The collected stories (85 page)

I said I would need time to think about it.

'Thinking is not necessary in this case,' Horton said. 'I just want you to give an accurate summary of our attitude. You were at the briefing.'

'The whole team was there.'

'You were taking notes,' he said. 'I saw you.'

'I was writing down questions, and wishing I had answers to them.'

'You asked questions. I gave you answers.'

'I didn't ask you the most important one, because I thought Yorty might be in the room. I didn't want him to feel he was on trial.'

'Ask me now, if it'll make you feel better.'

'Okay,' I said. 'Yorty didn't see the gunman. I re-enacted the shooting with Scaduto standing in Culross Street. If Yorty was in the garage - and he must have been, because I was right above him - there is no way that he could have seen the man who was shooting at him.'

Horton said, 'That's a statement, not a question.'

'This is my question,' I said. 'He didn't see the gunman, so how was Yorty able to supply you with a description of him?'

'Your premise is false,' Horton said. 'Therefore, the question doesn't arise. He saw the man. That's how he gave us a description.'

'Couldn't have - impossible. And that's the problem, because it leaves us with two answers to the question. And both of them put Yorty in a bad light.'

'Yorty's a married man with a spotless record,' Horton said crossly.

'His wife's in London?'

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

'She's on sick leave,' Horton said. 'I don't know why I'm answering these questions.'

I said, 'Listen. He gave you a description because he knew the gunman beforehand, and he didn't have to see him to describe him accurately. That's the first possibility.'

'If Dwight Yorty was the sort of man who ran around with that sort of person, I think the boys on the third floor would know about it.'

I ignored this. 'The second possibility is that because Yorty knew the gunman, he deliberately didn't describe him accurately. In which case, he doesn't want us to catch the guy.'

'You just sit there assuming that Yorty knows this killer!' Horton said. 'That's incredible!'

'He definitely knew him,' I said.

'Prove it.'

'Because he definitely didn't see him, and he definitely gave us a description of the man.'

Horton said, 'This is interesting. Thinking always is. It's fun, let's face it. But you're not paid to contradict the Ambassador. I can tell you he's really mad. He knows that I'm asking you to pass this along to the press.' Horton put his fingertips together and flexed them. 'And when he opens his paper in a few days he will expect to see an accurate version of his point of view, not a garbled mess that impugns the honesty of a serving officer-'

I wanted to say: Yorty hit his wife over the head with a cucumber, and then he ate it, and now she's trying to sue him for brain damage.

I said, 'I'd like to know a little more about the man who was picked up after the shooting.'

'He didn't fit Yorty's description,' Horton said. 'He was released.'

'Yorty's description doesn't really count, because he didn't see the gunman. The suspect was seen running down Park Street.'

'Jogging,' Horton said. 'He was a jogger.'

'That's useful. He's athletic. It could explain the gun. A runner might have access to a starter's pistol - one that shoots blanks.'

'Just because no cartridges were found doesn't mean that no shots were fired.'

True,' I said, 'but no bullet holes were found either. No slugs. No marks on the garage walls/

Horton said, 'You've been working overtime.'

*34

FIGHTING TALK

'I was looking out the window when it happened. I didn't see anything. Yorty couldn't have seen anything.'

And he hit his wife with a cucumber and she called it attempted murder.

'I'm glad you've told me all of this speculation,' Horton said, 'because if any of it gets into the paper I'll know who to blame. Maybe someone else should be found to leak the story.'

'No, no,' I said. 'I want to do it - please let me. Just give me a little time. I've got to find the right paper, one that the wire services will pick up on.'

Horton smiled. 'Remember, you're doing this for the Ambassador. He didn't like your performance at the briefing - you asked too many questions. He'll be watching you.'

'Do you trust me, coach?' I hated saying the word, but with Horton it always worked.

'Of course I do.'

'I'll do exactly what I'm told,' I said. 'But I'd appreciate it if you'd ask Yorty one question on my behalf. There's no harm in asking. It might even be a good idea. After all, since we're accusing Libya of sponsoring an assassination attempt, we really ought to have most of the facts. And it's a simple question.'

'Go ahead,' Horton said.

'Just this - and it would help if you reminded him that it doesn't matter whether he swears on a stack of Bibles that he's telling the truth, because this fact is checkable. It concerns the man who was picked up right after the shooting, the one you said was innocent. Has Yorty ever seen him before?'

'What if he says yes?'

'Then that's your man, because Yorty didn't see him at the time of the shooting. He knew him - perhaps very well, perhaps so well that he wanted to hide the fact.'

Horton said, 'Then why did the guy try to kill him?'

'He didn't,' I said. 'Only ex-lovers shoot to kill.'

Two days passed, and on the morning of the third I entered my office, to find Everett Horton seated at my desk.

He said, 'Have you leaked the story yet?'

'Not yet,' I said, but in fact I'd had no intention of doing so until we had all the information, which was why I was so eager to take sole responsibility for it.

635

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

'That's a relief,' Horton said.

'He answered the question,' I said.

Horton nodded. 'Yorty is leaving us,' he said. 'He's leaving the Foreign Service, too. And his wife is leaving him - already left him, so I understand.'

'I feel sorry for him,' I said.

'Forget it,' Horton said. 'The Ambassador wants to see you. Don't bring up the incident in our backyard to him. He was impressed, I think, by your tenacity, but it's rather a sore point.'

Ambassador Noyes said, 'I was wondering whether you're free to join us for dinner on the twenty-first. We'd like to see you at Winfield House.'

'I accept with pleasure.'

He said, 'The Prime Minister will be there.'

So that was my reward.

The W T infield Wallpaper

Dinner at Winfield House, the American Ambassador's Residence in Regent's Park, was usually regarded as a treat, not a duty. But the guests of honor tonight were the Prime Minister and her husband. I had guessed that my invitation was a reward, and then I began to suspect that I was being put to work. I did not really mind - I had nothing else to do. After more than a year in London I still had no lover, no close friends, no recreations. I had plenty of society but not much pleasure: it was not an easy city. And perhaps I overreacted to Ambassador Noyes's invitation. I bought a new dinner jacket and a formal shirt. The shirt cost me forty-seven dollars.

I was heading home to change, and reflecting on the safest topics to discuss with the Prime Minister, when I saw the car. Every Friday evening since early in January I had seen this car parked on the corner of Alexandra Avenue and Prince of Wales Drive, and always two people inside. As the weeks passed I began to be on the watch for the car. The man and woman in the front seat were either talking quietly or embracing. On some evenings they sat slightly apart, sipping from paper cups. Three months later, but always on Fridays, they were still at it.

There was something touching about this weekly romance in the front seat of an old Rover. It was ritual, not routine. Sometimes the two people seemed to me as passionate and tenacious as a pair of spies - lovers clinging together and hiding for a cause - and sometimes they made me feel like a spy.

I supposed they worked in the same office, that he drove her home, and that on Fridays - using the heavy traffic as an excuse - they made this detour in Battersea to spend an hour together. It was their secret life, this love affair. The parked car seemed to say that it was kept secret from everyone. It was probably the only hour in the week that mattered to them.

Tonight they were kissing. The spring air was mild, and the trees in the park were blossomy, pink and white, palely lit by the

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

lingering sunset and the refracted river light that reached past the embankments and cast no shadows. We had high clouds, mountains of them, all day, and every new leaf was a different shade of green. Spring was magic in London; the city seemed to rise from the dead. There was no winter freeze, as in some northern cities, but rather a brown season of decay and bad smells. April brought grass and flowers out of the mud and healed the city with leaves and made it new. This was my second spring, and it was, again, a surprise.

The couple in the car helped my mood. I set off for Winfield House, whistling a pop song I had been hearing, called 'Dancing on the Radio.' I was wearing new clothes. I had done my exercises and had had a shower and a drink. It had been a good day. In my cable I had summarized in a thousand words yesterday's by-election; a month ago I had correctly predicted the outcome. I had borrowed Al Sanger's Jaguar, and as I drove up Park Lane I turned on the radio and heard a Mozart concerto, the one for flute and harp. It gave me optimism and a sense of victory. I had solitude and warmth, and all my bills were paid, and I had a general feeling of reassurance. Everything was going to be all right. It began to rain lightly and I thought: Perfect.

When I came to the iron gates of Winfield House, four armed men appeared. I opened my side window and heard noises from the zoo, grunts and bird squawks. The men examined my invitation and found my name on their clipboard, and I was waved in. The security precautions reminded me once again that the Prime Minister was coming. I was by now excited at the prospect of meeting her.

I was announced by the doorman. Ambassador Noyes sprang forward when he heard my name. He seemed nervous and rather serious. Everett Horton and Margaret Duboys were there, and soon after, more guests arrived. Most of them were nice American millionaires who lived part time in London. There was also a journalist, and an American academic and his wife, and a novelist - he was fortyish and talkative, delighted to be there, and his smug square face was gleaming with gratitude. One group of guests had already been more or less herded into the green room to admire the wallpaper.

'] think it's best if we sort of gather in there,' Ambassador No\ es said. This was an order, but he said it uncertainly, which was one of the reasons he was called No-Yes.

THE WINFIELD WALLPAPER

He was the shepherd, and Horton and I were the sheepdogs, and the nondiplomatic people were the sheep. The idea was to keep them from straying without making them panic or feel penned in.

Horton whispered, 'Not a word about interest rates tonight, please.'

Then he hurried to the far end of the room and began helpfully pointing at the wall.

The wallpaper in this room was famous. It was Chinese, four centuries old - or was it five? - and had been found in Hong Kong by a recent ambassador, who had had it restored and hung. It was the color of pale jade, and there were pictures of birds and flowers on it, hummingbirds and poppies and lotuses. It was such a classic item, it had the look of a Chinese cliche, even to the predictable pagodas. It had been so carefully repainted, it looked like a copy

- it was too perfect, too bright, not a crack or a peel mark anywhere

- and every figure on it was primly arranged in a pattern of curves. The pattern was old and slightly irregular, but the surface design had been scoured of its subtlety with the fresh paint, and there was not an interesting shadow on it anywhere. You scrutinized it because it was famous, and then you were disappointed because you had scrutinized it. Such interesting wallpaper, people said; but if it had been less famous it might have looked more interesting. And I felt that the prettier wallpaper was, the worse the wall it hid.

It had another feature, this wallpaper - it inspired the dullest conversation: How old was it, and was it really paper, and how much had it cost?

It made me want to change the subject. I was talking with Debbie Horton, telling her the correct version of a story about me that had been going the rounds. A few months before, I had attended a fund-raising dinner and at my table I had spoken to a man whom everyone present had been referring to as 'Sonny.' Sonny was a tall rosy-cheeked man with the subdued manner of a botanist or a handyman. 'What do you do?' I had asked. He became awfully flustered. 'Nothing much,' he then said, and was silent for the rest of the meal. Afterward, a smirking, sharp-faced woman said, 'That was Sonny Marlborough - the Duke of Marlborough, to you.' It was a good story, and, as President Nixon used to tell his aides with a sweaty little grin, it had the additional merit of being true.

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

Debbie had heard the gossip version - that he had said, 'What do I do? I'm a duke-'

Then I forgot everything. I couldn't think. I was looking at a young woman's back, and at her yellow hair, the way it came out in little wings over her ears, and the curve of her hip, a line, from where her small hand rested on her waist, to her knee, and the way her green dress was smooth against her thigh. I went weak, as if suddenly standing up drunk, and I felt lost in admiration and anticipated failure and the kind of hopeless fear in a flash of blindness that is known only to those who feel desire. I wanted to touch her and talk to her.

Debbie Horton was saying, 'You're not even listening to me!'

i heard every word you said.' Insincerity made my voice overser-ious and emphatic.

'What are you looking at?' Debbie said.