There was confusion in Booking, my reservation mysteriously lost in the ether. The bloodless beauty behind the counter explained that I could wait for tomorrow’s flight out of Chicago, or, “You can sit with the other sheep and pray for no-shows.” Her phrasing, not mine. I chose the flock, putting my name in the pool before calling the office to make appropriate warnings. But a lot of travelers were changing plans, what with the recent events. The big DC-Freedom wasn’t even two-thirds full, and I was able to snag an aisle seat. Unfortunately a lot of us seemed to be suffering from spring colds and hacking coughs. One tall and very pretty Japanese-American woman caught my eye, but she claimed three seats across the aisle. Apparently those two little boys were hers. “Oh well,” I thought, “at least they’re behaving themselves.” But the toddler began wailing on takeoff, while his older, craftier brother used the distraction to slip free of the seat belt, running amok while we cut through the evening sky.
Even with the coughing and the motherly screaming and the wild boy who kept sprinting past every few moments, I managed to sleep. But then came the realization that one of my neighbors had eaten something vicious or rancid, and now he or she was dying of some brutal intestinal ailment. Whatever the cause, whoever the source, at unpredictable moments the stuffy damp air suddenly filled with the most noxious stink imaginable, and my body and mind would be dragged out of whatever snoozing state it had achieved in the last little while.
Of course I blamed the rad-hunter sitting on my left. There were at least six agents scattered about the cabin, each dressed in the black uniform trimmed with smoky orange lines. A small woman, plain-faced and in no obvious pain, she gave herself away by never acting surprised by the outrage hovering in the air. Of course she could have assumed that I was the culprit, and she was a polite sort of creature. But I have met one or two rad-hunters, and they are not polite people. Their job demands self-centered, disagreeable natures, treating the world with all of the scorn it will endure; and if she wasn’t the source of this biohazard, I’m sure at the very least she would have stood and moved somewhere else.
At this point, I will mention that I’m not a political soul.
I was a traveler, an innocent with business on his mind, and this was only my third trip overseas, and I had never seen France. And I would see little of it now, what with the demands of my work and an exceptionally tight schedule.
Landing at De Gaulle brought new difficulties. There didn’t seem to be room at the terminal, so our plane was ushered onto a side runway, buses gathering slowly to carry us the final half-mile of our journey. Yet that complication didn’t bother me. In my present mood, I would have accepted a parachute and the attendant’s boot to my ass, if it meant escaping that coffin. The afternoon air tasted of rain and leaked fuel. I sat patiently on a bus that refused to go anywhere. I watched a pretty mother spank one boy and then his brother. Then just as I wondered if some new problem had arisen, the bus was accelerating, suddenly shooting across the tarmac and then slamming to a stop beside a crowded facility filled with angry passengers and heavily armed guards.
The consuming ugliness of the airport terminal was something of a marvel, what with its naked steel and concrete block construction. Where was the famous French sense of aesthetics? The little rad-hunter and her uniformed colleagues flashed badges and walked straight past the guards, ignoring and perhaps even enjoying the murderous stares. But I was a civilian. And sadly, I was American. To the limits of international law, I was to be shown the consideration usually reserved for dangerous dogs.
A gloved hand accepted my passport, and not one or two customs agents looked at it. The process required three bureaucrats and ten minutes of hard consideration before it was handed back to me. They never spoke in my direction, even in French. Knifing gestures were deemed adequate, and when I didn’t jump to their commands, a gloved hand grabbed my arm, yanking me into the presence of a fourth official. “You are the guest of a nation and a great people,” he reminded me. “We expect nothing but dignity and respect at all times.”
With that, I was sent on my way.
I have no aptitude with languages. Which seems odd, considering that I was always one of the bright children in school. But my employers had taken my limits into account, paying extra for a translator. A young man was at the gate, holding a sign with my name and nothing else written in a neat, officious style.
“I’m Kyle Betters,” I announced.
He didn’t seem to believe me. Lowering the sign, he scratched at his bare chin, considering who-knew-what factors before replying with a quiet lack of feeling, “Welcome to France, Mr. Betters.”
His name was Claude, and for the expected reasons we took an instant but workable dislike for one another. Small talk wasn’t part of his job description. But directing me to the luggage carousel was a valid duty, and he did it without prompting, watching with thin amusement as I hung my small bag on the very big suitcase, dragging both behind me as we continued down more ugly hallways and out into a parking garage that stank of gasoline and wet concrete.
Of course his car was tiny, and of course he took offense when I laughed quietly at what looked like a toy.
His laugh came moments later, watching my middle-aged body struggle to lift my luggage into a volume just large enough to accept it.
A pattern was set. In small pointed ways, we worked to embarrass and enrage one another. Claude lit a Turkish cigarette, filling the Renault with a toxic cloud. I cracked my window, and when he mentioned his distaste for cold breezes, I rolled it down farther. The flight left me exhausted yet I was too nervous to sleep. I watched the countryside. I studied the cars and trucks that raced along the highway. Our destination was Nancy, and I asked for a roadmap to better appreciate our journey across a deeply historic landscape. Claude steered me to the glove box. I opened it, finding nothing useful. That was worth a laugh, and as he drove, the hand with the cigarette tapped his head. “I know the way,” he promised. “And besides, you won’t see anything. It will be night soon.”
In another few minutes, yes.
He drove, and I sat, keyed up to where my stomach ached.
Eventually we abandoned the wide four-lane highway, striking out east on a narrow highway in desperate need of repair. Traffic circles announced themselves with warning signs, but Claude seemed of the opinion that driving slowly brought its own risks. After the third or fourth circle, he decided that his passenger was suitably rattled. “It is unfair, you know. What you want of us.”
I knew what he meant, and I was smart enough not to rise to the bait.
But he continued regardless. “Nations are free entities,” he warned. “We’re within our rights to do research in whatever subject we choose. How can a rational man say otherwise?”
“I haven’t said anything,” I pointed out.
Another cigarette needed to be lit. Exhaling in my direction, he pointed out, “We are not planning to build bombs. Why would we want such horrors?”
“Why would you?” I agreed.
But he heard something in my tone. “Uranium is a natural element. Does the United States claim ownership of a native part of our universe?”
“This isn’t my area,” I complained.
“Nor mine,” he agreed, coaxing the little engine to run at an even higher pitch.
Holding onto my door handle, I pushed my face close to the open window and the fresh roaring air.
“Do you think we are unreasonable?”
Claude wanted me to say, “No, you are reasonable.” Or maybe he hoped that like any good American, I would pick a fight. “My government is powerful, and you’re going to obey us from now until Doomsday.” But I didn’t match either expectation. “I don’t think about these political problems,” I shouted back at him. “Not one way or another. Really, this whole subject doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me.”
Claude fumed in the darkness.
I looked outside. By day, this was probably a scenic drive. Massive old trees were
whipping past at a furious rate. Something in the moment triggered a memory. Turning back to the driver, I asked, “Do you know why the French plant so many trees along their roads?”
Claude hesitated, and then finally asked, “Why?”
“So the German army can march in the shade.”
That did the trick. He wanted nothing more to do with this American, smashing his cigarette before throwing all of his concentration into getting me to my destination, as fast as possible.
My slight experience with intercontinental travel has taught me that jet lag is genuine and it is sneaky. Waking that next morning, I felt rested even though I wasn’t. I felt as though my faculties had returned, but no, they were still lost out over the Atlantic somewhere. Little clues pointed to my impairment. I didn’t quite recognize my hotel room, even though I was fully conscious when I checked in. The toilet’s design baffled me briefly, though I’d used it the night before. A hot shower seemed to help, but the channels on the Sony television seemed to tax my intellect to its limits. There were no American networks, but even the French feed of the CBC was missing. The nearest thing to home cooking was the BBC, and it took three minutes to appreciate just what side our British brothers were taking in the present controversy.
I shut off the television, dressed and went down to the lobby. Claude was supposed to meet me in another hour. Our day’s first event was at noon—lunch with representatives for one of the largest retailers in Europe. I was nervous, which was good news. Nervousness gave me energy and a measure of courage. Knowing no French but merci, I headed out the front door, out into the Place Stanislas. Bits of fact crept out of my soggy memory. The plaza was two and a half centuries old, bordered by an opera house and museum and the venerable Grand Hotel where I was scheduled to remain for four busy days. I wandered south, and without getting lost or committing any major crimes, I discovered a busy restaurant that served a buffet breakfast perfectly suited to a ravenous appetite.
At some point during the meal, I realized I was being watched. It wasn’t just the staff that saw my American credit card, but it was also the local patrons who seemed to recognize a tyrannical monster when they saw one. Nobody was out-and-out rude. But when I glanced at each face, they would stare back at me, showing me what silent, smoldering curiosity looks like.
Returning to my hotel, I found Claude reading Le Monde. My arrival was noted, but the current article was more important. He focused on every word and finished his cigarette, and then the paper was folded and the butt stamped out, and while looking at my feet, he quietly told me, “I am sorry.”
I was stunned.
“For my words, my tone.” He glanced at my face and then looked down again. “It is my fault that we got off so badly.”
I agreed. But to be gracious, I said, “I played a hand in it.”
He clearly wanted more from me.
“I’m not a traveler,” I said. “My flight was awful, and I’m still hurting. I wish I had grace under pressure. But I don’t. Never have.”
Claude tried to make sense of my rambling confessions. Finally, needing to feel useful, he asked, “Do you wish to tour Nancy for a time? It’s going to be a little while before our first event.”
It was strange to hear him say, “Our first event.” Just words, but the effect was to make me thankful to have an ally in this peculiar corner of the world.
But I’d mentioned being tired, and as if to prove me right, I was suddenly aware of my own endless fatigue. “I’d rather go upstairs and nap.”
He glanced at his watch, a look of relief revealed.
“Perhaps so,” he agreed.
“Will you come get me in an hour?”
“I shall, Mr. Betters.”
But of course I didn’t sleep. I lay awake, painfully aware of the brilliant sunshine pushing around the curtains of my room. This wasn’t a natural time for slumber, and I accomplished nothing except feel wearier than before. Then just as I closed my eyes—the moment that I could feel sleep take me—knuckles began to strike my room door.
What I was selling isn’t important. In fact, several elements of this story are best left dressed in harmless falsehoods. Imagine several men and one woman sitting at the long table, all of them interested in American refrigerators or computers or interactive toys. What matters is that my wares weren’t simple, and Europe represented a huge potential market. One difficulty is that I’m not a salesman by trade. My normal duties are to manage those responsible for designing what I consider to be the best products of their kind in the world. Which was why my enthusiasm couldn’t be faked. Despite my various liabilities, I was a good spokesman for my company, offering my audience a long-term relationship full of shared profits and room for mutual growth.
At least two guests spoke English. But everyone paid close attention while Claude turned my boastings into what was beginning to sound like real words, no matter how little of the noise made sense to me.
The man in charge knew English quite well. He was gray-haired and well dressed and probably distinguished on his worse day. With small winks and the occasional smile, he implied that he approved of what he was hearing, both from me and from Claude. In those thirty minutes, I turned from Mr. Betters into, “My friend, Kyle.” But just when I felt success was assured, a young fellow at the patriarch’s side leaned forward and burst into some long tirade.
Claude listened. Both of us listened. And then the one who understood turned to the other, saying, “He wants to know why this is fair? The percentages are wrong. He claims that . . .” Claude hesitated for an instant, struggling for the best words. And by “best,” I mean that he needed honest words that wouldn’t leave me furious. “He believes you are forcing an unfair burden on them.”
“How can that be?” I asked Claude.
Claude turned and repeated that in French. But of course everyone could read my body and the tone of my voice.
Touching his headstrong young colleague, the patriarch leaned forward. In perfect English, with a deep, clear voice, he admitted, “These are difficult days, Kyle. The tensions are felt by all of us, you know.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“It is sad.”
I kept agreeing with him.
Then he told me, “I’m not a political soul.”
Which made him just like me.
“Unlike my associates, I remember the liberation of France. I was a boy, yes, but I still remember the Nazis fleeing, and I know that joy felt by every Frenchman when your shabby-dressed soldiers entered Paris.” He nodded, eyes staring into the past. “It’s a fair statement to point out that no other nation, given your tools and circumstances, would have so gladly fought two wars against such distant enemies. If you wished, you could have fortified your continent, built bombers and missiles, and then littered the world with your nuclear weapons. You could have broken your enemies and their collaborators too and been done with the mess.”
And now he wasn’t like me. His praise buoyed me, yes. I couldn’t help my emotions. But his words and cold logic made me uneasy.
“And I do respect what the United States achieved after the war,” he continued. “This has not been an easy task—”
The lone woman interrupted. She was tall and elegantly beautiful, in her middle thirties but with a younger woman’s perfect complexion. She knew exactly what her boss had said, and that’s why she erupted into a quick rain of hot words and slicing hand gestures.
Expecting her response, the patriarch acted untroubled. When she finished, he spoke to her and the others, perhaps warning his people to behave. (I assume this because Claude translated nothing.) Then while the young people gnashed their teeth and whispered among themselves, the patriarch turned his warm certain gaze back to me. “To maintain your nuclear monopoly . . . well, it is an astonishing achievement. Granted, we have helped you in your cause. We are your allies, after all. No overt threats were necessary for us to open our borders and our military bases to your radiological police, and we have give
n you much help, particularly with the Soviets and the Indians.”
Again, the youngsters grumbled and sneered.
The patriarch paused, weighing me with his eyes. For just a moment, he acted disappointed. Was it my expression or my silence? Either way, he sat back on the hard restaurant chair before saying the same word twice, in French and then in English.
“Peace,” he uttered.
I nodded, pretending to understand his implication.
“Peace is a precious thing. And, as I say, almost any other power, given your tools, might have tried to enslave this world.”
The woman had had enough. She stood, and with a delicious accent said, “Bullshit. Bullshit to that.”
I felt as if I’d been slapped.
“This isn’t about uranium,” she told her boss. “Maybe at first it was. Maybe when the war was finished and everyone was happy, they were good stewards for the world. But these Americans . . . they do more than keep others from making atomic bombs.” She turned to me, her face flushed. “He says you’re honorable. I say you’re sneaky and subtle and tenacious and bloodless. Like machines, you and your people keep pursuing every advantage, and what happens in the end? We surrender more and more to the United States. Because every new technology is a threat, and you believe you can make our world safe.”
At that point, I laughed.
It was a mistake, and I knew it before the sound exploded from me. But a secret pride had been insulted, and sitting back in my chair, I repeated that line that I’d heard since I was a child:
“ ‘Somebody has to be in charge.’ ”
There. It was said, and no apology could take back that sentiment.
Claude was first to react. With a tight, furious voice, he said, “What about genetics? By what right should you have a monopoly on DNA?”
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