American Romantic by Ward Just Page A

as he could see. It stretched to twilight.
    Harry was a long time showering and shaving. His skin was chafed everywhere. When he looked in the mirror the face he saw was not in all respects his own. This face he saw was possibly the face of a brother, an older, wiser brother, an experienced brother who had gone ten rounds with Aphrodite and when the bell rang was still on his feet. Congratulations from the referee. He took a long look in the mirror—a look, it had to be admitted, of no little self-regard. And then he laughed and waved his thumb at the brother in the mirror, rosy-cheeked, damp hair, bloodshot eyes, but in fine shape all in all. All in all in exceptional spirits. All in all looking forward to the morning, something he rarely did. Harry was an afternoon and evening man. Twilight and darkness were his friends, and now he had someone to share them with. Wasn’t she something? He patted his stomach, taut as a bowline. Harry did not think of himself as vain but thought now that a revision might be in order. Was that a side effect of losing your heart? Did lovemaking lead to megalomania? He carefully combed his hair. Then he put a styptic pencil on a tiny razor cut near his left ear. Deodorant under his arms. He told the face in the mirror that he would spend time with the German classics, Goethe, Fontane, Musil, Brecht. He would reacquaint himself with Dürer.
    When Harry stepped into the bedroom, already talking about resort hotels in the ancient ports, Sieglinde had vanished. Her shoulder bag was gone. Only her jasmine scent remained. For a moment Harry did not move. The room was barren without her, and she had not thought even to say goodbye. Not so much as a tap on the bathroom door. He looked for a note but there was no note. Then, from downstairs, he heard piano music, a waltz, or not quite a waltz. A melancholy nocturne. Harry descended the stairs barefoot, making no sound, and paused at the landing, watching Sieglinde at the piano. Her fingers moved light as feathers. Morning sun streamed through the big window, the edge of it touching the piano. She was playing a Chopin adagio, a familiar piece he could not name. It had the melody and tempo of old Europe, nineteenth-century Europe, Europe before the fall. Harry listened without moving for the longest time, watching her, watching her head slide left and right, watching her fingers, and when she looked up at last, seeing him at the bannister, she tossed her head, gave a brilliant smile, and winked.
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    They planned a rendezvous for that night at a restaurant near the harbor, a twenty-minute walk from the embassy. Harry spent the day in his office finishing up the report, a bare-bones affair minus enigma. Enigma was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was clarity, cause and effect, troublesome enigma trampled under the goose-stepping feet of one fact after another. He did his best to make a story of it, a beginning, middle, and end. He had difficulty making the atmosphere of Village Number Five credible, though at some level he understood that the report would likely not be read. At most, skimmed. Now and again he laughed out loud, though the material was not humorous. Harry was not bothered except by the ambassador’s secretary, who looked in to say that the old man wanted to see him in the morning, ten sharp—and added, with a strange look, that he seemed in especially good spirits. It’s good to see you—so cheerful, Harry.
    We’ve been worried about you.
    No need, Harry said airily. All’s right with the world.
    No, it isn’t, the secretary said, and walked away.
    The report concluded, Harry straightened his desk and disposed of the usual memos, wondering all the while what the ambassador wanted. A one-on-one with the boss, and that was what the secretary implied, was unusual. He wrote a letter to his parents, the first in weeks. He told them everything about his life except for the events at Village Number Five and