Then the caravan returned ceremoniously to the hotel in Buna, and the bodyguards drew great, quiet sighs of relief. The Senator and his wife retired, and the bodyguards set up their night patrols, and the media krewe went out looking for trouble and action at some Moder-ator orgy under some enormous dewy tent. Oscar, who had ex-hausted himself avoiding Clare, found himself maneuvered into a situation where he and his former girlfriend had to have a sociable nightcap together. Just to show that there were no hard feelings. Though the feelings were extremely hard.
So Clare had a glass of hotel Chablis, and Oscar, who didn’t drink, had a club soda. They sat at a small wooden table while music played, and they were forced to talk privately.
“So, Clare. Tell me all about Holland. That must have been fas-cinating.”
“It was, at first.” She was so good-looking. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. He’d even forgotten that he’d once made it a habit to court beautiful women. As a member of the Bambakias krewe and a press player in Washington, Clare was far better put-together than she had ever been as a newbie Boston political journo. Clare was still young. He’d forgotten what it meant to date young, beautiful, bril-liantly dressed women. He’d never gotten over her. He hadn’t given himself enough time. He’d just shelved the issue and sought out a distraction.
Her lips were still moving. He forced himself to pay attention to her words. She was saying something about finding her cultural roots as an Anglo. Europe was full of Yankee defectors and emigres, bitter, aging white men who clustered in beer cellars and moaned that their country was being run by a crazy redskin. Europe hadn’t been all romance for Clare. The part of Europe that was drowning fastest didn’t have much romance for anyone.
“Oh, but a war correspondent, though. That seems like such a career opportunity.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said. “You enjoy tortur-ing me.”
“What?” He was shocked.
“Didn’t Lorena tell you all about my little Dutch misadven-tures?”
“Lorena doesn’t tell me about her krewe activities. I’m not in the Bambakias circle anymore. I scarcely have a krewe of my own, these days.”
She sipped at her wine. “Krewes are pitiful. They’re disgusting. People will do anything for a little security nowadays. Even sell them-selves into servitude. Any rich person can scare up their own loyal gang, just for the asking. It’s feudalism. But we’re so wrecked as a country that we can’t even make feudalism work.”
“I thought you liked Lorena. You always gave her such good spin.”
“Oh, I loved her as copy. But as my boss… well, what am I saying? Lorena’s great to me. She took me on when I was down, she made me a little player. She never outed me on the Dutch thing. I have a classy job in Washington, I have nice clothes and a car.”
“All right. I’ll bite. Tell me what happened in Holland.”
“I have bad habits,” Clare said, staring at the tablecloth. “I got this impression that I could sleep my way into good stories. Well, it worked great in Boston! But Den Haag is not Boston. The Dutch aren’t like Americans. They can still concentrate. And their backs are against the wall.” She twisted a lock of hair.
“I’m sorry to hear that you met with a setback. I hope you don’t think I’m angry with you because our affair ended badly.”
“You are angry with me, Oscar. You’re furious. You resent me and you hate me, but you’re just such a player that you would never, ever show that to me. You’d dump me if you had to, and you did dump me, but at least you couldn’t be bothered to crucify me. I made a real mistake, thinking that all politicians were like you.”
Oscar said nothing. She was going to spill it all very soon. More words wouldn’t make it come any faster.
“I got a hot lead on a scandal. I mean a major Cold War scandal, huge, big. All I had to do was wheedle it out of this Dutch sub-minister of something-or-other. And he was gonna come across for me. Because he was a Cold War spook, and he knew that I knew that he was a spook, and I was a journalist, which is halfway to spookiness, really. And he was hot for me. But that was okay, because, you know, if you put your mind to it, you can get these things out of men. It’s a mentor thing. They’re like your uncle, or maybe your professor, and you don’t know the ropes, and they’re going to teach you the ropes. And all you have to do is let them tie you up with the ropes just a little.” She had another sip.
“Clare, why would I be judgmental about that? These things happen. It’s reality.”
“You know, we don’t understand that here in America. We don’t get it that we’re the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of climate politics. We’re so out of sync that we still measure in pounds and inches. We think it’s funny that we’re having a War with a bunch of little people with tulips and wooden shoes. We’re like spoiled chil-dren. We’re like big fat teenage pop stars cruising around in our two-ton pink Cadillac blasting our stereo and throwing our beer empties everywhere. We don’t get it that there are serious, civilized people who spend their time in downtown Amsterdam watching hookers in public sex cages in a city saturated with dope, and the sex doesn’t touch them, and the dope doesn’t touch them, because they are very determined, and they are very cold.”
“Are they cold people, the Dutch?”
“Cold and wet. And getting wetter. All the time.”
“They tell me the Navy is considering knocking some holes in their dikes with artillery blasts.”
“You’d know that, being NSC, wouldn’t you?”
A chill like dry ice wafted between them. Oscar almost sensed a swirl of congealing fog.
Clare leaned back in her chair. “It smells funny in Buna. Doesn’t it? All these tents and gas shelters. That big dome smells weird. It’s like they never change their underwear.”
“This isn’t Boston, it’s the Gulf Coast. You think it smells funny inside here, you should walk around outside for a while.”
“Too many mosquitoes.”
Oscar laughed.
Clare frowned. “You don’t have to know what happened to me in Holland. I just got in too deep, that’s all. I got away from there, and I was lucky to get away, that’s my big story. I’m lucky Lorena has such a big heart.”
“Clare… it’s just a shame. War is a hard game and even a toy war has casualties. I wouldn’t have wished that on you for anything.”
“You told me that. You warned me about it. Remember? And I told you that I was a grown-up. We were working in this dinky little Boston election where the guy had seven-percent approvals. We were like kids in a sandbox. I thought it was so upscale and important, and it all seems so innocent now. And here you’ve done this incredible thing and I … well, I work for the Senator now. So I guess that’s all right.”
“It’s the breaks.”
“Oscar, why aren’t you more of a scoundrel? I’m all burned out on men. And you’re like this slimy pol who always gets his way, and I thought I’d be all burned out on you, but when I saw you to-night… well, it all came back to me.”
“What came back?”
“You and me. That you’re this cute guy who was always sweet and polite to me, and gave me his house pass and taught me about funny old modern art. My old flame. The dream boyfriend. I really miss you. I even miss the satin sheets and your skin temperature.”
“Clare, why are you telling me this? You know I’m involved with another woman now. For heaven’s sake, everyone in the world knows I’m involved with Greta Penninger.”
“Oscar, you can’t be serious about that. Her? She’s a rebound type. No, she’s not even that. Oscar — don’t you get it? People make jokes about you and her. She’s funny-looking. She’s old. She has a big nose and no ass. She can’t be any fun. I mean, not like the kind of fun we used to have.”