Exiles in the Garden (15 page)

Why did you stop? Lucia said.

I don't know, he said. Impulse.

A strange impulse, Alec.

Not so strange. I felt sorry for her. She was a nice girl. She deserved better than Robert.

Why did you tell me that story? When she first heard the story of the Sorrensens she was charmed. She remembered the Italian restaurant and the filthy Chianti and Alec's soft voice as he described his affair with Olivia, lonely because her husband was bewitched by Russia. He told the story without one ounce of bravado and she liked that, too. Lucia believed she was listening to a romantic and she felt in safe hands. But she was not charmed now, believing that Alec was leaving something unsaid. She waited for the answer to her question.

Because it had life, Alec said. Because it was genuine. Like the actors were genuine.

Then the count and countess moved to Kleinwalsertal, the lawyers arrived, and Alec and Lucia bought the larger house down the street. Like Damascus, the exterior was commonplace, whitewashed brick. The brickwork needed repair and the window frames a fresh coat of paint. But the interior was very fine, a living room and separate dining room and large kitchen. Alec's plans were on hold, and he himself was gripped by a stubborn inertia, unable to find a clear way forward. He and Lucia saw the emigres but not so frequently. Once a month they would be invited to someone's house in Falls Church or Bethesda and once a month they would have them back. Often Lucia went alone, Alec delayed with a shoot. Ambassador Kryg died, his funeral held in a tiny church in far northwest Washington, the body flown from Sardinia for the occasion, the casket draped with the Czech flag. His many decorations were displayed in a row atop the flag. Sitting with strangers in the second pew, Lucia found herself in tears, the ambassador buried so far from home; his family was long gone and he was attended only by the exiles. She had no idea whether Sardinia had been a success or only another anteroom. She had never forgotten their conversation concerning her father, a subject to which they never returned. No doubt Kryg was a brute and unreliable but she felt a kinship with him, his fundamental Czechness, his displacement.

After the ambassador's funeral, invitations from the émigrés slowed and then ceased and now when Alec arrived home from work Lucia was waiting for him. When he asked her what she had done with her day, she'd reply that she'd gone to the National Gallery or the Corcoran. Lunch with someone. Often she went to the zoo to see her friend the bear girl. Now when they went out in the evenings it was to the houses of Alec's friends, some from the office, some whom he had met on the job, others from his school days in Washington. They were pleasant, occasionally hilarious evenings; they called themselves the government in exile, plotting Nixon's overthrow in 1972. The war went on and on, water rushing downhill. At the center of events was the enigmatic Nixon, a closed personality, an actor in the national drama for three decades, a dark figure neither liked nor trusted; yet the American people trusted him. No one at the table had a line into the White House so their various theories about what the administration was up to were the purest conjecture. The journalists among them were the most frustrated. They had always had friends in the administration, whichever administration it happened to be, but this one was different. What did Nixon do in his spare time? Did he drink? He was said to drink but no one had seen him drinking. Drink was the key to Nixon but the facts awaited verification. Nixon's drinks were like Kennedy's girls—no leaks. They worried the moral equivalent of a double Scotch as opposed to a willing debutante but could come to no satisfactory means of laying out the story in a newspaper article. The secrets were there to be flushed, like a covey of stubborn quail. But they refused to show themselves.

Lucia was unable to comprehend the allure of Nixon, so awkward physically, so humorless. She had formed a friendship with the wife of one of Alec's oldest friends, a foreign correspondent for one of the newsmagazines. Gretta was new to Washington—she had met her husband in London—and not au courant with American politics, especially Nixon politics. At dinners, as fragments of Nixon's biography flew by, Lucia was able to supply context for the various shards: Hannah, the dog Checkers, the Republican cloth coat, and the Fund. Gretta and Lucia were usually seated close to each other by the thoughtful hostess, who assumed they would have much in common, immigrant girls from Sweden and Switzerland, prosperous neutral nations content to remain on the margins of events. But now and again a name would surface that would mean nothing to Lucia and she would look down the table to Alec.

Explain to Gretta. Who was Irving Peress?

And Alec would bring the table to a full stop with a laborious explanation of the army dentist suspected of communist tendencies as Gretta's eyes grew wide with astonishment. She and Lucia would laugh gaily as the impatient table returned to its reprise of the Hiss case, Whittaker Chambers, the Maryland farm, the microfilm, the pumpkin, and where Nixon fit in.

At the end of the meal the men stayed at the table. A bottle of cognac appeared together with cigars as the conversation continued, everyone talking at once, frequent laughter and cursing. The life of Richard Nixon was inexhaustible, as various as a Balzac novel, with ever so much yet to come.

Lucia and Gretta retreated to the couch. They talked about their children and their husbands and the houses they lived in and where they went on vacations. Gretta confided that she returned to Sweden for a month each summer to see her family and friends. She liked speaking her language again, liked catching up with everyone, liked hiking in the woods, adored herring in oil. Her family had a cabin north of Stockholm, near Sundsvall on the Gulf of Bothnia. Do you know it, Lucia?

No, Lucia had never been to Scandinavia.

It's beautiful, Gretta said. So wild. So quiet.

Every summer for a month?

Yes, Gretta said. I insisted before Charlie and I were married.

It's been years since I was home, Lucia said.

You must go, Gretta said. It's important for us not to lose touch with our countries. Would Alec object?

I don't know, Lucia said. I don't think so.

Insist, Gretta said. We are not slaves after all.

Gretta went on to talk of her family and extended family and friends whom she had known since childhood, friends from grammar school and university. Her parents were no longer young but they were vigorous, great walkers. Her father owned a small sailboat. They had a rough-made tennis court at the cabin, and she and her father would take on her two brothers, family games that would last for hours, evenly matched games. All the time they were playing tennis her mother would be at her easel on the bluff overlooking the water, painting landscapes. And at the end of the afternoon we gather in the kitchen and cook dinner, a family feast. Of course there are disagreements. We are a normal family and Swedish and everyone has his own opinion, especially my brothers. But it is a wonderful month for me...

Oh, Lucia. I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?

Lucia was near tears. I'm envious, that's all.

Do you hate Washington?

Lucia shook her head.

Well, then—

Things are so complicated, Lucia said.

Gretta gave her a close look, understanding at once. She said, You need a month away.

Perhaps I do.

Insist on it, Gretta said. Washington is very foreign to us. Dentists with communist tendencies. Pumpkins with microfilm. Washington is difficult in other ways. It is very provincial. It is a provincial town concerned with itself alone. They are always so preoccupied.

The men, Lucia said.

Yes. Charlie is different here than he was in London. We often went to the opera. The symphony. Three or four times a month to the theater. In London we knew different kinds of people, actors and artists. We knew layabouts also. There are no layabouts in Washington. Maybe you've met some. I never have. Our London layabouts, goodness they enjoyed themselves. Doing nothing, having a wonderful time. Charlie was exciting to be with, so—she lowered her voice—ardent. Ready for anything. Sometimes I go to New York just to get away. I miss Europe.

So do I, Lucia said.

We could go together sometime, Gretta said.

A weekend in New York.

Yes, a weekend. Girls' night out.

Lucia glanced over at the table, Alec and Charles and the two other men and their wives. The men were looking at Gretta, her almost-black hair and her fine features, her blue eyes. In Sweden and later in London she had been a model, much in demand. They were looking at Lucia, no doubt wondering what it was that engaged them so, their heads close together, their voices low. They were telling secrets, that much was obvious. Theirs was a zone of closed intimacy.

Washington was different when Kennedy was president, Lucia said.

It was?

Yes. At times almost lighthearted.

It makes a difference to them? Who's president.

Yes, it does.

Gretta broke into a wide smile. It makes no difference in Sweden. One is like another.

Of course we have our king.

Nor in Switzerland. Except we don't have a king.

Everyone everywhere mourned Kennedy. Was he as good-looking as his photographs?

Better, Lucia said.

You met him?

At a reception, Lucia said. I was working as an au pair for our ambassador. I went with the ambassador and his wife and we talked, the president and I. I had no idea what to say to him but he put me at ease right away. He had beautiful eyes. And mischief. I would say he was up to mischief.

The world is more amusing when there is mischief, Gretta said. Mischief and layabouts.

Gretta, Lucia said, there's something else. She looked at her friend, already beginning to smile, and decided not to go on with something else. She said instead, I think Alec is unhappy at work.

That's a very bad sign, Gretta said. Was that what you wanted to tell me?

He doesn't talk about it much, Lucia said.

Strange, Gretta said. The office is topic A in our house. Even so, I always thought Alec was a little different in his approach to things. He never seemed quite as invested as Charlie and the others. Maybe it's because he grew up here.

I can't imagine growing up here, Lucia said.

If he wants to move on, you should encourage him.

I should?

Something else might be more interesting, Gretta said, with a two-way smile.

Lucia did not reply. Both women glanced at the dinner table. Charlie was saying something about the war, a fresh offensive with more casualties than expected. When he fini shed, no one said anything.

Lucia? Alec said. Time to get home, don't you think?

I'm going to New York on Friday, Gretta murmured. Do you want to come?

I can't, Lucia said. Someone's invited us to dinner Saturday.

Okay, Gretta said. But one last thing, and please listen to me. When you take your month in Switzerland, go alone. Let Alec take care of your daughter. Every so often it's good to get away by yourself, see friends, be on your own. A change of pace for you without responsibilities. Europe is lovely in the autumn. Send me a postcard.

One night a week later, Lucia said to Alec, Perhaps I am a little homesick.

I thought you might be, Alec said. It's been quite a while.

Does it show? My homesickness?

A little, Alec said. It's natural.

Only a visit, she said.

I have to cover the campaign, Alec said. The midterm elections. You can't imagine how excited they are at the office. I wish I could be. He hesitated, thinking of one airplane flight after another, with a Holiday Inn at the end of the day. He said, I'll be gone most of next month, on the road with the candidates. Perhaps then, if you like.

I think I would, she said.

It's the perfect time.

October in Switzerland, Lucia said. Zurich in the fall.

It's settled, then. Mathilde will love the mountains. She can practice her German.

I'll get Mrs. Bazaroff to stay with her while we're away.

Alec was startled at this unexpected turn. You're not taking her?

Not this time. She'll be fine with Mrs. Bazaroff.

Poor Mathilde. She'll be disappointed.

Mathilde will be fine, Alec.

I didn't realize you wanted to go alone. I assumed it would be you and Mathilde.

Is there anything wrong with me going alone?

No, he said. It's fine. I assumed—

Okay, she said, and when she spoke she heard Gretta's voice.

Will you have a place to stay?

I'll find one. I still have friends in Zurich.

Alec said, Just so long as his name's not Stefan.

Oh, Alec, she said, don't be silly.

By now he's probably fat and rich, Alec said.

And married, Lucia said, though she did not believe he was married.

Good, Alec said. I'll call the travel agent.

She leaned across the table and kissed him.

This will be my last campaign, he said suddenly. I'm leaving the newspaper, finding something new. I don't know what. Maybe another city.

When did this happen?

I've been thinking about it forever, Alec said. Lately he had been photographing antiwar demonstrators and found he had little sympathy or compassion for them. He did not photograph them sympathetically. They seemed to blame the troops for the war and Alec believed the troops deserved compassion. They were the ones who were dying, three hundred in the past week, one bloody offensive after another.

What city? Lucia said, alarm in her voice. Where?

New York, he said. Los Angeles. I don't know. I haven't thought it through. It's something for us to think about, though. We can make some decisions after you get back from Zurich. Think of it as an adventure. Do you know my assignment tomorrow and the day after tomorrow? The Sunday magazine has decided to run a photo essay on ambassadors. How they spend their time away from the job. The sports they favor. What they do. Where they go. The Colombian, the Irish, the Moroccan, the Japanese, and the Nigerian. Sound familiar?