The American Ambassador

by Ward Just

  Max said, “Don’t be foolish.” He slung the raincoat over Bill’s shoulder. “This is not your affair.”

  “How high is the fence, Max?”

  “I have no idea.” He turned away, clenching his fists. “This is absurd.”

  “Do you want to make a bet, Max?”

  The boy said, “It’s only a buffalo, sir.”

  “How badly do you want your ball?”

  “Very badly,” the boy said. “It is new. My father will be very angry.”

  “Will he beat you?”

  “Oh, yes,” the boy said.

  “With a strap?”

  “His fists, sir,” the boy said. He seemed about to cry. “He will beat me with his fists.”

  “You are a big boy, you could fight back.”

  “He is my father, sir.”

  Bill turned to Max and smiled sardonically. Then he handed the boy his raincoat and commenced to rock back and forth, heel to toe, practicing, finding his rhythm. He tucked his trousers into his socks, took off his wristwatch, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. The boys moved back, looking solemnly at one another, very quiet now. Johann opened his mouth as if to say something, then didn’t. One of the boys glared at him, raising his open palm.

  “You can wait over there, Max.” He pointed to a bench under a giant elm. “An innocent bystander, that’s you. Give a shout if you see anyone.” He kicked twice, very high, unlimbering. He knew he could scissor over the fence, had scissored higher many times in school and in college. But he had not jumped in a year or more, and then it was a makeshift bar in a public park, his audience Gert and two friends. He closed his eyes, recollecting the look of things when he was in college, the other athletes, the timer, the bar, the sawdust pit, the little knot of spectators in the infield. It was good that he was wearing sneakers. Suddenly he felt wonderful, exhilarated with a fine anticipation. He was concentrating now, deep-breathing, collecting oxygen. He took his belt in a notch and loped to the fence, stopping at the last moment. He calculated its height again, noted the place on the pavement from which he would kick off, and took a last look around. He walked back, his hands on his hips, his eyes on his shoe tops. It was all mental. Again he began to rock, breathing deeply, synchronizing his arms. He forgot about the boys and the rain, the red soccer ball and the angry father who struck with his fists. The animal was on the edges of his vision. When he began his loping run he knew that all the pieces were in place and when he jumped, sublimely airborne, he looked back to see Max stationary under the elm tree, his hands plunged into the pockets of his coat, looking like the unwilling subject of an old photograph, menacing, grainy, a souvenir from the last century.

  He landed right foot first, slipping to one knee, then to all fours. He gagged, aware at once of a thick animal stench coming at him in waves. Rising, he saw his sneakers were covered with black shit; his hands were wet where they had touched the ground. But the stench was the animal itself. The beast stared at him with brilliant dark eyes, still unblinking, but his right foot beginning to twitch. He had last seen buffalo in the bush of central Africa, bad-tempered, unpredictable creatures, deceptively clumsy. Great trophies, the ambassador had said, focusing his Nikon, clicking away from the safety of the embassy Land-Rover. The red ball was in front of him and without taking his eyes off the animal he bent to pick it up and in one loose motion threw it behind him, high over the fence. The animal lowered its head, and tapped the ground with its right hoof, a strangely dainty gesture. He could hear its breathing. Behind him he heard laughter, the boys chattering. Max said something and they fell silent. He did not turn around but moved crabwise, his hands at his sides, to get a sense of direction and the distance back to the fence. Six paces, no slipping in shit, no dry runs. The animal took a step toward him and he stopped, straightening. He could not remember about their eyesight, whether it was weak or strong; he thought weak. He remembered the guide moving the old Winchester off-safe when the ambassador got out of the Land-Rover to take the picture, focusing on a grazing sleepy buffalo. This one was not sleepy, nor in the wild. He stood facing the buffalo, his heart pounding. He felt a great surge, and stepped forward, standing now with his arms folded across his chest. His own eyesight was unnatural: he thought he could see into the animal’s soul. Then he was talking, mouthing the words, directing his language to the animal. Come and get it, ugly bastard. Beautiful bastard. He knew the animal would not move, he could feel his own will overpowering it. He stood sideways now, between the buffalo and the fence. The animal snorted and shook its head, moving at last. But by then he had taken his six quick steps and lofted himself over the iron gate, sailing it seemed for minutes, scissoring over the spikes to land again on all fours, Max a few steps away. He noticed for the first time that it was raining hard. Rain dripped off Max’s hat. There seemed to him an enormous silence, broken only by the drip of the rain and the pounding of his own heart.

  He laughed loudly, clapping Max on the back. He could not believe he had done it. The older man was looking at him with dour amusement. He described the stench inside the cage, and hypnotizing the buffalo, staring at it squarely, not retreating, showing no fear. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and it had worked. A target of opportunity, seized at the propitious moment. That’s the way you have to do it, Max. He laughed again, the tension all gone now. Then he craned his neck, looking around him. “Where are the boys?”

  “They’re gone,” Max said, fluttering his hands. “You can see them go, there.” The first of the boys was disappearing around the corner of the elephant house. One of them had the red soccer ball, and Johann had his raincoat. They appeared to be laughing, the scene reminiscent somehow of Mark Twain.

  He said, “What the fuck.”

  Max smiled. “They were gone before I could do anything, and I must say I was transfixed, watching you and that creature. I was waiting for you to produce a red cape. But the boys were interested only in the raincoat. The ball was a bonus. Clever little devils. I dare say they knew their man.”

  He said, “The little shits.”

  “The young are not to be trusted,” Max said blandly. “There is no respect, owing to the breakdown of the German family. Everyone runs wild. There is no authority. It is the American influence, everyone for himself. This is well known. And it’s the same everywhere in Europe, France, Italy, the Low Countries. It’s a scandal.” He paused in his inventory of causes of the breakdown of family relations in Europe. “I assume and hope that there was nothing valuable in the raincoat. Nothing that could prove embarrassing.”

  He shot Max a sharp look. “The raincoat was valuable, it’s the only one I have.” He rolled down his shirt sleeves and pulled his trousers out of his socks. It was raining hard now. Inside the cage the buffalo was standing with its nose almost touching the iron spikes, its fur glistening in the rain.

  Max said, “You do have a fondness for the beau geste.”

  He looked left over Max’s shoulder to the zoo entrance, searching. But he saw nothing unusual, and no one familiar. A few families with small children were leaving, hurrying home. In the distance he could hear the gentle murmur of Sunday traffic. He looked at his wristwatch, thinking.

  Max said, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “The little shits set me up.”

  “Yes,” Max said.

  “As you say,” he said. “The young are not to be trusted.”

  “Quite a bag of tricks, it was neatly done. You have to admire them. In fact, their aktion required serious discipline. Meticulous planning and concentration, a knowledge of the terrain and the enemy. And most of all, good timing.” Max unwrapped a fat cigar, wet it, and lit it, the match flaring. “They are good actors, those boys. They should be in the Berliner Ensemble, eh?” Grinning, he took a mini-umbrella from his coat pocket, opened it, and they began to walk back the way they had come. Dusk was falling; the zoo was about to close. What a lonely, strange, and sinister place it was, the Berlin Zoo at nightfall. From somewhere nearby an animal
coughed, the sound drowned by the clatter of a passing train. In the darkness it was difficult to see the outline of the cages. Bill imagined himself in the bush, where when it rained it was unimaginable that there could be sunshine anywhere on earth. He and Max were walking close together, silent now, huddled under the umbrella. He turned away, the better to avoid the foul smell of Max’s cigar.

  “What happened to your wife, Max?”

  “My wife?”

  “Gert’s mother.”

  “She died.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “It was many years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was not herself.”

  “Is that a fatal disease?”

  They passed through the turnstiles and were now on the sidewalk. Max was allowing him the lead. Bill looked left and right, from the riotous fluorescence of the Ku-damm to the stately somber leafy darkness of the Tiergarten. They walked right. The streetlights winked on, dim in the rain.

  He said, “Gert wonders.”

  “She was very young. We were living then in the east.”

  “Were they close?”

  Max shrugged impatiently, a stupid question. “Of course. A mother and daughter.”

  He said, “Not always.”

  “I cannot believe that Gert has a memory of that time. What does she—say?”

  “Gert doesn’t say anything, Max. Sometimes she reacts to things that I say, or things that she sees, here and there, around. Songs that she hears. The songs especially upset her. Often she draws pictures, illustrations. They are pictures of that time, when you were living in the east and her mother was still alive. You’d be surprised, she’s a very good artist.”

  “Gert?” Max stiffened, silent for a moment. He threw his cigar into the bushes, beyond one of the wooden benches that flanked the walk. The smell of tobacco was still around them. “That is hard to believe, my Gert. An artist.” Then, “This is very interesting, but let us go back to what we were speaking of. Before. You spoke of striking at the heart of things. What did you mean?”

  He said, “If I could give her an account of her mother’s death, something plausible. Something that would put her mind at ease. Better I do it than you.” Bill’s voice was soft. “The truth would be a great joy. It would help her. Help us both.”

  “It’s in the past,” Max said.

  “So is Gert,” he said.

  “She was sick,” Max said.

  “Yes, you said that.”

  “She wanted to leave, and so she left. It would be fair to say she abandoned me. She did not understand my work, and she did not like the east. She was always complaining. We were not suited, Ruth and me.”

  “She left, but Gert stayed.”

  “Of course. Gert was a child.”

  “She did not take Gert with her.”

  “That was not permitted,” Max said.

  “Who killed her, Max?”

  “I do not like these questions.”

  “As you say, it was long ago. And it does not matter to me. It matters to Gert.”

  The older man sighed. It was somewhere between a sigh and a snort. He did not say anything for a moment; the umbrella wavered. Finally, “I have no idea.”

  “Gert has always wondered, and at night she dreams. It is the missing part to her puzzle. I think that is so. How can I be sure? Gert lives in the shadows. She needs to know the events, what happened and why. Surely you can understand that, Max. You yourself . . .” He left the thought to hang. Ahead he saw a figure stumble, and collapse on one of the benches. A derelict, a man of the street; there were many such in Berlin. The figure curled up under a newspaper, its back to them.

  “I want to return to your proposal.”

  “In a moment, Max.”

  “What’s done is done, so far as Ruth is concerned. She was a disagreeable woman, thinking always of the present, her own comfort. Where she went when she left, what she did. It is impossible to say. You can tell Gert that it was a border incident. Or I will tell her. I can tell her in a sentence.”

  “A border incident,” he said flatly.

  “In those days there were many such incidents. Her mother was not well, and it was no one’s fault. Perhaps she was lonely, too. She made a series of tragic mistakes. And we were not suited. I have nothing more to tell you about Gert’s mother. It was many years ago, and I was never fully briefed. I had no need to know, and I did not want to know. She caused many problems. If Gert was one of the problems, so be it.” He spoke with sudden violence. “Women like that, they leave a trail of misery. They are useless to themselves, and to everyone else. I know only that she is dead, and better off dead. It is better for Gert that she is dead. She received a proper burial. She left no estate. That is what I know.”

  “Who looked after Gert?”

  “My associates.”

  “There was an incident,” he said.

  Max turned on him, his eyes hard. “This is not your business, you know nothing of our life then. I resent your questions. You spoke of striking at the heart of things. Wasn’t that what you said, before the foolishness with the ball in the cage? We are conducting a business arrangement, isn’t that so? That is why we are here. I have no interest in ancient history. And it is not your business, and not why we are here. You are here to confide details, and I am ready to hear them. Let us return to the facts: two passports, two cars, and money.

  “An incident with one of your associates, Max.”

  “I know nothing more.”

  “One of your associates raped your daughter.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “No. It happened.”

  “It is a fantasy.”

  “And she killed him.”

  “A fantasy. That is Gert’s fantasy. She had the same illness as her mother. It is a family illness.” Max picked up the pace, and now they were walking rapidly through the Tiergarten. He heard the hum of traffic again. They were not far from the Philharmonic, and he wondered if there was a concert that night, von Karajan conducting Wagner or Brahms, ta-de-da, boom, boom, boom. He began to whistle a listless tune. Max was watchful under the umbrella. Their heads were close together, though the rain had moderated.

  “No fantasy,” he said.

  “I think perhaps Gert should be in the Berliner Ensemble, too. Perhaps you also, Herr North. Wolf.”

  He was careful now, putting his hand on Max’s arm, restraining him, slowing him down. He looked behind him; they were not quite alone. “We have so little in common, you and I,” he said, speaking softly so that Max had to lean into him. “It is as if we come from different centuries. When you spoke of your father, I listened hard. I tried to recapture the time, 1928, and a man in charge of a wheel company, breaking production records. This was a time when my own father was not yet born, and my grandfather still in Berlin. Then, years later, your daughter is raped by an associate. Here we are, you and I, in the same line of work, so to speak. Yet our personal histories have nothing in common. I was interested when you described your own relations with your father. You loved him but did not respect him, and I thought that a strange turn. You loved him because he was your father, and for no other quality. It is not the same with me. I do not respect the ambassador, for his career, and his qualities. And I hate him.”

  Max seemed to relax. “You are too personal.”

  He said, “I’m going to kill him.”

  Max sighed, it almost sounded like a chuckle.

  “That is what I must do.”

  “All right,” Max said. “It is what you must do. But what happens then? What is the consequence?”

  “I am not a fortuneteller. I do not read the future.”

  “But there must be a consequence. What is it? An ambassador is killed. His son is the suspect. What is the consequence of that? Why your father? Why not the secretary? Why not one of your father’s associates? Why not a NATO general?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s the point. Who knows what will happen? W
hat is the natural consequence of the death of a father? The idea is to set an event in motion, and watch it spin. This event will be like a spinning top, now here, now there, finally spinning out of control.” His fingers tightened on Max’s forearm. Almost there. “You’re hurting my arm.”

  He said, “I will act in accordance with the laws of physics.”

  Max looked him full in the face, afraid at what he saw there. He wondered, Which law? Heisenberg, no doubt. They never grew up, the self-centered American young, natural products of an ignorant, arrogant nation, a nation without discipline or mettle. This boy was unpredictable and dangerous, and it was late. Max looked at his watch a long moment, suddenly nervous. He was thinking about the American ambassador. This was the end of it, though. He knew enough, he did not want to know more. He wanted to be quit of the boy and his patricidal schemes. Max said, “I want nothing more to do with it.”

  Turning, Bill relaxed his grip, grinning broadly. “Well,” he said. “Here’s Gert.”

  Max wheeled awkwardly, almost stumbling. His hands flew to his chest. For a moment, he thought it was someone else, a derelict in an oversize coat and heavy workman’s shoes. But her eyes were unmistakable, so dark and fathomless. She was holding a small-caliber gun, a woman’s gun no larger than a deck of cards. She pointed it at his chest. He had time enough to say “My Gert” before she fired twice. He heard both reports but felt nothing, no pain, no shock, not anything—before an oceanic weariness overcame him, and he fell.

  Their room—rented for the night, paid in advance—was on a street off the Ku-damm. They lay in bed, looking out the window at the lights. From somewhere nearby, a street boy played the guitar, American folk music badly amplified. She buried her face in his neck, humming. Farther away was a jazz band, playing for pennies outside a record store. The street was filled with young people, Scandinavians, English, Germans, boys in jeans and T-shirts, girls in leather shorts and brightly colored hair. She had insisted that they stop and listen to the jazz band. Her feet moved with the music while she clapped her hands. He had whispered to her, and with reluctance she had moved along, down the side street to their room in the anonymous brownstone. He had looked back, anxious and fascinated. How different could it be from the 1920s, perhaps right now a young Franz Biberkopf was alighting from a trolley at Alexanderplatz in the distressed eastern sector, ready to begin again, wanting only to survive, adapting as best he could, getting in step. Getting back in line. Biberkopf, a humble workman, veteran of a violent episode, a common citizen without influence or grab, a Kleenex man: he will be the first to go. Lead him to the safe haven, let him sleep, let him be. Give him shelter, a thatched world safe for Biberkopf. Berlin, Biberkopf’s center of the universe, the place where the top always spun fastest, raunchy, hilarious, psychotic, a scream of a city. Brother, can you spare a mark?