Free American Romantic by Ward Just

watched a one-legged man struggle on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on two crutches. He wore a black beret and a shabby windbreaker against the drizzle. Every step was painful. His right leg, severed at the knee, looked to be a heavy appendage. He was very old and gaunt, stubble on his chin. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment, and then he turned the corner and was lost to view.
    Harry, the ambassador said.
    Good morning, sir.
    Listen to me. Learn something. You will be an ambassador one day. When that happens you must expect to receive telegrams and telephone calls from Washington. Any time of the day or night, usually without warning. Always be polite. Sometimes this will be difficult. More difficult than you can imagine, because what they are saying to you is so god damned stupid. But do it anyway. Be patient.
    Yes, sir.
    However, there are exceptions to every rule.
    Yes, sir.
    You will be tempted to scream at them.
    I understand, Harry said.
    Choose your moment for screaming. This was not one of the moments.
    I’ll remember, sir.
    Well, he said. Let’s get to business.
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    Basso Earle III was a Southerner from one of the parishes near New Orleans, a career foreign service officer of great ability who had declined to enter the family business, which was politics. In Louisiana politics was dangerous business. His grandfather did jail time and his uncle was obliged to expatriate himself to South America to await the appointment of a fresh governor. They were men who played by the rules, but the rules changed frequently and both his grandfather and his uncle had moments of inattention—call it forgetfulness—and a price was paid at once. Louisiana had the agreeable reputation of easy come easy go, a forgiving nature, a jurisdiction that looked the other way as a matter of course, and this reputation was true as far as it went. It did not include the sin of inattention. Basso Earle knew from an early age that he was an inside man, comfortable at a table or a tête-à-tête in a quiet room somewhere, not especially at ease in crowds or at lecterns or speaking into microphones. He much preferred the quiet word in a receptive ear, and while the word might be painful, his tone of voice was silky and in most instances persuasive. He avoided the press. He could make a speech but preferred not to. Ambassador Earle always took his time telling a story, his head thrown back, an easy smile in place, his hands loosely laced upon his belly—and the more important the story, the more time he took to tell it.
    He said, We’ve had some contacts lately with the opposition. There’s disagreement among our analysts as to how reliable these contacts are. That is to say, has someone strayed from the reservation or is he following instructions from his superiors? In other words, are we being played? Are we somehow being set up? They’re good at games, you know. Good at chess. Very good at cards. They’re born gamblers but not known, generally, for the bluff. Bluffing is not usually in their bag of tricks. Bluffing requires wit and they are not a witty people. Then the ambassador detoured into a complicated anecdote concerning his own experiences at roulette, apparently one of life’s signature lessons, for at the end of it he said to Harry, Do you see what I mean?
    Harry said, I think so.
    Sometimes it’s wise to rely on instinct.
    Not always, Harry said under his breath.
    What did you say?
    Not always, Harry said.
    Yes, of course, not always. Obviously.
    Harry knew he had blundered with an obtuse remark. He smiled and said, In affairs of the heart, instinct can lead you astray.
    Lust, the ambassador said.
    Lust, Harry agreed.
    Risk, reward, the ambassador said, returning to the matter at hand. It always comes down to that, depending on the spot you’re in. We’re in a spot, as I don’t have to tell you. If our enemy wants to talk, isn’t it worthwhile listening to what