Exceptional Circumstances

by Bartleman, James;

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m a second secretary at the Canadian embassy, newly arrived in Colombia. The people who support the former nun’s efforts are working class people — like one of the drivers at my embassy. I don’t think you can generalize about anybody, including Colombians.”

  “Okay, Mr. Second Secretary,” the Swede said. “Tell me how many gamines are being cared for at your friend’s shelter.”

  “About a dozen, I guess, but I’m doing what I can to get funding from the Canadian embassy to double that number.”

  “And how many gamines are there in Bogota?”

  “Who knows? I’ve seen some statistics — maybe thirty thousand?”

  “You just made my case. Even with embassy help, your friend the nun’s efforts are a drop in the bucket. It proves you can’t rely on volunteers to do the job governments should be doing to meet the needs of their most deprived citizens. Even the work of foreign volunteers like the people in this room makes no difference in the overall scheme of things. “

  “Then what’s the answer?”

  “The people in this country need a revolution to kick the parasites in charge of Colombia out on their asses and start fresh.”

  “You mean have a Cuban-style revolution?”

  “Exactly,” the Swede said, to murmurs of approval from the others in the group, including Heather. “Liberal democracy has been a failure here and in every one of these God-forsaken countries. Those on the top will never give up power until they’re forced to.”

  “What about the people who’ll die in the process.”

  “That’d be a one-time cost of bringing about social justice.”

  “How can you be so sure the costs would be one-time? Look what happened in the Soviet Union. After Lenin and Stalin took control, there were mass killings and the gulag. In China the killings go on decades after Mao seized control. And in Cuba, Castro’s victory was followed by drumhead trials and mass executions.”

  “That’s out-of-date thinking. Third World revolutionary movements put the people and not the party first. You diplomats really should get out of your cloisters and see what’s going on in the real world.”

  From the way the others nodded their heads in agreement, I was the outsider whose views weren’t welcome in their closed universe. I’d been treated the same way when invited to similar parties at university, where the lighting came from candles stuck in the necks of wine bottles, where the air was blue from marijuana smoke, and where the guests gathered in small groups to solve the problems of the world. They were parties where no quarter was given to anyone like me who went to mass on Sundays, who didn’t do drugs, who spoke French with a Franco-Ontarian accent, and who didn’t buy into the left-wing consensus in the room. In those days, I told myself I didn’t care what others thought, but it hurt when the Anglophones called me a square and the Quebecers a petit bourgeois. The Swede’s remarks were a put down and I didn’t like it. My first reaction was to reply in kind, but I restrained myself. After all, I was the lucky one in the room, holding down a job as a diplomat in a well-respected embassy while the Swede and his friends were probably still wondering what they would do with their lives when they left Colombia.

  A volunteer, whom I took to be British from his accent, spoke up to say insurgency groups had been fighting for years to overthrow the established order in Colombia and had gotten nowhere. Maybe armed revolution would never work in Colombia.

  “I don’t agree,” the Swede said. “Out in the bush where I’m working, the ELN has the government forces on the run.”

  “What’s the ELN?” Heather asked.

  “ELN is short for ejército de liberación nacional, the pro-Cuban Army of National Liberation Army,” the know-it-all Swede said. “It’s been around for a few years and is made up of landless campesinos and students and intellectuals from the cities. Apparently, the famous defrocked priest, Diego Rojas, has joined its ranks and is in charge of one of its camps. A lot of people say he’s Colombia’s own Che Guevara, rallying the sons and daughters of the upper classes to the cause and even attracting members of the clergy who can’t tolerate the efforts of the of the old guard bishops to maintain the status quo at all costs.”

  Others joined in to add scraps of information they’d picked from their sources about the ELN and Rojas. I knew things about him the others didn’t, but my information was privileged, and I wasn’t about to share it to score points at a party. Their views confirmed my impression that Rojas was someone extraordinary, someone who came along once every hundred years, with the potential to change the course of history. I truly hoped he’d send a message saying I was welcome to visit his camp. I wanted to discover the source of his charisma. I wanted to see for myself whether the taking up of arms in favour of a just cause was compatible with his role of priest, because even though excommunicated, he remained one under church law and doctrine.

  Perhaps thinking I would once again start arguing with the Swede, Heather took me by the arm and led me away. “It’s time you met Charles,” she said. “His tour in Colombia is almost over and he’s outside on the roof with his friends. He knows about you and says he has no hard feelings.”

  In those days, I was given to juvenile fits of pique and almost blurted out, “What about my feelings?” but thought better of it and mumbled, “Why not, he’s the host isn’t he?”

  “The real hosts are the guys he’s lives with, and this is a party to say goodbye.”

  I had been prepared to meet another hostile, heavily bearded, long-haired radical like the Swede when I followed Heather out onto the terrace to meet the man I now regarded as my rival. Instead, Charles greeted me warmly and asked us to join the group at his table.

  “Cigarette?” he said, holding out a pack. I declined but Heather took one and poured drinks from our bottle for everyone before sitting down.

  “Heather’s told me about you,” Charles said. “She says you’re a nice guy. I hope she’s right because I wouldn’t want her to get hurt.”

  I didn’t know what to say. His voice was soft. He was polite, clean shaven, and stylishly dressed in expensive slacks and shirt. He could have been one of my classmates at our Lake Kingsmere cottage. But, despite his nice words, I had the sense he was handing Heather over to me like a discarded mistress now that he was leaving. I didn’t like him.

  “So what are you going to do after Colombia,” I said to make conversation.

  “I’m trying to sort that out right now, like these other guys,” he said, looking at the others who were listening to our conversation. “I joined the Peace Corps to avoid the draft and get sent to Vietnam. Back in 1966, the war had been going on for so long, I thought it’d be finished by the time my tour in Colombia was over. But here we are, two years later, and the fighting goes on with no end in sight.”

  “Are you going to report to your draft board?”

  “You gotta be kidding,” he said as the others laughed. “There’s no way I’ll go to Vietnam and kill a bunch of peasants fighting for their freedom. That’s why I’m heading straight to Canada to make a new life for myself. It shouldn’t be too hard to land a job. I graduated in engineering from Texas A&M and things are booming up there. Maybe I’ll even find a Canadian girl to marry and live happily ever after.”

  He looked directly at Heather when made the last remark, and that made me mad. Charles and Heather had discussed getting together sometime in the future, maybe after she had finished her tour of duty with CUSO in two years’ time! I would fill in until she saw him again! I was keeping myself under control, however, and if Heather and I were still talking when the party ended, I’d find out the truth.

  It didn’t take long, however, before I got into an argument with one of the other Americans. It started innocently enough, he asked me if I had attended any of the anti-war protests in New York and Washington in the past year. I said I hadn’t. Raising his voice a little, he said, “Why not, don’t you want the U.S.A. out of Vietnam?” From the way he was
slurring his words, he was drunk and I answered him as nicely as I could.

  “That’s something for the American people and their government to sort out.”

  “That’s a cop out. Tell us what you really think.”

  Losing patience, I told him that I didn’t have to explain myself to him or anyone else.

  “Oh yes you do,” he said. “Everyone in this room is opposed to the war and in favour of social justice for the poor everywhere. Why did you come if don’t share our views? ”

  “I’m here because Heather invited me. If I’m not welcome, I’ll go.”

  “Relax, I was just having a bit of fun. Seriously though, what do you do think of the war?”

  “If the communists win in Vietnam, it wouldn’t be long before they take over all of Southeast Asia. The strategic balance in the region would change and Western security would be endangered,” I said, parroting views I had accepted without question when espoused by Longshaft. But as the words left my mouth, I knew they were simplistic and naïve — a month in Colombia had changed my outlook on conflict in the Third World. Jonathan Hunter, the gentle member of my interview board, Rosario Lopez and Diego Rojas, and a handful of aid volunteers attending a party in Bogota had a greater understanding of the roots of the war than I had. But I wasn’t ready to admit I was wrong.

  “That’s the official American line on the war — that’s the sort of lying crap the Administration used to get Congressional support for the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, word for word. Surely you don’t believe that bullshit,” Charles said, injecting himself into the debate.

  I lost my temper. I’d had a drink or two by then and, I must admit, I shared the notorious sense of inferiority about Americans that many Canadians possessed in that era. “Why don’t you do your duty and go fight for your country in Vietnam,” I said, letting him know he couldn’t mess with a Canadian.

  “Don’t pay any attention,” Heather said. “He’s had too much to drink.”

  “No I haven’t. I’m cold sober.”

  “Are all Canadians moralizing hypocrites like you?” Charles said. “Maybe I won’t go to Canada after all.”

  “Stay home then. Nobody would care.”

  “Why don’t you bugger off. You don’t belong here.”

  “Are you coming,” I asked Heather when I got up to go, expecting she would stay. But she left with me, neither looking back nor saying goodbye to anyone. And the next day, she moved into my apartment with all her possessions.

  In the following weeks, we went together to the dinners, receptions, and parties held by the members of the Canadian and foreign community to celebrate the holiday season. Heather didn’t behave herself anywhere. She made herself up to shock, with a platinum blond wig, bright red lipstick, accentuated cheekbones, black eyeliner, and blue, iridescent eye shadow. She drank too much, laughed too loudly, smoked her foul-smelling cigarettes, told off-colour jokes, and flirted openly and brazenly with the husbands. She wore to all events long black stockings, black leather boots almost to her knees, a short-short mini-skirt, and a close fitting blouse with a low-cut neckline exposing cleavage that left nothing to the imagination. During the singing of carols at the Christmas dinner at the official residence for the staff, she deliberately sang off-key, provoking laughter and upsetting the ambassador and his wife. And when Mrs. O’Connor made a point of asking her where she was living, Heather said she shared an apartment with two other CUSO volunteers, but everyone else knew she was living in sin with me. To my surprise, the other staff members, tired of going to the same old boring Christmas parties every year, loved her, laughing at her antics and manoeuvring to sit beside her. In retrospect, I should have known better than to bring her to the ambassador’s Christmas dinner … or for that matter to any of the other events. But I was besotted with her and wasn’t thinking straight.

  But while my colleagues thought she was the life of the party, the O’Connors were not amused. Nor, it appeared, was the Papal Nuncio, the ultra-conservative envoy of the ultra-conservative Vatican to the ultra-conservative Catholic hierarchy of Colombia. That became clear when the embassy reopened its doors after the holiday season. I arrived for work around nine o’clock — later than usual since I had little to do at the office — and was met at the door by the ambassador’s private secretary who looked concerned.

  “The boss has been waiting for you and he’s not in a good mood,” she said. I went to his office door, knocked and entered as was my normal practice. The ambassador frowned, motioned for me to take a seat, and said he wanted to discuss a delicate matter. He pushed back his chair, went to the window and stared outside, and said nothing for some time.

  “Mrs. O’Connor and I attended a reception to mark the New Year for heads of post at the presidential palace yesterday,” he finally said, turning to face me.

  “I hope everyone had a good time.”

  “No we didn’t,” he said. “Monsignor Ballacci, the nuncio, called me to one side and said he had heard from an impeccable source that you had been seen visiting an establishment run by a former nun, someone known to the police who harbours views hostile to the Church and the government of Colombia.”

  “She runs a shelter for gamines and is a good contact. I’m even planning to authorize some funding from our aid budget to let her expand her facilities.”

  “She may be doing good work but you must be careful. Baldacci has close ties to the church hierarchy and the secret police. They may be watching you.”

  “Anything else?” I said, hoping the interview was over.

  The ambassador said that unfortunately there was — something that had badly upset his wife and disappointed him. “Monsignor Baldacci told me you were living in sin with a woman who wasn’t your wife. I assume the woman is the young lady who disrupted the singing of carols at our Christmas dinner?”

  “Her name is Heather and my living arrangements are none of his business.”

  “But it is his business. As nuncio, he’s responsible for ensuring high ethical standards are maintained by all members of the diplomatic corps. It’s my business too. The Department doesn’t allow employees to live with women they’re not married to.”

  “I understand it also has a veto over who we can marry,” I said.

  “As a man of the world, I don’t care whom you sleep with, but rules are rules.”

  “Isn’t the Department out of date with the times?”

  “That’s not for you or me to decide. Mrs. O’Connor is also aware Heather lied about where she’s living. In the circumstances, Heather has to leave your apartment.”

  “And what if I don’t agree?”

  “Then I’ll send you home and your career will be over.” I must have looked worried because O’Connor, at heart a decent person added, “why don’t you just marry her and make an honest woman out of her? That’ll solve everybody’s problem. She’ll never be a proper Foreign Service wife, but I’ll give you my approval just the same.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” I said, not daring to tell him that Heather didn’t believe in marriage and would probably say no. But I was actually happy — elated even. I wouldn’t otherwise have had the nerve to propose marriage to her. And so that evening, I mentioned to her as nonchalantly as I could that the ambassador had told me that “for the sake of appearances” we either had to get married or she’d have to move out.

  At first she laughed, but when she saw my face, she asked, “Is that what you want?” Relieved that she hadn’t rejected the idea out of hand, I said, “I don’t want you to move out.”

  With a tight smile, she said, “That’s a strange way to make a proposal, but I don’t want move out either. Let me think about it. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  That night, I couldn’t sleep, and to avoid disturbing her, I took a pillow and a blanket and went to the living room to sit on a couch, drink a beer, and think over what I was getting myself into. What if she said she’d marry me? We hardly knew each other and I didn’t love her
, at least not in the usual sense of the term — like love portrayed in the movies. I had been down this road before with Charlotte — ready to marry someone I didn’t love until we both realized it wouldn’t work. But in contrast to my feelings for Charlotte, I was obsessed with Heather and would be desperately unhappy if I lost her. That was all that mattered.

  Heather was sitting at the end of the couch the next morning when I opened my eyes. “The answer is yes,” she said, on seeing I was awake. “I’ll marry you, if that’s what you really want. It doesn’t matter one way or another to me.” Her lack of enthusiasm confirmed my suspicion that she’d deceive me some day, but I didn’t care. It was what I wanted. Afraid of her answer, I didn’t dare ask if she had given up the idea of having an open marriage. Instead, I went into my bedroom and rummaged through my stuff until I found the engagement ring Charlotte had handed back to me when our relationship collapsed.

  We both had trouble not laughing when I handed it to her. But she put it on and our engagement was official. Later on that day, we called on the ambassador and his wife at the official residence with the news. The ambassador offered us drinks but not congratulations, and Mrs. O’Connor cattily asked Heather if she’d be moving out of my apartment until after the wedding. “Of course,” Heather told her. I don’t think Mrs. O’Connor believed her … but then, neither did I.

  8: Raid on Sucio

  On a cold, wet day in mid-January, Señora Lopez telephoned me at the embassy and asked me to call on her at the shelter. “I know a better place to talk,” she said, after putting a finger to her lips when I went to see her. Equipped with an umbrella against the rain, she took me to the church where I had met with Rojas a month before, and led the way inside.

  “I have excellent news,” she said after checking to be sure we were alone. “Diego has sent word confirming his invitation. However, the comrades aren’t happy — they’re afraid the secret police might follow you and we’ve had to take precautions to make sure that won’t happen.”