The American Ambassador

by Ward Just

  She bent down so that her ear was next to his mouth.

  He whispered, So now he does not know where I am, nor what I am doing. He does not know where I live. He knows no more of me than of the African he shot and killed. Yet I am an embarrassment to him, and in time I will be an embarrassment to the Department of State, to the government, and to the nation. He is afraid because he does not know where I found what I believe in; he does not know my antecedents. He is afraid because he does not know where I come from. I am like a foundling in the family. I was left on the doorstep, and he has a responsibility. Like Lincoln, he must try to hold the family together. But he cannot discover my provenance. I am like a code to which he cannot, try as he might, find the key. He has never known my heart. He does not know why I hate him so.

  When?

  He looked at her.

  When was the first time you knew? She cradled his head, held him tight to her stomach, his beard scratching her belly. Knew their cowardice and corruption, their vanity. She held him more tightly, both arms around his head. She watched his muscles move in his arms and chest, his thighs. Her beautiful young man, Wolf. He uncoiled, his thighs parting.

  They looked at him together. She wanted to jump out of her skin. She could not keep her hands off him.

  Later, it was still raining. The sliver of sky that she saw from the window was pearly, the color of oysters. A soft Paris rain, benign and inviting, mixing with the smells of the street and their own sweet bed-smell. She closed her eyes, so happy, trying to hold on so that it would belong to her forever. She heard the high-pitched laughter of children on their way to school, and then a scraping in the corridor outside the bedroom door. For an instant, she held her breath; her eyes snapped open. He was there, prowling like an animal, listening. But her door was locked, they were secure. Max would never dare enter her room. After a moment, he went away and she was left with the sounds of the street and the rain, and Wolf rising, walking lightly across the room to the hotplate, carefully setting the kettle to boil.

  He came back to bed with tea.

  He said, I have been thinking about your question.

  Yes, she said eagerly. She wanted to know everything about him. She wanted to combine their stories, his and hers, entwine them like vines so that there would be no difference between them. It would be the same story with different characters. In that way they would become one person.

  He began to smile, bringing the tea to his mouth, holding the hot mug with both hands. She did likewise. He said, It was Thanksgiving 1975. The ambassador and Elinor had decided to have a family Thanksgiving, both sets of grandparents: everyone would come to Washington. He explained the American custom of Thanksgiving, its symbolism. Victory over the savages, thanks given to God.

  3

  HE MADE IT clear that the families did not get on. There were cultural differences, and differences of taste. Some small difference of politics. These were well known. It was as if each set of grandparents was struggling for control of the family: Elinor was an only child, as was the ambassador. The grandparents disapproved of each other, as they disapproved of the life their children had chosen. It was a replication of the contradictions of capitalism. It was a family in opposition.

  They all arrived on Thursday morning, the Norths from Boston, the Ballards from Chicago. The ambassador had arranged for identical suites at the Georgetown Inn, and once they were checked in they all arrived at the house on O Street.

  The atmosphere was badly strained, and to cover it the ambassador made a great show of making drinks. Everyone had a Martini, except for Grandfather North. When the ambassador asked him what he wanted, he said it didn’t matter. Anything. Anything that was at hand, except he didn’t want a Martini.

  Well, the ambassador said, we have everything.

  Perhaps some wine, Harry Ballard said. When I was growing up, we always had Champagne at Thanksgiving.

  You choose, Jerome said. It doesn’t matter.

  Sherry, the ambassador said.

  Anything, Jerome said.

  The women were in the kitchen. Elinor had made the ambassador promise to keep them all in the living room so that she wouldn’t have to entertain her mother and her mother-in-law while she was preparing dinner, but the ambassador couldn’t manage that simple task. So the grandmothers stayed in the kitchen while the men made small talk in the living room. The ambassador was nervous, trying to be solicitous of his father at the same time he was being polite to his father-in-law, knowing they both disapproved of him. Grandfather Ballard disapproved of his politics, and Grandfather North disapproved of his character. So they made small talk.

  Gert said, Small talk?

  Talk so small that it was almost invisible, Wolf said.

  While the ambassador and Grandfather Ballard struggled to be polite, Grandfather North stood silently by, inspecting the premises. It was the first time he had been in the O Street house, and I could see him looking at the pictures on the wall and the books in the shelves, trying to simulate the ambassador’s life from the evidence in front of his eyes. It was also true that the ambassador and Grandfather Ballard were smoking cigarettes, and the smoke hurt his eyes; so he stood apart from them, portly and meticulous in his dark suit, a gruff expression on his face. He watched Harry Ballard as he might have watched a dangerous animal. And Grandfather Ballard was hard to measure, being continuously in motion, his chin high in the air.

  He and the ambassador had a second drink, and a third.

  The women emerged from the kitchen, and they all stood in a tight little circle, except for Jerome. From time to time he would dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. But no one noticed, they were all talking at once, making such an effort with one another.

  Elinor’s face was flushed. I was on the top step of the stairs, watching them in the living room. I had gone around and shaken all their hands, Harry Ballard’s dry hand, Jerome North’s rough hand, the wet hands of the women; and then I had excused myself, to go upstairs on some errand or other. I knew Elinor had had a Martini before they arrived. For a week, she and the ambassador had talked of the Thanksgiving visit. An accident waiting to happen, she said. It is our business to make it pleasant, he said. As pleasant an accident as possible, he said, laughing. When we were alone that morning, I could hear her talking to herself. She hated Thanksgiving, the idea of it, and the food, stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, creamed onions, and the rest of “the glop.” She was careful to give me instructions, to be cheerful and polite, to talk to both grandmothers, to say please and thank you, to absolutely use no bad language, and, she added grimly, to keep my fingers crossed.

  Grandfather Ballard held the floor. Elinor had asked him about the firm, how things were going, if he expected the market to rise. An unfortunate question, as it turned out, because the firm had just named a new chairman. There had been a purge. An aggressive, gauche, younger man. Unscrupulous. Jewish, he said, and then caught himself.

  Very able, of course, he said. Very, very clever man; not an amiable man, but a clever man. Worked all day long. He turned to Grandfather North. It’s hard when the young fellas come in, shoulder the old hands aside. When there’s blood in the water it draws the sharks, ha-ha. Don’t you think? When Jerome looked at him with no expression at all, he said, ’S matter of fact, this fella’s from Boston, maybe you know him. Baum. His name is Baum.

  No, Jerome said.

  Smart little bastard, Harry said.

  I expect he is, Jerome said.

  He was a big shit in Boston, Harry said.

  My goodness, Grandmother North said.

  More like a little turd, Harry said.

  Harry, Eloise Ballard said.

  Why would I know him? Jerome asked quietly.

  I don’t know. Thought you might. Boston’s small town, everyone knows each other. Isn’t that right?

  No, Jerome said.

  Dinner’s served, Elinor said.

  Chicago, we all know each other.

  It’ll get cold
, Elinor said.

  You can all bring your drinks, the ambassador said.

  But Harry was at the bar, pouring himself another from the ambassador’s silver shaker. When he turned around he spoke to the room at large, though he looked directly at Jerome North. He said, Mister Henry Fucking Baum doesn’t like the way we do business. We’ve only been doing it for a hundred and five years, except for the war years when everyone joined up. European theater. We all went to the European theater, and the senior partner never came back. Interregnum then, we just closed up shop to win the war. We formed up again in ’forty-six, those of us who were left, been making money ever since. Profit every year, though last year’n the year before that a little down. OPEC, the god damned Arabs, and the scandal that you’ve got here in this town, the god damned newspapers. Business flat, the government’s nose in everybody’s business. The Grrrrreat Society, started it all. That’s way it is in business, up ’n down, down ’n up. Board looked around and brought in the turd. New blood. God damned right, it’s new blood. But we’ll see. Alla returns aren’t in. We’ll see about Mister Henry Baum.

  Dinner’s served now, the ambassador said.

  And he’s brought in his people, you expect that. New blood, new broom. Boston broom. Mister Benjamin Fucking Fein and one other. O’Reilly. Bond man in Boston. P’litic’ly connected, had some job in Washington. You probably know him, Bill. You know everyone in Washington. That’s what my daughter Elinor tells me, when I ask her. There just isn’t anyone who’s anyone in the capital you don’t know. Capital’s right name for it, too. That’s where all the money is.

  The ambassador said, Name doesn’t ring a bell.

  He’s a fixer, Harry said.

  It still doesn’t ring a bell, the ambassador said.

  He fixes things. Things get bent out of shape, he fixes it. Thing’s going in one direction, he fixed it to go in another direction. Fixes it so that his friends win and his enemies lose. He’n Henry Baum are like that, close as brothers, been working together in Boston for years. It’s a sweet deal.

  What’s his name again? the ambassador asked. The women were at the door to the dining room, and beyond the door you could see the table and its candles, the turkey steaming on the sideboard. Harry Ballard hadn’t moved from the bar, though.

  Maynard O’Reilly, Harry said.

  The ambassador turned to his father; really, it was a gesture of solidarity. He said, Wasn’t Maynard O’Reilly a something-something in Treasury under Kennedy?

  He was an assistant secretary, Jerome said. Johnson moved him out, put his own man in. Grandfather North hadn’t budged either. It was a test of wills between the two old men to see who would be the last to walk into the dining room, sit down to the glop.

  Baum, Fein, and O’Reilly, Harry said, making a little tune of it.

  Dad, Elinor said.

  And they’ve made their presence felt, first week. They’ve brought in a fat account, account we’ve been trying to get for years. Know how they did it? Maynard O’Reilly arranged to have some foreign aid money moved around. The account, the fat account, is a small bank in the Loop. Small, but profitable. It’s money for the Philippines. The Philippine account. Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s quite a great deal of money. It’s the money for the weapons. What the hell are they buying from us, Bill? Or are we buying from them? Everything’s gone to hell in a hack since MacArthur died. You get my meaning?

  Not exactly, the ambassador said.

  Dinner’s served, Louise Ballard said.

  Maynard O’Reilly confided a few of the details, not all of them, ’course, because, Christ, I can’t be trusted. I’ve only been a partner in the firm for forty fucking years, I’m this innocent who lives on the North Shore, votes Republican, pays taxes. I’ve never been indicted by a federal grand jury, for instance.

  The ambassador turned to his father again. Was O’Reilly ever indicted?

  There was some trouble in Boston, Jerome North replied. But he was never indicted, no.

  He has pull, Harry said.

  Jerome opened his mouth to say something, then didn’t.

  Anyway, the deal works like this, Harry said. It’s the money for the weapons. Has to go somewhere. Money goes into this bank in the Loop, stays there for a few days, interest-free. Bank uses the money to factor. Swiss francs, Deutschmarks, fucking escudos. Then they send the money on to Manila or wherever it goes, and keep the profit. Risk-free. It’s interest-free money, thanks to Maynard O’Reilly and his contacts at Treasury. Little favor we do our friends. And Mister Henry Fucking Baum and his fixer go over, have a cocktail with the chairman of the board of the bank in the Loop, first thing you know, we’ve got that account. They’ve got the money for the Philippines and we’ve got the account. That chairman’s been in my foursome at the member-guest for ten years, but that’s forgotten now because he can factor escudos for forty-eight hours, make twenty, thirty K risk-free, because it’s a lot of money we’re talking about, re-arming our plucky little democracy in Asia. Not that I’m against holding the line against the Commies—

  Gert, Wolf said, and began to laugh, a kind of mirthless chuckle. I was at the top of the stairs, listening to this, watching them. Grandmother North suddenly comes to the stairs, and calls for me, “Dinner's ready!” She looks up and there I am, listening. We stare at each other a minute. She knows I’ve heard every word. I smile, and she smiles back. Then she goes away, telling Elinor that I’ll be down “momentarily. ” It’s as if she wants me to hear them, uninterrupted, unedited, because they aren’t ready to go in yet. Harry is making himself another drink, ice in the glass, gin over the ice, olive on top. Jerome still hasn’t moved, he’s stiff as an iceberg in the middle of the room. From time to time he brings the glass of sherry to his nose and sniffs it, like smelling salts. He’s immaculately groomed, and he’s wearing a thick tweed suit, looks to be about a hundred years old. Harry Ballard’s casual, a bit disheveled, but with his blue eyes and light hair, his white shirt and his blazer and striped tie, he looks like an overage college boy. He has the kind of looks that are called boyish, but are really just unformed. A handsome man, but not a mensch. You know the difference, Gert. The worried ambassador is moving back and forth between them, father and father-in-law, trying to find common ground. It’s shuttle diplomacy. The ambassador is trying to salvage the day. Meanwhile, the women are wringing their hands, except for Elinor, who’s standing in the entrance to the dining room, looking at the ambassador. I know the look. I’ve seen it often enough. “I told you so.” But she saw her father getting the worst of it, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t have much respect for him, but she didn’t want to see him beaten up, either. The patriot’s dilemma in any decadent nation. I came down the stairs halfway, the better to see the action. They had forgotten all about me. Where do you suppose they thought I was ? It's disgusting. Gert grinned, her eyes bright; she was avid for information of life in American ruling circles. How they fought for what they believed in.

  You say he was one of Kennedy’s people, Harry said.

  Yes, Jerome said.

  If he was one of Kennedy’s men, how come he’s got so much clout in the Nixon administration? I thought we had a two-party system in the United States, or am I wrong? Is it just the same people, no matter who’s in the White House? His voice was truculent.

  Men of that kind, they tend to know each other, Jerome said.

  So do the fixers, it doesn’t matter who’s in or who’s out. Whoever’s in, they’re in.

  Gert, he said, I could have laughed out loud. Comrade Ballard, meet Comrade Marx.

  Well, it depends, Jerome said.

  I don’t understand that, Harry said.

  It’s simple enough, Jerome said.

  Maybe to you, Harry said.

  Jerome looked up at that moment, Gert, and saw me on the stairs. A shadow crossed his face. I smiled, but he didn’t smile back. He turned to the others, then looked back at me. “Hello, Bill. You don’t have to hide. Come
on down.”

  The ambassador didn’t like it that I was there. He said, Go into the dining room, Bill. We’ll be there in a moment.

  But I didn’t move, Gert. I stayed where I was, on the fifty-yard line.

  Jerome said, Let him stay, Bill. Let him finish listening to our very interesting discussion.

  Little pitchers, Harry said.

  He’s old enough, Jerome said. It’s good for him to hear about the way of the world. I was going to explain about Maynard O’Reilly. I believe he knew some Californians who did business in Boston. Los Angeles interests, real estate, the entertainment industry. The Californians naturally knew Nixon, Nixon’s people. Maynard O’Reilly was helpful to them in Boston, so they’re helpful to him in Washington. It isn’t politics. Politics doesn’t have anything to do with it, except at fund-raising occasions. It’s business. It’s the way business is done. Always.

  The ambassador shook his head, laughing. Chicago isn’t Plato’s Republic, Harry. I believe politics has been known to intrude in Chicago business. Jesus Christ, don’t tell me you’re surprised.

  Bill, Elinor said.

  Let’s go in to dinner, the ambassador said. But Harry didn’t move, nor did Jerome.

  It’s not a question of surprise, Harry said. I’m not surprised. It offends me. The turd Baum and Fein, and the fixer. I think it’s disgraceful. It’s the way business is done, but I don’t have to like it. He was talking to the ambassador but looking at Jerome. It was really between them, but the ambassador didn’t see that yet. The ambassador with his great diplomatic skills. It was Jew and Gentile, and one kind of money and another kind of money, and how the ruling classes cut up the pie. Also, it was Jerome North’s European nightmare and Harry Ballard’s American daydream. And Harry had always figured it was his America, his and his father’s and his father’s father’s and their friends, midwestern capitalists, Bourbons. They were people who had always met a payroll. They had the money and someone else could tote dat barge and lift dat bale. As for Jerome North, he was a cosmopolitan; his country was inside him. Wherever he was, his country was also. And Harry Ballard saw this; he did not see much, but he saw this. Who was Jerome North to tell him how American business worked? How long had Jerome North been a citizen of the U.S.A.? Moreover, Jerome North seemed to approve—of Baum, and of Maynard O’Reilly, and the Philippine connection. No outrage or disapproval in Jerome North’s voice, his surface was as smooth and slippery as ice. Suddenly Harry realized he had been put at a disadvantage; he was losing the argument he had started. The old Jew was smarter than he thought—well, they were all smart, but more worldly, less emotional. And the ambassador, the bureaucrat his daughter had married, was laughing at him. So he thought he would up the ante. He revved the engines, Gert, and ran the Titanic straight into the iceberg.