“You sure?” the minister said incredulously. “No problem with timing?”
“No problem, Sir,” the vice-consul replied.
“He knows his way around, Minister,” the consul general added.
“Well I’ll be dammed. That’s incredible,” said the minister. “All previously arranged, eh? OK. I get it.”
The taxi arrived before the bill. The consul general and the minister went out. Hanbury lingered to arrange payment. Some girls two tables over smiled freely. He sent them a graceful nod, then hurried out. His dinner companions were nowhere to be seen. “Two men leave in a taxi?” he asked the doorman.
“Yassuh. Daddaway.”
“They say anything.”
“Nope. Wanna taxi?”
“I’m OK,” he said to the doorman. There was nothing to do but go home. He thought of Shirley, doped up, spread out on the floor, and took a slow route on foot. Shirley was where he had left her, now snoring. He threw a blanket over her. A few hours later when he left for work, she still hadn’t stirred.
“Don’t bother with the minister and the airport,” the consul general said severely the moment Hanbury got into the office. “He just called. Said he’ll find his own way. Sounded angry. Said he’ll complain. What happened?”
Without much sleep, a haggard Hanbury needed time to decipher. “What happened?” he said. “What do you mean what happened? Nothing happened. You were with the minister. I paid the bill. When I went outside, you were gone. I went home. Do you know how many bottles of wine he sent into that restaurant? Twelve. Not plonk either. It busted my credit limit. Did he leave some money with you?”
Now the consul general had to let things sink in. When the picture was in focus, he sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Tony,” he murmured, “where have you been? Why do you think he was sending wine to all the girls? He wanted them. Some of them. My guess is three or four were game. They were ready to go.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?” the consul general said with exasperation. “I left him waiting for you in the hotel bar. He expected you to bring the girls along. I relied on you to fix it.”
“No one said anything about that. I understood he was tired. I wondered why you didn’t wait.”
The consul general turned and disappeared. Two days later Hanbury was summoned. “He’s complained,” the consul general said. “Fairly vicious. Claims unacceptable protocol lapses. I explained your side to Investitures. They’re inclined to side with you, but they’ve already assured the minister heads will roll. You can’t stay as if nothing happened. You’re being reassigned. That’s it. Nothing more to say. Life in the Service. Let me have the restaurant bill. I’ll launder it through hospitality.”
Within days Hanbury learned he was on his way to Washington, demoted to doing passports. No more ministers to be entrusted into his care. Before leaving, he paid three months rent and confronted a sluggish Shirley. “Nothing I can do about it,” he said. “Part of the job.” Shirley took it fairly well. I’ve thought about you a lot. I feel sorry for you. You’re not in touch with your feelings. I thought I could change you, get you to relate. But you’re sick. You need treatment. The stereo was bequeathed to Shirley, plus all the home furnishings she ever wanted. Hanbury took with him his clothes and weird records.
While Hanbury escaped from Shirley, Sabine was cementing things with Werner. During the days they went their different ways, but they connected in the evenings. Sometimes Schwartz came home late. “Na endlich!” she would say fretfully. At last! She was relieved, yet couldn’t hide an undertone of anger. Although Schwartz liked Sabine’s fussing if he was late, he didn’t understand it and said so once or twice. Sabine wanted to tell him about Savignyplatz, but the right occasion, the right moment never came. The specifics were fading in any case. Lingering were occasional outbreaks of terror which she didn’t want to admit having.
Schwartz acquired a teaching position at the University, in History. Sabine took a job at Geissler’s. Schwartz used his connections to acquire a bigger apartment on Fasanenstrasse. More of his family furniture came out of storage. Historical portraits of his forbears graced the walls. A large front room became the library. There was a salon, a dining room, spare rooms for guests. They hosted parties. Sabine developed the art of asking his friends interesting questions. That, together with her moody eyes and a habit of not rushing guests, made her an admired hostess. Everyone wanted a few minutes with Sabine.
Everything was beginning to work out. Even marrying Werner Schwartz was working out. In her blissful rush, Sabine paid no attention to remarks by Martina that Schwartz’s friends were all of a type – strong-willed, clean-shaven and focussed excessively on success. She once summed them up. “They have a self-confidence that has no basis.” Then she became blunt. “Speaking frankly, your husband and his friends strut about like perfect Germans, even though its been proven that we are not an especially remarkable race.” Sabine thought Martina was wrong. Her husband didn’t strut. He was moving up with a kind of gliding motion, with tranquillity and ease.
Hanbury, after San Francisco, was not moving up. He got shunted sideways. Bunkered down doing passports, he avoided further mishaps. The new stereo he acquired was the finest to date. After Washington came some years in Ottawa, this time living on a quiet street in the Glebe. The landlady insisted on peace and Hanbury used earphones if he wanted volume. Chopin, Liszt, Schumann: fine music for a withdrawn world. At work he dispensed, as Service jargon had it,beneficences. He was a member of an underrated sect helping Canadians abroad who have fallen on hard times. Canucks jailed for smuggling alcohol into Saudi Arabia, or smiling at veiled eyes in Tehran, or observing military convoys with too much interest in Ghadafi’s Tripoli – the burden of solving all such personal disasters throughout North Africa and the Middle East sat on his shoulders. Problems from all over came his way. A flood of problems. Some days he thought he was getting to know every worried parent between Belle Isle Landing in Newfoundland and Clayoquot Sound in British Columbia.
His mother’s funeral in Indian Head was an interlude. At the burial, the soil scientist seemed unmoved, mumbling it was better this way. Hanbury had an evening with Keystone, who told stories about the awesome power of the latest diesel locomotives.
Hanbury’s stay in Beneficences was a long one. He was a quiet, credible solver of other people’s problems. Low key, the Beneficences priest recorded. Does the job. Could go places if he showed more zip. Investitures sent him to Cairo, then, as second secretary, consular.
In Cairo he developed a taste for Arabic music. At first he thought it sounded like wailing from a madhouse, but it grew on him. Most evenings in his penthouse flat on an upper middle class street overlooking the Nile, dressed in an Egyptian gown, incense burning, chewing bitter leaves, Hanbury had private concerts which began with a half-hour of Arabian lament, then came back to European music. In those days his taste ran towards Stravinsky, even Schoenberg. The Rite of Spring, listened to after a couple of hours of chewing, made him jerk and twitch. He loved his time in Cairo. Only one event interrupted the routine. Eileen from Toronto was spending February there, after January in Istanbul, and prior to March in Greece. Her passport was stolen in the Suk, she said. She swore an oath before the second secretary that she was who she said she was, after which she and Tony compared Egyptian experiences. They went out a couple of times and decided to make a trip together, a few days up to Luxor. She summed up the experience in a postcard from Athens two weeks later. Thank you for showing me Elysium!
After Cairo came Caracas and another interruption, this one more serious. Hanbury slid into an affair with Anne-Marie, cultural officer at the French Embassy. At first, innocently, they lunched once a week, then he saw her in the evenings and finally spent the nights in her bed. After a few months, Anne-Marie suggested a vacation on Martinique. Hanbury did a mental calculation (a quarter of a year before his next assignment) and said sure. They passed two weeks on t
he island as a carefree couple. The holiday was a real success. When Hanbury’s time in Caracas was up, the last night with Anne-Marie was subdued. C’était bien, she summed up. Hanbury replied,C’était comme Elysium. Anne-Marie agreed. Oui, c’était comme ça. Tu as raison. Hanbury departed for Kuala Lumpur. A few weeks later Anne-Marie was reassigned to Pretoria. Their correspondence petered out.
In Berlin, Sabine bore a son. His name posed a problem because her husband wanted his mother’s family, Prussian nobility, to be reflected in the given names. He proposed Philip Pöllnitz Schwartz, arguing that his maternal grandfather, Philip von Pöllnitz, a renowned Junker, deserved to be honoured. For balance, he suggested that Sabine’s father could be in there somewhere too. As in Philip Pöllnitz Albert Schwartz. Sabine, still in an immediate post-natal state, was horrified. “Nicholas,” she said. “I’ve always known if I had a son, he would be Nicholas.”
“There’s no Nicholas in either of our families.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s a beautiful name.”
Schwartz sternly insisted family precedent mattered. When Sabine began to cry, he said they would talk about it further.
Sabine continued to insist on Nicholas and opposed using a family name as a given name. First they agreed Albert would be the second name. Sabine, holding firmly to Nicholas, offered Nicholas Albert Philip Schwartz. In her husband’s opinion that was putting his grandfather too far back. An understanding was reached that Philip would be first choice for an eventual second son. “Or Phillipa,” said Sabine. “I wouldn’t object to Phillipa if it’s a girl.” “We’ll see when the time comes,” Schwartz said, sounding reasonable, but irked that his son would carry the name of a Russian czar.
In Kuala Lumpur Hanbury became first secretary with new responsibilities, politically and socially. No more doling out beneficences to snotty kids. In Kuala Lumpur he would be doing political work – administering the sacraments – full time. He sent off Notes Verbales, visited influential Malaysians in their offices where he slipped them delicately phrased Aides-Mémoires. He enjoyed going with the high commissioner to tête-à-têtes with leading politicians. His status brought with it a house in a large garden full of tropical trees. Birds in the trees squabbled like playground children while insects hummed primordially. Some weekend afternoons Hanbury was so entertained by nature in his garden that he forgot to activate the stereo.
One lazy Sunday afternoon, having been served iced tea by the Malay cook and listening to a delightful interplay of shrill cicadas and shrieking protests from tropical birds, Hanbury had an insight; nothing spectacular, merely a recognition of some existing facts. Passing through his field of vision, in an area roughly midway between the terrace and the luxurious red and purple bougainvillea hedge, was a parade of loving smiles from women he had known. They seemed so real that the bodies to which the smiles belonged could materialize at any moment. Reflecting on this spectacle of love, Hanbury realised how lucky he had been. The smiles could be grouped into two camps: Sabine and Shirley who had moved in, and Eileen and Anne-Marie who had not. It was no coincidence that parting with the latter two had generally been more amiable.
This distillation of experience remained at work far back in his mind, nearly in the region of the subconscious. It was still there when he met Birgit, a descendent of the blondest of all the Vikings.
The high commissioner liked to send his political first secretary to represent him at social events. In a crackling voice he gave the young man wise advice. “Make sure you receive more than you give,” he warned. “Listen much, talk little.” Hanbury was doing so at a dull drinks party given by the chargé d’affaires from Sweden when Birgit breezed in late. Hanbury was fondling a glass of cold aquavit in the presence of his Norwegian opposite and two visiting academics from Stockholm. The Scandinavians believed the world was on the verge of unspeakable horrors, and heatedly discussed which of the many was the worst. Hanbury was about to stroll to another corner of the room when Birgit, who knew the Norwegian, sidled up. She was a conversation stopper. Global horrors were forgotten. Two drooling academics wanted to know what she was doing in Kuala Lumpur. Were it not for the divine blondness of her hair, the playful eyes of fading blue and lovely well-formed lips, Hanbury would have moved along, but he was as hypnotized as the others. Birgit was saying she was in charge of a project, funded by a Scandinavian Trust, to study the role of women in South East Asian society. The Scandinavian men around her replied they found that interesting. They said they were fascinated by the subject.
The background music at the party changed from syrupy Hollywood film scores to something symphonic. Hanbury’s ears pricked up. “Sibelius,” he said with child-like excitement. “Violin Concerto, third movement.”
“Not at all!” objected one of the academics disdainfully. “Tchaikovsky, surely.”
“I think it’s Grieg,” said the Norwegian.
“This is fun,” Birgit said, directing her diamond-glittering eyes at Hanbury.
The host was asked to referee. He read off the back of the cassette. Hanbury had it right.
“Are you American?” she asked.
“Saskatchewan,” he said.
“Canada,” the Norwegian explained.
“Located between the Atlantic and the Pacific,” confirmed Hanbury. “Good Sibelius country. We keep hoping one day someone like him will come along.”
“Fatuous nonsense,” said an academic.
But Birgit enjoyed it. Later in the evening she sought Hanbury out, her smile undiminished. “Are you a music expert?”
“Actually not.”
“Where did you pick it up?”
“A place called Indian Head. And you? You’re from Stockholm?”
“Further north. Kiruna. Above the Arctic Circle.”
“So we’re practically neighbours.”
Birgit said she loved music and could play the flute. “I sort of play the flute,” she added carefully. Hanbury let on that he sort of knew his way around on the piano. They compared notes on musical training before talking about places they knew in Malaysia. The party was ending. Hanbury, who had the high commissioner’s car and driver, offered Birgit a lift, but she had her own car. “I was going to offer you one,” she said.
“Perhaps next time,” he suggested.
Outside in the tropical night, Hanbury waved to Birgit as the chauffeur opened his door. She waved back, her eyes such perfect reflectors of light that it seemed two space-age beams of blue lit up the driveway.
Some days later she phoned and talked about an institute outside the city which promoted women’s cooperatives. An afternoon of international cultural events was being arranged. Birgit had agreed to play something on the flute. She asked if Hanbury could accompany her on the piano. “I haven’t played for a long time,” he cautioned. “It must be over twenty years. My fingers might creak.” Birgit said that generally would be the standard. Hanbury imagined Birgit’s lips breathing life into a silver instrument. The vision was compelling. “Don’t expect much,” he warned. “Not from me either,” she laughed.
Birgit did the driving. The piano at the women’s institute was an upright, a badly out-of-tune affair. Hanbury had never played on anything like it. Also, time had stiffened his fingers. But it came, the old feeling came. The effortlessness returned. Chords came back and he spun them out, hands floating over the keys, steadily more quickly and smoothly, back and forth, hypnotically, like surf breaking on a beach.
“Jesus,” Birgit swore.
“It’s got a very heavy motion,” he complained about the piano, then banged out the first few bars of a Chopin étude. “Dancing with a windmill would be lighter.”
“I’m not unpacking my flute,” Birgit said. “You do the whole show.” But she relented, and they practised a bit. She sent delicate streams of air into a gleaming instrument. The combination of the silver flute, the light blue in two concentrating eyes, the unbelievable blondness of her hair and the rustling of a light silk dress was
better, Hanbury thought, than anything chronicled in the Norse myths. She was close too. Had he reached sideways, he could have touched her knee.
The cultural afternoon unfolded with élan. Canada’s political first secretary was a hit with the ladies. Twice they insisted that he play something solo. “You were the only one with talent,” Birgit said afterwards when they speeded back to Kuala Lumpur. Hanbury noticed she liked driving fast. “Maybe,” he replied, “but my talent is lopsided. You’re an all-rounder. I don’t even know how to drive.” A laughing Birgit took the next roundabout even faster. “Dinner?” he inquired, but she had something on. Birgit then suggested he come to her place for dinner next weekend.
It wasn’t what he had imagined. Birgit’s small flat was full of people. The Norwegian was there. So was the Swedish chargé with a wife who wore her hair in braids. Several smiling Indian and Malay women with whom Birgit worked had brought their hungry husbands. All evening long a World Bank economist, a loud man of little humour, declared disgruntlement with Malaysia’s oligarchy. Birgit, in a deep-blue, floor-length gown with thin shoulder straps, was a perfect hostess. She kept her guests in drinks and repeatedly led them to the buffet.
“I still owe you a dinner,” he said upon leaving.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“I’ll call you.”
Hanbury thought of having her for dinner at his villa, on the terrace, surrounded by night sounds. But he decided otherwise. They went to the Hilton. A Filipino band was featured. In between courses they danced. He jerked his arms and, from a kind of crouching position, swayed his upper body. Birgit on the other hand possessed an infinite reservoir of slinky movements. She was as happy and excited as a girl on a first date.
The Berlin Assignment Page 14
