The Berlin Assignment (18 page)

Few places, the consul was sure, could equal San Francisco. Who wouldn't want to serve there? The office closed punctually at five, when he became free to roam. Haight-Ashbury, Chinatown, the Wharf. On the weekends, he went across the Bay to Berkeley. Sitting on sidewalks, lying around in parks, observing the scene unfolding, it was inevitable, given the times, that Hanbury would run into a flower child. Her name was Shirley; she was from Ohio. Shirley's hair went down below her hips. Jeans fitted so tight that everything above the waist seemed voluptuously squeezed out. Her top had fringes on the sleeves and underneath, judging from the trembling, there was nothing but Shirley. She hung out around Berkeley, she explained to Hanbury, because the atmosphere was right. In Berkeley you had to be blind not to see that the establishment was disintegrating.
The revolution is on. It can't be stopped.
She talked to Hanbury about pigs too.
Pigs are everywhere. Half of them wear blue uniforms; the other half dress in blue suits.
Shirley loved going to demonstrations against the Vietnam War and held other views.
I'd burn my bra, but I ain't got one any more.

The mention of revolution made Hanbury think of Günther Rauch. He borrowed some of his Marx and described certain other of Rauch's theories to Shirley, such as the absurdity of the notion that land (which is permanent) can be owned by people (whose lives are transient). Shirley threw her hair around when she heard this and kept saying,
Wow! Wow! That blows my mind! That's pure truth!
The third time they got together, a Sunday afternoon, reclining on a Berkeley lawn with an acid-rock band splintering the air a stone's throw away, Shirley began asking
personal questions. When she learned he was Canadian, she looked bewildered.
Is that some place in Scotland?
She also insisted, with a name like Tony, he must be a hairdresser. When he described his work, Shirley's eyes transformed into empty vessels. The vice-consul reassured her. He said in his job he had to help people. “And it's bread, Shirley,” he argued. “Like everybody else, I gotta eat.” The confession stirred her.
I like relating to you.
She became personal about herself, saying she spent the days practising a new way of seeing. She explained that the cafeteria in the distance (behind the rock band) wasn't exactly there. Because of Einstein, space was known to be curved, meaning the cafeteria was actually a little over. Everyone, she insisted, should get used to seeing straight lines as curved lines, but the
establishment
and the
pigs
prevented it. Even now, right across America, kids were being screwed up in the schools.
Do you realize eighty-five percent of school kids own a ruler?
She then revealed another intimate thought.
It isn't hormones, it's the stars that make love happen.

They smoked a joint. That over with, abandoning herself to deep exhilaration, Shirley took control.
Come with me.
Nearby stood a thicket of large rhododendrons. On hands and knees she crawled in like a toddler at play, the vice-consul following. It was peaceful underneath nature's canopy. The acid rock was muted. Diffuse light filtered in. The waxy leaves afforded the privacy of a tent. With one smooth, practised movement, Shirley slipped her top off, mesmerizing Hanbury with the beauty of her breasts. Shirley took his reflection as a faltering, as an expression of male responsibility.
It's OK. I'm on the pill.
Her tight jeans came off quick, panties joining a scanty heap of clothing. The vice-consul now joined in. He was quickly naked too, following which some of the techniques acquired on Savignyplatz came back. He felt he was putting in a credible performance. Afterwards, Shirley wanted to know something.
Where did you learn to fuck like that?
Hanbury didn't
want to get into a discussion on Berlin, so he said, “Picked it up on the prairies. You're pretty mobile yourself.” Underneath the rhododendrons, this compliment led to a lengthy enumeration of Shirley's lovers.

A few days later, Shirley, her interest piqued in a vice-consul who was both slightly timid and very worldly, knocked on his door. The apartment was spartan and she liked that. She also fell in love with the stereo. The record collection, on the other hand, failed the inspection.
You have weird tastes. You listen to this stuff?
Shirley declared she'd fix the problem. Tony needed exposure to the best music there was. To help the cause, she moved in. Sort of. Her presence in the apartment was off and on. It was determined by galactic signals that only she could read.
We're both free to come and go
, she ruled.
Also, neither asks who else the other's fucking. OK?

At the office, a new consul general, an intellectual with a close-cropped beard, picked the vice-consul's brain on the local scene and was impressed by what Hanbury knew about the anti-war movement in the universities. He wanted the vice-consul to accompany him on calls to keep notes. He also instructed his young assistant to attend political events. Hanbury was suddenly busy, day and night and often on the weekends. This caused things to switch around in the apartment. Shirley was there more than Hanbury, often waiting for him to come home.
I hung around ‘cause I thought you might like a piece of tail
, she'd say, making it sound as if she were offering him some leftovers from dinner. She smoked a lot of hash alone, which made her moody.

One day, a federal cabinet minister came to San Francisco to give a speech. The vice-consul was responsible for logistics, from the VIP arrival at the airport through to a night out on the town. It went well. Cars arrived on time. Doors opened when they should. There was an audience for the speech. A couple of journalists asked a few questions about a crisis in Quebec. What's going on in Canada, they wanted to
know, and what the hell is all this about a War Measures Act? The minister loved the attention. He invited the consul general and the vice-consul to join him for dinner in a restaurant of their choice. “Up to you, Tony,” the consul general said. “You know Frisco.” Hanbury proposed a restaurant in Chinatown.

When Hanbury arrived home to change, Shirley was sulking. Y
ou're always out. Stay home. Smoke some dope. Have a fuck. Listen to the Grateful Dead.
When Hanbury was quietly leaving for dinner, she was sprawled on a large, bean-filled leather bag before the stereo, not a stitch on. It hurt her to see Tony go out dressed in a clean, freshly-pressed blue suit. She shouted after him,
You're a fucking pig.

The dinner was a great success since the minister had a sharp eye for girls and the restaurant was full of them, mostly office girls on holiday from places like Boise, Idaho, Sioux City, Iowa, and Pierre, South Dakota. The minister winked and nodded and ordered waiters to serve the girls wine. The consul general smiled benevolently. The vice-consul also thought it was fun. After dessert, the minister, beginning to look greedy, said, “Time boys. Time.” He shifted a knowing gaze towards the consul general, who redirected it to Hanbury. Both men looked questioningly at him. After a pause, something dawned. Hanbury caught a waiter's eye. “The bill please,” he said, “and a taxi.”

“You sure?” the minister said incredulously. “No problem with timing?”

“No problem, Sir,” the vice-consul replied.

“He knows his way around, Minister,” the consul general added.

“Well I'll be dammed. That's incredible,” said the minister. “All previously arranged, eh? OK. I get it.”

The taxi arrived before the bill. The consul general and the minister went out. Hanbury lingered to arrange payment. Some girls two tables over smiled freely. He sent them a graceful nod, then hurried out. His
dinner companions were nowhere to be seen. “Two men leave in a taxi?” he asked the doorman.

“Yassuh. Daddaway.”

“They say anything.”

“Nope. Wanna taxi?”

“I'm OK,” he said to the doorman. There was nothing to do but go home. He thought of Shirley, doped up, spread out on the floor, and took a slow route on foot. Shirley was where he had left her, now snoring. He threw a blanket over her. A few hours later when he left for work, she still hadn't stirred.

“Don't bother with the minister and the airport,” the consul general said severely the moment Hanbury got into the office. “He just called. Said he'll find his own way. Sounded angry. Said he'll complain. What happened?”

Without much sleep, a haggard Hanbury needed time to decipher. “What happened?” he said. “What do you mean what happened? Nothing happened. You were with the minister. I paid the bill. When I went outside, you were gone. I went home. Do you know how many bottles of wine he sent into that restaurant? Twelve. Not plonk either. It busted my credit limit. Did he leave some money with you?”

Now the consul general had to let things sink in. When the picture was in focus, he sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Tony,” he murmured, “where have you been? Why do you think he was sending wine to all the girls? He wanted them. Some of them. My guess is three or four were game. They were ready to go.”

“Where?”

“Where do you think?” the consul general said with exasperation. “I left him waiting for you in the hotel bar. He expected you to bring the girls along. I relied on you to fix it.”

“No one said anything about that. I understood he was tired. I wondered why you didn't wait.”

The consul general turned and disappeared. Two days later Hanbury was summoned. “He's complained,” the consul general said. “Fairly vicious. Claims unacceptable protocol lapses. I explained your side to Investitures. They're inclined to side with you, but they've already assured the minister heads will roll. You can't stay as if nothing happened. You're being reassigned. That's it. Nothing more to say. Life in the Service. Let me have the restaurant bill. I'll launder it through hospitality.”

Within days Hanbury learned he was on his way to Washington, demoted to doing passports. No more ministers to be entrusted into his care. Before leaving, he paid three months rent and confronted a sluggish Shirley. “Nothing I can do about it,” he said. “Part of the job.” Shirley took it fairly well.
I've thought about you a lot. I feel sorry for you. You're not in touch with your feelings. I thought I could change you, get you to relate. But you're sick. You need treatment.
The stereo was bequeathed to Shirley, plus all the home furnishings she ever wanted. Hanbury took with him his clothes and weird records.

While Hanbury escaped from Shirley, Sabine was cementing things with Werner. During the days they went their different ways, but they connected in the evenings. Sometimes Schwartz came home late. “
Na endlich!
” she would say fretfully.
At last!
She was relieved, yet couldn't hide an undertone of anger. Although Schwartz liked Sabine's fussing if he was late, he didn't understand it and said so once or twice. Sabine wanted to tell him about Savignyplatz, but the right occasion, the right moment never came. The specifics were fading in any case. Lingering were occasional outbreaks of terror which she didn't want to admit having.

Schwartz acquired a teaching position at the University, in History. Sabine took a job at Geissler's. Schwartz used his connections to acquire a bigger apartment on Fasanenstrasse. More of his family furniture came out of storage. Historical portraits of his forbears graced the walls. A large front room became the library. There was a salon, a dining room, spare rooms for guests. They hosted parties. Sabine developed the art of asking his friends interesting questions. That, together with her moody eyes and a habit of not rushing guests, made her an admired hostess. Everyone wanted a few minutes with Sabine.

Everything was beginning to work out. Even marrying Werner Schwartz was working out. In her blissful rush, Sabine paid no attention to remarks by Martina that Schwartz's friends were all of a type – strong-willed, clean-shaven and focussed excessively on success. She once summed them up. “They have a self-confidence that has no basis.” Then she became blunt. “Speaking frankly, your husband and his friends strut about like perfect Germans, even though its been proven that we are not an especially remarkable race.” Sabine thought Martina was wrong. Her husband didn't strut. He was moving up with a kind of gliding motion, with tranquillity and ease.

Hanbury, after San Francisco, was not moving up. He got shunted sideways. Bunkered down doing passports, he avoided further mishaps. The new stereo he acquired was the finest to date. After Washington came some years in Ottawa, this time living on a quiet street in the Glebe. The landlady insisted on peace and Hanbury used earphones if he wanted volume. Chopin, Liszt, Schumann: fine music for a withdrawn world. At work he dispensed, as Service jargon had it,
beneficences
. He was a member of an underrated sect helping Canadians abroad who have
fallen on hard times. Canucks jailed for smuggling alcohol into Saudi Arabia, or smiling at veiled eyes in Tehran, or observing military convoys with too much interest in Ghadafi's Tripoli – the burden of solving all such personal disasters throughout North Africa and the Middle East sat on his shoulders. Problems from all over came his way. A flood of problems. Some days he thought he was getting to know every worried parent between Belle Isle Landing in Newfoundland and Clayoquot Sound in British Columbia.

His mother's funeral in Indian Head was an interlude. At the burial, the soil scientist seemed unmoved, mumbling it was better this way. Hanbury had an evening with Keystone, who told stories about the awesome power of the latest diesel locomotives.

Hanbury's stay in Beneficences was a long one. He was a quiet, credible solver of other people's problems.
Low key
, the Beneficences priest recorded.
Does the job. Could go places if he showed more zip.
Investitures sent him to Cairo, then, as second secretary, consular.