by Ward Just
The Department looked after Harry. After Paraguay he was posted to a central African nation. After an uneventful tour as a deputy assistant secretary, Harry was named ambassador to a noisy Mediterranean nation, and in the years to come three more embassies, and it had to be said that these embassies, though quietly important, were on the margins of crisis. They were not, in Department parlance, areas of critical concern. Harry’s final posting abroad was a brief tour as ambassador to a bloodthirsty Balkan nation, a tour cut short by misfortune. Harry returned to Washington and the Department Secretariat, a position well behind the lines, as it were, the clock ticking toward early retirement. He knew at once that he was a stranger in the capital, too many years abroad, perhaps too many years as the senior man in the building, practicing his trade in his own way without serious interference. If a note was to be drafted for the Secretary’s signature, Harry drafted it, occasionally without consulting the Secretary or anyone else. As ambassador he liked to travel far afield, taking as much time with the local opposition as with the regime, whatever regime it was; and now a trip outside the building meant an hour in a congressman’s office or lunch with an important lobbyist. Washington was a greenhouse with the usual suffocating gases. He soon realized that he was a foreigner in his own country. Of course he was not alone. The Department was filled with former ambassadors assigned to this or that bureau. One often saw them taking a constitutional in the Department’s wide corridors. They were clean-desk men. Nothing much to do except push paper from one box to another, waiting for lunch, and later in the day, a reception at one of the embassies near Kalorama where he hoped to find old friends, an evening of reminiscence and too much champagne. One year in, Harry took retirement at age sixty-three, happy enough to do so. He had never fit in at the Secretariat, any more than years before he had not fit in at Policy Planning. He saw himself as a man for today and perhaps tomorrow. He was not a prophet.
They gave him a farewell party on the seventh floor with drinks and a fine buffet, clever speeches, and a medal for distinguished service. The current Secretary stopped by for a cocktail. No one was surprised that Harry was retiring and moving to France, where he owned a villa in the south near the sea. France was a museum and everyone joked that Harry would fit in nicely. He had never truly fit in at the Department, where political skills were paramount. A colleague once remarked that Harry Sanders liked the point of the sword, not its hilt. Washington was hilt-work. What was an ambassador anyway but a dapper messenger passing along the Line of the Day. A bit of a hotspur, Harry, at least in his younger days. A capable diplomat, better abroad than at home, better behind the scenes than in the footlights. He did enjoy overseas work, though his wife May was considered a liability—fragile was often the salient word, subject to multiple interpretations. Her health was dubious and she had not known what to expect as the wife of an American ambassador. Africa had been a trial and their subsequent postings—difficult for her. Harry was good with his counterparts and good with the press, arguably too good, too fond of droll stories when he had a glass in his hand. One could imagine Harry being surprised by his own reputation—lone wolf, say, or adventurer, when he considered himself steady and subtle, collegial when the situation called for it. He was very popular with embassy staff.
Of course his colleagues knew he had been, if not sidelined, put out of harm’s way, the cause some obscure incident long past, part of the war’s troubled legacy, a Rosetta stone no one cared to decipher. A diplomat’s life was never an open book, except at the very top of the Department. Harry had killed a man and that set him apart. The exact circumstances were known only by a few. Had he acted rashly? That was the source of the remark that Harry liked the point of the sword. A serious diplomat avoided sword points. A serious diplomat sought common ground, understandings that might defuse a dangerous situation. But still, along with the tut-tut came some admiration. Whatever situation Harry Sanders had found himself in, well, that situation was surely perilous and he had lived to tell the tale—or not tell the tale, for he was known for his scrupulous discretion. Harry’s war had broken the rules. There were pockets of silence all over the Department in those days, as if, Harry remarked, most everyone in it had something to be ashamed of.
It was too much to say that his colleagues were afraid of him; Harry was not a man to inspire fear. Instead, his colleagues kept their distance, wary of being identified as his good friend. His was not the sort of star a younger man hitched his wagon to, though he was popular among the women now beginning diplomatic careers. They were the ones interested in point-work and sought Harry’s advice, and May’s, too. So what good was point-work in South America? Or in frigid Scandinavia some years later? Harry was said to covet an embassy in the Middle East, Syria or Lebanon or Iraq. But those missions seemed out of the question, requiring as they did a steely temperament and exquisite political footwork—no glass in hand when speaking to the wretched press—and the patience of an ox. And then suddenly he was too old and contemplating retirement. As for a mission in the Middle East, some in the Department wished that for him but Harry never wished it for himself.
In any case, the moment of consequence was a dead letter, filed and mostly forgotten. It happened so long ago. The Secretary was dead, his senior staff all dead or in nursing homes. Basso Earle was dead, a long struggle with cancer, his memoir unfinished. Truth to tell, never really begun. A few months before Basso died Harry flew to Nantucket for a last conversation. He had heard that Basso was ill and wanted to pay his respects. They sat in Basso’s gazebo at the end of the day, drinking martinis and watching sailboats maneuver on the Sound, a heavy chop owing to the north wind and an incoming tide. The old man’s Louisiana accent had thickened over the years, a melodious gumbo that slid and sloshed in its cup. Harry had to lean close to catch the drift. They spoke of places where they had served. Harry’s current posting was Oslo, and Basso had some fun at his expense. How’re things in wintry Oslo? he said. One scandal after another, I’ll bet. Much of a Red threat there? I heard they called Kissinger to straighten things out for them.
But the conversation always drifted back to their war and its discontents, its muddled legacy. Still, Basso said, we tried. We did what we could. It wasn’t enough. Or, more to the point, it was too much. Our war turned into an ironist’s feast, a smorgasbord of contradictions and false hopes. I always thought irony was small beer, an academic’s substitute for action, force always balanced by counterforce. Something lame and exhausted about it, Basso went on, a lack of nerve. Don’t you think, Harry? Irony doesn’t god damn it lead you anywhere. You’re stuck in an eternal rotary, what you gained on the turns you lost on the roundabouts. That’s what we have, Harry. That’s our inheritance. I’m sorry I got you into it but I’d do the same thing today. You play the hand you’re dealt with the chips you’re given, and irony doesn’t come into it unless you’re running some god damned seminar up at Harvard.
Fuck ’em, Basso added.
Twice over, Harry agreed, and then an old name flew into his head. He hadn’t thought of her in years. He said, You never explained to me Adele’s role in all this, if she had one. Adele, your wife’s friend. The mischief maker. The Red.
Adele, Basso said, and grunted.
Adele, Harry said.
I’m glad you reminded me, Basso said. I’d’ve forgotten otherwise. Wait here, he said, and left the gazebo to walk across the lawn to his house. Harry refilled his glass and sat looking at the boats on the open water, the breeze freshening. All the boats had their spinnakers out, and not for the first time Harry wished he knew how to sail, had an appreciation of tides and wind, knew the difference between a yawl and a sloop.
Then Basso was back, easing himself into his chair with a theatrical sigh.
I’m not sure what happened to her, Basso said. I know she left the country, more or less disappeared. I haven’t seen her from that day to this. She wasn’t constructive, that’s for sure. I don’t know what else is for sure. One more unresol
ved memory. There are so many of them. Isn’t it tempting to make a spy story out of it? Adele a kind of Mata Hari. People love spy stories involving women. But I think Adele was only a meddler, one of those who demand to be in the mix. For people like Adele, life outside the mix is no life at all, and if there isn’t a mix she’ll create one. Probably there’s a little more to it than that, though. A few months ago I got this in the mail.
Basso handed Harry the gold compass, the one he thought would bring luck. The compass that was lost on Harry’s trek in the jungle.
Harry turned it over and read the initials on the case: B. E. III.
It’s the genuine article, Basso said.
Yes, I think it is.
A short note from Adele came with it, Basso said. Postmarked London, no return address. One of her friends bought it at a jewelry store, the one around the corner from the Singapore Sling that specialized in secondhand items in gold and silver. Adele wrote that her friend knew at once whose it was. And sent the compass to her so she could send it to me. End of note. Best regards, Adele.
Harry pushed the button that opened the case and found true north. He handed the compass back to Basso.
No no, Basso said. It’s yours. My gift.
Basso, it belongs to you.
Not anymore, Basso said.
It’s from your wife—
I know, Basso said.
What am I going to do with it?
Basso had fallen silent. His eyes closed and for a quarter of an hour he snoozed. Harry sat with him, watching the boats toss about on the Sound. He drank the dregs of the martini pitcher, the gin watered. These days Harry limited himself to two drinks at a sitting. He moved his chair into the shade and looked again at the compass, its gold facing scratched from use. He didn’t want it. The compass had not brought good luck. But he supposed he was stuck with it. Harry stared out to sea at the boats, spinnakers flying, water washing over the bows, the sun brilliant. Nantucket was a harsh environment, windswept, rocky, barren, the antithesis of humid overgrown Asia where tigers prowled, where the nights were nearly as warm as the days. Whenever he thought of the Asian war, which was often, he thought of Sieglinde. He did not dwell on where she was and what she was doing, whether or not she was married or continued her x-ray business. He remembered their brief time together and their misunderstandings. He remembered the silk-string hammock and wondered what had become of it. Probably it was a commissar’s hammock now, spoils of war along with the American kitchen, the ficus tree, and the neighbor’s cat. He did hope Sieglinde had found whatever it was she was looking for. Surely a man had entered her life, and Harry wondered who the man was and what he did and his nationality. He was not American. Of that Harry was entirely certain.
When Basso awakened, Harry said it was time for him to leave for the airport.
Too bad, Basso said. I was going to take you around to see the houses.
What houses? Harry said.
The tycoons’ houses. There are tycoons on the island now. Big houses. Biggest damned houses you’ve ever seen. Swimming pools. Can you imagine swimming pools on an island? I know some of them but they’re hard to talk to. I don’t care what they know, and they don’t care what I know.
The tycoons lose, Harry said.
Basso brightened. I think they do, he said.
I’m glad I came to see you, Harry said.
I’m glad, too.
I wish you’d take back the compass.
No can do, Basso said.
Well, OK. One last thing.
What’s that?
Did you ever see the report of the board of inquiry?
Never did, Basso said.
Do you want to?
Basso shook his head. Nah.
Sure?
Damn sure, Basso said. They shook hands and Harry walked away to his rental car. There wasn’t much to tell, really. The board of inquiry—three former ambassadors and the Department counsel—deliberated for six months, interviewing the relevant parties and examining the paper trail, what there was of it. Harry was cooperative and when the salient question was asked, Whose idea was this?, Harry replied that he understood it to be a joint venture of the secretary of state and Ambassador Basso Earle. But others may have been involved. The White House, for example. But if they were, he had no knowledge of it. I was too far down the food chain, Harry said. For what it was worth, Harry had agreed with the idea, and agreed also that the probability of success was not high.
And there was no loss of life, the Department counsel said, turning the page, literally and figuratively.
Yes, there was loss of life, Harry replied. I killed a man. Shot him dead. So for the moment the page remained unturned as Harry was asked to explain himself, the circumstances, his own frame of mind. He thought, Frame of mind? Frame of mind? So he sketched out the frame of mind, the counsel declining to make any sort of eye contact. It was like talking to the statue of a stargazer. Though he was not asked to do so, Harry described the boy and the carbine in detail, including the moment when he flung himself forward, the boy falling and striking his head, the carbine in Harry’s fingers, and the shot—unbelievably loud in the stillness of the jungle. Appalling, really. It was evident to him as he went along that he was giving more detail than was wanted, but he decided to tell it all so that there would be no additional questions, a misapprehension as it turned out. The counsel said, Are you skilled with firearms? Harry said, Not particularly. The counsel said, Would you describe your action as self-defense? Yes, Harry said. But there might have been something short of lethal force . . . He let the sentence hang and went on, But I’ll never know. No one will. The counsel ordered the technician to turn off the tape recorder.
The counsel said, Were you of sound mind when you encountered the enemy soldier?
Sound enough to have pulled the trigger.
What I mean is—
I was not myself, Harry conceded.
You were injured. You were under stress.
It had not been a happy day, Harry said.
And there were no witnesses, the counsel said.
No witnesses, Harry replied.
Do you have any idea of the dead man’s identity? His name? Did he have a rank?
No idea. I do know that I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his face, a cruel face, pockmarked in places. A low forehead, high cheekbones, pig’s eyes. A nasty customer.
Is that why you shot him?
I had no choice, Harry said.
The counsel turned to the technician and told him to restart the tape recorder.
And what happened next? Take it from the moment you arrived at USAID House.
Harry smiled broadly. Don’t you want to hear about the snake?
The board of inquiry took another two months to sift its findings. By that time the war was in full flood, five divisions of American troops in-country and another three still to come. Events were in the saddle. The board was said to have produced a document with the highest possible classification. The results were never made public, and there was some question of whether it had been properly filed. The burn bag was the most likely alternative. There were so many untoward incidents in the war—and so many missions that had no clear provenance. No obvious point of departure and no obvious objective. What exactly did you expect to happen? These missions resembled the art market, the Old Master that had been through two dozen galleries in nine countries, so many dealers, so many buyers, and hard to sort them out because dealer and buyer were often the same person or anyway related by blood or by bed. Somewhere along the line the bills of sale had disappeared. The connoisseur had to rely on his own eye and instinct, qualities honed over many years. While no one could prove him right, no one could prove him wrong either. And so the Steen or the Van Dyck slipped from hand to hand and finally from sight altogether.
The one episode he never explained, because no one asked the direct question, was the Chinese venerable and his boy in the throne room of the Datsun truck. Truth was, the e
pisode defied explanation. Even now, decades later, his hours in the Datsun seemed to him a kind of stop-time, the sudden glare of headlights, the exquisite manners of the venerable, his young son—if that was who the boy was—pouring water. No intelligible word passed between them, unless you counted his fractured question, Amel’can? That, Harry kept to himself. The episode seemed to him to embody something of the supernatural. Of this he was certain: The old man had saved his life. In any case, the relevant parties had all passed on. Harry thought of himself as the sole survivor of a far-flung family, the last repository of an intimate history. And those many facts of which he was unaware or suspicious—well, they were dead, too, and buried. He believed he dwelled in a city of the dead, and they were too numerous to be counted accurately. That afternoon in the gazebo, Basso Earle had asked Harry this question: All things considered, looking back on it now, are you happy you chose diplomacy as your life’s work? Harry laughed and said, Of course. What other business is there for someone like me? He laughed again and said, A connoisseur of the counterfeit and the inexplicable.
Each afternoon, round about three, weather permitting, the ambassador took tea on the verandah of his cottage. He sipped tea and watched the afternoon slip away. Harry looked across flat fields to the defile that led to the narrow estuary, a fingernail of the Mediterranean. Along its quays and clinging to the stone cliffs that loomed above it were houses mostly occupied by fishermen and their families. Here and there adventurous outsiders had built villas for summer and fall holidays. The spring, as a rule, was wet, and the winter windy. The fishing village below was approached by a treacherous switchback road. Only the fishermen and the few summer people were allowed in. Parking space was at a premium. On a bright summer day the view of the harbor was superb, fishing smacks next to small sloops and now and again an enormous yacht anchored at the mouth of the estuary, the skipper always careful to leave ample room for passage. Beyond all this was the sea, brilliant in all seasons. The villagers, both breeds, were intolerant of outsiders. There were no amenities in the village beyond a simple bar-restaurant and a fishmonger, open in the afternoons. The fishmonger also sold gasoline at outrageous prices. There were no showers, public toilets, souvenir shops, or gendarmes. The foreign yachtsmen were tolerated so long as they paid in cash and did not linger. The village was notorious all along the coast east of Marseilles for its inhospitality. It was such a pretty location, so welcoming from a distance, so peaceable in the summer light, that from time to time a professional photographer unaware of its reputation would happen by to take pictures only to find himself surrounded by burly men and told to go back where he came from, and it took only minutes for him to pack up his camera gear and commence the long climb up the near-vertical road.