by Alison Booth
‘You mean the consulate rather than the embassy?’
‘Yes. The Sydney consulate.’
‘It’s possible,’ Dave said.
‘But presumably only intelligence coordination with Australian officials?’
‘In principle. Nothing focused on Australia or anything internal. There are agreements forbidding that.’
Zidra handed him the photocopied page from the US Foreign Service Register that Stella had given her. ‘Is this man likely to be working for the CIA, do you think?’
Dave pulled a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket and put them on. After reading the page several times, he said, ‘Henry Fuller. Military draft shorter than it would’ve been for a CIA recruit. Consular affairs track, and he’s got all the right credentials for that. His promotions haven’t been suspiciously fast and so far he hasn’t spent any time in unstable Latin American or Eastern European fringe states.’
Dave pursed his lips before adding, ‘Mind you, this isn’t from the latest register. It’s at least three years old, I reckon. Most embassies have the yearly copy. Every time a post has a vacancy coming up, they get a list of everybody bidding for that job. Then foreign-service officers can use the register to get an idea of an applicant’s assignment pattern and background and can pinpoint anyone who’s deep-cover CIA. But anyway, based on what’s here, this bloke looks pretty straight to me.’
That evening Zidra wrote Hank a note and posted it to him care of the US Consulate. She kept it short and innocuous:
Dear Hank,
Let’s meet for dinner.
Best wishes,
Zidra
Zidra was too early. She and Hank had arranged to meet at a fancy restaurant that had recently opened in downtown Sydney. Although it was raining, people were thronging the pavements. She alighted from the bus at Market Street. The wind blew the rain up under her umbrella and threatened to turn it inside out. In high-heeled shoes that she hadn’t worn for weeks, she tip-tapped around leaves and rubbish skittering hither and thither, driven by a wind that couldn’t make up its mind where it was blowing from.
The blustery weather exacerbated her nervousness. When meeting Hank was a prospect and not a reality, she’d been quite looking forward to it; but the closer she got to her destination the more unsure she was becoming. Perhaps she was mistaken about Hank being fun. After all, she hardly knew him.
She heard someone call her name. There he was, shouting at her from the other side of the street. His cream trench coat flapped as he ran between the cars, revealing khaki trousers, blue shirt and navy tie. He had no umbrella and his hair was dripping wet. A metre away from her, he stopped and held out his arms. ‘Great to see you, gorgeous.’ He leant under her umbrella and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Serendipity. Now neither of us will have to wait for the other at the restaurant.’
While maintaining his hold on her shoulders, he beamed at her. He’d just come from a consular do but she didn’t really take in the detail of what he was saying, so surprised was she by her pleasure at seeing him again.
‘You’re all wet, Hank,’ she said. His eyes looked darker than she remembered, as if the grey evening had absorbed some of their colour.
‘Say that again.’
‘You’re all wet.’
‘No, say my name.’
‘Hank.’
‘I love the way you pronounce it.’
She smiled. ‘You haven’t been listening to enough Australian accents.’
In the restaurant they were shown to a quiet table for two by the window. She sat facing the room and Hank sat opposite, the candlelight illuminating his face. She watched him obliquely while he studied the menu. After ordering, they talked about the success of her article until her attention began to wander.
‘What are you thinking?’ he said. ‘You look miles away.’
She hesitated. She longed to ask him how seriously he was taking her but knew this wasn’t really fair, when the last thing she wanted was for him to turn the question back to her.
Hank broke the silence by saying, ‘I hoped you’d agree to see me again. I was so happy after you sent that note.’ Although his face was impassive, he leant towards her and looked her straight in the eye. ‘And that’s why I’d like to go home with you tonight. God, I’ve missed you so much, Zidra.’
Her laughter sounded artificially high. Without thinking, she said, ‘Have you ever been married?’
Though he began to play with a fork, he kept his eyes on hers. ‘Yes. What do you expect? I’m thirty-five, after all.’
I might have guessed, she thought. He’s really too good to be true. She wondered why that hadn’t shown up on the register that Dave Pringle had examined so closely. He must have got married after that entry.
‘But we’re separated,’ he continued. ‘Julia works in the States. We broke up when I was posted here two years ago. We’d been married less than a year.’ Looking down at the tablecloth, he began to sweep some stray breadcrumbs into a neat pile. ‘We’re going to get divorced. She’s found someone else.’
‘That’s tough.’ She wondered why he hadn’t told her before. Perhaps she simply hadn’t given him a chance.
Still he didn’t look at her but transferred his gaze to the single white rose in a silver vase in the centre of the table. She glanced at the bloom. Although its petals were tightly furled, they were beginning to wither at the edges.
‘Do you blame yourself?’ she said.
‘No. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.’
There was a pause, during which she could hear the conversation at the adjacent table. Three men dressed in almost identical dark suits appeared to be discussing the plot of a play but after a couple of seconds it became clear it was the outline of a TV commercial.
‘And have you had many affairs since you separated?’ she said. A normal person, she thought, might have asked these questions ages ago, when they’d first met and certainly before they’d first slept with each other.
‘Are you interviewing me?’ He sat up straight in his chair and looked mock-serious. Then he took her hand and said, ‘I’ve had one affair since, and that’s with you.’
‘Was that an affair? It was very short-lived.’
‘I remember every minute of it. I know you’ve just lost someone you loved and it must be hurting like hell. Don’t frown, Zidra, I do understand, and I don’t want to wound you or to rake up the past. But don’t lock me out, please.’
‘No lockout. You make it sound like an industrial dispute.’
He laughed, and the conversation turned to lighter matters.
Dinner was soon over, the coffee cups cleared, the waiter hovering restlessly nearby and the restaurant starting to empty. Hank insisted on paying, on the grounds that it was his idea to eat at an expensive place. While he was dealing with the waiter, Zidra found the ladies’ room. As she was washing her hands, she wondered how you could want someone so much when you still loved another. And was she being fair to Hank? She’d never given him much of a chance. She’d been wrong to think he’d been snooping that first time he visited her house. Perhaps he’d simply fallen in love with her.
It was then that she decided to invite him back to her house in Paddington.
Having Hank’s warm body close to her all night, waking with him next to her, would surely keep the blackness away. His arms were around her still. Though his breathing was slow and steady, she guessed that he wasn’t asleep. ‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m your guardian angel keeping watch over you.’
She laughed and stroked his cheek, remembering his earlier tenderness, that touch of skin upon skin, and, best of all, that banishment of self, that oblivion. She would have oblivion again if only Hank would stay the night.
He kissed h
er neck and then her collarbone. ‘It’s amazing how one little action that we repeat so many times over a lifetime can have so much meaning.’
‘I haven’t repeated it enough over my life,’ she said.
Afterwards she closed her eyes and listened to Hank’s regular breathing. Not since before Jim’s death had she known such peace. She drifted into sleep with Hank’s arms around her.
Later she woke to see him standing with his back to the bed, pulling on his trousers. ‘Aren’t you going to stay the night?’ she asked.
He knelt by the bed and kissed her lips. ‘Next time. I have to go home for a change of clothes.’
‘But it’s Saturday night.’
‘I know, but we’ve got an important visitor arriving early in the morning from Washington and I’ve got to take him into the consulate. I won’t have time to go home if I stay here overnight.’
‘When will we see each other again?’
‘I’ll call you. I love you, gorgeous. Truly madly deeply.’
Shock and confusion warred within her. The words came easily to Hank. He was generous with his feelings, and open. Was it possible that Hank might fill the gap in her life and keep her from the abyss? But wouldn’t that bring responsibility? She wasn’t ready for that, but nor did she want to hurt him.
He kissed her again, before saying, ‘I promise I’ll stay the next time. Maybe tomorrow night? I’ll call you.’
The bedroom door clicked shut behind him and she heard the creak of the staircase as he made his way out. Although she’d managed to sleep earlier, with his arms around her, now she felt wide awake.
What was it about making love that could make her forget everything? With my body I thee worship. Religion and sex, were they one and the same? She thought of what Hank had said in her bed: ‘Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.’
Turning her face into the pillow, she inhaled the fading scent of him. The trouble with life was that nothing ever lasted. Everything was evanescent: sex, love, security, friendship.
She sensed she would always fail at a game whose rules were beyond her comprehension. And now that she was alone, she felt again those waves of dark despair sweeping towards her. All the hard work of the past few weeks had been little more than a dyke – a temporary dyke – to stem the rising tide. With the article finished, the furore nearly over at least until the Royal Commission, she had no more defences at her disposal. She had no higher ground to run to, and yet still the breakers were rolling towards her.
Chapter 33
Six o’clock in the morning. Zidra rolled over for the hundredth time and adjusted the folded-up T-shirt that was supposed to be supporting her lower back. If she could ever muster the energy to go shopping again, she’d replace this lumpy old mattress, though maybe it wouldn’t make much difference.
Opening her eyes, she saw golden light fingering the edges of the curtains. Already she could hear the racketing of the noisy miner birds from their colony in the palm tree several houses away. At this moment the telephone rang. She staggered onto the landing.
‘Hello?’ The line was terrible and the static so bad that she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman speaking. ‘Hello. Who is it?’
There was more crackling on the line.
‘Who is it?’ she repeated, more loudly this time. ‘Hello?’
The line hissed some more. She said slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece, ‘I think you’d better hang up and try dialling again.’
After putting the receiver down, she waited by the phone. No one she knew would call this early unless it was an emergency. A minute later it rang again. On picking it up, she was irritated to discover that the static was almost as bad as before. She wondered if something might have happened to her parents. ‘Hello,’ she articulated carefully. ‘Zidra Vincent speaking. Who is this?’
At last she could distinguish several words. A man with a French accent wanted to speak to Sandra, or perhaps it was Alexandra.
‘There’s no one here with that name,’ she said.
‘No, no. I need to speak to Sandra.’
‘You’ve got the wrong number,’ she said wearily before putting the phone down. Feeling dizzy with fatigue, she took the receiver off its cradle again and left it lying on the floor, before lurching back to bed. She lay face down, confused by the emotions she was feeling. Did she want Hank or didn’t she? She didn’t want his declaration but she didn’t want to be alone either. Being alone gave her too much time to think. Too much time to think of all she’d lost since losing Jim.
After a while she rolled onto her side and put a pillow over her face. For nearly an hour she lay still, unable to move. Just before seven o’clock she reached out for the dial of the radio on the bedside table. With a bit of luck, after the news was over, the commentator’s voice would lull her back to sleep, or at least distract her from her thoughts.
For a moment she hesitated, hand on the radio dial. Depression washed over her, so that even the act of turning the knob seemed like a struggle. She knew with the rational part of her being that the days would pass and her anguish would slowly diminish. And maybe her affair with Hank would help. Yet, underneath it all, that yawning abyss would still lie. At any moment she could go plunging into it. Down, down, down, into the desolate black depths.
After switching on the radio, she rolled onto her back. It was impossible to concentrate. If asked what the news was about, she wouldn’t be able to report a single detail. All she could hear were words jumbled randomly together. None of them made sense at all, until a particular name seized her attention: James Cadwallader.
James Cadwallader! Perhaps it was an obituary. Or maybe another journalist had been killed or captured. She sat up too quickly and her head began to spin. No, this was no obituary, and no more correspondents had been captured either, at least not this weekend. ‘The Australian correspondent, James Cadwallader,’ the newsreader announced, ‘had phoned United Press International from Kampong Speu late yesterday.’
This must have been some cruel mistake, a vicious hoax. Jim was dead, his body cremated.
Yet in measured tones the newsreader was describing how four journalists had been released by the Vietcong after weeks spent in the Cambodian jungle. Picked up on Highway Four, they’d been taken by helicopter to Phnom Penh airport. The news summary ended and the weather report began.
With shaking hands Zidra fiddled with the tuner, trying to pick up another radio station with a longer bulletin. There was nothing but music, a Sunday church service from St Botolph’s, sports commentary, a program about exchange rates. Maybe she’d dreamt the news item. No, no; that wasn’t right. She’d been wide awake for hours. Or perhaps someone else had turned up on Highway Four and she’d heard Jim’s name because it was always on her mind. That had to be the most likely explanation.
She stumbled onto the landing and picked up the telephone receiver. Her trembling hands made dialling difficult. It was only on the third attempt that she managed to get through to a colleague at the Sydney Morning Chronicle whom she knew was on the night shift.
‘What’s come in from Cambodia?’ Her voice sounded calm but she could hear blood pounding in her ears. ‘Anything on Jim Cadwallader?’
‘Yes, something came in a couple of hours ago.’
‘What did it say?’
‘He and three other journos were picked up by the South Vietnamese Army on Highway Four. They’d been prisoners of the Vietcong, who decided to release them. Lucky it wasn’t the Khmer Rouge is all I can say. They’re all okay apparently. Two have got malaria.’
Malaria was treatable, unlike death. ‘Where are they now?’ she said.
‘Somewhere in Phnom Penh. Do you know them?’
‘I know Jim.’
‘Great tale, I reckon. Lazarus arising from the dead, eh? Of course the press were everywhere when they were Medeva
ced to Phnom Penh airport, even though the air-force people tried to keep them away. So there’ll be pics as well as stories in all the newspapers. They’ll have a few yarns to spin, you can bet.’
After Zidra rang off, she lay face down on the bed and buried her head in the pillow. Now she began to feel a deep and extraordinary calmness. Time was ticking away, the earth rotating, the oceans bulging with the pull of the moon, waves pounding inevitably on beaches. But for an instant she was at peace, a fixed point of stillness.
The moment passed. She stood up and looked at her smiling reflection in the glass. Jim was alive and she was a different woman now. Quite how he would have been changed by his weeks of capture she had yet to find out.
Standing next to the phone on the landing, Zidra willed it to ring. The calls she’d received earlier must have been about Jim’s release. She might have missed countless messages about this when she’d had the phone off the hook. After a few moments she picked up the receiver and dialled the Cadwalladers’ number in Jingera. It was answered right away by George.
‘You know,’ he said, recognising her voice.
‘Yes. It was on the news just now.’
‘We tried to ring you earlier but your line was engaged. The embassy called us. It’s so amazing I still can’t quite believe it. Eileen keeps saying it’s like a resurrection.’
‘It is indeed.’ But she didn’t want Jim ascending into heaven quite yet. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘No, not yet. He’s asleep now. Apparently they were all exhausted and there was a bit of a media circus in Phnom Penh, the embassy cove said. We’ll be talking after lunch today and he’ll be phoning you then too. All we know is that he’s been a prisoner of the Vietcong for the best part of a month.’
‘This is the most fantastic news ever. Do you know why they were released?’
‘Not yet. The embassy did say that it was probably because the Vietcong worked out they weren’t from the military.’
