The American Ambassador (6 page)

The doctor was glad to have company, it was rare that he had a white man to talk to. And North was glad to have company, too, especially one so droll. Elinor was in the capital with Bill Jr.—it was neither safe nor diplomatic for her to visit daily—and although they talked on the radiophone, it was not the same. He missed her terribly. The doctor had been in Africa for many years; he was distant from Europe, and had no wife. They talked politics a little, but the German was guarded. He had missed everything in the past decade, even Bardot and Romy Schneider, and the Economic Miracle. For an African in Africa, politics was cattle. Sometimes it was a woman. For a German in Africa, politics was—a glass of schnapps and conversation, the perfidious BBC in the background. Time slipped by, a man grew older; a man grew numb; suddenly you were old. In Africa, distinctions were blurred; time had a different rhythm. There was no definite shape to things, other than the land itself.

Sometimes I look at this picture—he pointed to the poster, Kirchner's Berlin in black and white—and think of it as the work of a mental patient describing heaven, a place that exists in the imagination or in dreams. It is impossible for me to believe that Berlin exists, in the way that Stanleyville or Lusaka exists. Nor is it necessary. Do you see?

Yes, he said.

Is it that way for you, too?

No, he said. Honestly, it isn't.

Just wait, the German said.

He stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. The clock on the bedside table read 2:08. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, then nudged the wedding ring over his knuckle. Tight as the bark on a tree, but he thought he felt strength returning to his hand. Or perhaps it was only a vague sense of touch, reawakened by the memories that kept crowding in on him. What else could you expect, at 2:08 in the morning, in a hospital room?

He sipped the whiskey, enjoying himself, moving back and forth in his memory, teasing it, trying to get the facts straight. It was well-traveled terrain, and always easier alone in the darkness, fighting insomnia. Many details had vanished, the specifics of the look of the hospital garden as they drank beer on the verandah. North tried to recollect it all, the process like looking through a file for a misplaced letter, there somewhere, in one folder or another, the paper yellowing, brittle to the touch. Grab at it too eagerly and it would fall apart, lost forever.

He was remembering the coup, from the long-ago time in Africa when he had been so green, his first posting abroad. He and Kleust had gone to see Burkhalter, soldier, missionary, physician. Burkhalter; tall, thick-featured, slow, melancholy, a voice like an organ. He was the same age now as Burkhalter was then. Burkhalter had seemed very old, or anyway very experienced; he knew Africa root and branch. He was the man who knew the answers, everyone agreed. Kleust said he knew where to find him, and Kleust was true to his word. They had driven from the capital in a Land-Rover. The hospital was in the bush, to the back of beyond, in a district officially designated “Disputed.” The hospital was off a side road, down a dry watercourse, and over a field. It was backed into a stand of tall, thick trees, invisible unless you knew it was there, knew exactly where to look. In the middle distance the bungalow looked like a native hut, or a piece of sculpture, elegantly proportioned, not a wasted strut or beam, and immaculate. It had a Buddhist intensity and stillness. He and Kleust waited on the verandah for Burkhalter, who had seen them coming and was returning from his garden, a hoe on his shoulder, huge in white shorts and floppy hat. North thought the hospital very well appointed. Back of it, farther into the forest, was a small village, and a landing strip.

Burkhalter greeted them with a shy smile and a
Grüss Gott.
He and Kleust embraced.

The three of them drank beer on the verandah, monkeys somersaulting on the railing, chattering like excited children. The heat was absolute, a physicist's unified field. There was no breeze at all. North had asked the missionary how long he had been in Africa and he had replied, Years and years, here and there, Northern Rhodesia, southern Sudan, the Congo. This hospital, not far from one of Livingstone's encampments. A long and distinguished missionary tradition in this part of the world, he said. English, Dutch, Americans, Germans. A proper place for the teachings of Martin Luther and the natives responded, yes they did; they responded to the idea of the divinity of Christ. They responded a little less well to Heidelberg medicine.

They came at last to the situation. The missionary asked North a few careful questions on the state of affairs in the capital. Who was in charge? Had the government panicked? Was the central market operating, and were prices stable? Was the army loyal? Burkhalter mentioned several names, but North was obliged to shake his head; he did not know who they were. Kleust didn't either. The missionary spoke a peasant's rough German, giving them an appreciation of the situation in the countryside; not good, not good at all. There was a vacuum. There was no authority. The constabulary was no better than the run of common criminals, but of course banditry had been common for years and years; even Henry Stanley had to fight bandits. But now there were automatic weapons. . . . The government was a joke, he said in English; its writ did not run. Then he laughed and gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders. Nor does Martin Luther's, despite the response to the idea of the divinity of Jesus Christ. He took a swallow of beer and quoted Goethe. North, straining to hear, missed the quote, but Burkhalter's mordant tone told him all he needed to know.

Perhaps, North said, if there was aid.

My God, the missionary said. No. Who would you give it to?

Well, North said, the government. The government has got to prove it is a government. That it can govern. That is has the balls to do what needed to be done.

“The balls?” the missionary said.

I beg your pardon, North said. He had forgotten that Burkhalter was a missionary. In his shorts and floppy hat, he could have been anything; a doctor, for example, or a soldier.

I don't understand the expression, the missionary said in English.

North repeated it in German.

Burkhalter sighed, and said nothing for a moment. Then he began to reminisce about the village where he was born and raised. He was from the island of Sylt, in the North Frisians. In German legend, people from Sylt were idiots,
Dummkopfen.
Sylt, barely more than a sand dune in the North Sea, now a resort for Hamburg businessmen, their robust wives, and noisy children. Frisians were always considered inferior, unserious, without imagination. The terrain was too bleak for seriousness. It lacked Wagnerian grandeur. As was well known, Germans were passionate about their physical surroundings. Yet Sylt had never been conquered. Among the German tribes, Frisians had the reputation of—and he swept his hand in a bold arc before him, including the bungalow's vicinity, every tree, bush, animal, and human being, although there were no human beings in sight other than Kleust's driver, sitting motionless in the shade of a giant baobab—“these people,” he said.

“Or Americans,” Kleust said.

“Herr Kleust,” the missionary complained, clucking with disapproval.

North ignored Kleust. He did not understand the missionary's anecdote and was not certain how he could explain the American position, in this atmosphere. The heat, the driver dozing under the baobab, the monkeys. “The struggling democracies of the underdeveloped world deserve our support. They cannot do without it.” There was nothing damp or sentimental about the policy. It was pragmatic. Given time, it would send a signal to the old men in the Kremlin.

The missionary nodded. It was a admirable policy, certainly. The missionary complimented the American administration on its perspicacity.
Weisheit.
Then, inevitably: “How long have you been in Africa, Herr North?”

“Fifteen months.” Long enough, he thought but did not say. “I was in Washington for three years.” There was a silence and North looked up. Two vultures circled lazily. He said, “Things are different, with our new administration, younger men with different ideas. Our President has the means to defend democracy here and everywhere. The Communists—”

“Yes,” Burkhalter said sadly.

“—don't neglect these areas. Weapons, advice.”

“The Americans are not considering an intervention.” It was half statement, half question.

“No,” North said.

“Not directly,” Kleust said.

The missionary smiled and chattered, tickticktick, in imitation of his monkeys. The monkeys fell silent, and the missionary laughed. “This part of the world seems so far from your capital.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then didn't. He sat quietly a moment, sipping beer. He said, “Of course, the world has shrunk. I suppose that nothing is mysterious anymore.” He looked at the American. “This, right here, is important to your government?” He stared out across the tawny veldt, where the heat was rising in waves. Nothing moved. The land was profoundly still, simmering in the heat. The baobab had the look of an ancient icon. “Well,” he said at last, “I know what you want. You want names. Who they are, their background, what they believe in. What they want. How they intend to get it.” Burkhalter thought a moment. “I can give you the names, but the names don't matter. This is not 1848, or 1917. This is not Berlin or Saint Petersburg. It is true they call themselves Marxists. But in office they will behave like model capitalists. They will steal.” That is what powerful people did in this part of Africa, stole. Everyone stole. The importers, the exporters, the moneychangers, the mining concerns, the merchants, the army officers, the civil servants, the missionaries. “These boys will be no different,” he said. Identities were irrelevant. They are somewhere out there, he said, his voice rising. “
They are somewhere out there.
The land is theirs. They have no single leader. No one man to send to parley, even if they were interested in parley, which they aren't. Don't search for Russians or Chinese, they aren't there. Some of their weapons are, but they aren't. What do those out there want? They want to run things. And before long, they will. I have lived here a very long time, Herr North. And that is what I have learned. That, and the simple truth that God is present here.” North looked at him. He guessed that Burkhalter was about fifty. But it was difficult to tell. He could be sixty, even seventy. He was fit, powerfully built with iron-gray hair as stiff as wire, and a military bearing to go with an often wistful expression. He said, “What's your guess? What will happen next?” It was what Washington wanted to know.

“Killings, perhaps hostages. Whites, if they can get to them.”

“And if they can't?”

“They will,” Burkhalter said.

North suddenly had a thought. “You?”

The missionary laughed. “No, I think not.” He looked again at his monkeys, tickticktick. “I am just an old missionary doctor, and besides I have the baobab juju.” He gestured at the tree with its great branches.

“You could come back with us, Kleust and me.”

“But this is my home,” Burkhalter said. “If I am not safe here, I am not safe anywhere.” He took a long swallow of beer. “Things are insecure everywhere, would you not agree? Even in the capital.”

Their driver had disappeared, but now he was back, pointing at the sun. There was just enough daylight to reach the government zone. The missionary offered the driver tea, but he shook his head. It was time to leave.

North said, “Can they be bought?”

“Oh, yes,” Burkhalter said, “I expect so.”

North stood up, Kleust following; no more questions. Burkhalter thanked them for coming, he did not often have visitors from the outside. They were all sweating, saying good-bye. The missionary walked with them to the Land-Rover, its skin hot to the touch. Kleust sat in the front seat with the driver, North alone in the rear. The German stood scuffing his foot in the dirt. He seemed to have something further to say.

“Do you intend to buy them, Herr North?”

“Not my decision,” he said promptly, and watched the German frown. “Thanks for your help.”

“I do not know if it would be a good thing.”

“You have been very helpful.” North said.

The German nodded. It was nothing. Anything he could do in the future—

North said, “If you hear anything—”

Yes, he said. Then, “My sympathies are with the people here.” He looked at North, and then shyly away; he leaned close to him and said suddenly, “Did you say you worked in Washington?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “When you were in Washington, did you know the President?”

North said that he didn't.

“Such an attractive man. And his wife, also.”

North agreed.

“And their children.”

Yes.

“Such a large family!” He laughed and slapped the side of the Land-Rover. “Do they mean to populate the world? Is it true that the father is a Croesus?”

“He is very rich,” North said.

“I would like to meet your President. Do you think he will come to Africa?”

Sometime, North said. Certainly he would.

“He is very popular and respected, even out there”—he waved his hand—“they know who he is. Such a young man, it is very good for your country. Once I had planned to study in the United States, but then I came here. Do you think, if he visits—”

“Absolutely,” North said.

The driver said something to Kleust, who nodded. He turned to the missionary and said that his ambassador, Herr Zimmerman, sent his fondest regards; then he handed him a bundle of German newspapers and magazines. The missionary's eyes lit up.
Danke, danke.
The only news he had had for months was via wireless, the BBC, and the English were not always trustworthy. He grinned and held up one of the magazines, a German picture magazine. The President and his wife and children were on the cover, a formal pose in one of the reception rooms of the White House. They looked like sovereigns of a lucky country, the colors royal blue and a fierce red, the family so poised. The missionary chuckled as if this were a coincidence too bizarre to credit. He backed away and told them to drive carefully, and have a safe journey. God bless, God bless. He waved them off, then retreated into the hospital with his cargo of magazines and newspapers.