Roland Rabary, head of the Foreign Ministry’s Americas Desk, leans back in his swivel chair and skims the two-page demarche, his eyes occasionally darting at me, as if judging whether I’m serious in bringing this document to him, asking for his country’s support on a matter before the U.N.
Rabary is an ugly little man on an island of beautiful people, the handsomest I’ve ever known. With his frog-like gash of a mouth and a nose that appears to have partially melted at some point in the distant past, Rabary has to know how far short he falls of local standards, further souring an already prickly disposition.
Frowning theatrically, he lays the two pages on his desk with a loud sniff. “So, your superiors in Washington want our United Nations delegation to support a condemnation of Iran’s behavior.” As if in compensation for his homeliness, he possesses a beautiful voice, resonant and deep.
“Washington has instructed—”
Rabary waves a hand like a man swatting at a fly. “Washington’s instructions end at your desk, not mine.” He hunches his shoulders in a Gallic shrug, an acquired trait. Like many Malagasy elites, Rabary’s resentment of the French is aggravated by the fact that he can’t break free of the compulsion to measure himself by their standards.
With a flick of his fingertips, he pushes the paper away from him. “Iran has been helpful to us on more than one occasion, while you Americans ignore us except when you want to tell us what to do. You know we can’t support this.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but can see the futility of it. “Yeah, I was told the age of miracles had passed.”
He chuckles. A sop to make me feel better.
It’s a strange relationship we have. Required by our governments to seek support for policies we know the other side will never agree to, Rabary and I refuse each other’s entreaties then fall back on professional expressions of civility. Over time we’ve formed a genial sort of bond, with each of us playing, in turn, the sadist and the masochist.
I offer a defeated sigh. “Well, I’ll tell ‘em I tried.”
Rabary makes something like a smile and takes a cigarette from a box on his desk. “Tell them you really made me sweat,” he says in English. Rabary spent a year at Cornell and likes to sprinkle remembered idioms into our conversations.
“I’ll do that. The embassy will be impressed by how almost successful I am.” I lean forward in my chair and clasp my hands on top of his desk. “Look, I need to talk to you about something else. You have an American in one of your prisons. A man named Walter Sackett.”
Rabary exhales a stream of smoke through his unfortunate nose. “I know all about your Walter Sackett. He faces serious charges.”
“All of them phony. You know that. He’s been squeezed dry by the ag minister. There’s nothing left. It’s time to let him go.”
Rabary swivels his chair away from the desk and stares out the window.
I can see him making a calculation on how to leverage this situation to his advantage. Somehow it doesn’t add up and he shakes his head. “No. There’s nothing I can do. He will have to wait for his trial. If he has done nothing wrong, he will be found innocent.”
“He’s sixty-four and unwell. He could die before he comes to trial.”
Rabary continues to gaze out the window. “You are providing him with food?”
“He has a girlfriend who helps him.”
The Malagasy stubs out his cigarette and swings his chair back around. “The Ministry of Justice has been known to re-examine certain cases—”
“He can’t bribe anyone anymore. He’s broke.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand me.”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
We glare at each other and recalibrate our positions.
“I have no patience with this sort of thing,” Rabary says, fiddling with a pen. “If Sackett were French, his government would have paid to settle the charges weeks ago.”
“We’re not the French.”
Rabary lets my comment hang in the air like the smoke curling up from his cigarette. “You’re quite emotional about this Sackett fellow. It’s not like you. Really, Robert, it’s unbecoming.”
“Knock it off, Rabary.”
“It is much easier for us both when you, um, maintain a professional distance, Robert.” The pleasing timbre of his voice cushions the cynicism. He leans back in his chair and changes the subject. “A diplomatic note crossed my desk the other day. I see you have a change in personnel at your embassy.”
“Yeah, a new Public Affairs Officer. She comes in next week.”
“Someone new to plead your case to the press. A woman this time.”
Do I catch something in the tone of Rabary’s voice? “And young enough to be your granddaughter, Roland.”
Rabary smiles and waves away the unstated accusation. “You have less than a year left here, yes? Where will they send you next?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve put in some requests. And you? You’re still hoping for Paris?”
The Malagasy diplomat frowns. It’s his natural expression and seems to relax him. The Malagasy embassy in Paris will need a new political officer in the coming year. Rabary has for months been speaking of it with the dreaminess of a knight speaking of the Holy Grail.
He holds the pen between his forefingers, addressing it rather than me. When he’s serious he has a hard time making eye contact. “One needs promotion to the proper grade to be considered for such a position. This year I did not get promoted, and …” He lets the thought trail away and glances at me furtively. I think he feels ashamed of himself when he tells the truth. “Still, it is not impossible. Under the right circumstances.” With the air of a man who has revealed too much, he stands up and holds out his hand to indicate our meeting is over, adopting a genial manner to cover his abruptness. “I haven’t seen you around the Zebu Room lately.”
“I leave early. It doesn’t take long to lose.”
“Ah, yes. You are becoming famous for it.”
I wonder how long it will take for word of my ill luck to spread to the embassy. I try to smile. No point letting him know how much it bothers me. “And you always win.”
I mean it as a joke but Rabary shoots me a sidelong glance freighted with suspicion. Out of curiosity, I poke a stick at the sensitive spot. “Picard must dread seeing you come in.”
“Yes, our good friend, Picard.” Rabary turns his head away, but his eyes linger on me, searching for something. Apparently satisfied he hasn’t found it, he opens the door to his reception room. His pretty secretary looks up.
On an impulse, I switch back to French so that anyone within earshot can understand. “I hear you’re having some unrest in the countryside. Maybe on the east coast. Tamatave?”
Rabary starts to close his door, as if to keep my words from escaping, but it’s too late for that. So he smiles and makes a dismissive gesture. “Everything is fine in Tamatave—and elsewhere.” He’s a good liar but I’ve caught him off guard. “Who would tell you such nonsense?”
“I got it from a passing lemur.”
Rabary laughs like a man gargling razor blades. “Lemurs are notorious rumor-mongers. I wouldn’t want you to go around repeating this. You will only look foolish.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I take a couple of steps into his outer office before turning back. “Rabary, do something for me—don’t forget about Walt Sackett. You and me, maybe we deserve to be stuck here. He doesn’t. He needs to go home.”
The Malagasy smiles and says nothing. With a nod, he indicates to his secretary that she should escort me downstairs.
We’ve barely stepped into the hallway when I spot a familiar figure shambling up the corridor.
“Well, Picard, so the rumors aren’t true.”
Maurice Picard scowls in surprise, looking as ill at ease away from his casino as a cockroach caught too far from the baseboard. “Ah, Robert, how nice to see you,” the Frenchman lies to me. “What rumor is that?”
“No one’s ever seen you in the daylight. Word was getting around you’re a vampire.”
The owner of the Zebu Room tries to look like a man who can have a laugh at himself. “Vampire. That’s very good, Robert.” He glances nervously at Rabary’s door.
I detect a whiff of something untoward, some bit of business between Picard and Rabary that doesn’t want the light of day. I remind myself that there’s always something in the air here, and the quickest way to go crazy is to try to get to the bottom of it.
“So, Maurice”—the Frenchman winces at my unwelcome familiarity—“what brings you to the Foreign Ministry? Declaring war?”
He smiles as if it hurts him. “No. Just a personal visit.” Picard glares at Rabary’s secretary, his eyes demanding she get him out of this conversation.
I turn to the young woman. “Don’t worry. I can find my way downstairs. The Colonel and I are just going to chat for a moment.”
“As you say, Monsieur Knott.” She smiles at Picard and retreats to her office.
With a frown that stops just short of a snarl, Picard acknowledges the obvious. “I am here to see Rabary.”
“Having trouble getting an exit visa?”
Picard’s frown deepens.
Bull’s-eye.
“Robert, I would think you have enough problems of your own without concerning yourself with mine.” Picard sets his mouth like a man entirely in control of himself. But the pressure of suppressed aggravation breaks the seal of his lips and he bursts out, “Why do they insist on exit visas, except that it gives them one more way to put their teeth into you? This should be absolutely routine.” He mimics an official putting his nose into things. “Suspected violations of certain unnamed laws, they tell me. They say they can’t let me leave. I say show me the proof. And they know there is none.” In his aggrieved state, Picard has said too much and knows it. He waggles his head to change the subject. “In most countries if you displease the authorities they throw you out. Here they make you stay.” He gestures toward Rabary’s office. “One uses what connections one has.”
“One does,” I assure him. I’m beginning to understand. “And in exchange, you allow Rabary quite a run of luck at your place.”
Picard throws his arms out as if waiting to be nailed to a cross. “I tell him it would be easier to simply bring the money to him here.” The Frenchman glances around to see if anyone has overheard him, then continues more quietly. “But no, he wants to play the role of the lucky gambler. Everyone oohs and ahhs. It makes me sick. Even that’s not enough. Now he insists on taking his winnings in dollars. And I have none.”
It still doesn’t add up. The going price for an exit visa is a few thousand Malagasy francs—a few bucks—delivered to a mid-level hack. No, it’s something else. Rabary has something on Picard and can insist the question of his exit visa be kicked up to him—and the price kicked up with it. Over what? Picard’s claim that there’s no proof he has broken any laws falls short of an actual claim of innocence.
As if riding the train of my thoughts, Picard says, “Why am I telling you all this?” The question is aimed more at himself than at me. “We are both white men exiled in Africa. We dance to the tunes they play. But this place used to be our colony, for God’s sake.” The aggravation turns his face a deep red. “We understand each other, Robert, you and me. You, too, have a daughter. You know what it is like to never see your child.”
Picard’s swagger has leaked away and for a moment I feel an unwanted pity for the old brute.
The Frenchman senses it and bridles. “Don’t think I have gone soft, Robert. And don’t forget your debts to me. I have not.”
“Yeah, well, I’d love to stay and talk, but I have to get back to the office. Keep your chins up, Maurice.”
The Frenchman mumbles something unintelligible and shuffles down the hall toward Rabary’s office.