lost. She was gone.
Two
H ARRY awoke at six a.m., thick-tongued, vision impaired. He lay still, coming into consciousness, patient about it, listening to the unfamiliar sound of drizzle in the trees. The cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. Harry threw on a robe and crept downstairs, hearing Chopin. But the piano was unaccompanied. He continued on into the kitchen, where he plugged in the coffeemaker and watched the rain fall. The silk-string hammock was damp with rain leaking through the ficus. He thought about cooking an egg, then decided against it. Two aspirin made more sense and he took those with a glass of orange juice, filthy-tasting army-issue concentrate. The orange juice worked its way down, sluggish as glue, metallic, altogether foul. He put his forehead against the windowpane and tried to remember the dream heâd had. Nothing came to him except bright colors. They said all memories were stored in the brain, even dreams. The key to the door was somewhere. But nothing presented itself except the bright colors. He believed his headache was retreating, thanks to the cool window glass against his forehead. He smelled coffee but made no move to pour some. Instead, he poured milk into a saucer for the cat rubbing up against his shin. Time was out of joint. Rain was an anomaly at this time of year, hot and dry in daylight and almost as hot at night; and now it was raining and the temperature eighty or thereabouts. Where did the rain come from? The rain belonged in the north. The rain mocked him no less than the silk-string hammock and the forgotten dream. He remembered that one of the colors was yellow. He had bought her a scarf yesterday but couldnât remember the color. He thought he had left it at the restaurant. He thought, One less souvenir. The rain made no sense. It was not supposed to rain. Rain was verboten until the rainy season, that was the way things were set up. Living was difficult when nothing was dependable. Probably that was why he received hazardous-duty pay, soon to be increased, according to Ed Coyle. Maybe he would take Ed to a resort hotel in one of the ancient ports. Find two girls and drink gin and tonics all day long, tell lies to the girls. The girls could tell lies back. The lies would cancel each other out. If the dream was so damned colorful it would have red along with yellow and probably some blue. Harry thought about the colors but they refused to arrange themselves. Only paint on a palette, the palette lacking a brush. No canvas, no easel. No atelier. At last he poured a cup of coffee but took too large a swallow and it burned his tongue, causing him to cry out.
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Marcia, the secretary, said the ambassador was running a little bit late. She handed Harry the Washington newspaper, just arrived via the daily pouch from the Department. He turned to the sports page but found it difficult to concentrate on the baseball scores. A double in the ninth swept the Chicago series for the Yankees. The reliever lost the game for Boston. He looked over the top of the newspaper to find a photograph of the president of the United States on the wall, a most unusual image. He was wearing heavy spectacles and looked exhausted. The photograph was personally inscribed in an illegible scrawl. Next to it was a candid shot of George Kennan, he of the celebrated Long Telegram, counseling containment of the Soviet Union, a document Kennan insisted was perversely misinterpreted by his successors at the Department, and in Congress and the White House as well. Kennan and the ambassador had been great friends, then fell out over the Long Telegram or some other telegram, but they had apparently made up, making up being a common trait among diplomats. Really, an essential trait given the exigencies of diplomatic work. Kennan was famously difficult and the ambassador famously easygoing, so it was an attraction of opposites. Harry wondered if such friendships always came to grief. A marriage of opposites
Two
H ARRY awoke at six a.m., thick-tongued, vision impaired. He lay still, coming into consciousness, patient about it, listening to the unfamiliar sound of drizzle in the trees. The cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. Harry threw on a robe and crept downstairs, hearing Chopin. But the piano was unaccompanied. He continued on into the kitchen, where he plugged in the coffeemaker and watched the rain fall. The silk-string hammock was damp with rain leaking through the ficus. He thought about cooking an egg, then decided against it. Two aspirin made more sense and he took those with a glass of orange juice, filthy-tasting army-issue concentrate. The orange juice worked its way down, sluggish as glue, metallic, altogether foul. He put his forehead against the windowpane and tried to remember the dream heâd had. Nothing came to him except bright colors. They said all memories were stored in the brain, even dreams. The key to the door was somewhere. But nothing presented itself except the bright colors. He believed his headache was retreating, thanks to the cool window glass against his forehead. He smelled coffee but made no move to pour some. Instead, he poured milk into a saucer for the cat rubbing up against his shin. Time was out of joint. Rain was an anomaly at this time of year, hot and dry in daylight and almost as hot at night; and now it was raining and the temperature eighty or thereabouts. Where did the rain come from? The rain belonged in the north. The rain mocked him no less than the silk-string hammock and the forgotten dream. He remembered that one of the colors was yellow. He had bought her a scarf yesterday but couldnât remember the color. He thought he had left it at the restaurant. He thought, One less souvenir. The rain made no sense. It was not supposed to rain. Rain was verboten until the rainy season, that was the way things were set up. Living was difficult when nothing was dependable. Probably that was why he received hazardous-duty pay, soon to be increased, according to Ed Coyle. Maybe he would take Ed to a resort hotel in one of the ancient ports. Find two girls and drink gin and tonics all day long, tell lies to the girls. The girls could tell lies back. The lies would cancel each other out. If the dream was so damned colorful it would have red along with yellow and probably some blue. Harry thought about the colors but they refused to arrange themselves. Only paint on a palette, the palette lacking a brush. No canvas, no easel. No atelier. At last he poured a cup of coffee but took too large a swallow and it burned his tongue, causing him to cry out.
Â
Marcia, the secretary, said the ambassador was running a little bit late. She handed Harry the Washington newspaper, just arrived via the daily pouch from the Department. He turned to the sports page but found it difficult to concentrate on the baseball scores. A double in the ninth swept the Chicago series for the Yankees. The reliever lost the game for Boston. He looked over the top of the newspaper to find a photograph of the president of the United States on the wall, a most unusual image. He was wearing heavy spectacles and looked exhausted. The photograph was personally inscribed in an illegible scrawl. Next to it was a candid shot of George Kennan, he of the celebrated Long Telegram, counseling containment of the Soviet Union, a document Kennan insisted was perversely misinterpreted by his successors at the Department, and in Congress and the White House as well. Kennan and the ambassador had been great friends, then fell out over the Long Telegram or some other telegram, but they had apparently made up, making up being a common trait among diplomats. Really, an essential trait given the exigencies of diplomatic work. Kennan was famously difficult and the ambassador famously easygoing, so it was an attraction of opposites. Harry wondered if such friendships always came to grief. A marriage of opposites
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