“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!” Phil Olmstead said, swinging his head dolefully from side to side. He was sitting slumped forward behind his shining, immaculate desk, where only a pen and pencil set commemorating his twenty-five years of service to USIA disturbed the bare surface. Behind him on six-foot staffs hung the flag of the United States on the right side and on the left the green, yellow, and red flag of Zaïre. On the wall directly behind Olmstead was placed a formal picture of President George Bush, his right eye squinting almost shut and the left corner of his mouth lifted, as if he were aiming a golf ball down a fairway.
Through the black strips of his hair, Olmstead’s scalp gleamed, a rosy pink. “What in God’s name could you have been thinking of?”
“Look, Phil, you’re making a big fuss over nothing,” Sarah said.
“Nothing! Do you call it nothing when an American diplomat, a member of the staff of an American embassy, is seen by a whole planeload of people stepping out of a presidential limousine? Oh, my God, I can’t believe you did this to me . . . the limousine of the President of Angola! Well, let me tell you, Sarah, the ambassador is fit to be tied! I can’t believe you did this to me.”
“Did what? And who reported seeing me there?”
“Sarah, won’t you ever understand that you live in a village down here? A village. Everyone knows everything. You can imagine how fast that little piece of gossip flew around town.” He sighed and flicked at a speck of dust on the polished desktop. “The political officer saw you, if you really want to know.”
“Bill Donovan?”
“No. The real political officer.”
“Well, there was nothing to see. I was incognito. No one even knew that I was an American. I was introduced to President Dos Santos as . . . a . . . a secretary. He barely knew that I was there. He was interested in other things.”
“Sarah! Barely knew that you were there! How naive do you think I am? Listen, Sarah, a girl with your looks, in Africa and a blonde to boot. What I mean is, that incognito stuff doesn’t really apply as far as you’re concerned.”
“So. The ambassador’s nose is out of joint. What exactly did the Peacock have to say?”
“The Peacock!” Olmstead shot to his feet, then aimlessly moved the pen and pencil set slightly, and sat down again. He looked furtively at the closed door.
“Sarah, sometimes you scare the hell out of me, you really do, you talk just like one of those pinko sixties radicals. Honest to God. The Peacock! Where’s your respect? You are referring to the personal representative of the President of the United States.” He hiked his head backward toward the picture of George Bush hanging on the wall, still optimistically sighting his golf ball. “We all gotta remember, the ambassador is going through some pretty tough times these days. He’s bound to be touchy. It’s rough being a single parent, knowing that everybody on post has heard the story of how your wife ran off with a sous-chef at the Hilton in Greece. A sous-chef, can you believe it? Oh, she was a big eater, that Mrs. Peacock. Still, you don’t run out on your husband and kid for somebody else’s chocolate mousse, for God’s sake!”
Olmstead fell silent, a musing calm settling over his face. He placed his clasped hands on the desk. Sarah sat studying the forest green carpet at her feet. She had a heavy load of work to clear up before leaving for the day, and she had promised Dieudonné that she would go by the medical unit to have blood drawn for his ten-year-old twin daughters suffering from sickle-cell anemia.
“Listen, Sarah, I don’t like hauling you over the coals like this, believe me, it’s not my style, and I admire your work here, I really do, God, every single one of the foreign nationals working here thinks that you walk on water. One of these mornings I expect to come in to the Center and find that they’ve canonized you over the weekend. Put up one of those little saint statues in the foyer where people will come by and drop their pennies in there and make a wish or something like that. They worship you already, these Zaïrians. And you deserve it, let me be the first to say that. You’re a hard worker, and you know how to get results. I admire that, Sarah, I really do.”
Olmstead lowered his voice and again placed his clasped hands before him. “So, let’s talk seriously, Sarah, because you ought to know that with your background and your looks . . . just a minute, scratch that, forget I ever said that, Sarah . . . what I mean is, Sarah, we’re looking at a great career for you farther down the line, you’ve got a tremendous future, and I know what I’m talking about. You hear what I’m saying? If you just toe the line, and follow my advice. Will you do that, Sarah? Will you listen to what I have to say?”
“Sure, Phil, sure. You know I will.”
Olmstead gazed at her for a moment, then leaned forward over his desk. “I’ve said it to you before, and I’m going to say it again, Sarah. Because you have no idea, absolutely no idea, how your career could take off if you follow this one little piece of advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Learn to play bridge!” he whispered dramatically.
“Phil? Bridge? When do I—”
“Find the time, find the time, that’s what I say. Make the time. All right, you’re going to say, hey, what the hell, give me some specifics, Phil, on how this is going to change my future. Well, hold on, I’ve got a pretty terrific specific right here. You know the congressional delegation due in here next week? Well, guess who is going to be their escort officer, hmm? Guess who is going to fly out to Lubumbashi with them in the embassy plane, hmm? Guess who is going to spend five days and four nights holding their hands and making sure that they go away happy? Well, you’re looking at guess who, Sarah.” Olmstead jerked a thick thumb toward his chest. “And you wanna know why the ambassador picked your boss to escort these VIPs. Simple. The ambassador’s smart. Because I play bridge, that’s why! They needed a fourth. And voilà! Philip Winslow Olmstead at your service.”
Sarah laughed. “And is this congressional delegation going to give you a medal because you make up a fourth, Phil?”
“Maybe not a medal, but an ambassadorship someday maybe. Hey, listen, it could happen. That’s the way the system works. One of these Capitol Hill types gets to know you, remembers your name, remembers that he made a seven no-trump hand when you were his partner out there at the consul’s house in Lubumbashi. It’s happened, listen. I knew a guy, name of Joe Watkins, great bridge player, got to know a senator from Nebraska on one of these swings, played bridge with him, and five years later ended up as ambassador to the Bahamas. Not a bad post, the Bahamas. Kinshasa with a seashore.”
“So that’s how the system works. I don’t know, when I was in Washington, I figured out that promotions must come from the cesspool system,” Sarah said.
“The cesspool system?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, bending toward him, “The cesspool system: all the shit rises to the top.”
“Sarah!” Olmstead said, his face stricken, “For God’s sake! The cesspool system.” And then his shoulders started to shake and his hands shuffled on the immaculate desktop. “The cesspool system. Patty and I could name a few of those!” He began to laugh, rumbling and snorting and snuffling like a pig in a turnip patch. “The cesspool system, wait until I tell Patty. Sarah, you crack me up, you really do. So classy Park Avenue blond with those innocent blue eyes, and then you say something like that . . . Cracks me up!” He snorted and snuffled again, back to the turnip patch, took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“Oh, my, my, my,” he wheezed, putting his handkerchief into his pocket. “Okay, Miss Laforge, I know you’re going to say that your boss has gone soft in the head, but I’m going to make it all right with the ambassador for you. Okay? And I’m going to throw you a plum that just might spark your own career. Listen, the congressmen’s wives, I want you to look after the wives, it’s getting near Christmas and they’ll want to do their Christmas shopping while they’re here. Some of the congressmen may want to pick up a few gifts for their girlfriends. So I want you to bring some of the best ivory vendors from the cité to the InterCon, discreetly, don’t bring a pack of them in at one time, so that the wives can make their purchases. Ask Gussie Pearce, she knows the best ivory workmen in the cité. She’ll be glad to line them up for you.”
“Ivory? Phil, nobody can take ivory into the United States any more. It’s illegal, in case you haven’t heard. Against the law.”
“Sarah. Pay attention. You didn’t hear what I said. These are congressmen! Okay? Do I have to draw you a picture? So, make sure the ladies see some nice stuff. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sarah said, getting to her feet. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good girl!” Olmstead said. It was true. He did have a soft spot for Sarah, there was no doubt about it. As a matter of fact, because of Sarah, he was beginning to change his mind about the job Stéphane at the InterCon was doing with Patty’s hair, which had always been such a source of pride to him. Lately, looking at Sarah’s short, burnished curls, the kind of hair that a man could run his hands through without worrying about a thing, had started him thinking. Patty’s hair, well, it was different, it was always, careful, don’t touch my hair with that thing, or get Pierre to close the French doors, my hair is beginning to droop, or don’t get too close, I’ve just had my hair done. Patty’s hair had become something more like a fragile family heirloom that required constant care and protection, an anxiously guarded, delicate piece that might tip over on its nose and smash.
“I’ll see you Monday, Phil,” Sarah said, turning from the door. “Have a nice weekend.”
“You, too. And no more hobnobbing with African heads of state, you pinko sixties radical, you,” Olmstead said, wagging his finger at her.