When Mary came home at night after a hard, long day at the embassy, all she wanted to do was bathe and change clothes and shed the day. At the embassy every minute seemed to be filled, and she never had any time to herself. But she soon found that the residence was just as bad. Wherever Mary went, there were the servants, and she had the uncomfortable feeling they were constantly spying on her.
Late one night she got up at two A.M. and went downstairs to the kitchen. As she opened the refrigerator, she heard a noise. She turned around, and Mihai, the butler, in his robe, and Rosica, Delia, and Carmen were standing there.
“What can I get you, Madam?” Mihai asked.
“Nothing,” Mary said. “I just wanted a little something to eat.”
Cosma, the chef, came in and said in a hurt voice, “All Madam had to do was tell me she was hungry and I would have prepared something.”
They were staring at her reprovingly.
“I don’t think I’m really hungry. Thank you.” And she fled back to her room.
The next day she told the children what had happened. “Do you know,” she said to Tim and Beth, “I felt like the second wife in Rebecca!”
“What’s Rebecca?” Beth asked.
“It’s a lovely book you’ll read one day.”
When Mary walked into her office, Mike Slade was waiting for her.
“We have a sick kid you’d better take a look at,” he said.
He led her to one of the small offices down the corridor. On the couch was a white-faced young marine, groaning in pain.
“What happened?” Mary asked.
“My guess is appendicitis.”
“Then we’d better get him to a hospital right away.”
Mike turned and looked at her. “Not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has to be flown either to Rome or Zurich.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mary snapped. She had lowered her voice so the boy would not hear. “Can’t you see how sick he is?”
“Ridiculous or not, no one from an American embassy ever goes to a hospital in an iron curtain country.”
“But why?”
“Because we’re vulnerable. We’d be at the mercy of the Romanian government and the Securitate. We could be put under ether, or given scopalomine—they could extract all kinds of information from us. It’s a State Department rule—we fly him out.”
“Why doesn’t our embassy have its own doctor?”
“Because we’re a ‘C category embassy. We haven’t the budget for our own doctor. An American doctor pays us a visit here once every three months. In the meantime, we have a pharmacist for minor aches and pains.” Mike walked over to a desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Just sign this, and he’s on his way. I’ll arrange for a special plane to fly him out.”
“Very well.” Mary signed the paper. She walked over to the young marine and took his hand in hers. “You’re going to be fine,” she said softly. “Just fine.”
Two hours later, the marine was on a plane to Zurich.
The following morning when Mary asked Mike how the young marine was, he shrugged. “They operated,” he said indifferently. “He’ll be all right.”
What a cold man, Mary thought. I wonder if anything ever touches him,
21
No matter what time in the morning Mary arrived at the embassy, Mike Slade was always there ahead of her. She saw him at very few of the embassy parties, and she had a feeling he had his own private entertainment every night.
He was a constant surprise. One afternoon Mary agreed to let Florian take Beth and Tim ice skating at Floreasca Park. Mary left the embassy early to join them, and when she arrived, she saw that Mike Slade was with them. The three of them were skating together, obviously having a wonderful time. He was patiently teaching them figure eights. I must warn the children about him, Mary thought. But she was not sure exactly what the warning should be.
The following morning when Mary arrived at her office, Mike walked in. “A codel is arriving in two hours. I thought—”
“A codel?”
“That’s diplomatese for a congressional delegation. Four senators with their wives and aides. They’ll expect you to meet with them. I’ll set up an appointment with President Ionescu and have Harriet see that their shopping and sight-seeing are taken care of.”