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keep the damned war to himself and at night he could go home like any ordinary businessman, forgetting the office. He wondered if Marx, at the conclusion of a raucous sexual encounter with his faithful Jenny, muttered something about each according to his needs . . . He did not. Harry hoped the time would come when he could separate who he was from what he did, except that in America it was always the salient question, the one whose answer spoke volumes. In Britain the same question was deemed intrusive, none of your damned business; if you didn’t know, don’t ask. The ambassador once referred to him as a model government man, a Fed through and through, good at following instructions, very good at reading the opposition. Harry took the remark as a compliment. He supposed he had the manner, coming mostly from his childhood around the Regency table at Sunday lunch. When he was a schoolboy he was often called upon for memory tricks: the states and their capitals, the captive nations that constituted the Soviet bloc. And then he was encouraged to sit and listen while the adults spoke. There was often someone from the government, usually retired and working for a bank or a law firm in the city, and he was the one asked to clarify the awkward questions of the day, the personalities of the men in the Kremlin or the reliability of the French and, later on, the criminal regimes in Cuba and Red China. The former government official, often a diplomat or Defense Department specialist, less often a White House assistant, usually spoke soberly, one question always leading to another, each more difficult than the last, with a reference somewhere to “holding the line.” There were very many lines. Something glamorous about it, Harry thought, being at the center of events, always at or near the top table. He did pay close attention to the demeanor of the former officials, the way they fell silent at a certain point, eyes far away and stunned as if struck by a sudden blow. But they were only remembering that which could not be said, a secret still secret, information that, if known, would alter the agreed-upon landscape. The ambassador said that the government was excellent preparation for life because in the nature of things you devoted your days to weighing and measuring—what you said and who you said it to and why and the objective, cards always close to the vest. And when you turned one over, sometimes with reluctance, sometimes with nonchalance, you got something for it. The way things were in the world, your queen nearly always trumped your opponent’s king. That was because you held the American card. When to play the card and what you expected to get for it was the essence of the diplomatic art. And you did this every day and the result was: an examined life.
    Sieglinde said, I like your villa. It’s spacious, nicely arranged. I like it here under the stars with you.
    Look, he said. I’d like you to stay. You know that. No question about that, is there? But after a while you won’t like it because there’s no future here.
    But I do like it. I like the tropics. I like the heat and the pace of life, the scurry. A siesta in the heat of the afternoon. Afternoons last forever in the tropics, don’t you think? It’s from another century, this country. And since I don’t care much for this century I’ve decided to choose another, especially the afternoons. I know the war is here but I pay no attention to it. Why should I? The war is not my concern. What time is it?
    Around three, Harry said. In the morning.
    Listen now, Sieglinde said. Not a sound. Not a breath of air. The air has a weight of its own, the scent of your garden and the trees. Can’t you feel the dew falling? That’s why I don’t like Hamburg, its burdens. Clamor. Cold and wind. Rain from the north. You say it’s dead here but it’s not dead, it’s indifferent. You can bend this country but