Читать книгу The Ambassador to Brazil - Peter Hornbostel - Страница 5

CHAPTER 2

Carter had first seen her at a reception at the Romanian embassy. It had been another of those goddamn National Day cocktail parties. One hundred fifteen countries plus the Vatican were diplomatically represented in Brazil. That meant 115 ambassadors plus the Papal Nuncio. Of course, all of them except the Vatican had Independence Days. That was to be expected. But eighty-seven of them also had National Days, on which they would have parties as well. He had long since stopped going to these, until the foreign ministry of the government of Malta (he hadn’t even known that Malta was a country) complained to Washington that he hadn’t attended their National Day party. The idiots on the Brazil Desk sent a cable instructing him that “it is the policy of the United States that all ambassadors attend all National Day parties of countries accredited to the countries in which they were located if that is the host country.” At first he couldn’t quite figure out what the cable meant, and so decided to ignore it. Besides, since when did the Desk establish the policy of the United States? But he had to pick his fights with Washington carefully these days, so in the end he went along. Whenever he could, he sent his deputy chief of mission, Maurice A. Villepringle, in his place. Villepringle even liked those goddamn parties. But the DCM was on a reconnaissance trip to Recife in Northeast Brazil, and so Carter had gone himself.

Now he stood off to the side of the hall at the brand new Romanian embassy building, holding a champagne glass of seltzer into which he had squeezed a tiny drop of the yellow Easter-egg dye, which turned the bubbly water a pale yellow.

“So you like our champagne?” the third secretary of the Romanian embassy asked. “Frankly, I think it’s far superior to the French, don’t you?”

Carter assured him that he agreed.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” said the Romanian. He noticed someone across the hall. “Oh, there’s Ambassador Sverdlov. I’m afraid I must speak to him for just a moment. Please excuse me,” and he hurried off.

Carter looked around the hall. His host, the young Romanian ambassador, was chatting with Sverdlov, the Russian ambassador, who was looking particularly grumpy, even for him. Red drapes had been hung on the walls, together with a large photograph of Ceauşescu, and a few pictures of smiling Romanian children reading small red books, apparently with great pleasure. All the usual suspects chattered with each other in small groups around the room, clutching glasses of Romanian champagne. Several were holding similar small, red leather-bound books. He spotted Jack Sprague, the medic at the Canadian embassy, and walked over. Jack was one of his few real friends in the Rio diplomatic corps.

“Well, Mr. Ambassador, what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” said Sprague. “Isn’t it a lovely party?” Dr. Sprague knew Washington’s instructions about attending National Day parties.

“Fuck you,” said Carter.

“Oh, come on. I know you love these things. And the food is so delicious.” He snared a nasty-looking pastry from a passing tray. “Have one or two of these,” he said. “After that you’ll need my medical services, and you won’t be so disrespectful.”

Carter laughed.

“I guess Villepringle is out of town,” said Sprague, “or I wouldn’t be having the pleasure of your company, right?”

“Right.”

“So, what’s new?” said Sprague. “You guys still trying to get the generals to kick this booby president out of office? Or are you gonna do it yourselves? Not that I blame you, you understand.”

Carter was appalled. How did Sprague know that the CIA was advising the Brazilian military on the best strategy for “kicking out” the Goulart government, and “saving democracy” in Brazil? Some of the spooks even believed that the United States should do the job itself, to make sure it was done right. He wasn’t sure what they meant by “right.” Nor that they could do the job better than the Brazilians, whatever “right” meant.

“Jack, you know better,” he said. “The United States would never support any kind of military uprising against a democratically elected government, or interfere in the domestic sovereignty of any other country.” Carter realized how stuffy he must sound, but this was what he was supposed to say.

“Oh sure,” said Sprague. “What about Santo Domingo? Or Haiti? Or Panama?”

But Carter didn’t hear him. He was staring across the room at a tall, slender, brown-skinned young woman with gray-green eyes wearing a demure black dress who was moving in their direction, passing out little red leather-covered books, which looked just like the books that held the rapt attention of the children in the pictures on the walls. “Look at that,” he breathed to Sprague.

“Wow,” said the doctor, “I’d like to examine her. I know Brazilian mulattas are gorgeous, but this one….” He paused. “You’re the United States ambassador, Tony, and you’re a married man. You can’t screw around like I can.”

“This is Rio de Janeiro,” said Carter, “anything goes here.”

“I know,” said Sprague softly. “But you’re not a Brazilian, you’re American and you’re still a married man. And you are Mr. Ambassador.”

The girl was, by now, standing in front of them. She smiled, “I’d like to offer you gentlemen copies of the new book written by our beloved President Ceauşescu. It contains a brilliant exposition on the Romanian peasant, and his role in the glorious socialist revolution in Romania.” She had obviously memorized her little speech.

“What is a gorgeous carioca like you doing passing out Communist propaganda for the Romanian embassy?” Carter asked in Portuguese.

The girl remained silent.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Carter said. He realized that he was again sounding like a stuffy striped-pants diplomat. “You are very beautiful,” he added.

Her face darkened into a blush; the smile remained in place. “You already have a copy?” she said. “I’m so glad.” And she moved gracefully on to repeat her pitch to the Moroccan chargé d’affaires, who was standing a few steps further on.

“Now, that was innocent enough, wasn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” said Sprague, a grin on his face.

“You know, Jack,” Carter said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl that beautiful before.”