American Romantic

by Ward Just

  Harry nodded listlessly.

  Don’t fret about this, Harry. You did what you had to do and thank God you did it, the ambassador said. He gave Harry’s hand a squeeze and left the room. Later, the ambassador admitted that the interview had been exhausting. Punishing, really. When he left the hospital room he brushed by the nurse with a tray of food. He turned to say that she should pay special attention to Harry Sanders, who had been—heroic. Back at the embassy, he told his secretary that Harry looked like death twice warmed over but seemed to have his wits about him. He looks older. He’s aged ten years and I’m afraid that his usefulness to this embassy is at an end. I’ll find him a new posting, a good one. Harry was out of his depth. Maybe we all were. He lost my gold compass, the one I gave him for good luck. Can you imagine?

  The poor boy, the secretary said.

  Yes, the poor boy, the ambassador said.

  The private hospital was known as the Singapore Sling, owing to a generous endowment by a Singapore businessman whose daughter, years before on a visit, had emergency surgery and against all odds survived. Harry laughed when he heard the story, thinking of the Connecticut Window at Église St.-Sylvestre. Supervision was lax, even negligent, at the Sling, and in the evenings all but nonexistent. One duty nurse looked after the twenty-five patients in the twenty-five rooms, fully occupied at all times. Everyone seemed to come and go as they pleased so long as they were ambulatory. Ambassador Basso Earle visited one more time and did not appear again, sending his secretary instead with an armful of books and American newspapers and magazines, a box of chocolates, a carton of Chesterfields, and a postcard from Harry’s mother. His parents had flown to Barbados, spur of the moment. The secretary said the ambassador had been called back to the Department for consultations but would return soon. When Harry asked if anything was wrong, Marcia replied, Oh, no, it’s the normal thing when there’s a flap. But Harry was not reassured.

  On the fourth night, bored to distraction, he decided to take a walk to the harbor. They had outfitted him with oversized slippers to accommodate the bandages on his feet. Harry used a cane because his feet hurt but gave it up after a block and sat on a sidewalk bench to wait for a taxi. He was breathing hard. Walking was a mistake, his balance was shot. In due course a taxi arrived and he asked to be taken to the port, quay number one. The quay was deserted, so quiet, not even a prostitute in sight. He sat on a piling at the water’s edge reflecting on this nocturnal city that had become his home. Once he left it, he believed he would never return. He knew it better than any city in the world, knew its boulevards and alleys, its cafés and restaurants and churches, knew the Chinese quarter, knew the hotels and embassies and even the zoo and the golf course near the zoo. When he was older he would tell stories about the capital, its nightlife and working life, its mood flying from giddy to sinister and back again. There was romance, too, as in any wartime capital where the rules were flexible. The war zone conferred license, not on the epic merry-go-round of London during the blitz, perhaps because there was no blitz here. Danger was elsewhere, in the countryside, where if you made a false step you could be shot at close range and die without so much as a spot of blood. The capital would be well remembered by anyone who had been here—the heat, the sudden storms.

  Harry watched a riverboat glide by, above it a brilliant parachute flare illuminating the river’s far shore. Certainly he would tell stories about Village Number Five and the other places he had been, a long bridge to the back of beyond, the Singapore Sling, his villa with its silk-string hammock. The stories would not involve high diplomacy, George Kennan in Moscow or Belgrade, because there was no high diplomacy here. Perhaps low diplomacy, an unsuccessful mission into the swampy southern jungle, for example. Surely that mission would be forever classified, sealed away in a filing cabinet in a government warehouse, to be released in fifty years or not at all. Cities and their rivers cast shadows, and he knew that these would cast shadows as long as he lived, moments of truth so to speak. If Harry were an artist, the shadow would be Matisse falling on his hand at the upstroke. Harry watched a junk motor up the river, no running lights. The cargo would be contraband. In a short time, maybe as short as a year, the Americans would arrive in force and the city would change its spots once again, welcoming on the surface but something infernal beneath. The lights along the quay went out and the river was silent.

  The junk disappeared around the bend of the river, barely visible in the darkness. Harry thought again of the zoo and its crippled elephant and toothless tiger. At least they were safe in the zoo. In the bush they wouldn’t last the night. A prostitute stuck her head out a window and when Harry didn’t wave she disappeared into the interior darkness. The sky was filled with stars, spoiled only a little by the winking lights of a jet aircraft high overhead. The café on the corner was empty, its doors closed. The taxi waited at the curb. He watched the river’s current, sluggish as it worked its way to the sea, little eddies visible here and there, turbulence from mysterious underwater currents. He thought he would remember this moment for a very long time. He hailed the taxi.

  Harry decided to look in at Café Celine, see if anyone was around, have a drink. His feet hurt and he wanted to sit. He was happy to find Ed Coyle at a table, deep in conversation with Yves. The room was not half full, no one else he knew. When Ed saw him he gave a wide grin and began to clap. Yves stared at him in disbelief. Others in the room looked up, then returned to their drinks. Harry slowly lowered himself into a chair, overwhelmed at once by Ed’s questions. Where had he been? And what was with the cane? The slippers? There were rumors everywhere. You look like hell, Ed said. Yves disappeared behind the bar and returned with a bottle of wine, then crooked his head and said they should continue in his office, a comfortable office with all the amenities, where they could talk privately.

  You should not be here, Yves said when they were settled.

  Harry took a swallow of wine and smiled.

  I’ve heard you’re at the Sling. That true?

  I’m supposed to be released in two days.

  Where have you been? Ed asked.

  On leave, Harry said.

  Did you pick up the cane on leave?

  My feet hurt, Harry said.

  So you’ve been on leave and now you’re at the Sling.

  Ed, Harry said, lay off the questions.

  Some reporters nosing around, Ed said.

  Reporters don’t know anything.

  They see a mystery. They want a solution to the mystery. And Basso’s gone away to Washington for consultations. And there’s a rumor he’s not coming back.

  Yves smiled. Was it successful? Your leave.

  Harry lit a cigarette and said it was.

  Except for the feet, Yves said.

  They’re on the mend, Harry said.

  And what the hell’s that? Ed said, pointing at Harry’s wrist, the livid lump the size of a golf ball.

  Insect, Harry said.

  What kind of insect? That’s the damnedest thing I ever saw. Does it hurt?

  Burmese wasp, Harry said. Vicious critters.

  I never heard of any Burmese wasp, Ed said.

  Well, now you have, Harry said. Doesn’t hurt. Smarts a little.

  My car is here, Yves said.

  Go with him, Ed said. You’re all in, Harry.

  I’ll take you back to the Sling, Yves said.

  All right, Harry agreed. He was exhausted. His feet had turned to sand once again with no feeling except pain. When he stood, he teetered dangerously, and if Yves had not taken his arm he would have fallen. Even so, he stood upright at last, finished his wine, and stumbled out the door with Yves’s help.

  Harry spent not two days more at the Singapore Sling but four, released on a Thursday afternoon with enough drugs to stock a pharmacy. The doctor offered a final prognosis. The parasite was stubborn but would in time go away. Watch your diet, Monsieur Sanders. Avoid alcohol. Harry’s feet were another matter, permanently damaged. The doctor said, I ha
ve stitched what I could stitch. I have cleaned out the debris. The right foot is worse than the left. You will learn to live with your feet. I have given you painkillers but try to use them sparingly. They are addictive. Surely there are disability benefits in your foreign service. If there are not, well then, you are out of luck.

  Harry said, What happened to the German hospital ship?

  They went away. Good riddance to them.

  Why good riddance?

  The doctor looked at him strangely. They are Germans, he said.

  They did good work here, Harry said.

  They were dilettantes, the doctor said. Making restitution, I suppose. My family died in their war. All of them. I am the only survivor.

  Ed Coyle had fetched clothes from Harry’s villa, chino trousers and a polo shirt. There was also a sealed note from Basso Earle. Welcome back. Stay at home. Don’t come to the embassy until I send for you. Stay off your feet. No one was at the nurses’ station so Harry walked on, emerging into full sunlight. The afternoon was very warm. He took the first taxi he saw and arrived at his villa at five p.m. The houseman was waiting, eager to hear where Harry had been and why he was using a cane. Harry did not reply to either of these questions. He asked Chau to bring him a gin and tonic, no lime. He would be on the terrace. If there was any cheese in the fridge he could bring that also, and a plate of crackers. Thus fortified, Harry sat in his bamboo chair and thought about his feet, swollen, lightly bandaged, still hurting. He had rashes on both legs and his left wrist was sprained, probably the result of his tussle with the boy soldier. The bump on his right wrist had diminished, though not by much. He placed a wedge of cheese on a cracker and ate it, following up with a gulp of gin. He took the vial of painkillers and shook two into the palm of his hand, then decided to leave them for later. Allow the gin to do its work without interference. The cat eased up to the chair and sniffed his feet. Harry told her to go away but she paid no attention. Instead, she yawned and settled next to his left foot. For a while he stared at the hammock and the ficus tree and thought about Sieglinde, remembering when she suddenly cried out, mistaking the cat’s tail for a snake.

  He heard Chau’s voice from the kitchen. Mr. Harry, a telephone call.

  Who is it?

  Mr. Coyle, Chau said.

  Tell him I’m not here.

  He knows you’re here.

  Tell him I’m asleep.

  Yes, Mr. Harry.

  Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.

  At that moment Harry preferred solitude. He took another swallow of gin and ate a cracker. From somewhere nearby he heard music and thought it was Chopin. He sat up. The melody was faint. It could be anything, Chopin or Mama Cass or Sinatra. For the hundredth time he reflected on Sieglinde’s mysterious departure, no warning, no note. He thought that was unlike her, but he didn’t know her well enough to know whether it was unlike her or not. Maybe abrupt departures were the normal thing for her. So long, see you tomorrow, but tomorrow never came and that was the last of her. Probably she was an unstable personality, abrupt departures being part of her makeup when things got difficult. Complicated. God, he missed her. It was a physical ache, somewhere in the pit of his stomach. All in all, the strangest period of his life—first her, then the journey to the jungle, the boy, the Chinese venerable, the Sling, events enough for a lifetime. Maybe not quite a lifetime. But the voice he heard in his dreams was Sieglinde’s. Daydreams, night dreams. It all seemed too fantastic to credit. She was out of reach now, though, perhaps somewhere in the Indian Ocean. What sort of speed would a hospital ship make? Of course the ship would be at full throttle, everyone eager to see Hamburg, except for Sieglinde, who hated Hamburg. If she hated it so much, why did she board the ship?

  The hell with it, he said hopefully. Harry called for another gin and tonic, no lime, and thought about his future. Basso Earle would want him out of the way for a time. He had leave coming. He could go anywhere he wanted. Then, on an intuition that came from deep within him, he closed his eyes and began to count. Sunday was the fifth of the month. Today was Wednesday, the eighth. He shook his head and began to laugh, more chortle than laugh and undeniably rueful. He was sitting alone in a bamboo chair with a glass of gin and a slice of cantal on a cracker. Chau was in the kitchen preparing a light dinner, or so he promised. The lowering sun filtered beautifully through the trees and the air was soft. Somewhere nearby was music he could not identify. He was meeting the ambassador in the morning but he did not want to think about that now. Today was his birthday. He was thirty years old.

  Five

  THE office of Ambassador Basso Earle III looked more like a private study than a government bureau. There were no in boxes or out boxes. With one exception the pictures on the wall were personal, his late wife at table in Galatoire’s, his two grown sons as teenagers in baseball uniforms, his father and mother at railside of a tourist boat bound for Cuba, a group of friends in climbing gear on a hilltop somewhere in Provence, passing around a wineskin. The exception was a candid photo of a young Basso bent at the waist listening to a jaunty FDR, a cigarette holder in his fingers, a rare glimpse of the president in his wheelchair. A long spear and a set of sculling oars rested in a corner. Also, there were bibelots on the various tables, a sculpture from India, a scale from China, a gold cup from Iran, and a brass cornet that the ambassador insisted once belonged to Louis Armstrong. The room was inviting. There seemed in it an absence of crisis.

  The ambassador said, How are you feeling?

  I’m fine, Harry said.

  Your feet?

  Some pain, not enough to worry about.

  I see you use a cane.

  For the time being, Harry said.

  All right, the ambassador said. Tell me your story.

  He wanted a written report for the file but first he wanted to hear the full account in Harry’s own words, from the moment of contact in the café around the corner from USAID House to his return a week later. Harry went through it all, day by day, the conversations with the comrade captain, the captain’s sudden departure, his own illness, and finding himself alone in the camp. He had the feeling that once they had him they didn’t know what to do with him. They were wary, quite brusque. He described the guards and the young woman, peasant cannon fodder. The comrade captain was educated, good English, good French, with a single message: The Americans had to leave or there would be no peace, not now, not later. That was his point, not exactly a news bulletin. He was not interested in discussion. He was irritated with argument. Harry went on to give a general description of the camp, the food, the weapons, the makeshift huts, the fire. One thing about the comrade captain: He was humorless. He rode a motorbike, smoked cigarettes, rarely spoke to his compatriots. He was the lord and they were the vassals. Of his trek from the camp Harry was circumspect. It was a long way. Once he was obliged to move off the trail to avoid two teenage girls. Later on he killed a soldier. Harry told the story in twenty minutes, realizing as he went through it that fundamentally his trek was a long walk under a hot sun and not much more, except that someone died. He had forgotten to mention the snake. The rest of it was a blur. The ambassador had few questions, and when Harry was finished the older man sat lost in thought for a moment, and when he did speak his voice was little more than a whisper.

  Tell me again about the dead man. How did that happen?

  He came up behind me. We fought. I shot him.

  But you were not armed.

  It was his gun, a carbine. I took it from him.

  Jesus, Harry, the ambassador said.

  He looked to me not much older than a teenager.

  What happened to the body?

  I dragged it off the trail. Not very far. They’ll find him soon if they haven’t already.

  And the gun?

  I threw it away.

  Was that wise?

  Not wise, Harry said. But I didn’t want any more to do with it. My luck was used up.

  Could’ve gone the other way.

&
nbsp; Almost did, Harry said.

  You showed great presence of mind.

  Harry remembered his fear and the turbulence in his head, his irresolution and the terrible noise when the gun went off. He fished inside his jacket for a cigarette and said nothing more.

  OK, the ambassador said. I’ll tell you what went on at my end. The ambassador paused, gathering his thoughts. Our dear ally the host government got wind of it. Not the killing, the meeting between you and the comrade captain. An awful flap, thanks to their paranoia that sooner or later we’ll sell them down the river and retreat to San Francisco. Not an unreasonable fear. They thought we were making a separate peace and this was the first step. They believed that the meeting was at our instigation. What does that suggest to you?

  Disinformation from the other side. The Reds leaked it.

  Looks like it, the ambassador said.

  The thing was a setup, Harry said.

  Pretty much, the ambassador agreed.

  The whole damn thing was a waste.

  The ambassador did not reply to that.

  We had to do it, Harry said. Negligent not to. It could have been real, the genuine article. And if it had been—

  But it wasn’t, the ambassador said, an edge to his voice. None of this was your fault. You handled yourself very well, start to finish. Neither of us knew the rules of the game because it wasn’t our game, a thought you might tuck away for future use in case you continue in our business, which I sincerely hope you will. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. And you got out in one piece, a pretty good bit of navigation.

  Harry had one more question. He said, Your friend. What was her name? Adele. Did Adele shed light?

  The ambassador shrugged.

  I’m sorry, Harry said.

  Don’t be.

  They sat in silence a moment, and with a heavy sigh the ambassador said he wanted Harry to take his leave immediately. Go now, he said. Go anywhere you want, the farther away the better. Believe me, you do not want to be caught up in this. And you won’t be, at least I don’t think you will be, if you make yourself scarce. Strange thing is, your name has not been mentioned. I mean, the Reds haven’t mentioned it in their sly commentaries. I suppose you could give them a pat on the head for that. They adhered to that part of the code. Everyone else, including the newsies, are busy turning over every rock in the garden. Who’s the mystery envoy? They’re assuming he’s one of the third-floor chappies, hence the mystery. Very odd because the Reds adhere to their own code of conduct, not our code of conduct, but in this one instance they’ve played along.