The collected stories (60 page)

How was I to know I was in his bedroom? The bed was not like any other I had ever seen - a four-poster, but one of those carved and painted affairs from Malacca, probably a hundred years old, like an opium platform or an altar. I stared at it a long time before I realized what it was.

I said, 'Sorry,' and saw the straps on each post.

'No,' said Squibb.

If I had left the room just then I think it would have been more embarrassing for him. I waited for him to say something more.

He picked up a bamboo rod and flexed it, like a Dickensian schoolmaster starting a lesson. He tapped one of the bedposts with it. The headboard was inlaid with oblong carvings: hunting scenes, pretty bridges, and pagodas. He said, 'It's a Chinese bridal bed,' and whacked the post again.

Something else was wrong: no mosquito net. I was going to comment on that. I heard the hilarity of the party, so joyless two rooms away.

Squibb, puffing hard on a cigarette, started to cough. The whips on the wall, the flails, the rods, black and parallel on their hooks; the heavy blinds; the dish of sand with the burned ends of joss sticks. I had discovered the source of his old lie, but this was not

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (i): THE CONSUL'S FILE

a truth I wanted to know in detail. If he had said, 'Forget it,' I would have gladly forgotten; but he was defiant, he lingered by the bed almost tenderly.

He said, 'And this is where we have our little games.'

Straps, whips, stains: I didn't want to see.

He laughed, his old gloating and rueful laugh. Two years before he had prepared me; and I had been shocked, I'd failed the test. Now I didn't matter: I was leaving in a few weeks. We were strangers once more, and he might not even have remembered how he'd made this all Alec's secret.

He put the bamboo rod back on the wall and glanced around the room. He seemed wistful now. What could I say?

'It's time I went,' I said. He nodded: he released me.

This was a week ago. Since then he has treated me with sly and distant familiarity. I know his secret; it is not one I wished to know, but it makes many things clear.

So much for Squibb. Are you sorry you asked? There is no scandal. Apparently, I was the only one who didn't know. The scandal is elsewhere - the language barrier once more: I'm accused of calling the Sultan's daughter a pig. Being a Muslim, she objects. Actually, I called her a prig. It's all I'll be remembered for here. But that's another story.

My bags are packed, my ang pows distributed. As soon as it became known that I was leaving I was treated as if I didn't exist: I was a ghost, but a rather ineffectual one. Once a person signals that he is leaving he ceases to matter: he's seen as disloyal; his membership has ended, conviviality dies. But Peeraswami is still attentive: he covets my briefcase. I think I'll give it to him if he promises to look after my casuarina tree. I've already recommended him for a promotion; I'll deal with the others later, in my own way.

Now I must write my report.

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

you can get a cook for ten bucks. That's my kind of place. Only squirts want Paris. And the guys on the third floor - they like Paris, too.'

'Who are the guys on the third floor?'

'The spooks,' said Flint. 'That's what they call them here.'

Lois winked at me. 'He's been squawking here.'

'I didn't think anyone complained in Europe,' I said.

'This isn't Europe,' said Flint. 'It's not even Germany. Half the people here pretend they're French.'

'I like these border towns,' I said. 'The ambiguity, the rigmarole at the customs post, the rumors about smugglers - it's a nice word, smugglers. I associate borders with mystery and danger.'

'The only danger here is that the Ambassador will cable me that he wants to go fishing. Then I have to waste a week fixing up his permits and finding his driver a place to stay. And all the other security - antikidnap measures so he can catch minnows. Jesus, I hate this job.'

Flint had turned grouchy. To change the subject, I said, 'Lois, this is a wonderful meal.'

'You're sweet to say so,' Lois said. 'I'm taking cooking lessons. Would you believe it?'

'It's a kind of local sausage,' said Flint, spearing a tube of encased meat with his fork. 'Everything's kind of local sausage. You'd get arrested for eating this in Malaysia. The wine's drinkable, though. All wine-growing countries are right-wing - ever think of that?'

'Charlie still hasn't forgiven me for not learning to cook,' Lois said. She stared at her husband, a rather severe glaze on her eyes that fixed him in silence; but she went on with what seemed calculated lightheartedness, 'I can't help the fact that he made me spend my early married life in countries where cooks cost ten dollars a month.'

'Consequently, Lois is a superb tennis player,' said Flint.

A certain atmosphere was produced by this remark, but it was a passing cloud, a blade of half-dark, no more. It hovered and was gone. Lois rose abruptly and said, 'I hope you left room for dessert.'

Charlie did not speak until Lois was in the kitchen. I see I have written 'Charlie' rather than 'Flint'; but he had changed, his tone grew confidential. He said, 'I'm very worried about Lois. Ever since we got here she's been behaving funnily. People have mentioned it to me - they're not used to her type. I mean, she cries a lot. She

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might be heading for a nervous breakdown. You try doing a job with a sick person on your hands. It's a whole nother story. I'm glad you're here - you're good for her.'

It was unexpected and it came in a rush, the cataract of American candor. I murmured something about Lois looking perfectly all right to me.

'It's an act - she's a head case,' he said. 'I don't know what to do about her. But you'd be doing me a big favor if you made allowances. Be good to her. I'd consider it a favor-'

Lois entered the room on those last words. She was carrying a dark heap of chocolate cake. She said, 'You don't have to do something just because Charlie asks you to.'

'We were talking about the Volunteer Speakers Program,' said Flint, with unfaltering coolness and even a hint of boredom: it was a masterful piece of acting. 'As I was saying, I'm supposed to be lining up speakers, but we haven't had one for months. The last time I was in Bonn, the Ambassador put a layer of shit in my ear - what am I doing? I told him - bringing culture to the Germans. The town's a thousand years old. There were Romans here! He didn't think that was very funny. It would help if you gave a talk for me at the Center.'

Lois reached across the table and squeezed my hand. There was more reassurance than caution in the gesture. She said, 'Pay no attention to him. He could have all the volunteer speakers he wants. He just doesn't ask them.'

'Herr Friedrich on Roman spittoons, Grafin von Spitball on the local aristocracy. That's what Europe's big on - memories. It hasn't got a future, but what a past! There's something decadent about nostalgia - I mean, really diseased.'

'Charlie doesn't like Germans,' said Lois. 'No one likes them. For fifteen years, all I've heard is how inefficient people are in tropical countries. Guess what the big complaint is here? Germans are efficient. They do things on time, they keep their word - this is supposed to be sinister!'

Flint said, 'They're machines.'

'He used to call Malays "superslugs,"' said Lois.

'And Germans think we're diseased,' said Flint. 'They talk about German culture. What's German culture? These days it's American culture - the same books, the same music, the same movies, even the same clothes. They've bought us wholesale, and they have the

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

nerve to sneer.' His harangue left him gasping. With a kind of mournful sincerity he said, Td consider it a favor if you did a lecture. We have a slot tomorrow - there's a sewing circle that meets on Thursdays.'

He was asking me to connive at his deception, and he knew I could not decently refuse him such a simple request. I said, 'Doesn't one need a topic?'

'The white man's burden. War stories. Life in the East. Like the time the locals besieged your consulate and burned the flag.'

'All the locals did was smile and drink my whiskey.'

'Improvise,' he said, twirling his wineglass. 'Ideally, I'd like something on "America's Role in a Changing World" - like, What good is foreign aid? What are the responsibilities of the superpowers? The oil crisis with reference to Islam and the Arab states. Are we at a crossroads? Look, all they want is to hear you speak English. We had to discontinue the language program after the last budget cuts. They'll be glad to see a new face. They're pretty sick of mine.'

Lois squeezed my hand again. 'Welcome to Europe.'

The next morning, trying sleepily to imagine what I would say in my lecture - and I hated Flint for making me go through with this charade - I was startled by a knock at the door. I sat up in bed. It was Lois.

'I forgot to warn you about breakfast,' she said, entering the room. Her tone was cheerfully apologetic, but her movements were bold. At first I thought she was in her pajamas. I put on my glasses and saw she was in a short pleated skirt and a white jersey. The white clothes and their cut gave her a girlish look, and at the same time contradicted it, exaggerating her briskness. Tennis had obviously kept her in shape. She was in her early forties - younger than Charlie - but was trim and hard-fleshed. She had borne no children - it was childbirth that left the marks of age on a woman's body. She had a flat stomach, a server's stride, and as she approached the bed I noticed the play of muscles in her thighs. She was an odd apparition, but a woman in a tennis outfit looks too athletic in a businesslike way to be seductive.

She was still talking about breakfast, not looking at me, but pacing the floor at the foot of the bed. Charlie didn't normally have more than a coffee, she said. There was grapefruit in the

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fridge and cereal on the sideboard. The coffee was made. Did I want eggs?

Til have a coffee with Charlie,' I said.

'He's gone. He left the house an hour ago.'

'Don't worry about me. I can look after myself.'

Lois's tennis shoes squeaked as she paced the polished floor. Then she stopped and faced me. Tm worried about Charlie,' she said. 'I suppose you thought he was joking last night about the Ambassador. It's serious - he hasn't accomplished anything here. Everyone knows it. And he doesn't care.'

Almost precisely the words he had used about her: I wondered whether they were playing a game with me.

Tm his volunteer speaker,' I said. 'That's quite a feather in his cap.'

'You don't think so, but it is. He's in real trouble. He told the Ambassador he was thinking of taking early retirement.'

'Might not be a bad idea,' I said.

'He said, "I can always sell second-hand cars. I've been selling second-hand junk my whole Foreign Service career." That's what he told the Ambassador! I was flabbergasted. Then he told me it was a joke. It was at a staff meeting - all the PAOs were there. But no one laughed. I don't blame them - it's not funny.'

I wanted to get out of bed. I saw that this would not be simple while she was in the room. I could not think straight, sitting up, with the blankets across my lap, my hair in my eyes.

Lois said, 'Can I get in?'

I have always felt that if a person wants something very badly, and if it is not unreasonable, he should have it, no matter what. I usually feel like supplying it myself. Once, I gave my hunting knife to a Malay. He admired it; he wanted it; he had some use for it. Generosity is easy to justify. I always lose what I don't need.

I considered Lois's question and then said, 'Yes - sure,' convinced that Charlie had not misled me: something was wrong with her.

She got in quickly, without embarrassment. She said, 'He's mentally screwed up, he really is.'

'Poor Charlie.'

We lay under the covers, side by side, like two Boy Scouts in a big sleeping bag, sheltering from the elements in clumsy comradeship. Lois had not taken off her tennis shoes: I could feel the canvas

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

and rubber against my shins. Her shoes seemed proof that Charlie had not exaggerated her mental state.

'He thinks it's funny. It's me who's suffering. People pity mental cases - it's their families they should pity.'

'That's pitching it a bit strongly, isn't it?' I tried to shift my hand from the crisp pleats of her skirt. 'Charlie may be under a little strain, but he hardly qualifies as a mental case.'

'A month ago we're at a party. It was endless - one of these German affairs. They really love their food, and their idea of fun is to get stinking drunk and sing loud. There's no social stigma attached to drunkenness here. So everyone was laughing stupidly and the men were behaving like jackasses. One of them took my shawl and put it over his head and did a Wagner bit. And there was this Italian - just a hanger-on, he wasn't a diplomat. He suggested they all go to a restaurant. It's two in the morning, everyone's eaten, and he wants to go to a restaurant! There was a sort of general move to the door - they're all yelling and laughing. I said to Charlie, "Count me out - I'm tired."

"You never want to do anything," he said.

'I told him he could go if he wanted to. He gave me the car keys and I went home alone. I was asleep when he came back. There was a big commotion at the front door - it was about five. I go to the door and who do I see? Charlie. And the Italian. They're holding hands.'

I almost laughed. But Lois was on the verge of tears. I felt her body stiffen.

'It was awful. The Italian had this guilty, sneaky look on his face, as if he'd been caught in the act. I saw that he wanted to drop the whole thing. He wouldn't look at me. Charlie was gray - absolutely gray. He wasn't even drunk - he looked sick, crazy, and he kept holding this Italian by the hand. He told me to go back to bed.

'"I'm not going back to bed until he leaves," I said.