Gabriel
by Marten Weber
This is entirely a work of fiction. Almost.
For the memory of R., who was too beautiful.
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Cover photo ｩ by David Vance
www.davidvanceprints.com
ｩ 2012 by Marten Weber and Aquarius Publishing
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-3-9503058-5-2
www.martenweber.com
He swept away the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil, with the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself.
W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage
Prologue
When the angel arrived, born to a woman of flesh and feisty features on a sturdy bed of Swiss stone pine, the last hand-crafted in a village of a hundred souls, past the Towers of Despair and the Fountain of Sagacity, in the mountain kingdom of the mad and wily, nobody noticed the stumps on the infant’s back as he lay in his cot in pastel blue, and his mother fawned over him, incessantly murmuring,
—What a beautiful, beautiful child—just like an angel! My little angel.
And so said all of them.
Days later, when mother and child were dry and pink and rested, the villagers came one by one, to stare at the newborn in awe, and the priest said with utmost unction,
—Behold, unto us an angel is born, his hair is soft and fluffy and blond, and his cheeks are ruddy and plump—oh now there, there, he burped! Behold, here is the angel of the lord, the angel Gabriel, come to save humanity from endless reruns and mindless chastity, and the yoke of womanhood will…
No, he did not say that, but he could have. What he really said was,
—What a lovely boy! Looks just like an angel!
And so they gathered from near and far, and worshiped the child-angel: aunts and uncles, villagers and strangers, unrelated fat folk passing by on a whim, town criers and soap merchants, the man from the service station and his daughters, the mayor even and his wife and two sons in their lederhosen and red-white checked shirts, complete with gaudy suspenders; all bent down to look at the golden child, and all said, in gruff unison, wiping from their mouths the froth of beer and the smell of sauerkraut and bacon dumplings,
—Look at the golden hair, just like a little angel! Isn’t he just adorable!
It came to pass that by the third week the boy-angel vocalized a sound so inhuman, so utterly out of this world of gravel-strewn river beds and craggy granite, tacky tourists and plump politicians, that his mother stirred in her shallow sleep, thanked god for the gift late in life of a boy, finally, after three daughters; waiting, as she took note of the late hour, for her husband to return home. He had been drinking again at the tavern, himself senseless and the small family fortune away, so that the mother of the angel-boy, more wonderfully handsome than the village, nay! the valley! the nation! had ever seen, said angrily, and with spirited scorn,
—The old fool! and to her daughters, awoken by the angel’s cries, daughter one, daughter two, daughter three,
—First he drank because he didn’t have a son, now he drinks because he finally has a son, the grumpy old fool; out of joy, pure joy, in his old age, because god gave him a son. What is it with men and sons, eh? What is it with husbands and sons? It’s like we don’t count at all!
She threw her hands up in the air and returned them to her sides, wiping them carefully on her embroidered apron, finger by finger, sighing and smiling, as only a mother can, simultaneously. The golden son, much hoped-for and eagerly awaited, ceased his protestations, pursed his lips in his cot, burbled and chuckled, raised his tiny arms, curled his little fists, and when she lifted him free of the blanket and cradled him gently, she felt, for the most fugacious of earthly instants, the dull stumps beneath the soft flesh, just where the shoulder blades met; deep and mysterious. It gave her a start, but she made no comment, put him down, blinked, and praised the lord for his mercy.
The sun set over the valley that day, or another, over the breathtaking panorama of the Alps, so high and steep and unapproachable. The mother went out and across the meadow to the wooden fence, looked at her masticating cows, listened for the approaching autumn, to the deep ring of the bells and the monotonous roar of lorries from the nearby autobahn. She was still in her motherly love, and quiet in her rapt contemplation; she feared not. She knew well what she had borne, and how he would suffer at the hands of men. A single tear dislodged itself from her furrowed face. She wiped it away before it reached the edge of her cheek and said aloud,
—My angel! What has the world in store for you?
On the day of the lord all went to church, celebrated the mystery of the mountain cross and the great revelation; father, finally sober; mother, distraught; daughters one to three in their finest dirndls, with lace blouse and loden jacket; and they named the child Gabriel, for that was the word that came to them when they looked at his curly hair, and at the sparkling eyes, his strong arms and legs.
—It’s really a nice name for a boy, said the mother.
—It’s very manly, said the father.
—It’s cute, said daughter one.
—It’s like that singer… like that famous one, what’s his name? said daughter two.
—It’s almost twelve, when are we going to eat? said daughter three, the freckled one who took after her mother. And they ate in perfect harmony, a family blessed and contented, dumplings of potato and meat of the cow, stewed, with horse-radish and sour plum sauce.
News traveled fast, and soon others came, from the valleys, from the towns and from as far away as the islands, to pay homage and bear witness. They came too from the Farmer’s Association, and the bowling club, the Mountain Farmers’ Relief Fund and the People’s Party. They came even from the Tourism Alliance, to take a picture of the boy in a field of flowers, and the next year Gabriel’s already winning smile was on the cover of Fun Farm Vacations. His fame spread farther afield, through the mouths of Italians and English and French and Swiss, and to the capitals and continents, to the farthest corners of Japan; to the Americas as far as Alpenberg, Virginia, and Korntal, Illinois, and south to Treze Tílias in Brazil, and from there to Buenos Aires and Santiago—to every corner of the world traveled the news that in the high mountains of the Alps, on a glorious day, just as predicted, a boy had been born so innocent and handsome, he could be forgiven anything, and allowed everything, and denied nothing, and that he had been named the Gorgeous One.
When Gabriel was four years old, the mountains were so high, he could not see the tops—not from his room, nor from anywhere else on the farm. Romping around in the yard, on the swing his father had fashioned for him, or near the little path leading into the forest, or on the sloped meadows below and above, the boy dodged cow dung and chased after bees, fell over until his knees were bloody, got up and ran again, his arms flying madly about and his featherlight hair fluttering in the wind. Such were the greens before his eyes: dark and mysterious in the pine forest, glistening blue in the mossy pool; verdant and bright in the moist morning, dotted with yellow and white, a carpet of insects buzzing over the lush grass. These were the mountains: alive in crisp colors and grandiose sounds, wild and untamed like the angel himself. While he ran like the wind, carefree and fast, his mother watching him obliquely from the kitchen window or the stable door.
He could roam as far as he wished and his eyes could see, from the farm to the high lake and back, and not meet a soul; up to the chalet, and down to the postbox, and be just a shooting speck of blond hair and bold eyes. He did not cry when he fell, nor wail when he stumbled; he sang, and then screamed, when his wings wanted desperate unfolding. He was in nature and he was nature, and nature was in him. For these are the mountains and meadows of summer: mouthfuls of insects and bruised knees; cuts and abrasions and all the pains of growing up blissful and healthy and strong.
When his aunt came from the big city, he danced for her. They ate in the kitchen of the farmhouse: a traditional room with a wooden corner bench, open stoves and an enormous table that would have seated twenty farmhands and ten milkmaids a century past; so wide that his father had to use a wooden stick with a hook to pull plates closer to the rim; and covered in embroidered table cloth, red-and-green motifs of boys and girls around a maypole; except for Advent and Christmas, when it was replaced by praying angels. He liked the wreath most, when the candles were lit, and their light reflected in his eager eyes.
—Do you want me to dance for you? he asked his mother in the kitchen, pulling her apron.
—Dance for me?
—Yes. I do it for auntie. I dance and she gives me money. I put it all in the pig.
She let go of the pot, wiped her hands in her lap, and hugged him.
—You silly, awkward… beautiful child. You dance for your aunt and she gives you money?
—Yes. I can dance for you. Let me dance for you!
She took him in her arms, pressing him hard, until she could feel the spot where the wings lay buried deep in the flesh. She let her hand glide over the smooth skin of his perfect face and, brushing the blond curls from his forehead, said very softly,
—My little angel. What is the world going to do to you?
Gabriel grew quickly and strongly, and without the painful interruptions of sickness or defeat. Tourists came every winter to ski, and in summer to admire him and his mountains. He showed them around and walked with them for hours. A man from America gave him a baseball cap; a girl from Italy his first hickey. A spirited Dutch woman asked him to take her to the old quarry, and he carried her stone samples in his rucksack. A man from Graz tried to get him to take off all his clothes when they were on the south slope; a man from Sweden who wrote books told him to be careful—there were predators everywhere.
In school though he had few friends, for the people were envious of his beauty and suspicious of his intellect. He did not share their enthusiasm for brutal games and deception. He found their rules puzzling and their customs dull. He was a star on the football pitch and in the swimming pool; he grew stronger by the day and his smile was always sublime. He talked to girls as easily as to boys, but let none get too close, for they asked too much of him. He did no one harm, yet was attacked twice: once by a younger boy with a wooden stick, and again by an older boy with a hard penis. He repelled them both with a voice so loud he could summon the creatures of heaven and a fist so fast they never saw it coming, to defend his virginity and pride, only to withdraw to his mountains, where he spread his wings alone, dousing them in the light of dawn and the glory of the nascent spring. He was young, he was willing to learn—he was not willing to submit.
When the angel was sixteen years old, had soft and luscious pubic hair, and the wings were always there when he needed them, extended large and soft and wide, but visible to no one, and stowing them away cost much pain and effort, he cursed himself for his fate and often wished to die. He knew that soon they would be fully grown and for those who could feel them, in their fleecy warp and their strong weft, and the few who would see them, in their translucent glow, they were the most beautiful sight on earth: with feathers light and pearlescent, woven from pure cloud. In that year of the angel’s life, a boy put a hand on his naked back, in the shower after swimming practice, and let it slide lower. It burnt like a fire on the flawless skin, and in his soul for years to come.
The angel learned how his body and face disturbed the equilibrium of young men and women around him, his presence amongst lesser souls forever a source of anguish—and wished he were plainer. Rejecting other people’s affection was a kind of pride, he knew that, yet he could not change. He felt alone, and misunderstood, and valued only for his looks and not his thoughts, which were thus in permanent upheaval. The girls he dated seemed to him shallow and predictable in their actions; the boys he played and fought with coarse and dumb—they all seemed motivated only by selfishness and the need for attention. His own preoccupations, his dreams, but ultimately his very being separated him from their coltish ways. He was not like the people who carry their thoughts and emotions on their skin and their anguish on their lips. He spoke their language and he ate their food, he shared even their jokes and their cigarettes behind the shed for a while—but somehow, he knew, he was not one of them. He was silent; he watched closely; he thought long.
As the world day by day made itself known to the doughty angel in all its gory unpleasantness, in its inimitable greed and foulness, its cruelty, persecution, and superstition, he climbed up into the highest tower of the school house, and from there ascended the roof. He had acquired the perfect physique by then: every muscle in the right place, every sinew lengthened to divine proportions; he was a marvel of nature, blinding to look at even in his own mirror. His legs were firm and strong, long and powerful; his arms elegantly veined. Through the tinted glass of the swimming pool his torso looked as if it had been carved from limestone, soft and malleable, promising love and devotion. Here in the dark night, it was hard and impenetrable. There was a tiny birthmark, the sign of his heavenly tribe, enough to make the image human, and infinitely alluring.
He stood on the slippery shingles of the roof wearing only his tight-fitting jeans. His feet were bare, his naked arms and torso shone in the moonlight as he let his eyes roam over the country, the country that tortured and taunted, teased and tempted him, the country he loved with all his heart, for her own sorrows, perched in the center of this craggy oppressiveness, forgotten behind granite and limestone, dolomite and gneiss, with a meekly meandering river as lifeline to the world. He loved the country despite her arrogance and self-absorbed airs, despite her backwardness and remoteness, and yet he longed to be away. He longed to be free. He thirsted for other people and new experiences.
When the wings were fully spread, creaking lightly in the soft but cold—always, even in summer—night air, he sighed, and let go of the rain pipe he had been holding, took one more step toward the center, until a gust of wind pulled him up, and set him down quickly; then another lifted him a little farther. He danced on the roof, galloped like a magical creature, from one chimney to the next, over the windows and slates toward the turret. He swayed with every light breeze, until a strong one delivered him high up into the night sky. There, for the first time, he flapped his wings, which he knew could never carry him far—they were not made for the dense atmosphere of this oppressive planet. With great effort, tumbling and somersaulting towards the edge, he made it back, scared out of his wits and out of breath, and retracted the ethereal appendages, rushed down the stone stairs to his dormitory, shut the door behind himself, breathed slowly in and out before lying down on the bed in the dark, naked, touching his skin to see if he was whole and unharmed. His back hurt where the wings grew; the invisible folds of his muscular dorsum burnt after retraction. He could not bear to lie supine, so he turned on all fours, looked under his own body towards his feet. He saw his cock and balls dangling like dark shadows against the faint light streaming in from the window; he reached under himself to seize his swelling member. It responded enthusiastically, it grew to its beautiful, perfect length, and when he touched it lightly, played with the moist tip, its base; when he cupped his testicles and his fingertips delighted in the thickness of the hair; when he felt the entrance further back, and rubbed it gently, he was complete in himself, and felt whole and safe. He brought a finger to his mouth with the first dew of his young pleasure. Sitting up on his haunches, his hands found his chest and neck, then his hard, gleaming stomach, the groin—and they reached farther still. His mind raced and his cock pounded and twitched as he entered himself with one finger, then two, every muscle and fiber rearing to be touched and loved. Seconds sufficed to make his seed fly high over the bed as far as the poster wall; breathing hard and exhausted unlike ever before, the amorous angel fell back on the bed, and asleep in an instant.
And so he survived. For his courteous smile, for his helpfulness and his humility, the young angel was much liked. He was always respectful, almost deferential. Unlike the world around him, he never took by force what he coveted; when people and ideas were pressed on him, he rejected them politely. Gabriel was the impossible youth, the handsome man who did not decorate his room with pictures of busty blondes or menacing motorcycles, the adolescent who did not want to be a race-car driver or collect girls like trophies. He avoided the traps of lust and the allure of freedom; his own unworldliness surprised him at times, when he learned of what others did not only to, but with each other, and he wondered why the need to explore did not arise in his own soul; why physical love held no mysteries for him yet. He longed to be more like them, while he knew he would soon leave them. He had no trouble learning; if anything, he found progress slow. He wanted to learn so much more, but the valley could not accommodate his hunger.
He wanted to be with a girl, he wanted to know friendship and intimacy, but found it impossible: they were jealous of his every smile as he grew older; they fought over him constantly. Getting closer to one meant alienating ten others; boys and girls around him were permanently vying for his attention; he could not win.
And thus he was happiest in the nights, when he made his way again onto the roof of the building and spread his wings in solitude, when the wind reached under them and carried him; when he felt the superhuman strength rise in his perfect body, and knew that love had to wait, that it would come unhurried, and unheralded, in its own time.
At nineteen, absolved of his obligations to school and country, his heart yearning for the world, the angel abandoned gleefully and impatiently his home and ventured north. Not attracted to the vanity and coarseness of other athletes, interested only in the broadening of his mind, he left behind his unformed dreams, eager to discover new things. He abandoned the farm work on the high meadows which had helped shape his exquisite body. He turned his back on his so-called friends. He kissed his mother and his sisters on the platform, and shook the hand of his proud father. He took with him a love for abstract concepts and deep thinking, a need to be left alone often, the ability to work and run for hours without feeling tired, and the desire to explore, to see the world, to make a difference one day, and above all, the inarticulate conviction that great and exciting things were in store for him.
I
—A welcome cocktail, indeed, what a splendid idea, absolutely splendid, only we don’t usually have welcome cocktails for deputies and staff, but in your case, having just got married… How is your wife? Come in my boy, come in, have a seat, how was the wedding? Please, do tell, I think you’ve got a stain there on your trousers, and please, do sit down, I am delighted to meet you. You were in Istanbul before, no, or are you the one with the… Yes, sorry, I remember now. Oh, you speak Chinese, don’t you? Yes they told me… That should make things easy for you here. For us, my wife and me, it’s a nightmare, and nobody speaks English, not to mention German but of course… and everything done through interpreters, they are much better than ours… So what did you want to drink?
Thus, and with hardly a breath in between to ease the flow, the consul greeted his new subordinate on the seventy-third floor, below, and then after eleven, as the temperature fell, above the layer of clouds that swept the coastal city and took with it the dust and dirt and smog and filth of a long summer of construction and some ninety million visitors, too.
—I don’t have, I mean, we don’t have to have a cocktail, it was just that headquarters told me there was money for that when I arrived, and that we should use it, because budget-wise, I understand they are quite strict, and we can’t use it for anything else, Herr Generalkonsul.
—That is true, quite true. We have very little wiggle room, budget-wise. And please, call me Alois, no titles, not between us! Colleagues, I mean, you really… There is that budget item…
—Alois, yes. Thank you. I’ll just…
—This is your first posting is it not?
—…speak to…
He nodded, aborted, worried.
—How old are you, if I may ask?
—Thirty-three, he said with deference.
—Isn’t it a bit late for your first… I mean, shouldn’t you have gone out before, as a trainee or secretary or deputy something? Don’t they do this anymore? Have you been at HQ all this time? Doing what? Here is your drink, let me put it here, oh no wait, over here… I do quite lose track of how new people are deployed, you must forgive me. I’ve been in this here job so long and so much has changed since…
—They do, I mean I have, I should have, but I studied Chinese and that took a bit longer than usual…
—…I was in Bogotá, seven years, longest post ever, lovely city by the way, Bogotá, eternal spring, friendly people, ought to visit. What’s that?
Hands gesticulating, rising, resting on the polished wood.
—I’ve never been to South America, so they let me finish my university before… and I was in Nanjing for two years, in an international policy program but…
—As a student? Not in the Service? Yes, I wish…
—…that didn’t… Post-graduate, yes, but also working as a liaison for the embassy. So a semi… It’s called adjoined…
—Oh these… like the country experts, I see. When was that?
—2001 to 2003.
—Ah, the last of the golden years! The golden years! Everything’s turned to dust since. Dust? Shit! Everything’s turned to shit—rotten to the core, irresponsible, irresponsible, the way they are wasting money! the consul balked, roared, sighed, sat down in the leather chair, two brandies before him, poured, swung, then lowered with an elaborate gesture, pushing one glass closer, using only a ringed finger.
—Brandy was it you wanted? I have some schnapps from the Wachau, dreadful stuff, but you might like it, don’t drink it myself. Not a fan of schnapps! You mustn’t tell anyone. Can barely get the stuff down, I drink wine, wine is okay, fine, but most of the hard stuff we brew in our lovely little country is just revolting, don’t you agree?
—Brandy will be fine, thank you. You were saying about the golden years?
—What? Ah, yes… The last two years when good contracts could be had! Last of the best, now everything is based on EU standards and… well anyway, we will soon be superfluous, won’t we, what with the new High Representative and her meddling minions opening their flooding gates, the floodgates I mean, ’s that how you say it? Is it? Floodgates, yes, they’ll open their own offices around the world, and we smaller member states and ambassadors, and trade commissioners will go the way of the dodo. They’ll close us down! No more. Do you know that saying, way of the dodo, learned it…
—When?
—When did I learn it, can’t remember. Was a…
—No, when do you think they’ll start closing…
—Oh, sooner than you think, sooner than you think my boy. They are phasing out certain positions already. No more new applications for certain ranks, and… then there’s just no money, simply, they’ll just have no more money, and… I am afraid you have chosen a career with a dead end, ha ha, end of the line as they say, is that it? End of the line, yes, he repeated, underlined it with a late cough, the massive body clad in finest Indian wool bending forward in the swiveling chair, almost losing his balance with the tumbler precariously inclined between his stubby fingers.
—So you speak Chinese, fluently, do you? I’ve heard your Chinese is excellent!
The compliment paid with mischievous eyes, the hoary head holding for once perfectly still, waiting for humility—or pride.
—More or less. It’s not… perfect, but I…
There followed an impertinent pause, which showed disdain, envy maybe, perhaps not only for his education but also for his youth and handsome figure, and which silently prepared the field for a vicious counter-attack.
—Well, it will make things easier for you, because frankly nobody here speaks a word of English, can’t get anything done if you don’t speak that there language if you can call it that of theirs, completely hopeless the Chinese, seriously and so bloody full of themselves, and so you won’t have to rely on interpreters, but don’t you ever use it when we are out together, he hollered, and saw the intended effect produced.
—Excuse me, Sir?
—Well, that’s my rule. I won’t be upstaged! When we go to appointments together, to officials, Chinese officials, ministries doesn’t happen too much here, down here, no ministries here, but all the delegations at the city government, don’t you ever talk Chinese, boy, you hear me? Not in my presence! Not when we are… you know.
The diplomat pricked his ears, sat stiff, lean, pale and without even his striking eyes moving. They stared at the round face before him, uncomprehendingly, the lips beginning to shake just a little.
—Sir, I…
—You don’t understand. You don’t understand, is it? Well, it’s a bit… It’s your first posting, so… I guess I have to explain. It should be obvious, mind you, it’s always been obvious to me!
The heavy body righting itself in the chair, the neck lengthening, collapsing again, folds of fat vibrating, as the glass found the lips, grazed them, returned to the wooden plane.
—It’s your first posting, my boy, so I presume nobody’s ever talked about these things with you, like I do, like I am going to, you see I am known for that, for calling things by their name, for not making a fuss and not beating as they say—do they say that?—around the bush. About the bush. On the bush. Anyway. I don’t mingle words—mingle? Or mince?
—Mince, Sir, and I still fail to see…
—Well, think about it boy, they probably tell you in school that it is a good idea to learn foreign languages, don’t they—they do, don’t they? Everybody always says that, learn foreign languages, study hard, learn French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, always told me I should learn Russian, who needs Russian I ask you unless you work for some oil… So anyway, it’s not, it’s complete nonsense that language learning, that… especially in your line of work.
—But I would think a diplomat should…
—Poppycock!
The round face grinned for as long as it took to raise the glass again, held there, its contents climbing the wall, without success, the fingers turning, eyes watching the reflecting light.
—Sir?
—Huh? Oh, well, think it through! It’s nonsense! It’s totally and utterly nonsense—total nonsense I mean. You are a diplomat in the service of your country, your country, not their country! You are not here to fucking understand the Chinese or their culture—if that’s what it is, still stuck in the damn Middle Ages if you ask me! You can get more sense out of the Indians, I was in India for four years, lovely country, unless you took a wrong turn somewhere, ended up in a slum, water, ditch, somewhere dirty always; but anyway, listen, boy: you are here to represent your own country. It’s much more useful to know how to schuhplattl and yodel and name every vintage of wine than to speak Chinese, you hear me? You understand? Vous comprehende? What do you think happens—I have observed it many times, so I know—but what do you think happens when you start yapping in that godawful language before the Minister of Foreign Affairs, or some party hotshot? He’s going to say, oh your Chinese is excellent, and oh, you speak fluently our language and what the devil, and all that polite shit and I will stand next to you looking like a dufus. You will distract from the subject, and you will make me look a fool! There is no practical benefit whatsoever in a diplomat speaking the language of the host country; only breeds suspicion. You’ve got a secretary for that and advisers and staff at HQ to… and there is always someone above you in politics, or in fact in business, who can’t speak a foreign language, so they’ll dump on you, like I will dump on you if you start speaking that gibberish in front of me. Even if you are the fucking prime minister of Australia, or what they call them down there—do you know they confuse Austria with Australia, even in Chinese? Your voters and your enemies will dump on you for speaking a foreign language, because of course as soon as you speak a foreign language, they can’t understand, and they think immediately that you are saying something nasty about them, and unpatriotic, especially parliamentarians, deputies, dumbest, stupidest people anyway in any country, pig-breeders all and one of them and corrupt and… and they don’t speak no French, do they? They don’t speak no foreign! So they’ll think you are saying something nasty, about them, about the country; that you don’t have the interests of your country in mind, do you understand, foremost I mean? Just look what they did to him, that koala-shagging kangaroo chaser, didn’t last two years, did he—and he wasn’t half bad! All because he spoke Chinese. That’s what I will think if you start gibbering in that language next to me, in front of a VIP, when we have guests, or even alone, you know, I will immediately think now he is talking nonsense, or defaming his country, selling out, giving away our secrets—not that we have any, we are a pretty ridiculous bunch as a country, altogether speaking, much like Australia, really, featherweights on the global stage and a bit odd and anyway, that’s not the point now. Traitor! I will think, traitor! He’s a fucking traitor! Well not so strongly, maybe, but… you get my drift? The point is I will be suspicious and if you talk that language I can’t trust you anymore, so you keep that to yourself, will you? One Chinese word in my presence, showing off, and you can pack your bags! It’s an awful language anyway, that stupid ching chang chong, you know, sounds like… animals really, ducks, I think sometimes, yes, a bit like quacking ducks, didn’t think it was a language at all when I first heard it, thought the man was throwing up! How’s the brandy?
The diplomat nodded. There was nothing else he could think of doing; nodding seemed to make it all right, the time in the man’s presence bearable, his limbs now twitching, the jowls wobbling, small eyes gleaming. He looked away. There was nowhere to hide from the assault. He sat up straight, poised to make a run for it. His knees trembled slightly, and he felt the need to urinate.
—So you hear me, boy, when we are out together, in meetings, or in public, you will not embarrass me by speaking Chinese! You will talk through an interpreter like I do, or we will speak English, but not Chinese. You represent your country now. You are no longer a student yapping foreign languages and fucking the local girls as you no doubt did when you were in Wuhan, but even so it surprises me that you wasted such a lot of time learning such a useless language, and study away from home for so long, you must have—I mean you can’t have many contacts at home if you’ve spent so much time with the slit-eyed dog-eaters. That’s what I call them, ha! ha! You do know they eat dogs and cats! And god knows what else. That SARS got started with some civic cat…
—Civet, he offered, too low under his breath to be heard.
—…eat all kinds of cats you know, fucking disgusting people, but of course you can’t say that out loud, can you. Great unwashed, never seen so many great unwashed. So you spent so much time in this there Chengdu was it? already, I didn’t know that, so you—I mean of course you’ve lost all your connections in… Come closer! Come here! Closer, here. Let me see… Are you…? Let me look at you… turn left… no, didn’t think so! I could tell when you walked in the door!
—What?
—One look at you and I could tell. You are not one of us.
—One of us?
—Were you in any fraternity?
—I beg your pardon?
—Student fraternities, you know, Burschenschaft, Schlagende!—all that poppycock.
—Oh I see… no, dear me, no, I am sorry.
—Yes, you see, didn’t think you were. I can tell, got an eye for these things. That’s because you spent all your student years fraternizing with the yellow enemy. Pretty useless if you ask me. Do you believe in god? he asked, feverish, the thick tongue licking over the bulging lips, wet with drink, and now with saliva; the eyes narrowed again.
The diplomat’s hand was shaking. He had barely touched his glass, but now, to gain time, swallowed a mouthful, and another, listening to the sound of the liquid in his throat, imagining it burning holes through his esophagus, his stomach, leaking through the intestines into his bladder. He crossed his legs.
—What an odd question. Do I have to answer it?
—Of course! You are a fucking diplomat! You are representing your country, and your country’s government and your country’s fucking image in this here fucked-up greedy world we live in! Chinese are the most greedy people on earth. You—pointing, accusingly—are a diplomat now. Twenty-four hours a day. Every day of the week. Even Sundays. We are a nation of believers, not as belligerent and fundamentalist as the Americans—fucking Americans, can you believe I wasn’t invited to their Christmas do? They got me on some list, apparently, down as a racist, I found out because my wife lunches with that woman from the CIA; they got me on some list of racists, so I wasn’t invited to their embassy party, they are always putting people on lists, like the fucking Nazis, when have I ever been racist I ask you? I am not a racist! Do I look like a racist?
The diplomat swallowed again, unsure if he was at all expected to give an answer. The brandy stung—he felt it go all the way down, very slowly. He glanced over to where the bottle stood, light reflecting, through the prism of the neck, against the wall, spots of iridescent white dancing on pink peonies. He rubbed hard his wrists.
—Never mind, sod the Americans. Thing of the past, anyway, America. Now it’s all EU and China, China-EU, the new power access—axis I mean, and we’ll squeeze the Russians in the middle. What do you think? America has a future? I reckon they are doomed. Too much debt, politicians too stupid, whole system dysfu… dysfe… disorganized. Too many Mexicans, too. Where are you from by the way, Vorarlberg, Tyrol, Salzburg, you have a peculiar accent, almost a non-accent…
—Upper Austria. But my parents are both…
—Yes, Upper Austria, there you go I could tell from…
—I didn’t grow up in…
—…from, ah… You see, it’s a catholic country, Austria, with strong conservative values and a bourgeois power base, bit on the red side, bit socialist, but that’s over now, you know all that, not as diverse and… Well, if you are… alternative or god forbid a radical of any kind, or a poof or a communist… are you? Are you?
The young diplomat, lips quivering hard, face pale, eyes as the curious combination of epithets rose again opening wide in shock. That sort of talk, surely, was an anachronism, had gone out with the war, was ancient history! Poofs and communists? Like in a concentration camp? Pink triangles and what was theirs? Where on earth was all that coming from, in this year, this time, this age, this unforgiving city, from the mouth of this man, this pudgy face, this vile monster of a so-called consul? Never, never, he could never, ever work with such a man!
—I wasn’t aware that…
—What? Why are you looking at me that way? Just because I call things by their name? I don’t mince my bushes, beat, I mean, I don’t beat my bushes, told you that, what’s the matter? You think this is bullshit? Here, have another drink! What’s the—come on, give me your glass. What does it remind you of? Of the concentration camps, no, yes it does, I can tell. McCarthy, Bush years, ‘for us or against us’ all that fascist shit, but that’s how the game is played, in Europe, anywhere in fact, same in America, they know it best, there is us, and there is them—them fuckers, them apostates, them unbelievers; biblical creatures the Americans, black and white everything, black and white. It’s always either–or, you have to take sides. I call things by their name! I take things by their… what do you call it?
—What things? I am afraid, Sir…
—That’s your problem, you are afraid! Anyway, you know, not beating around the bush, that’s what I mean, that’s what I do, I don’t beat around the push; the bosh… bush. Here you go, it’s excellent brandy—returning the bottle to its place, and emptying his own glass in one big mouthful—I like to know where we stand, that’s what I mean. You are a communist or a liberal, tell me boy, so we can work together and know where we stand! Everyone in the Service always pretends, you know, that we are quasi liberal, not in the American sense of course, Americans have distorted all the political designations, they call poofs liberals you know—and open and all-embracing, and multiracial like the British or god knows who, but we are not, do you like the brandy? We are like the Americans, their diplomats: single-minded and… obsessive! Austrians are focused! That’s the secret of our success. Can you believe the fuckers didn’t invite me?
—Are American diplomats that? Single-minded? Obsessive? Our success?
—Well, sort of. We are worse of course. And I didn’t mean their diplomats.
—You said…
—Well never mind. I asked you a question!
—I don’t quite follow. Are you expecting me to be a catholic conservative? Am I to disclose my political convictions? Or are you making fun of me? I don’t have anything to hide!
Despite his natural deference and his rapidly vanishing respect for the high office, the diplomat grew angry now, and infected by the belligerent talk.
—No my boy, nothing of the sort! I am telling you how it is. In this country, in our organization, you won’t get ahead unless you got a scar on your cheek. Or a membership card of one of the parties—fucking Freedom Party hasn’t changed anything, all that rubbish talk about rolling back the proporz.
—A scar, sir?
—Yes. A dueling scar, a weal. God, boy, have you never heard of student fraternities? Have you never been a member of any political organization? How do you expect to get ahead in the…
—I have, but… I thought they were historical. And irrelevant nowadays. My family… I grew up in…
—Ha! They sent me a starry-eyed newbie. You can’t be serious? How did you get into the Service…?
—I applied.
—And nobody asked you then? No father with a… you know?
—My father might have been… no he couldn’t have been. He might have been something in the…
—I am sure he was. I am sure you do…
—I know so little about these political things. I was educated in England. I didn’t grow up in…
—But he should have told you the truth a bit earlier… that’s what kind of world we are living in. England? Really? So you aren’t really… I mean, in a way… Anyway, should have told you the truth!
—Yes, I went to… what truth?
—The truth, my boy, is that unless you belong to certain associations, clubs, gentlemen’s whatsits, which represent certain these here conservative values, such as love of your country, your language, your religion, trust in god, in money, and so on, you won’t get any promotion in the Service. Same everywhere! You have to take sides! ‘With us or against us,’ ‘color of the flag!’ Money breeds money and trusts breeds trust. And nowadays youngsters learn everything about sex when they are ten years old, on Scrapbook or by goggeling but nobody tells them they gotta belong to the right clubs to get ahead in life. You sound very—forgive me… no don’t!—I am just saying, but for a middle-rank diplomat, you sound horribly naïve! And unconnected. You won’t get anywhere without connections! The Chinese know that. They take connections awfully serious. It’s called ‘gang-shi’ here.
—That sounds like… guanxi, actually.
—It’s very much the same, still. Yes, gangshi, what I said. That’s how we keep the poofs and the commies out.
—I thought…
—Oh god look at your face you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You are not a poof, are you…? People who get offended when I talk about poofs and commies… pisses me off! Go back to your… if you can’t stand the heat. Got to place…
—I am married. Happily married, Sir.
—Ah yes, you said so, just recently. And don’t call me Sir. But anyway, that doesn’t mean shit if you pardon my frankness. What you do in your bedroom is your business, but if you start mincing about like Franz and his fairies, I’ll have you transferred, you hear me, I won’t have any of that fudge-packing in my office, if you pardon me. Do you like that word? Learned it from our Australian friends when we were down there. Loved it, wife—not so much. I loved it. Sydney—ever been? Greatest harbor ever. Of course, too many queers. Fudge—you get it? Ha ha! Fucking great place, Australia, massive steaks, excellent meat, don’t export it though, keep all the good stuff for themselves, clever chaps, best country in the world—beef, I mean, best beef in the world. Anyway, fuck who you want, but don’t let it get out… I mean, ha ha! Has to get out at the end! Ha ha! Get it? Has to come out. Ha ha!
Truly rattled and annoyed even, as he listened to the ravings of his superior, close to tears, not believing his ears, legs still crossed in agony, delighted as the bearded man stood up, his face now a darker red, full of self-imposed choler and derisive threats, the mild and kind countenance of earlier transformed into a mask of horror, fuming, grotesquely. Smoke seemed to come out of his nostrils; like a dragon he rose from his leather chair, his stubby feet like hooves digging into the carpet.
—Like the carpet? Got it in Iran. Spent three years in Iran. Excellent country, everything works there. Largest house we ever had, in the mountains, wonderful—and everything bloody cheap. Anyway, so, we gotta work together here for the next few years, so you tell me any shit I need to know about you! And I will tell you all the smut about me. My girlfriends and the massage place I go to. You gotta try Asian women—they are just… You look surprised now, and maybe you find that… objectionable. But wait until you see my wife… then you’ll understand. You have to be honest with me, and I will be honest with you, so we know where we stand. If anything flies up in your face, shit on the fan, you know, I want you to defend me and you will defend me, unless you are a poof or…
—Sir, I have nothing to report. I am not a homosexual. I don’t have affairs with other women, I don’t steal or take bribes, there is nothing in my past that… excuse me, but…
—What? what? Nobody ever talked to you like this, did they? Good that you tell me you have a clean record, but that’s neither here nor there! Nobody is a saint. If you don’t belong, you are nobody! The Chinese know that, wise people, and the Jews, same mentality, eyes on the money! So you speak Chinese, big deal, but you don’t have any connections, how are you gonna get ahead in this job? I bet nobody ever told you that, the way it really is, you know, like I do, I bet that nobody laid it out like this, so clear, told you that you fucked up with your choice of subjects at uni, but you know, they tell people that, even some of the Cartellverband, the more radical organizations, that’s what they do when they have a cushy job, jobs for the boys you know, when they rule the roost, then they go out and tell young people to study languages and history, and move away to New Fucking Zealand, so there’s less competition. That artist fellow, who built that funny house, the crooked one with the colors, he moved to New Zealand, didn’t he? You are good-looking, you know, very, lean, tall, impressive fellow—you got the body too… don’t flinch I am not some weirdo coming onto you, but it takes a certain look and stature to get into our Germanic fraternities, we don’t take any stodgy little Jew with a crooked nose, but you got the look, so, I don’t understand why you didn’t… You should have studied law and business, and got a traineeship with the Chamber, or a good law firm, but instead you spent how long in Chongqing…?
—Six years, Sir. Nanjing. I was in Nanjing.
—Six years my god, what the fuck, amongst these slit-eyed underdeveloped dog-eating little yappers, just to learn their…
—Sir I really think that racism has no place…
—What? What…? What? Are you shocked?
—…in an office like this.
—Don’t look at me like that! Squinty little eyes all of a sudden! There isn’t a non-racist anywhere in Europe, we are all—I am not talking about our country or the Service, I am talking about the whole of Europe, we still think that we are better than anybody else, and we are! Gotta own up, we are! Everybody comes running to us for culture. Do you know how many Chinese students we have in our conservatories fiddling away? Do you know how many opera houses and theaters we are building in China? What are they going to perform there? Their horrid little Peking operas with those… Have you been to a Peking opera? It’s atrocious! It’s not even music it’s… fuck, like I said, animal noises! It’s pathetic! What are they going to perform in those brand-new opera houses, with stage systems built in Austria or—fucking Dutch won the last contract, bribing everybody from the mayor down, can’t prove a thing of course—one more lavish than the next. Huh? Huh? I tell you what: Wagner my boy, and Mozart, and Beethoven and Haydn and Mozart! Not ching chang chong music…! Are you a Freemason?
Beaten again into sullen submission by the torrent of abuse, unable to believe that such he heard from the mouth of his own superior, was hearing it here, in this high consular office with its eagle-studded red-white flag and the twelve stars of Europe on noble blue fluttering in the corner, in this high office on the seventy-how-high floor, in this prevaricating mega city, from the mouth of a dignitary, a man in power, a man who represented a whole nation, and its people—and in that, he thought abruptly, probably did a good job—he looked up, then said as calmly as he could manage, with his heart beating so fast he felt it in every blood vessel, every joint of his body,
—A what? A Freemason? No Sir!
Anything to escape, quickly! What would work be like, with such a maniac, in the weeks to come? He had his wife, he had his books, his hobbies—but days would stretch, eight, ten, twelve-hour days, sharing an office, with such a monster!
—Well, then I am afraid you are fucked! Well and truly fucked!
The word hung in the somber ambiance of the office like a pulsating orb… red and glowing, now dropping to the floor, onto the Persian carpet… rolling into a corner, where the diplomat’s eyes caught it, expiring gently. In a superb effort of self-control, he sucked in courage with all his might, and faced this impossible man, smiling gently. He felt the corners of his mouth and the lids of his eyes quiver.
—At least, at the very least, you are a member of the Rotary Club? Singing on Thursdays, no? Little patriotic songs?
—Sir, not even that. I can’t sing.
—Well that’s it then, is it? You are totally asocial—anti-social. Don’t mince with the likes of us, is it?—Mingle I mean. Educated in England, too; arrogant little loner, are you? You’ll make a splendid diplomat, you will! You don’t really fit in, my boy! We have to change that! How are you going to be a diplomat if you don’t have social networks? If you don’t know how to call in favors? Friends and… You know what happens, of course, you are going to foul up something, and make a big mess, and then you’ll need friends to save your sorry ass, and you won’t have any. You realize that? I am not going to do anything for you.
—What do you mean, Sir, for me?
—Well, you see my boy, it’s like this… These shitheads in one’s fraternity keep sticking to one throughout life like glue. It’s always this: one hand washes the other, as we say, mutual backing, jobs for the boys, that shit, you see, so I have to look after my own. I can’t have you interfering. If you don’t belong to any association, if you don’t even go to fucking church, if you don’t share our values…
—I am not interfering in anything. Whose values, Sir? My wife goes to church, she…
—Don’t call me Sir, I told you! You will! The unconnected never do. For god’s sake, don’t you have any ambition?
—I thought joining the Service will get me on a career path. It’s documented that…
—A career path? Documented? A career? A job yes, but… What do you think will happen after this post?
—I will return to the capital, head some department there for three years, then go out again as a deputy, then go back for another three to five years, then get my first head-of-mission posting.
—And where will you go, as head-of-mission, you… My god are you really that naïve? Where would you like to go? Paris? London? Moscow? New York?
—Whatever is open, it’s a roster system, isn’t it? Open to anyone in the Service… One gets appointed.
—My ass it is! What? One gets appointed! Listen to yourself! Appointed, exactly, that’s it, you get appointed. And how do you…?
The diplomat looked helpless, but the truth dawned on him even as he fought his revulsion. There was, after all, a point to all this.
—Look my boy, has nobody ever explained to you how it works?
—I was under the impression that…
—That what? That you don’t need connections to get the best posts? That posts are dealt out according to what—ability? You think people move up the ladder because of their… abilities? Ha ha! Ha…! You are something! Ha! Abilities! Ha ha! Are you free for lunch?
—Yes, of course.
—Splendid. We’ll have lunch then, and I’ll show you the ropes. Take you under my wing, you helpless little shitter—that’s not an insult, by the way.
His mouth remained open, as His Excellency the Consul turned his back to him and was looking out the window, where the clouds had dispersed momentarily to give a view of the Bund and into the distance as far as the airport and the sea.
—Shit city this. And full of shit people. But we got a great office here. I love this office. Don’t you?
The diplomat coughed.
—Yes Sir, it’s very nice.
—Did you notice the carpet? Got it from Iran. Makes the whole office look… High floor, too. Really nice. Costs a fucking fortune every month. House prices a disgrace, and shoddy construction too, as far as the eye can see.
—Surely this building is safe.
—No, this one’s safe. European architects, Japanese builders. No Chinese crap-bricks in this baby. You like it? Good. Go on then, dismissed, go find your office. I’ll see you for lunch.
—Yes, Sir. Where?
—Downstairs. Not downstairs, just three floors down. Excellent restaurant. Wear a tie!
—Yes, Sir.
—Oh, and… oh! I’ve got a case for you, my boy! Very special case. No, very, very, very special case. Never had one like…
—What sort of case, Sir?
—Oh, tell you all about it over lunch. Over lunch. Very special case. Very annoying! Awkward timing too. And stop calling me Sir! And stop being so timid, my boy, gotta show some… you know! You’ll be alright. I’ll take you under my bush—wing; I’ll take you under my wing. You got yourself a guardian angel! Teach you what really matters—not learning fucking Chinese. And then let’s see where that awful language will get you, ha!
The young diplomat, his first day on the job, withdrew, and wondering what it would smell like under such enormous wings, drove home in the new car, still redolent of polished leather, and lay that night in bed, exhausted, overwhelmed by his new life, all the changes, next to his reading wife, and said, with a broken spirit and a hoarse voice,
—I think I have made a terrible mistake!
She did not react immediately, continued reading instead, but staring with vacant eyes suspiciously high on the page, as if over the rim, into nothingness, or into his soul, her mind wandering, trying to guess at what was to come.
—I should have never joined the Service!
She lowered her book at last and turned towards him.
—Why, dear?
—It’s full of that type of nepotism and corruption and old boys club and all that—you know! I thought we had reached a new era, I thought all that was history, but… You know what it’s like!
—I don’t, dear, what is it like?
—It’s like… it’s like I am in a bad movie, about… it’s like…
—Yes dear?
He thought for a few seconds too long, and her attention lapsed. She raised her arms again, then started over from the top of the page. He sighed, turned sideways away from her, ready to wish her goodnight, ready indeed to give up and stop trying to communicate his anxieties, his notions of what was right and wrong, the very same they had shared in their young love not long ago. It seemed like an eternity. He was startled when she put the book down again and said,