American Romantic
Page 22
I’ll always come back to you, she said.
Who else would I come back to?
Then one time she didn’t. Harry was alone in his office on a Sunday afternoon drafting a cable to Washington, a tiresome economic matter. He wrote two drafts, neither one satisfactory, and then gave it up, deciding instead to write his father a birthday note. The old man had lived to great age, long a widower. Harry wrote a letter describing conditions in the Balkans, his present post, an impossible post because he was dealing with impossible people whose sense of grievance was seemingly limitless. He proposed a Christmas visit, perhaps a Sunday lunch to go with it, a reminder of the old days. When the telephone rang he almost didn’t answer it, then in a fit of irritation he picked up the receiver and said only, Where are you? It had to be May. But the voice, hesitant, almost timid, most un-Balkan, belonged to an inspector of police.
May was dead in her car at the bottom of a ravine only one hour distant from the capital. The guardrail had snapped like a matchstick. Police at the scene speculated that she had suffered some sort of seizure at the wheel, perhaps a cardiac event. There were no skid marks. The weather was clear. There were no witnesses to the accident, at least no one had come forward. She might have been in the ravine for a day, possibly longer. The area was desolate but the road was in good repair, perhaps madame was speeding . . . Wait one moment, Inspector, Harry said and put the phone down. He sat quietly a moment staring at the telephone. He was trying to understand fully what he had been told. Yes, he said finally, go on. Tell me what you know.
We are most sorry, Excellency, the official said. Was your wife in good health? Harry did not reply, wondering if this was a case of mistaken identity. The car was a common model, but it did have diplomatic license plates. So it was not a case of mistaken identity. He was so shaken he did not hang up the telephone but sat in a lethargic state until he heard another voice, heavily accented, gruff, explaining something about the fine condition of the road and the rescue efforts. Rescue of the car. May would be taken to the hospital in the capital. What sort of funeral arrangements would the ambassador prefer? Of course an autopsy would be undertaken at once, that was the law. And then Harry said an automatic goodbye, and still he did not move from his chair, becalmed like a vessel at sea, the only sound the creaking of rigging, in actual fact the tick-tick of his desk clock. He reread every word of his longhand letter to his father and then folded it twice and threw it into the burn bag. His eyes filled with tears. His strength drained away, leaving him limp as string. He was breathing heavily. How had this come to pass? The telephone receiver was still in his hand. He stared at it, willing it to ring once more with different news. A ghastly mistake. He stared at May’s photograph, imagining her little red Honda crumpled like discarded tissue paper. He had not asked where she was precisely and the official had not said. Surely it was the mountain road heading south, a treacherous passage under the best of conditions. The official said something about returning to the capital with “the remains.” The ambassador thought to hang up the telephone and then stood and stepped to the window that gave out onto the square, the one with the iron sundial next to the general on horseback. The square was filled with people, couples, families with children. There were fewer of them than usual on a Sunday. When he heard a knock on the door he said, Go away, probably not loud enough to be heard. He looked at the cable on his computer screen and could not remember its subject. He was appreciating a situation, no doubt important because Sunday afternoons were reserved for May.
An hour later, the ambassador left his office and took the back stairs to the embassy lobby. He said good evening to the marine guard, who looked up from his paperback, startled. Will you take the car, sir? Harry shook his head and walked out into the night, chilly, with a stiff wind. The square was almost deserted now. He walked slowly, leaning on his cane, indifferent to his surroundings, one more foreign boulevard in a lifetime of foreign boulevards. A taxi passed slowly by and he wondered if he should take it, then thought no. The walk would do him—not good, but something else. He would have time to think. Alone, he would not be obliged to speak. He reached with his right hand to scratch his ankle and the image of the boy enemy came to his mind, remaining a moment before he vanished, an occurrence so common he did not dwell on it. The wind picked up and he drew a scarf from his overcoat pocket and wrapped it around his neck. Hard little snowflakes brushed his skin. One more miserable night in the Balkans. She was gone, that was the fact of it. There were arrangements to be made. They had never discussed arrangements, where the funerals were to be held and where the bodies were to be buried. They had agreed on cremation. Harry tried to think where they had been happiest. Not Africa. Perhaps the Mediterranean island. Norway had been all right. They had been very happy in anonymous Colorado. Harry put the arrangements problem out of his head. She drove too fast. She had always driven too fast. She rode horses at a gallop and drove the same way. That was what they learned in Vermont, exceed the speed limit and dare the Highway Patrol to catch them. In Vermont drinking and driving was a way of life. Harry pulled his hat down around his ears because the wind had picked up again. He was alone on the sidewalk listening to the click-click of his whalebone cane, May’s gift. He was almost home. To his right was the residence of the French ambassador, a former admiral with an admiral’s bearing and an admiral’s voice; he gave the impression he was forever standing on a bridge ordering flank speed. The house was brightly lit, a Sunday soiree. Harry paused to hear the sound of violins, and behind the violins laughter and the buzz of conversation. Perhaps he was imagining that. His own residence was just ahead, the porch light on, the house itself in darkness. He had given the servants the night off because he expected May and planned to go out somewhere to dinner after the reception at the French embassy. Harry’s hands were numb when he reached the front door. He walked through the house turning on lights. His study was chilly but he noticed that Ramon had laid wood for a fire. He opened the liquor cabinet and rummaged among the bottles for the scotch and made himself a drink. His hands were steady. He did not feel steady but his hands were all right. His feet hurt. He was cold all the way through. Ramon had left a plate of lemon peels and a dish of peanuts.
Harry poured a large whiskey and stepped to the fire. He lit the kindling but it failed to catch. When he lit it again he managed to coax a weak flicker of flame. He sat in the big chair next to the fire and waited. He wondered how he would regain his balance, his thoughts turning every which way, now thinking of May in her Honda, now of the unfinished cable on his computer at the embassy. He tried again to remember the subject but could not. These thoughts were as slippery and fleeting as fish. He stared into the smoldering fire and noticed on the mantel a stack of yesterday’s mail. He leafed through it, half a dozen invitations and a postcard in an unfamiliar hand. It took him a moment to decipher the signature, that of his aid administrator in Africa years before, Axel Brown. He had not heard from Axel in years. Axel had resigned from the foreign service and gone to work for a foundation, and now he was writing to say that he and Zoe Aaron were returning to the United States after so many years in Africa, inside work at the head office in Washington. They hated to leave Africa but their twin daughters were enrolled at Georgetown and they wanted to be nearby. Besides, it was time. The postcard was signed by Axel, “Most fondly,” and a P.S.: “Give love to May.” Harry tapped the postcard on his fingernail, remembering Axel and Zoe, Axel so quiet, Zoe a dynamo, more energy than was good for her. He and Zoe had had a brief fling—well, any fling was by definition brief—those many years ago, nothing serious. However, he had not forgotten and now the memory returned in fragments. It was an incoherent memory. Incomplete would be the better word. It had happened at one of the aid stations deep in the interior. Soon after, Zoe and Axel were together. And now they had twin daughters in college. Harry remembered Zoe coming to him for advice. She was weary of magazine reporting and wanted a change, something more—active. Would the foreign service be
a good idea? It would not, Harry told her with a smile. Diplomacy is not your long suit, Zoe. He suggested instead one of the relief agencies or a foundation; there were many good ones.
I love Africa, Zoe said.
I know, Harry replied.
I could stay here forever.
I know that, too. Good luck to you, kiddo.
Things are alive in Africa, Zoe said. So much to be done.
And all the time in the world to do it, Harry said.
Harry took off his shoes and massaged his feet. His toes were like ice. Those three years in Africa. How had they managed it? Zoe and Axel slipped from his mind and when he took a swallow of scotch he thought of his father. He would have to tell his father about May, find a gentle way to do it. The old man was very old, an antique, but in good health and of sound mind except for occasional blank episodes, when he drew a curtain and went away. His mother had died years back. Harry and his father were the last of their line. He would have to go to Connecticut to see his father. He had not been back in almost a year, and it was time.
Harry sat listening to the clock tick and then caught sight of a photograph of May on the mantel. They were having lunch at the harbor restaurant in—and at that moment he could not remember where it was, only that the surroundings were charming. It was April, the day balmy, ships moving idly at anchor. The harbor was very old, dating to antiquity. She wore dark glasses and smiled for the camera. He remembered the meal, bouillabaisse and sorbet to finish, coffee medium sweet. They were reminiscing about Africa, something they did not often do. We were lucky to get out alive, she said. Remember the cobra in the swimming pool? Harry was looking at her photograph and trying to remember her voice, its timbre and rhythm. He was searching for it now in his study, as quiet as a desert, but nothing came to him. Her words returned but not her voice. He was unnerved at this thought and pushed the button on the CD player and waited for whatever was there—as it turned out, Brahms’s German Requiem. He sipped whiskey and devoted himself to Brahms, thinking now of the German dead in two wars. Brahms composed the Requiem after the death of his mother; the world wars were many years distant. May had always wanted a posting in Berlin, but he told her that Berlin was not in the cards. He had no special expertise, not even the language. Germany required total commitment, like a marriage or a war. Berlin was filled with ghosts; turn any corner and you were face to face with the Third Reich. Germans frightened people, themselves most of all. But they were also hospitable and fiercely intelligent. Their diplomatic corps was first rate, good at staying out of trouble, good at lengthy explanations of complex moral questions, very good at defending their commercial interests. Their security services were exceptional inside their country, thin on the ground elsewhere. Their diplomats had surprising latitude, but of course they did not have a Pentagon to worry about. Harry closed his eyes and thought about Germany and its immense capacity for delusion. Perhaps that was the source of inspiration for its composers. The sublime melodies of Brahms and Mahler could come only from some German-speaking magic garden of the soul. Whatever the source of German romanticism, Harry wished he had seen it up close, listened to it in conversation, negotiated with it. American delusions, mostly of grandeur, often of the evangelical variety, the Good News of democracy, also frightened people. Americans lacked modesty. Americans did not set a good example. Americans cast a long shadow of self-righteousness, and if you didn’t like it they sent the Sixth Fleet and a squadron of warplanes. That was what the ambassador’s years of diplomacy had taught him. The shrill ring of the telephone startled him but he did not move from his chair and eventually the caller gave up.
Go away, he said aloud.
I do not wish to be disturbed.
What on earth had caused him to think about Germany?
Harry rose heavily from his chair and limped to the cabinet and poured another whiskey, this one not so large. He paused to listen to the third movement of Ein deutsches Requiem, thinking that he would have been a good choice for embassy Berlin. He had a high appreciation of forgetfulness, a constant struggle. Germany was only trying to stay calm and out of everyone’s way and be left alone to build a durable republic and an export economy, a mighty engine that would prevent another Weimar or Third Reich, and that was Harry’s preference, too, had anyone asked, and no one did. There were temptations on every continent. Still, the less meddling the better, one more lesson learned from his own war.
He would have liked Moscow, too, or Paris. Naturally they were not in the cards either, those embassies being reserved for specialists or friends of the president or retired politicians or industrialists, people who thought they were owed a favor. He was certain that May would have liked Berlin and Paris. There were horses aplenty in both capitals and good places to ride them. She would have hated Moscow, the constant suspicion, the bad food, the trials of ordinary life.
Harry pulled his chair closer to the smoldering fire, sparks here and there but no flames. He hunched his shoulders and listened to the sizzle that meant the wood was soft, wet with rain. He heard the wind against the windows. There was nothing more dispiriting than a cold fireplace. He pulled his jacket around him. No doubt he should go to bed. There would be much to do in the morning, telephone calls, messages from the Department. As if on signal the phone rang once more and Harry did not move, counting ten rings before it stopped. Probably he should have a few people in tomorrow night or the next night. He was not especially close with the diplomatic community, unlike other places he had served where casual dinners were frequent. Perhaps something for the embassy staff, all of it. Harry looked again at the fire, a wan affair providing neither heat nor light. The room was cold. But he was not ready for the climb upstairs, the rooms dark, the bedroom empty. He sat alone in the cold a while longer, wondering to himself why he had gone on so long about Berlin. Surely it was listening to the Requiem. Brahms had written it for his dead mother but Harry could not listen to it without thinking of Germans and their wars, in the way that listening to Cole Porter made him think of young American expatriates dancing on tabletops at two in the morning. He had never heard of an American diplomat retiring to Germany. He had friends who had served in embassy Berlin and had loved it, but when retirement came they went to Tuscany or back to the row house in Georgetown, or to Maine or Florida. He did not want to return to America, that was for sure. He would take his final tour at the Department in Washington and then say bye-bye. He had no idea where he could live in America, certainly not Connecticut or Washington or any of its suburbs. He had sent some money to Clinton’s campaign but not enough to buy a retirement embassy—Jamaica, say, or Malta. Not even Burundi. He was too old for Burundi. Burundi required stamina and a high tolerance for disorder and an idealism that had left him long ago, and he had never been generously endowed anyhow. Idealism was an acquired quality, one dependent on circumstance, the facts of the matter, meaning successful outcomes. Harry thought of diplomacy as Sisyphus thought of his wretched stone. May had objected to that, arguing that nothing was more idealistic than the pursuit of a doomed objective. They had argued about it for most of an evening, the evening ending in peals of laughter and Harry promising to write a check for five thousand dollars to the local Red Cross; that was in Africa. Certainly idealism could return at any time, arriving at the door in a top hat and a white tie, energy to burn, and an impossible task at hand. But it would not return for him, and if it did he would not recognize its face. Go away. I do not wish to be disturbed.
He heard a soft knock at the door and said, Yes?
Ramon appeared with a plate of cold cuts. He said, I am very sorry.
Thank you, Ramon. It was so sudden. How did you hear?
He said, From the valet next door.
The French?
Yes. They are very upset. They called your private line but you did not answer.
No, I didn’t.
They said you are welcome at any time. They would like to help.
I’ll call them tomorrow.
No, thank you, Ramon. Harry stared bleakly at the sticks of wood in the fireplace, stone cold at last, not so much as a wisp of smoke. He reached to massage his feet. He had walked longer than he intended, at any event longer than was good for him. His whiskey was tepid in the glass and when he looked up he saw that Ramon had left the room as silently as he had entered it. He began to quarter the cold cuts, ham, salami, a German sausage. Ramon had brought mustard also. He quartered once, and again. Ham, salami, sausage. Finally the slices were child-size bites. He ate a morsel of ham and stepped to the sideboard and made another whiskey. Across the lawn the French embassy was ablaze with lights. He sipped whiskey. It had had no effect so far. He ate a slice of salami and pushed the plate away. Then he shook his head as one does when baffled by events, a telephone call from a stranger, a road accident, and life collapsed utterly. This happened all the time in his professional life, an assassination, a border incident, a sudden change in American policy, a scandal. Bad news so often came by telephone.
Harry lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring that held its shape for the length of his arm before it broke apart. He stepped to the window that looked onto May’s garden. He heard the click of hydrangea stalks in the wind. The garden was dead. Beyond it through the high hedge he saw a faint yellow glow. The party was over. A smart gust of wind rattled the hydrangeas. The garden was dark but he could make out the shape of the heavy wooden rocker where in warm weather May would sit for hours reading. She always seemed to know when he was at the window. She would look up and give a little wave, wiggling the fingers of her right hand, and return at once to the page she was reading. Later, when he peeked out the window once again, she would be on her hands and knees weeding the garden. Clearing it, really. Giving symmetry, meaning order. Or flavor, she would say, a complex flavor like a good French stew. A tangled garden was worse than useless. Enough chaos in ordinary life. A garden was meant to be a place of repose, a delight to the eye, don’t you agree? He did agree. Even so—what was a garden without a weed?