looks like a boys’ boarding school.”
“It’s sure big enough for one man.”
“It used to be the Embassy itself. It had all the offices until they ran out of space.”
They rang the doorbell and waited for the Ambassador’s secretary. As they went inside and looked up at the white-stone staircase, Frank said, “Jesus, it’s like a kind of fancy restaurant.”
Mary smiled. “Yes. Indian, I think. The man who designed it, Lutyens, did a lot of government buildings in New Delhi.”
Frank nodded. Mary presumed he knew nothing of India and the British Raj. She looked at him properly for the first time that morning: he was clean-shaven and neat, but with the same stray, fatigued look she remembered from before. He had mentioned that he was from Chicago and she wondered what difficulties he had found in extracting himself from the deprived neighborhood he had described and heading east.
The Ambassador’s desk was set with its back to Massachusetts Avenue. The polished expanse of wood was impressively clear; at the edge werethree trays, marked In, Out and Destroy. Each was empty, and the only other items on the desk were two paper flags, American and British, and a well-consulted New York restaurant guide. There was a leather-covered fender in front of the fireplace, wing-back armchairs and shiny bookcases with matching sets of leather volumes; there was a feeling of borrowed grandeur, dignity by the yard: the atmosphere was of a Manhattan gentlemen’s club for graduates of not-quite Ivy League universities.
“What kind of guy is the Ambassador?”
Mary glanced up to see that his secretary was out of hearing. “I think you’d describe him as an empire loyalist. He’s anxious about Britain’s declining role in the world.”
“Sounds okay for an ambassador. Does he like Washington?”
“I don’t think so. He got off to a bad start. It was just after Suez, and Dulles called him into his office. Dulles asked him why the British hadn’t won and the Ambassador became so angry he had to leave the room.”
They went downstairs, where they were shown the gardens at the back of the building, with their soft, deep lawns, rose beds and herbaceous borders. Mary thought how out of place Frank looked in his New York newspaperman’s clothes, a man of the streets with grass beneath his feet.
They walked back to the Embassy and out onto the service road that ran off Massachusetts Avenue. A delivery truck was unloading cases of champagne to the side entrance of the residence.
“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow?” said Frank.
“I’m not sure, I …”
“I have to go see someone else right now, but I’d appreciate the chance to talk a little more. Could I call you in the morning and see if you’d have the time?”
“All right. Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’ve got the car here.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll take a cab.”
Frank was still waiting by the side of the road, scanning the impatient traffic, when Mary drove past, but since he had been quite emphatic, dismissive almost, she did not stop or repeat her offer. Although it was nearly lunchtime, she did not want to go home to the silent kitchen, so she swung the car left and drove up toward the Naval Observatory fromwhere she could drop down to Fiorello’s, an Italian café she had discovered that overlooked the Potomac.
She took a table in the corner and looked out of the window, toward the river and Theodore Roosevelt Island. Few cities in the world could have had so many memorials in proportion to such a relatively short lifetime, she thought. Without thinking too hard, she could list the lapidary reminders of Lincoln and Jefferson; the George Mason Memorial Bridge, the Arlington Memorial Bridge leading to the Iwo Jima memorial … What were they so scared of forgetting?
For lunch the next day, Frank urged Mary to choose somewhere she particularly liked, as his newspaper would pay. Fiorello’s was her own retreat, unknown even to
“It’s sure big enough for one man.”
“It used to be the Embassy itself. It had all the offices until they ran out of space.”
They rang the doorbell and waited for the Ambassador’s secretary. As they went inside and looked up at the white-stone staircase, Frank said, “Jesus, it’s like a kind of fancy restaurant.”
Mary smiled. “Yes. Indian, I think. The man who designed it, Lutyens, did a lot of government buildings in New Delhi.”
Frank nodded. Mary presumed he knew nothing of India and the British Raj. She looked at him properly for the first time that morning: he was clean-shaven and neat, but with the same stray, fatigued look she remembered from before. He had mentioned that he was from Chicago and she wondered what difficulties he had found in extracting himself from the deprived neighborhood he had described and heading east.
The Ambassador’s desk was set with its back to Massachusetts Avenue. The polished expanse of wood was impressively clear; at the edge werethree trays, marked In, Out and Destroy. Each was empty, and the only other items on the desk were two paper flags, American and British, and a well-consulted New York restaurant guide. There was a leather-covered fender in front of the fireplace, wing-back armchairs and shiny bookcases with matching sets of leather volumes; there was a feeling of borrowed grandeur, dignity by the yard: the atmosphere was of a Manhattan gentlemen’s club for graduates of not-quite Ivy League universities.
“What kind of guy is the Ambassador?”
Mary glanced up to see that his secretary was out of hearing. “I think you’d describe him as an empire loyalist. He’s anxious about Britain’s declining role in the world.”
“Sounds okay for an ambassador. Does he like Washington?”
“I don’t think so. He got off to a bad start. It was just after Suez, and Dulles called him into his office. Dulles asked him why the British hadn’t won and the Ambassador became so angry he had to leave the room.”
They went downstairs, where they were shown the gardens at the back of the building, with their soft, deep lawns, rose beds and herbaceous borders. Mary thought how out of place Frank looked in his New York newspaperman’s clothes, a man of the streets with grass beneath his feet.
They walked back to the Embassy and out onto the service road that ran off Massachusetts Avenue. A delivery truck was unloading cases of champagne to the side entrance of the residence.
“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow?” said Frank.
“I’m not sure, I …”
“I have to go see someone else right now, but I’d appreciate the chance to talk a little more. Could I call you in the morning and see if you’d have the time?”
“All right. Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’ve got the car here.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll take a cab.”
Frank was still waiting by the side of the road, scanning the impatient traffic, when Mary drove past, but since he had been quite emphatic, dismissive almost, she did not stop or repeat her offer. Although it was nearly lunchtime, she did not want to go home to the silent kitchen, so she swung the car left and drove up toward the Naval Observatory fromwhere she could drop down to Fiorello’s, an Italian café she had discovered that overlooked the Potomac.
She took a table in the corner and looked out of the window, toward the river and Theodore Roosevelt Island. Few cities in the world could have had so many memorials in proportion to such a relatively short lifetime, she thought. Without thinking too hard, she could list the lapidary reminders of Lincoln and Jefferson; the George Mason Memorial Bridge, the Arlington Memorial Bridge leading to the Iwo Jima memorial … What were they so scared of forgetting?
For lunch the next day, Frank urged Mary to choose somewhere she particularly liked, as his newspaper would pay. Fiorello’s was her own retreat, unknown even to
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