THE DIRECTOR GETTING down on one knee to talk to us, because we were sitting. The Director hosting dinner parties—making arugula and mint salad with an impossible-to-find pecorino cheese, creating prosciutto-and-gruyère-stuffed ravioli, presenting us with English plum pudding—dishes he claimed to have learned to make from the best chef in Italy, the grandest dame in Britain, or the finest lady from Arkansas, as he winked at us.
HE WAS OUR center of attention, quietly. He did not shout but something about him demanded we listen. Six feet tall and stooped, lanky and shifty in any seat. Oppy, Oppie, Opje—we were awed by his erudition, we were charmed by his elegance, we were chilled by the sarcasm he directed at those he thought of as shoddy or slow thinkers. Our husbands said, The man is unbelievable! He gives you the answer before you can even formulate the question.
AND BECAUSE HE spoke eight languages he could recite poems to us in our mother tongue. He told us that À la Recherche du Temps Perdu—In Search of Lost Time—changed the course of his life. He spoke passionately about why he got involved in the war: I began to understand how deeply political and economic events could affect men’s lives. I began to feel the need to participate more fully in the life of the community.
HE HAD THE bluest eyes. And it was as if he could tell what any one person was thinking and speak aloud a confirmation that they were not alone in the feeling. Even the female scientists let out a giggle in his presence. Even the General said he was A genius, a real genius! We watched him ride through the desert on horseback, we watched him seemingly unaffected by strong martinis and chain-smoking. He seemed unfailingly in control of himself, but not as if it took effort. We suspected he had secrets deeper than the Hill’s shared secrets. Which made him—to some of us—quite tempting.