers and Hartnett were great football fans; it was only the exhibition season and they were already full of opinions. North introduced them to Richard, Hartnett his personal lawyer, Carruthers a lawyer for the Department of State; Richard nodded his head but did not speak. He was certain to be smiling, though. The most desirable of all of Washington’s locked rooms was RFK Stadium on a Sunday, and the mumbo-jumbo was superb.
North put on a white terry-cloth robe and slippers and they walked down the hall to the solarium. Two women were leaving as they walked in, and he made way to let them pass; they moved painfully, shuffling, and did not return his smile. There were three empty chairs in the corner and a small table with a child’s checkerboard. Carruthers put the checkerboard to one side and took out a sheaf of papers and began sorting, wetting his thumb to separate the sheets. North and Hartnett said nothing, waiting for Carruthers to begin. It was his meeting, arranged at his request. The call had come that morning, a bit too casual it seemed to North. He had known Carruthers for years, and heard something odd in his tone. Carruthers concluded the conversation by suggesting that Dick Hartnett might join them. Carruthers knew that Hartnett was North’s lawyer and, as it happened, an occasional consultant to the Department of State. This will save time, Carruthers had said.
“So,” Carruthers said at last. Then, looking around, as if surprised to see where he was, and suddenly remembering. “How’re you feeling, anyway?”
“Paul,” North said.
“Just asking.”
“I’m feeling fine, let’s get on with it.”
“Hate hospitals,” Carruthers said.
North looked at him and smiled, not unkindly. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“I hear you’re going to Bonn. Congratulations. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? The Jerries. Not me. When I get my reward it’ll be the sunny south, a nice consulate, Oporto or Marseilles. Though as I understand it you’ll be interim, until the new man arrives. President wants a friend in Bonn, you understand. A good, close friend he can shmooze with. The friend can tell him all about the pinko assholes in the Foreign Service. Then they can trade anecdotes about the Jerries then and now. An anecdotal history of the Holocaust. I wish you luck in Bonn, Bill.” Carruthers sighed, and cleared his throat. “I’m here at the suggestion of the under secretary, and I’ll be reporting to him. We’re all on the same side here. This meeting so far’s I’m concerned is informal, no written record.” He bent down to squint at the top sheet of the pile of papers in his lap and gave a little exhausted laugh. “We’re just getting a ton of paper from the committee. Senator Winston is working overtime, one piece of paper after another, and he’s not giving up. No, sir. He has a good, young staff, zealous and confident. And he has Dunphy. And they’ve turned up some information, it’s such a nuisance. What I’m saying is that some of the paper is our paper, that they’re dealing back to us, and asking questions. The Department of State is a god damned sieve. They have a lot of stuff, is what I’m saying. Hired one investigator from the UPI. Couldn’t make a name there, I guess he figured to make a name on the Hill, ha-ha. He’s quite a gumshoe, this lad.” Carruthers paused, his thumb on his tongue. “He’s a god damned good man with a document, I can tell you that. He has a law degree, too. And a litigious turn of mind. Christ. Another lawyer, comfortable with documents. Know how to get them, knows how to read them. And that’s the big thing, isn’t it? Knowing how to read them.” Carruthers sighed. “Damnedest thing, they used to go from the committee to the UPI or the Post or the Times. Now it’s the other way around because it looks like Senator Winston and that son of a bitch Dunphy have reinvented the wheel. They’ve discovered that they’ve got subpoena power, and that’s just set the gumshoe atingle. The UPI and the Post and the Times don’t have that. Sometimes they act like they do, but they don’t. Goodness, but they’re zealous.” Carruthers laughed pleasantly as though he had made a joke.
North lit a cigarette, his third of the day, flexing the fingers of his left hand. This was going to take a minute, Carruthers being cute, composing his overture. He looked out the windows at the gray shape of the building two, three blocks away. It was an old government building, one of the anonymous departments or agencies, an annex of Commerce or Labor or the FCC or ICC. When North first came to Washington they were important, their secretaries or directors men with influence. Twenty-five years later it was hard to remember the names of the current Cabinet, and no one did except the army of lawyers and lobbyists hired to manipulate them. Today a department or agency didn’t count unless it was involved with national security. Everyone wanted a piece of national security because that was where the money was.
“So,” Carruthers was saying, “the main thing is that Warren Winston wants to make a name for himself this session at least as big as he did last session, when he won the hearts and minds of all America. He has all those friends in the news business. And now with Dunphy and that young staff and the gumshoe he’s got a whiff of something. Maybe more than a whiff, because he knows more than I’d expect him to know. It’s likely there’s a leak somewhere, there usually is, though with all those young people working eighteen-hour days they can look through wastebaskets. They don’t give a damn about home life or a Dubonnet at the end of the day.” Carruthers paused again and North felt that the drumroll was coming to an end at last. “They’re meeting in closed session and they’re taking depositions and the gumshoe has got some of his friends waving the Freedom of Information Act. That’s according to our sources, our leak. This leak, our leak, is an older fella, he goes way back to Senator Joe, doesn’t care much for zealots. And I think there are three or four personality conflicts. It’s probably sexual jealousy, these young women on the staff are particularly aggressive. So”—Carruthers took a deep breath, evidently preparing to strike a clear note—“our man thinks Winston’s got something. Winston thinks he’s got an example of a redhot security leak. And of course that’s only the tip of the iceberg that he thinks he has. What he’s really got on his mind is terrorists, and he’s trying to link the two. Do you see what I’m saying? Our man thinks Winston sniffs a cover-up.” He smiled sardonically, a man ill at ease with cliché. “A cover-up,” he repeated. “So there’s some interest in you, Bill.” He smiled again, having jumped three hurdles at once.
“That won’t get them very far,” he said.
“Bill,” Carruthers said, disappointed, “Bill Bill Bill.” He had a round face, without definition, like the face painted on a balloon. It was not a soft face, nor an especially cheerful one, and if at forty everyone has the face he’s earned—well then, Paul Carruthers had led a life of perfect self-absorption. Like Buddha’s, his was not a face to register emotion of any kind. He had extinguished the pain and care of the external world by the simple method of ignoring it. He was a fierce competitor and often underrated because of his bland looks and droll preludes. Those who knew him well listened carefully to his voice, a tenor. His emotions were communicated not by any expression in his face but by the tone of his voice. His face was as neutral as the dial of a radio.
“They’re interested in your son, and the approach that was made to you in Africa. I’m talking of course about the last tour, the ’eighty-two-’eighty-three tour, the winter of those years, the year the ’Skins went to the Super Bowl, just knocked hell out of Miami. You'remember the strike, the short season, the anxiety, we were so disappointed. Sundays were out of synch, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. That’s the year they’re concerned with, Winston and Dunphy and the gumshoe.” Another short pause while Carruthers consulted a paper. “Bill, where’s your son?”
“I don’t know,” North said. “And Elinor doesn’t know, either.”
“Where was he, last time you heard?”
North paused fractionally. “Hamburg.”
Carruthers sighed. “You want to add ‘to my knowledge’?”
“No,” North said.
Carruthers lowered his voice, not quite an apology, more an explanation. “These are questions I have to ask, Bill. It’s my brief. They’re being asked at the other end of the avenue, and I have to ask them here. It’s not personal.”
Hartnett intervened. “And he’s answering them freely, of his own free will, without consultation. The record can show that.”
“There is no record, counselor,” Carruthers said, disappointed again. “I’m not even making notes. This is informal, as I’ve said. This is a conversation among the three of us, simply trying to get to the bottom of this matter. Us three.”
“Who are on the same side,” Hartnett said.
“Well, of course,” Carruthers said.
“I don’t know where Bill Jr. is,” North said. “I wish to Christ that I did, but I don’t.”
“Uh-huh,” Carruthers said. “And he would now be—”
“Twenty-eight,” North said. Born in 1958, a vintage year. Elinor regularly had his horoscope cast. And the astrologer invariably predicted a sunny and productive future in some creative field, conceivably films.
“Unmarried?”
“So far as I know.”
“Dunphy has a report—”
North smiled. He was trying to gauge the degree of sarcasm in Carruthers’s voice. He said, “I don’t think Bill Jr. is into marriage licenses, or ceremonies. I think, in the circumstances, that this is a detail. Wouldn’t you agree? He is still with the German girl. Woman. Last I heard.”
“In the late autumn of ’eighty-two?”
“Yes.”
“And you have not seen him since then. Nor have you heard from him. Nor has your wife seen or heard from him. And t
here have been no communications, to and fro.”
“No.”
“Dunphy thinks otherwise.”
North said, “Dunphy can think anything he likes.”
“At this last meeting, the ’eighty-two meeting. He was in good health?”
“Very good health.”
“But the meeting was not a success.”
North leaned forward and stared into the balloon face, so seamless and inflated. “One does not have a meeting with one’s own son, Paul. We had a visit, he and I and Elinor. The three of us, in Hamburg, I did not want Elinor to come but she insisted. And she was right to come. The visit was not, as you say, a success. He did not convince me and I did not convince him and, as a matter of fact, if you had seen us that afternoon you would not have guessed that we were father and son. You would have said I was conducting a hostile interview, the kind that comes along occasionally when you are a Foreign Service officer. Except of course we were not interviewing him; he was interviewing us. We were his prisoners. He called me ‘Ambassador’ and I called him ‘Bill Jr.’ That is not the name he uses now, but it is the name I know him by. He was abusive to my wife. So you could say that the visit was not a success.”
North took a breath, then looked away out the window; the drab government building was in shadows. He did not like talking about his son to Paul Carruthers, who did not have a family and would not understand about fathers and son; perhaps he understood about sons, being one himself. But not about fathers. Strangely, North’s most vivid memory of the afternoon in Hamburg was not of his son but of his wife. They were seated side by side on a low divan, Bill Jr. on a ladder-back chair. They looked up at him, he down at them. Elinor looked at their son as he had seen her look at pictures at an exhibition, a hard concentrated stare—as if she were trying to see the bones under the skin. She had not seen Bill Jr. in three years, neither of them had. The tears seemed to slip effortlessly from her eyes. He did not notice right away and when he moved to take her hand, Bill Jr. grinned wolfishly and poured a glass of water from the carafe on the table between them. Then with two fingers he pushed the glass toward his mother. She took it, whispering thank you as if he were a stranger performing an unexpected courtesy. Furious, North half rose, preparing to leave, having no more to say; he and his son looked at each other across a great chasm. But the boy had not finished. He had a lecture prepared, and proceeded to deliver it. North thought he had never seen a more resolute face, humorless, fierce, his blue eyes—Elinor’s eyes—flashing, cruel as a hangman’s, talking rot—literally that. But North listened, thinking that somewhere among the polysyllabic German constructions he might find something to hold on to, and assimilate. In his lifetime he had listened to all sorts, and had assimilated so much. Why was he unable to assimilate this? He listened particularly for family words and phrases, the private language of parents and children, the no that meant maybe, the maybe that meant yes, the special idioms. Members of a family were different provinces of the same country. But he heard nothing familiar. It was as if his son had no childhood memory, was in fact an exile with no recollection of the old country. At last, when Bill Jr. had finished, he’d said, with conscious inelegance, “Oh, come off it.” And the boy had smiled coldly, his eyes narrowing—and that expression, too, was unfamiliar, nothing of him or of Elinor or of the little boy with the skinned knee or perfect report card, or the adolescent caught in a lie. That boy had been voluble, never at a loss for words; for that boy, silence was an admission of guilt. Injustice enraged him. His favorite word, injustice, he had learned it at five and it had been a family word, applied equally to underdone hamburgers, a Red Sox loss in extra innings, a quarrel with the houseboy, a missed airplane connection, or a death. Bill Jr. took everything personally. But this hard, silent look, it was not recognizable. And it was manufactured in the way that a newspaper or magazine “profile” of a close friend is manufactured, and renders the close friend unrecognizable. Life on the page was different from life in the flesh, and a career was never what it seemed. But then North remembered that when he was profiled in The New York Times, Bill Jr. read the piece and remarked, “I feel as if I know you for the first time.” How odd, he had thought; the profile was standard stuff, our-man-in-Africa-doing-a-hard-job-well, vital and not so vital statistics, “the diplomat is married to the painter Elinor North. They are the parents of a son, William Jr., a student at Columbia University.” That was the last paragraph. The rest of it was data, reinforced by a quote here and an anecdote there, all of it unexceptional. What was there to discover in a Man in the News?