A futon, black floor-pillows, an oak chest of drawers, and a low, circular oak table were the only furnishings in Isoka’s home. A single black-and-gold Tibetan thanka hung on the whitewashed wall. In an age when furnishings proclaimed wealth, and ostentation equaled good taste, the ambassador’s asceticism bespoke his maverick values. He chose to live spare of color, texture, and ornament, thinking simplicity kept his mind clear. The less that was his, the more he could focus on and understand others; perception and insight were the tasks of a diplomat and the tools of a kingmaker.
Irma had never seen such a room; but after her long confinement in the dreary, windblown hovel, she found herself more at home here than she had in her uncle’s or father’s homes, both of which had been crammed with riches. When they first arrived, she had tried to probe him about it, asked why he valued plainness, did not see furniture as an extension of himself. His answers were brief and unconvincingly self-depreciating. Irma surmised that he was not willing to talk much about himself--quite different from Todd who, though not by any means free with words, was addicted to self-examination. The older Isoka, Irma decided, had long ago come to terms with who he was, and now found the issues of the world more compelling than his own psyche or condition. Irma preferred such a course for herself, for it seemed at once more generous and less painful. So she put behind her thoughts of her father, her future, her pain and her anger. With composure and what cheer she could muster, she quizzed the ambassador about his duties here and in Los Angeles.
He never got to tell her, because as he briefly mulled over how much to tell the woman from San Francisco, a soldier banged on the door. In this way Irma received the explosive news of her father’s death.
A cold and silent hour latter, Irma still sat on the floor pillows. Candlelight filled the room. She smoked a hand-rolled cigarette, staring angrily at the wall. She had not shed a tear, and she hated herself because of it. But she could not find pity for him. She had witlessly been a shield for her father’s assassin. She had left rejecting his last wish, refusing his pleas for reconciliation. Her mind was a wind tunnel through which flew the accusing banshees of her conscience. What creature was more accursed than an ungrateful child? She told herself, Even now, I should be praying for his soul, not lamenting my latest sin.
Isoka, freshly washed and wearing a clean uniform, stood at a short distance, trying to descry her emotions. In the whiteness of her sorrow, Irma’s beauty grew terrible. Isoka could not fully fathom what she thought about during that mute hour, but he imagined it to be noble. From her few utterances and articulate silence, he had surmised the direction of her grief.
Even when jailed, Irma had held her head high. Now she was an ungrateful daughter as well as an object to be passed from man to man. She was so haunted by the latest turn in her life that Todd, the struggle in the tunnel, and her arrival before the crowd seemed like distant, pointless memories. But her last contact with her last parent was bitter, even hateful. She had seen by her father’s twinkling eyes that he put no credence in her anger, dismissed the content of her tirade as an expression of fatigue. So perhaps, she prayed, she had not sent him to his violent death with a parent's broken heart.
Isoka gave her space. They sat quietly until three A.M. Occasionally, she smiled at him with what he read as gratitude. The ambassador saw the irony in his situation. In the entire campaign, he had not taken a woman in this way. He had watched with disgust while other officers used captive women as toys. Even when consent was given, Isoka saw these relationships as one step from rape: What choice did the women have? It was a part of war he found most odious. Now, by claiming this luckless woman as his own, he had crossed a moral divide. But he knew he would keep her. He decided (albeit half-heartedly) that fortunately, under the circumstances, there could be no thought of carnal intimacy this first night. They spoke briefly before they slept. He treated her with kind reserve. He asked how she felt.
“Physiologically sad,” she said. “I don’t know if you can lose a parent, any parent, and not feel some grief. I wish it was more, but I can’t find it in me. My mind finds no reason for sorrow, even when…I seem to think only of me.”
He said gently, “You’ve every right to. You’d be foolish not to.”
“No. Nothing justifies self-absorption.”
“Surely to preserve yourself--”
“It’s kind of you to say so. But crisis doesn’t absolve me of remaining true to my values.” After a pause, she added, “I’ll bounce back.”
#
True to her word, the next morning, Irma was composed and good humored at breakfast. Though normally Isoka quickly ate eggs and then went into camp, today he had sent his orderly to tell the vice mayor that he was staying out of the field. Instead, the ambassador prepared a breakfast of bread, yogurt, apples, and plums, along with strong black tea. While he and Irma ate, he advised her on how to lay claim to her father’s wealth. Irma’s attentiveness and her astute questions about the legal mechanics of asserting her rights impressed him. Her bravery and willingness to fight in the tunnel the day before had already convinced him that Irma was unlike any woman he had ever met. Her beauty and sensuality (the latter currently exaggerated because of her recent and much-relished sexual awakening), in addition to her character and intelligence, had, in twenty-four hours, combined to steal the ambassador’s heart. He was twenty years older than she, but among the Angeleno upper class, exaggerated age differences were common; he assumed the same quirk was normal in San Francisco. Isoka was single, a busy man with a self-contained lifestyle. His world centered on his career and the welfare of his homeland. But, now, at age 42, for the first time, he decided he had fallen in love, or at least met the woman he wished to marry.
As he walked away from the breakfast table, he bent down and kissed Irma on the cheek. She recoiled and frowned at him. Isoka took a step back; he was surprised and nonplused that she had looked at him as though he were a thief. In later years, he would remember that moment as the only time in his adult life that he was at a complete loss for words.
For her part, Irma quickly saw that she had utterly disarmed him. Although she did not want to be kissed, touched, or importuned for intimacy, she was very disappointed to see this powerful and dignified man stammer before her. At that moment, she realized how much she despised the weakness men invariably showed in the face of her beauty. A thought came into her head: How apt is the phrase “to make one’s skin crawl.”
Isoka said bitterly, “The way you pressed against me in the tunnel, the way you spoke, led me to believe, and to desire--”
“I was afraid for my life!” she declared indignantly. “Those men hated me. You had to know that.”
Isoka shook his head ruefully. He had quickly regained his composure. He told himself that he could not fathom the depth of her trauma. He determined not to let the situation bring him to anger. They both knew her life and her future were in his hands; he strained not to use that. Gently he reasoned, “They don’t hate you; they hate your father.”
Irma’s mouth hung open. “They hate me because of my father. They wanted to kill me. Fuck me and kill me.”
No sooner had Isoka gotten a grip on himself than she, too, began to see him more favorably. She met his eyes, saw the better part of his admiration and found comfort. For a few minutes, they remained quiet, looking into each other’s eyes, searching for common ground. Finally, and Isoka said, “They did at that, didn’t they?”
She knew instantly that he was referring to her last words. He nodded, then turned to walk back to the table where his tobacco and papers lay.
Irma stood and talked to his back. “Because of you, they didn’t hurt me.” He said nothing. To articulate her gratitude was the only way she knew to tell him that he mattered to her. But she, too, knew the reality of the situation. This man held all the cards, and his wants were straightforward. Irma put her hand to her temple and said faintly, “Let me catch my breath.” Isoka turned, took two steps toward Irma, and embraced her. She returned the touch with three delicate fingers on the back of his neck and a soft hand over his heart. Isoka said, with too much emotion, “Irma, I’ve never felt this way.”
Irma again heard his weakness. She braced for revulsion but found that emotion dead to her, along with so many other things. She said, “We’ll see.”