Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 8
There were times when Frank didn’t come home until very late, without a simple explanation, so I started to look at the entries in his business calendar. Suspicion became my business. Why were there so many entries to “Call P”? Who was that? We shared everything, I thought. Hmm, we had recently befriended a young, divorced woman whose name was Patricia. She’d come to our house, but I thought that Frank had responded with too much alacrity to her need for a ride home.
Frank was gone a long time. I asked him about it, my mouth dry. Mysteries were never to exist between us under difficult circumstances that only we understood. He breezily told me that he went up with Patricia to have a drink, and hadn’t noticed the time. Two hours having drinks with a woman who doesn’t drink? Once he said that he had stopped at the attractive neighborhood bar across from her apartment, but he forgot he had been wearing jeans (with no pockets) and a sweater, and didn’t carry a wallet. Were the drinks free? Ice cold words. He said he had his credit card. I immediately made a mental note to scan the credit card bill. Another mental note to stop at the pretty little bar and ask them if they were open after midnight.
Deceit. Lying. Pretending. These were the fabrics of our everyday life. This is what we fed on. How unhealthy it was. On the evening of my birthday, when Frank was taking me to dinner at the finest restaurant in Madrid, he suggested that we stop to have a cocktail with Patricia. What? She was by no means a close friend of mine. Frank said he had met her on the street that afternoon. He was in high spirits, and her apartment was on the way. My teeth were clenched. When we came out of the elevator of Patricia’s apartment building, she opened the door and we walked into her living room, a room full of my favorite people, shouting “Surprise!”
Frank and Patricia had been planning this party for a long time. He had specifically wanted the party in her apartment because I would have been suspicious about a party had we been stopping at the home of someone I was really close to. Patricia and Frank had arranged all the details, the catering, the flowers, and even a bartender.
I had once told Frank that I had never had a birthday party in my life, not even as a child. This was the first. I couldn’t hug him hard enough, enforced, of course, by my feeling of shame. Patricia was an attentive hostess in spite of having a very bad cold. She and Frank laughingly told the room full of people that one day when they were coming from the caterers, they saw a mutual friend, and said, oops, people will talk!
What was I becoming? Was I going to be suspicious about every small incident in our life? That was our modus operandi, suspicion. Frank used to call me from the office every day, sometimes twice a day, just to talk, to see what I was doing. And he most definitely called me if he was going to be out of the office, or late for dinner. There was no need for him to give me details. One night, when he hadn’t called at all during the day and wasn’t home by early evening, I began to worry. I waited. Midnight came and went and I was deeply distressed. I made a drink. Then another. Now I was scared. Was this an urgent circumstance that warranted my calling his case officer? This was only to be done under extreme circumstances, and there was a code phrase to use in the event that either of our phones were bugged. To make a phone call at 5:30 a.m. and keep it casual was pretty ridiculous. Fortunately, it was not unusual for us to call their number, because John had become a buddy of the case officer’s son, and we’d become outwardly and understandably friendly with the parents. I phoned and used the code phrase, saying that I thought Frank might have been in an accident.
The case officer and his wife came over immediately. When they arrived, I made tea, and they both made light of my dilemma, with the glances that husbands and wives exchange when someone is being humored. Fine for them, I thought. They were protected by the embassy. Still Frank didn’t come home. The sun came up, and they left. He said he would start making calls later in the day.
Frank was known for his courtly manner with the ladies, an engaging flirt, and was easily labeled a “ladies’ man.” I had never had reason to think he had ever pursued the women he flirted with, and the party flirtations never bothered me, except to be somewhat embarrassed by its constancy. Now I wondered.
At 6:30 a.m. Frank pulled into the driveway. I stood at the door in a sudden state of rage. How quickly anxiety and fear can change to anger. I wanted to punch him for not having been in an accident. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were rumpled. Why weren’t his legs broken? He had been, he said, having a drink at the Hilton Hotel when he ran into a couple of Americans he had met in Washington, and they had “a few drinks” and then went to dinner, and after dinner they invited him to their suite for a nightcap, and he fell asleep in his chair.
How could he have gone through an entire evening and a day without calling me? I felt like hitting him, but I was too tired. I went to our bedroom and locked the door. But I didn’t sleep. I worried about what the maid would think if Frank was sleeping on the sofa, or what the children would think. I felt used and betrayed. Now I was humiliated that I had called the case officer about something so embarrassing.
Much later, I heard that Frank was reputed, among his colleagues to be a problem drinker. Thus, the meaningful glances between the case officer and his wife. They had assumed that Frank had passed out somewhere. They were right. It seemed that all deep cover men were heavy drinkers.
The Tangled Web We Weave
It was going to be tricky explaining the radical change in Frank’s workplace with a new company and an entirely different job description. We fabricated a story about the president of the new company having followed Frank’s career. We said the monetary reward was too good to turn down. Frank would have to go to Italy for six months to train, which was true, and it was also true that the man in Italy who would be training Frank would actually believe he was going to be posted either in Florence or Geneva. The plot was thick.
I was not elated to be going to what was described as a hardship post, meaning that we would receive a better housing allowance, and would be allowed to have “rest and recuperation” leave every six months, as well an annual leave. How terrible could this place be? I was not looking forward to six months on my own, never mind handling the complexities of the move, dealing with three embassies: the United States, Spain, and India.
What irony, that going to India to live should be so difficult. Who, in their right mind, would want to go at all? I had to go to the Indian Embassy several times, and I was constantly looking over my shoulder, because I did not want anyone I knew to see me entering or leaving.
The headmaster of King’s College, long, lanky, needing dental work and a shoeshine, a perfect English man of letters, was “appalled” that we had been so crass as to send our children to Spanish schools since age three, but when they were given tests in math, geography, and history, they were found to be much further ahead than the British students, and they did well. We continued to pretend that we expected to be posted in Italy. We discussed telling the children the truth, but it was too complicated and confusing, so we decided we had to lie to them, too.
Frank made a secret trip to India to meet the man he would replace, as well as to check the housing situation. He was glowing in his description of the house we would inherit from the man in place. It had marble floors, five bedrooms and six bathrooms, a huge garden, a gracious veranda, and eleven servants. That’s what he said. Then he left for Florence.
When Frank and I were separated during the six months he lived in Italy and I lived in Spain, I became increasingly uncomfortable about the role I was always expected to play. This period of time was stretching my emotional and physical boundaries beyond a place I could handle. The children didn’t need me. They were very attached to our maid, who truly loved them, and when she was giving them their evening meal, there was a constant sound of chatter and laughing. Their lives were filled with school and games with the children in the neighborhood. During the past seven years, Spanish had become their primary language (and it actually was Johanna’s first language). They often went to a local movie with the maid, who became fast friends with Kristin, sharing a love of books.
There were few invitations for me to dinner parties, which under ordinary circumstances, when Frank was home, would be frequent. This hurt me deeply. I would occasionally have lunch with one of my friends, and hear about a party she and her husband had attended, with hosts that I considered to be good friends of mine. I felt a tinge of paranoia. Didn’t they like me? Was it only Frank’s grace that made us popular? Did the hostess think I would vamp her husband? The situation was hard to accept because when Frank and I gave a party, I was acutely aware of the loneliness of single women and I made sure they were invited. Vamping my husband was the last thing I would worry about, as I was so accustomed to Frank spreading his charm and wit around. I knew that it didn’t lead anywhere beyond the front door.
I occupied myself by organizing dozens of boxes filled with hundreds of photographs, putting them in albums. I borrowed records from friends and made miles of reel-to-reel tape of Peggy Lee, the Mamas and Papas, Sinatra. The music from this enterprise ended up following us around the world, and always brought back memories, even to the children.
But the bed was cold at night. I missed the physical comfort, the sharing of small problems, the laughter that erupted from both of us when we were together. We exchanged all our thoughts, and spending the end of the day together was as entertaining to us as going to a party.
I thought of Frank in Italy, with wonderful meals and good wine and conversation. In later years, Frank often referred to that time as being bitterly lonely, missing his family, taking long walks to fill a Sunday afternoon, reading in his small room. It was a hard time for both of us, and I cringe to think of how snappish I could be when Frank phoned, because he sounded cheerful and happy, which was a false face to present to me. I did not demonstrate such courtesy.
Visas and Hotels
Going through the tap dance of obtaining visas in Frank’s absence, I felt that I was prostituting myself by wooing the friendship of the silly Indian Ambassador, who was young and lived with a blonde bimbo in the very American part of the city. He had no ambassadorial functions that I was aware of. If I needed anything from the Indian Embassy, I had to call him at home and then he would come to work. They invited me to dinner on two occasions, and he struck me as being a superficial child, which worked to my advantage when I turned in visa applications, with nonmatching pictures and a forged signature on Frank’s application.
I had the distinct impression that people were not exactly pounding on his door for visas, or anything else, but he bestowed importance and aggrandizement upon himself. He was The Ambassador. Top man. I treated him with due respect, flattered him, and oh, how easy it was to make him think I respected him. He told me that sometimes the issuing of visas was a slow procedure because they were very careful not to allow the CIA in. “The government is very worried about them,” he said, and I told him I could certainly understand that. He demonstrated his considerable power by “pushing the visas through.” I had expected praise from Frank for my visa trick, but he said nothing, except that he would be annoyed if the visas were held up by my chicanery.
This wasn’t the Frank I knew. That Frank would have laughed and congratulated me. The life we were living now was so unnatural. We both had our own private hills to climb and overcome. It wasn’t a team effort. From the beginning, we had shared the anxiety and bewilderment that presented itself whenever we stumbled to the tune of the clowns, as we fondly called the Washington choreographers. I felt I deserved more credit for what I had accomplished and endured on my own. The original plan had been that Frank would return to Madrid, we would make the rounds of farewells, and go to India.
There was a deadline for our arrival in India, due to the fact that the wife of our predecessor had fallen into a deep depression there, and had become a recluse, dressed in dhoti (the humble rags of the lower castes). She had painted a spot on her forehead, and sat staring at the wall. She returned to the United States and was being treated for depression, and her husband was eager to take the children and join her. This story did not cheer me. It was hard to be optimistic, and if the Indian Ambassador was an example of the upper class, it augured badly.
I was always taken by surprise when I received frequent calls from the new cover company. I was not use to being comforted or helped, far less asked what hotel I would like to move to before the transfer, the cost being of no consequence. I knew we could expect a happy alliance with them. There were times when we did consider leaving the Agency for a real job with them, especially with the large bonuses with which Frank was rewarded, and could not keep. They were turned in to the CIA, and they disappeared.
During our stay in Spain, Frank had no objection or argument about his assignments or the agents he was to deal with. He always got along extremely well with the liaison from the embassy, and especially with his case officers. He loved his job. How many people do? He even loved the cover job, because he didn’t have to worry about it after he was established and had some experience behind him. Training for a cover job created extreme pressure, but once trained, he strutted into the office with élan, pretending he knew what he was doing. He was a good actor. That was fun. Nobody was going to fire him.
I loved our life in Madrid, and to this day, I feel nostalgic about it, as do our grown children. Spain was their childhood. It was futbol on the streets with their Spanish friends, and Spanish movies on Sundays, and trips to the pueblo and summers on the Costa del Sol on the beach, and long car trips to the north of Spain on the border of France, and swimming lessons at our country club, and a house ringing with the sounds of parties, and First Communion in the tiny chapel with the nuns beaming over them, and the love of Luisa, our dear, intelligent maid/friend over many years. Spain was home.
When I moved into a hotel in Madrid with the children, awaiting Frank’s arrival before making our way to India, I was overjoyed to see that we had two adjoining suites. One suite had a king bed, and the other had two double beds and a very comfortable cot. I wondered if this was a mistake. I had had a few chats with the man with the cover company, and I felt I should call him to see if there was a mistake. The phone rang, and it was him, calling to see if the rooms were satisfactory. I told him how overwhelmed I was, as I had reserved only two adjoining double rooms, and I had asked for a cot for the maid. Although the children would have been quite safe on their own, they so loved Luisa that I had decided to have her with us for a while longer. My caller said perhaps I might like to entertain my friends, that all I had to do was sign the checks for meals, and by all means, invite them over. Yes, indeed! It was a beautiful hotel with three restaurants, a large swimming pool, and excellent room service.
Looking at our barren house after the movers had left, my heart ached. I could see the outline of the paintings we had bought at the flea market, and the carpet in the dining room. The house had a hollow sound. It had been so filled with love; I hoped it was contained there. Then I received a call from Frank, telling me that the head office of the cover company, based in the middle of America, had said they wanted him to work there for about six weeks to become acquainted with the people he would be dealing with. This, of course, was a good plan, but it did mean that we would go with him and live in a hotel there.
We had seventeen suitcases. New clothes for at least a year for the children and varied goods I had been advised we would never find in India. Frank was already at the home office. He asked me to buy a washer, dryer, and refrigerator to ship, because the voltage was not available in the States. I didn’t know if I had the energy to do that. But I did.
When we arrived in New York, I must have looked as haggard as I felt. The gruff customs man asked me what I had to declare, and I waved at the seventeen suitcases and said, “Everything.” He looked at the children lined up behind me and waved me through. “I think you have your hands full,” he said. The hotel we stayed in in the United States was in the suburbs of the city, quiet, for the sake of the children. Very quiet. The children didn’t complain. One day John said, “Why didn’t we just stay in the hotel at home? Daddy’s always working, and there’s nothing to do.” He had called Madrid “home.” It was no longer a foreign country.
Frank and I were not communicating well. It was my nature to handle unpleasant situations by plunging into them and ridding myself of the feelings of foreboding and dread by discussing it, thrashing through it. Waiting for weeks, especially in a situation where I was idle, deepened my apprehension, and the pricklier I became. Frank knew this and retaliated with silence, though I deeply wanted him to try to comfort me and empathize. Frank shrank from emotional discussions and chose stoicism instead, and that made me feel shut out and angry, creating a feeding frenzy of nerves. And because I was vocal about my feelings, I always felt that I was being the bad guy.
Finally, it was time to test the visas. We started our journey to India.
* * *
INDIA
(1972-1974)
Arriving in India
We arrived in India on July 17th at 10:00 a.m. Under our new sponsorship, we travelled first class, and our trip had been luxurious. We basked and ignored the effete Qantas steward’s glowering at the children. When we landed in New Delhi, the airplane did not pull up to an airport building to disembark. As a matter of fact, Qantas landed far out on the tarmac and a stairway was wheeled up to the plane for us, as we were the only people leaving. I thought this to be rather strange. There we were on a tarmac, a distance, obviously, from the airline terminal, and all we could see were a couple of shacks or sheds.
We were directed toward those sheds, and were told that they were, in fact, the terminal. As soon as we stepped outside, we were assaulted by the heat and the smell. It overwhelmed us. “A sewer must have backed up,” I said as we all placed our hands over our noses. I didn’t realize that this was the smell of India.
