American Romantic (3 page)

Connecticut. He remembered how in late-afternoon darkness gathered in the corners of the high ceiling and over the yellow hills curling west toward the Hudson and, beyond the Hudson, all of the American interior. The dying sun gave the landscape a golden glow, even the lichen-topped tumbledown stone wall with the dogs' graves behind it, four generations of Labrador retrievers. Prime time was mid-October, the air so crisp you could break it in your fingers. Everyone turned to look out the big windows at the autumn light show. Conversation softened and became intimate, as if a stranger might be nearby and listening in. Soon enough the westering sun was forgotten, an object on the edge of their vision. They were indoor people, most comfortable at a crowded table; indoor air, indoor vistas. The Candlesses, old Mr. Wilson who did something in the energy sector, the widow Born who looked after diamonds at one of the Fifth Avenue shops, the brothers Green who ran a private concern on Wall Street, Congresswoman Finch and her doctor—all content. Harry's father once remarked that he preferred Marsden Hartley's landscape to the one in front of his eyes out the window, a thought his mother found baffling. Look at the way it catches the light, his father said. As it happened, the old man preferred his own horse to Alfred Munnings's horse, but that seemed to matter less.

That afternoon two years past: Someone asked Harry about the war, the true situation, where things were and how they might develop. Harry was silent a moment, wondering where to begin and, once begun, where to go. Wasn't it all a matter of stamina? the doctor asked. Yes, Harry said, that was true enough and should give us pause. He commenced with what diplomats called an appreciation of the situation, meaning the long view, the macro-estimate of the state of security upcountry and down, which provinces were secure and which were not; well, most of them were not. The degrees of difference were important. Harry talked about the war until the expressions around the table grew slack and then impatient. Old Jimmy Candless at the end of the table poured a glass of wine and stared into it as if it were a fortuneteller's crystal ball. He had been an airborne brigadier general in the war in Europe, a war of easily described measurements. The boats landed at Omaha and Utah and Sword, and the troops drove east to Berlin. That was essentially it, although his old army comrades—now very senior generals—said that was not essentially it in this war. It was hard to grasp. It was a damned enigma.
It
—well,
it
was a kind of riddle.

Harry explained that the war could be grasped only in its many details, and the details continued to accumulate until the congresswoman intervened to tell a story about her encounter, years back, with General Marshall, the general ill at ease in her presence even though she was the ranking member of the House Foreign Affairs Committee. Perhaps his discomfort was for that very reason. At any event, she let him off the hook. He so obviously preferred the company of men. His great probity and sincerity, his military courtesy, made him sympathetic. When he offered her a cigarette, she took it, and as he lit it she leaned forward, touched his hand to steady the match, and winked. A blush ensued. Everyone at the table laughed, and the doctor most of all. One story followed another and Harry's war was discreetly put to one side. He did not blame them for their inattention, his awkward sentences summoning a house of cards built on quicksand, one fact after another and so many of them counterfeit. He felt he had let them down—his father was gazing at the Marsden Hartley and his mother had begun to collect the plates—but the war fit no known precedent or pattern in American history with the possible exception of the Revolutionary War. It was sui generis and unspeakably tedious unless you were engaged with it day by day. When you were there, the war was your entire life, as seductive as the sun now disappearing over the western hills, their outlines becoming indistinct. Coffee arrived and his father stepped to the sideboard to organize the cognac. Everyone except the doctor lit cigarettes, the smoke rising and hanging in the still air of the dining room. His father once said that Marsden Hartley reminded him of Vuillard, the one drawn to the outdoors and the other drawn to the in. Vuillard, the master of enclosed spaces, bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms. Meticulous Vuillard, nothing beneath his notice, no piece of bric-a-brac or vase of flowers or the oval mirror on the wall. Sunday lunch in Connecticut ended in a drawn-out sigh, everyone rising slowly from the Regency table stifling yawns, tipsy.

 

The priest wound down at last, exhausted by his oration and perhaps by the demands of his faith, concluding with a toss of his head and a long fingernail pointing at the stained-glass window—it was known by the American community as the Connecticut Window—so the congregation could read for itself Cardinal Newman's prophetic words:

The night is dark, and I am far from home.

Lead Thou me on!

Harry was first out the door, emerging into the naked street, the familiar restaurant close at hand. Only a few of its sidewalk tables were occupied. He stood irresolute, wondering if a drink in the shade would help the afternoon along. The day was very warm and the heat came at him in a rush. He felt sweat gather on his forehead, the curse of the tropics; and then he remembered lunch. A colleague was giving lunch at his villa nearby, an open house in honor of an important guest from Washington, in-country for a look-around with a confidential report to the Secretary later, Eyes Only. It was necessary that the civilians get to him before the generals did, damned generals with their bogus coherence. Bogus charts, bogus bar graphs, with a young lieutenant fresh from Princeton to supply commentary. A military briefing was an art form that hovered somewhere between German Expressionism and the Innocenti of the Italian Renaissance. By contrast, the civilians drew cartoons. Tell our guest about your clinic, Harry. What gives? But Harry thought better of the open house and decided to go home, have a bite of lunch, read something. He could take a book to the silk-string hammock under the spreading ficus tree, a pitcher of iced tea at his side. Something on the phonograph. But then he felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Sieglinde, the technician from the hospital ship. He did not expect to see her. She had hinted she was going away, perhaps for good and perhaps not for good. But he was awfully happy to see her now. The street was crowded and he could hear the last rumbles of the organ inside the church. Sieglinde's hair was wet and he supposed she had gone for a swim at the Sportif. She was dressed plainly in a short skirt and white blouse, espadrilles on her feet. She said nothing for a moment, only looked at him with a slight smile.

You, he said.

Me, she answered.

They had known each other only a week, the beginning of something. Two nights before, she had come to his villa for dinner and stayed on, still asleep when the alarm sounded at five a.m. He had explained about the clinic at Village Number Five and the installations at the other villages, a day's chore. She did not hear the alarm and slept on peacefully as if the bed were her own. He had carefully pulled the sheet over her and slipped away after a soft kiss, the sergeant's jeep already idling in the driveway.

Sieglinde took his hand and smiled, remarking on his sweaty brow and evident weariness. She said he did not look well. Was everything all right? What happened at the clinic? Harry said that everything was fine and he would explain about the clinic later. She said she had errands to run but after the errands she was free for dinner. We can go out or I can come to you. She said, I'll cook. I'm a good cook. I'll cook you schnitzel if I can find veal.

Come to the villa, Harry said.

Poor Harry, she said. You look tired.

Interminable sermon, he said.

Do you go often?

Couple of times a month, I suppose. More or less.

The ship's captain and I went a few weeks ago. Ugly church. That hideous window.

You don't like the Connecticut Window?

Is that what they call it? What does Connecticut mean?

It's an American state. Like Bavaria.

There is nothing like Bavaria in America.

I'll take you there sometime. You'll like it.

Bavaria? I've been to Bavaria.

Connecticut, he said. Wonderful ocean scenery.

There is no ocean near Bavaria, she said.

You have me there, he said.

I'll see you at seven, she said, and walked off.

Don't be late, Harry called after her.

Why would I be late? she called back.

 

Are you listening?

I'm listening.

I don't think you are. What was I saying?

Humbug. You were telling me about Humbug.

I'm through with Hamburg.

That's what you said all right. Adieu Humbug. Adieu Neustadt and Binnenalster. Adieu Elbe. Goodbye to German men of the big blond type, arms the size of anvils. After that I lost track. You've worn me out.

Move your foot.

Why?

Your toenail is scratching my thigh. You've drawn blood, I think.

Sorry. Unintentional.

You must keep your feet away from tender places. Also, this hammock is not—suitable.

We've invented a new use, that's true. The instructions from the manufacturer made no mention of sex in their hammock. Still, sex was not specifically prohibited. I can hear the click of your bracelets, the ones you bought in the market. They sound like castanets. What are you doing?

Wiping away the blood. And speak softly, please.

I don't see any blood. And no one can hear us.

There was a toenail's worth of blood.

That much? Do you really hate the hammock?

I like the open air, and the hammock allows us to be in the open air, so I suppose I approve of the hammock.

I'm happy you found me. I saw the ship in the harbor but I wasn't sure you were on it. I was afraid you'd gone away, as you said you might do. And I had no idea where that might be.

The boat will be leaving soon, I think. That's the shipboard rumor. The crew is excited. The officers, too. They hate it here. Everyone complains. Shore leave is tightly supervised because they are so concerned about an incident. We had one last weekend but it was covered up. We have already overstayed our time by one month, and each day there are more patients, so many of them children. They are a resilient people. Built of barbed wire, one of our doctors likes to say. It is unnatural for a ship to be tied to a dock like a tethered bird for months and months.

What incident?

The usual thing. One of the orderlies and a bargirl. The orderly was rough with her and she complained and the matter died there. They gave her some money and she went away.

And you? What about you?

I don't know. I may remain. I may jump ship. By the time they realize I am missing, the ship will be miles and miles away. The captain and I are friends. I can get a pass any time I want one. I will leave a note for them explaining what I have done and why. Perhaps not why. Why is none of their concern. I have no desire to return to Hamburg. Hamburg has no meaning for me. I have no affection for the ship. You have complicated things for me. I did not expect someone like you.

It's the same with me.

So we are both complicated with each other.

Seems so. If you stay here, what will you do?

I can do something. I don't know what.

I can find you something at the embassy. Can you type?

Of course I can type. I also take dictation. And operate an x-ray, if you have x-rays at your embassy.

I'll fix it up. But we'll have to make up a story.

What story?

I can't tell them that you've jumped ship and need a job. That would not do. You have to be here for a reason.

I am my own reason. I am a tourist. I am here for tourism.

This is a war zone.

Is tourism illegal? Where does it say that one cannot be a tourist if one wishes to be a tourist? Tourism is a human right. Do not laugh, I am serious.

I can see that. I'll fix it up.

That would be good. So, then. If I remain, can I stay with you?

Of course.

Such a big house you have.

We'll have to keep it quiet. You here.

They don't like you living with tourists, your government?

They are not against tourists. They are against communists.

I am not a communist.

Exactly. So you have nothing to fear from my government. You should give this a moment's thought. This place is finished. You have no future here. It is not dangerous now but it will get dangerous.

The war has nothing to do with me.

The war doesn't know that. The war is closely focused, indifferent to anything outside its sphere. It's remorseless. It works according to its own logic, its context. There will be no end of it.

Everything has an end, Harry.

But you don't have to wait for it.

As it happens, she said, I prefer beginnings.

They stared at the stars through the leaves of the ficus tree, the leaves pendulous in the heavy air. When he first arrived in-country, Harry spent many evenings in the silk-string hammock searching for the Southern Cross, until he learned that the Southern Cross was visible only much farther south. Its anchor was Antarctica. He had read about the Southern Cross in Conrad's books, a mystical constellation, if you could call four lonely stars a constellation. Ancient mariners swore by it. He asked her if she had ever wanted to see the Southern Cross and she replied that she had, on the voyage from Hamburg. The ship's captain told her all about it and also about celestial navigation, but she was so caught up with the stars she hadn't listened carefully. He nodded, thinking about the Southern Cross and listening to her bracelets click as she ran a pianist's riff on his belly. He was unable to fathom how he and Sieglinde had found each other, beyond the prosaic facts of the matter. She had asked him for directions to the post office and he was walking in that direction, and after she had mailed her postcards they had coffee in a café and made a rendezvous for that evening, and now he had what he thought of as a normal life, one of discovery, fresh and erotic, a life apart from the war. Well, the war didn't have anything to do with it. Anyone could have two selves, a daytime self and a nighttime self, a sort of yin and yang. He could keep the damned war to himself and at night he could go home like any ordinary businessman, forgetting the office. He wondered if Marx, at the conclusion of a raucous sexual encounter with his faithful Jenny, muttered something about each according to his needs . . . He did not. Harry hoped the time would come when he could separate who he was from what he did, except that in America it was always the salient question, the one whose answer spoke volumes. In Britain the same question was deemed intrusive, none of your damned business; if you didn't know, don't ask. The ambassador once referred to him as a model government man, a Fed through and through, good at following instructions, very good at reading the opposition. Harry took the remark as a compliment. He supposed he had the manner, coming mostly from his childhood around the Regency table at Sunday lunch. When he was a schoolboy he was often called upon for memory tricks: the states and their capitals, the captive nations that constituted the Soviet bloc. And then he was encouraged to sit and listen while the adults spoke. There was often someone from the government, usually retired and working for a bank or a law firm in the city, and he was the one asked to clarify the awkward questions of the day, the personalities of the men in the Kremlin or the reliability of the French and, later on, the criminal regimes in Cuba and Red China. The former government official, often a diplomat or Defense Department specialist, less often a White House assistant, usually spoke soberly, one question always leading to another, each more difficult than the last, with a reference somewhere to “holding the line.” There were very many lines. Something glamorous about it, Harry thought, being at the center of events, always at or near the top table. He did pay close attention to the demeanor of the former officials, the way they fell silent at a certain point, eyes far away and stunned as if struck by a sudden blow. But they were only remembering that which could not be said, a secret still secret, information that, if known, would alter the agreed-upon landscape. The ambassador said that the government was excellent preparation for life because in the nature of things you devoted your days to weighing and measuring—what you said and who you said it to and why and the objective, cards always close to the vest. And when you turned one over, sometimes with reluctance, sometimes with nonchalance, you got something for it. The way things were in the world, your queen nearly always trumped your opponent's king. That was because you held the American card. When to play the card and what you expected to get for it was the essence of the diplomatic art. And you did this every day and the result was: an examined life.