cold light by frank moorhouse sample chapter

8/3/2019 Cold Light by Frank Moorhouse Sample Chapter

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A Vintage bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Vintage in 2011

Copyright Frank Moorhouse 2011

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person orentity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronicor mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the

Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrievalsystem without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

The author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote from Anything Goes by Cole Porter 1934 WB Music Corp. For Australia & New Zealand: Warner/Chappell Music AustraliaPty Ltd.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found atwww.randomhouse.com.au/offices

National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Moorhouse, Frank, 1938Cold light/Frank Moorhouse

ISBN 978 1 74166 126 2 (pbk.)

Women diplomats Fiction.Man-woman relationships Australian Capital Territory Canberra Fiction.Australia Politics and government 20th century Fiction.Australia Social life and customs 20th century Fiction.

A823.3

Cover photographs Cond Nast Archive / Corbis; and Arthur Baensch / CorbisCover design by Gayna Murphy, Gayna Murphy DesignInternal design by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaTypeset in 12.5/15 pt Bembo Book by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted in Australia by Griffin Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 EnvironmentalManagement System printer

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Copyright Frank Moorhouse 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.


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I Know Who You Are



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2

1950

Im your brother, he said, holding his cap in both hands.He stood there in the lobby of the Hotel Canberra on aSunday afternoon in summer, dressed something like a Welshminer on his way to chapel: a woollen suit, a nondescript tie,and boots not shoes. The only anomaly, a briefcase held betweenhis legs.

When a message had come from the hotel reception sayingthat there was someone to see her, she had put on lipstick andgiven her hair a quick brush and, with curiosity, come to the

lobby. She had not expected it to be her lost brother. She hadexpected, well, she did not quite know what she expected Someone with Good News. A Message from On High.

And then she decided that he was dressed as a civilian fromduring the war. He was dated he had the austerity look ofturned collars and patching and make do and mend. Somethingeveryone was now trying to leave behind.

I know who you are, Edith said, moving towards him.He looked down at his cap with a laugh, as if it were part of

a costume, and pushed it into his side pocket. Then he held outhis hand to shake hers, but she continued, without hesitation,bypassing his hand, into the embrace of a sister for a brother,



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an embrace she had never used, an embrace-in-waiting, and shefelt her body unbending from the shoulders, down to her waist,and, as this was her brother, she found her body permitting itselfto then be lightly against his. The hold of the embrace, thoughshaky, felt natural enough. They both yielded to their shakyembrace, his arms enfolding her loosely, with some masculinepressure. I know who you are.

She calculated his age he was five years younger than she.She had last seen him when he was seventeen or so. Oh God

how old was she? She had changed her age so many times. Sheput her age up for her application for a position at the League,put it down on her marriage certificate with Dole, put it downagain on her marriage certificate with Ambrose. She had, well,decided to shed another two years on her return to Australia if anyone were to ask to make herself less forbidding to themen who might offer her a position; but whatever permissible

subterfuge about her age, past or present, she was still, inescap-ably, five years older than her brother.

His woollen suit smelled newly dry-cleaned. Perchloroethy-lene. He must be hot. He felt hot.

She held to the embrace, knowing that when she came outfrom it she would need words that she had not yet found.

He too held to her. She felt the broken breathing in his chest.

He began slightly to pull from the embrace, but she held him.Then, almost simultaneously, they pulled back from eachother and she opened her eyes, wiping them with the side of herhand.

Do you have a handkerchief? she asked, with something ofa laugh. She continued to hold one of his hands.

He remained awkwardly anchored by the briefcase betweenhis legs. From a trouser pocket he pulled out what seemed to bea folded, unused handkerchief and handed it to her.

Perfectly clean, he said.Thank you for the assurance, she tried to joke, dabbing her

eyes. She tried to find her brother in the face of this man.



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Thought you might not have recognised me. Thought Imight have changed beyond recognition.

Would you have recognised me?He nodded. They stood looking into each others face.Or do I know who you are? she then said. After all these

years, I perhaps dont know who you are.I know who you are youre a notable. There was brotherly

sarcasm around the word notable, but also some deference.Not at present. She went to hand back the handkerchief and

then stopped, saying, I think Ill hold on to this. I may, I suspect,need it again. Im a nobody at present.

She sniffed and wiped her nose lightly. Lets sit down. Wellgo to my rooms, but first lets gather ourselves. She gave out alaugh for no good reason.

They sat down at an afternoon-tea table in the lobby and shelet go of his hand. They stared at one another and then away.

She said then that she should send a note to Ambrose to lethim know that they had a visitor. Ambrose, my husband. Somany questions to be asked. Are you married?

Not married. I know about your husband.You do?Information comes my way. He didnt smile.Mystery man. She reached out to touch his cheek with the

back of her hand. He nodded in silent acceptance of the touch,a way of returning it. She said, You disappeared from our lives.Tell me about you. How was your war?

He shrugged. I was overseas for a time just after the warended. Prague. I know about you official of the League ofNations.

Not me. Tell me about the thingsyouve done. One at a time.She somehow had to order this conversation.In the army during the war. On Salt, the army newspaper.A reporter? And you say you were in Prague?I came back only last year. I worked there for Telepress the

Czech government news service.



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Im not in politics like that, he said, mimicking her, teasingher.

How, precisely, then, are you in politics?Im an organiser with the Communist Party.He said it as if it were a rather unexceptional part of everyday

life. She looked anew at him, as if to spot the communistic charac-teristics that might, somehow, be displayed in his being. Perhapshis suit might be something a communist organiser would wear,or was that a rather mad thing to think?

Rather an unpopular thing to be right now. I would keep itunder my hat. Or cap. And what, or who, pray, do you organise?She tried to be jocular.

He moved his head as if shaking off her jocularity but didnot answer.

She asked if it were a full-time job. Or is it a secret job?He considered this. I judge the situation. Sometimes I am

discreet; sometimes I am not; sometimes I am something else.In her mind, she heard the words of communist colleague

Noel Field, from the League days, from before the war, whichshe kept in her memory as a warning about those who workedfor revolutions. To say the Amelia and not to say the Amelia,to be helpful and unhelpful, to keep a promise and break apromise, to go into danger and to avoid danger, to be known

and to be unknown . . . She said the last bit out loud: He whofights for communism has, of all the virtues, only one thathe fights for communism. She laughed to lighten it up. Tolaugh and not to laugh.

That amuses you?She shook her head, squeezing his hand by way of apology for

making light of his world. A flash from the past. Your invita-tion to Ambrose and my wedding came back unanswered. Andthe invitation to my first wedding, also. I seemed to have someold PO address for you. Im married to a man named AmbroseWestwood. I mentioned that. Formerly Major. Formerly a medi-cal doctor. Hes Counsellor with the British High Commission.



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How remote the rsum sounded. As if seeing Ambrose andher through the wrong end of a telescope. My husband. She wasused to him being so described in social situations and by law.But for her he was not a husband. Shed had a husband. Roberthad been a husband. She wanted no more of husbands. She haddone with husbands. And the word husband, she knew, was a lid,which, with Ambrose, did not screw on properly. A lavendermarriage as she had heard FO types describe the marriage ofHarold Nicolson and his wife, Vita Sackville-West. And probably

that was how they described Ambrose and her marriage. Orsomething like that. Maybe there was no description for whatthey had. She should find another flower with which to describeit. Ambrose described himself sometimes as Something More orLess than a Husband.

How would a brother deal with all that? Wouldnt have to.What exactly is your work? she asked.

Ive told you.Is that a job as such?They pay me a labourers wage. Yes, a job.She let go of his hand, not meaning it as a distancing gesture

but because her palms were sweating. Though it might seem likea distancing. She wiped her palms on his handkerchief and tookback one of his hands and smiled to him. The Communist Party

revelation was throwing her. For all her travels, all her diplo-matic experience, communists were still somewhat alien to her.There had even been communists who had visited their homewhen Frederick and she had been growing up. She had dealtwith Russian communists in Vienna, when she was workingwith refugees for UNRRA after the war, after the League hadcollapsed. Knew some around the League. Knew Noel Field. Andnow she came to think about it, she knew some in Spain duringthe civil war. But she had not known an Australian communist.She had not known a brotherwho was a communist.

She was not yet ready to go ahead with the conversation inthat direction. All I know about you is that you sent Father a



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card once a year on his birthday but never to Mother on herbirthday. And that you once worked in a circus.

He laughed. A circus and many other places. I think circuswas my description of capitalism. I did all sorts of work dur-ing the Depression I was involved in strikes and lockouts inhot towns, long arguments in cool bars. The Party was myuniversity.

The last bit sounded to her like a set piece he had used beforein conversations and speeches. She restrained her smile. He was

giving a very controlled picture of himself.And then he said, or quoted, I no longer contain within

myself a multitude of contradictions. Do I contradict myself?Very well, then, I contradict myself for a purpose; I am large Icontain multitudes. But I no longer contain contradictions.

Ye gods, he sounded like a demented speaker at Hyde Parkcorner. Perhaps her brother was demented. That must be

hard?What must be hard?Keeping yourself free of contradictions. I would find that

hard. Living with Ambrose was a daily contradiction in her life.Forgive the Whitman, but he came to mind. I permit myself

some Whitman.She was having a little trouble following him.

Frederick had disappeared sometime when she had been atuniversity. Was he, then, still a brother? What was a brother?And what, in this state of affairs, was a sister? Lost brother.Found brother. Communist brother. Stranger.

How to shape up this eruption of gawky kinship, which hadcome to her and which had become, indeed, an embrace, and ahand-holding. She tried to avoid becoming flustered worse,emotional.

She had not had to be a sister, since, well, perhaps univer-sity vacations during his childhood. Both of them had gone toboarding schools. They had always been somewhat distancedby age.



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You had training as a reporter? she asked, not knowing whatinformation she needed from him to make him whole, to makehim into a brother as if she were dressing a brother doll. Youkept reading? You were a big reader as a boy.

Books were my companions.Another set-piece reply. Was that what he said to the workers?

Father said, always carry a book.I carried a book. I learned to write pamphlets in the Party.

Wrote for Workers Weekly. Then on Salt.

And no wife? She had asked that.At present I have a friend. The Partys enough.A friend. She thought that he probably wanted to say lover.

She did not know what expression would be correct in hisvocabulary.

There was no way around it; they were face-to-face withthe communist thing. And when did you join the Communist

Party?In my early twenties.Edith recalled that in the communist movement the date of

membership was important. Everything was important to them.It was coming back to her. For communists, everything wasdeliberate. She looked at her brother. Was he to be her DangerousBrother?

And you live in Canberra? she asked again, perhaps hopingfor a different answer.At the Capital Hill camp.You live there as a Communist Party organiser?A silent arrangement there.He was sharing secrets.She then thought of the USSR embassy. He was probably

on their guest list. Ambrose and she had been there last weekfor a reception and to watch a film. Part of the diplomaticround.

She needed Ambrose to help her with her brother. Whatwould Ambrose make of this?



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You must come to our rooms now and have tea. MeetAmbrose. Ill send a message and let Ambrose know to expectus. Now that I am composed.

Her brother nodded. She said, Wait here for a minute; Illgo myself instead of sending a message. I will come back tocollect you.

She was relieved to have a small separation from him. Shewent to their rooms and Ambrose let her in. My brother is here.My long-lost brother. My long-lost now-communist brother.

Frederick.A Bolshevik brother?Well get to that. Ill bring him here for afternoon tea, if

that is agreeable to you. Is that agreeable to you?Youll order some afternoon tea from the kitchen? he

asked.We have a bottle of Scotch, dont we?

Our bottle is rather at half-mast.We may very well need more than that. I should warn you,

he could well be a demented Bolshevik brother.It is what we might call a turn of events.Indeed, a turn of events.She went back to the lobby, waved to Frederick while she

went about ordering tea, scones and a bottle of Scotch to be

brought to their rooms. She looked at herself in the wall mirrorbehind the desk and saw a perplexed woman.She went back to Frederick, less shaky now from simply

knowing that the bottle of Scotch was on its way.Come, Frederick, lets go to my rooms.I still call myself Fred.And I will continue to call you Frederick. As they walked,

she linked arms with him and felt that it was a self-consciouslysisterly thing for her to do.

He smiled. Always ordering things to your own way.I never called you Fred.Throughout my life, everyone called me Fred except you.



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Didnt think a brother had to call and make appointments tosee his big sister.

I suppose not. She laughed, knocking on the door again.Except to make sure we are in. Or receiving.

Ambrose, in his velvet gentlemans smoking jacket andclubbish leather slippers, opened the door with a large welcom-ing smile, holding out his hand. Surprise, this, he said, shakingFredericks hand. Frederick, isnt it?

Fred people call me Fred.

Fred it is, then.I prefer Frederick, Edith said, guiding Frederick in. She

closed the door behind her.Ambrose looked to her with a smile and then to Frederick.

I should think a chap could decide what hes to be called.Not this chap, Edith said, playfully pushing her brothers

arm. How easily that came to her, the arm-pushing. Big sisters

decide what their brothers are to be called.Ambrose gave Frederick a grin of alliance. That was a good

sign when men exchanged agreeable smiles.Scotch all round, Ambrose said, looking to Frederick.Scotch is fine by me.Make mine large very large, Edith said, flopping onto the

sofa. Sit down, Frederick. She patted the space beside her on

the sofa. Make Fredericks large too.Yes, large, Frederick said.Mine too, Ambrose said, laughing.She was relieved that Frederick took a drink.What makes it all the more satisfying as a drink is that we

do not have to pay any duty on the Scotch, Ambrose said,making conversation. Yet for reasons that elude reason, wealways find we finish our ration of Scotch from the HC and endup purchasing a bottle from the hotel. Hence your first Scotchis first-class: Ballantines Queen Vics drop and duty-free and your second will be from the hotel: White Horse, whichis good enough itself.



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She found she kept staring at her brother, this only livingkin, glad now of the presence of Ambrose, which gave her timeto be silent. His intonation when they had met in the lobby hadbeen broader, but it was now returning to the intonation of theirfamily accent.

Soda, Frederick? Ambrose asked, waving the soda siphonabove their glasses on the butler tray.

A fair bit quite a while since Ive drunk first-class Scotch.The sound of the squirting of the soda filled the room like

heavy rain, as Ambrose filled Fredericks glass and then addedher usual amount and his usual amount.

And what are you about in the national capital? Ambroseasked, serving them their drinks from the tray.

She drank. She wished to be stilled by the alcohol.I work for the Australian Communist Party, although we are

about to change our name to the Communist Party of Australia.

Why? she asked.Frederick looked at her. I wont go into it now.There was a knock on the door and Ambrose ushered in the

waiter with the tea, scones and bottle of Scotch.When he had left, Frederick took up where he had left off. I

recruit here in Canberra on the building sites, around the hostelsand at the Snowy scheme though the European migrants arent

actually friendly to the Party. I have only two members there.I go as far out as Wagga agricultural workers, shearers. Goodunionists, but also not that keen on the Party.

She noticed that Frederick, too, drank deeply of his Scotch.The workers at the Snowy are paid twice as much as they

would be anywhere else so, no strikes. Workers are being killedand injured. Frederick looked directly at them. Upton Sinclairsaid that it is difficult to get a man to understand somethingwhen his salary depends upon his not understanding it.

She tried to imagine him arguing Marxism and quotingUpton Sinclair with muddy tunnel workers at the Snowy, andtired shearers in their blue singlets in the shearing sheds.



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Ambrose seated himself and crossed his legs, listening with awarm smile. He chattered with his English conviviality. Quiteright. Some time since Ive met a communist well, that I knowof. We had a few in the FO. Nice enough chaps. And then, ofcourse, we had a few around the League. I suspect we even havea couple still left in the FO. He laughed to himself.

Frederick did not laugh.Frederick then said, One strange thing is the shopkeepers in

Cooma they serve the migrant workers last. They have to wait

until the local people are served. They call them reffos.How rude, she said.Frederick said to Ambrose, You were a doctor?In the first war. He laughed. Looked after army sanitation.She turned to Frederick. He did a bit more than that

commended for being very clever dealing with trench fever. Fivementions in dispatches. Saved many lives.

Ambrose waved a hand, and said deprecatingly, Not reallyproper medicine. He turned to her and said, We had a fewcommunists at the League, did we not? Liverright began wearinga red tie in the thirties. Was collecting signatures for those twoexecuted in Chicago.

Sacco and Vanzetti, Frederick said. They werent com-munists.

The League people werent real communists, she said, justcommunism flirts. Was that a rather demeaning thing to say?She glanced at her brother, who did not look at her.

Ambrose chattered on, I suppose you Reds would have seenthe League as the Board of Directors of World Capitalism?

Something like that, Frederick said, this time with a smallsmile.

I never received any dividends, Ambrose said, from thecapitalists.

I mocked Liverright and the other leftists at the League said they were tatistes who too readily trusted the authoritarianstate, she came in, to show herself a serious conversationalist on



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things political, not just a sister. Yet with the League, it couldbe said I trusted an organisation of states.

He avoided responding to her indirect jibe, if it was a jibe.Frederick asked her what sort of position she was seeking inCanberra. She said something in External Affairs. And I think thatmy having worked at the League is itself not seen as a great plus.Having worked for the greatest failure of the century. I have beenwaiting for the appointment of a new head of External Affairs.Itll probably be Watt. Hell find me something to do. Might send

me to New York to help with the Australian delegations. Whoknows? She grimaced. Or could dump me in some godforsakenembassy. There are some formalities to overcome they dontseem to like working women, let alone women diplomats.

She shrugged her shoulders at him and finished her Scotchwith what might have been seen as a gulp.

In the Soviet Union, women can work, Frederick said.

Women were also considered equal by the covenant ofthe League, but it didnt seem to change much, even there, shesaid.

Ive seen photographs of women in Russia working on theroads. Equality has its drawbacks, Ambrose joked.

Nothing wrong with building roads, Frederick said, withouta smile.

Hard on the hands, Ambrose said.Edith heard her own tone of voice in Frederick, the sameintensity about things that mattered and a tendency to considerthat, in conversation, all things had to be critically challenged.It was something she did not like about herself and tried to curb.She thought she was succeeding with the curb.

Although in some ways intrigued, she did not enjoy seeing thevery deepest gestures of herself also present in her brother, andto see them serving her brothers cause the same chin angles,the fingers to the ear, the occasional squeezing of the nose withtwo fingers. Over the years she had tried to curb these, too, butnot with much success.



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Was she still prone to be dully earnest; her conversationcramped inside the corset of her beliefs? Ambroses manner wascontradiction and paradox. Was she a mirror of her brother,albeit on another side? He also served a grand cause. Her causehad crashed; his was in the ascendant.

Ambrose held up a hand. No criticism intended of the hewersof wood and drawers of water where would we be withoutthem? A drink, anyone? He reached over and picked up theScotch bottle and waved it. She realised the tea and scones had

gone cold.She held out her glass.She looked at Frederick. Scones? He shook his head.Sitting in the rather drab hotel in an unfinished city with no

position in life, and now confronted by this preachy phantom ofa brother, she yearned to be back in her previous life in thosefaithful days of the League before the world lost its nerve andwas enveloped in war; to be back then in the wild, dangerous,risky days of the war, ferrying League staff out to safety fromGeneva, through Portugal. They had worked in a clandestineway through the Molly Club in Geneva, a refuge for Jews andfor dancers, as they had called the witty, talented, artistic and not so artistic outcasts of the world who had fled to theMolly Club from all over Nazi Europe. And then they hadworked with the war-damaged refugees.

She stared at her brother. Were there now dancers fleeing theUSSR to the Molly Club?

Ambrose leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of herface. Dear, you havent been with us.

She said, Sorry, what did you say?I was about to say that I read that in the ape house at the

Bronx Zoo they have placed a mirror facing the crowd, which

has a label saying Most Dangerous Species Alive.While speaking, he rose and, carrying the soda siphon inone hand and the whisky in the other, loudly splashed sodainto her drink as if to refresh her attention. He then rechargedFredericks drink.



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It could be considered an anecdote for all occasions, he said,going to the liquor tray, putting back the empty Scotch bottleand opening the new bottle.

Maybe they should all get thoroughly tipsy and see whatcame of it. Tip It All Up.

Frederick and I have not spoken a word since he was seven-teen . . . She looked at her brother. Or was it eighteen? Hedisappeared.

She would leave the question of why he had disappeared for

another time.But didnt you do the same, Edith? Frederick said. For

Gods sake, you ran to the other side of the world to find whereyou belonged.

I suppose there are parallels between us. I suppose we mustbe alike. I kept in touch. But she did not return for the funeralof her mother, or to see her before she died, or for her fathers

funeral.Now she was back from the oldest cities of the world to live

in the newest city of the world she had moved from trying tomake a world capital in Geneva to a dusty town that was tryingto become a national capital.

She again looked at her brother in his dated costume of aworker. He who fights for communism has, of all the virtues,

only one: that he fights for communism. In an ill-fitting suit.What did filial allegiance mean at this time of life? For eitherof them?

She was reminded that her father had a much older brother,whom they visited when she was a child. She had sat quietlyreading, glancing at this man called uncle. While her fatherand uncle chatted, she asked herself what an uncle was and did.Her father had said he had not seen the brother for many years,and for all she knew he never saw him again after that visit.The bond of blood when affection so fails us. Did membersof a family have some sort of genetic magnetism of unknownpotential, which caused them to be ever aware of each other,



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for good or for ill, regardless of bad blood or affection, regard-less of distance put between them, regardless of inclination orwish?

She also remembered reading an American story lyingaround the house by Theodore Dreiser The Lost Phoebe which had disturbed her as a child and which returned to hermind throughout her life whenever she considered family life.It went something like this: old Henry Reifsneider and his wife,Phoebe, were a loving couple. Seven children had been born to

them: three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas; one boy hadgone to Sioux Falls and never been heard of after; another boyhad gone to Washington; and the last girl lived five countiesaway in the same state, but was so burdened with cares of herown that she rarely considered the mother and father. The homelife that had never been attractive had weaned them thoroughly,so that, wherever they were, they gave little thought to their

father and mother.Ambrose and Frederick had moved on to conversation about

work at the High Commission. She heard Ambrose complain-ing of long morning teas and diplomatic receptions, and aboutdealing with the peevish whingeing of newly arrived Britishmigrants who come out here for 10 and now want to go home.Nothing to spy on. Could spy on you chaps, I suppose. If we

werent always at morning tea and afternoon tea.She heard Ambrose saying the three of them must all gettogether for a reunion dinner. He turned to Edith. Or would itbe best if you two spent some time alone?

She bridled a little about Ambrose going ahead with socialarrangements, until she realised that Ambrose was, of course,Fredericks brother-in-law. Ye gods. What was the import of thismerry mess of family connection?

Ambrose made them each strawberry jam and cream on a coldscone an impossible combination with Scotch.

Her mind choked with questions, but this was not the occasionto get to know her long-lost brother. Too much.



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She decided to end this encounter. She realised that from somesort of familial courtesy she should go along with Ambrosesproposal of another meeting, regardless of whether she ultimatelyfound a way of bringing Frederick into her life after these years if, indeed, he wished to be brought into her life, and if, in fact,she wanted to be brought into his if anything at all was to bedone with Frederick, this queer, politically pedantic remnant ofher family life.

She waited until they had finished their drinks, which was not

long at all. The men ate their cold scones. She had left hers. Somuch nervousness, buzzing like flies in the hot room.

So much nervousness, she said, making a practised signalwith her little finger to Ambrose, and then stood. Ambrose alsostood, looking at his watch. A grand dinner next time, he said,if a grand dinner is to be found in this make-believe city. Hechuckled.

Her move brought Frederick to his feet, surprised at beingchucked.

She went to Frederick, putting an arm around him, smooth-ing away her abruptness. Sorry to chuck you, Frederick. Toomuch nervous excitement. I suggest we leave it at this for nowand all get together in a relaxed way. Pray tell, how? Is there atelephone number through which I can call you? she asked. Or

is that hush-hush? She didnt know if she was being rude.From his wallet he gave her a piece of paper cut from a sheet,on which was only his first name and a telephone number.

You can leave a message for me on that number.Will we make it Wednesday for dinner here at the dining

room? She then saw the three of them seated in the dining roomwith politicians and others. Or we could have dinner servedhere in the rooms?

He said, You decide.She hugged him, again as a form of compensation. Oh, the

queerness of it all. I know this is abrupt. Need time to take it allin. She gave her helpless smile.



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She saw him out to the lobby, and they chatted about theheat and some of the complaints about living conditions inthe city, which were so much the commonplace talk of allresidents. She had stopped herself saying that she could call forthe High Commission car to drive him home. I think we willlunch together, just you and me in the suite, say, next week?Ill have your handkerchief laundered.

Fine. He studied her face again and nodded. I wouldveknown you in a crowd, he said.

I would have known you, too, she said, unsure of that.Outside the hotel, she stopped. She put a hand on his arm.

Frederick, did you ever read a story by Dreiser about an oldcouple Phoebe and Henry whose family just flees from themand they are left alone? It was in a book of his stories in thelibrary at home.

I do remember that story. The children dispersed all over theplace and never came back. Left the parents alone. He looked ather. You see us in the story? Our fleeing home?

Or our proper weaning. And our parents loved each other,as did Phoebe and Henry. She could think of nothing else tosay about it.

They smiled, brother and sister. The story came to my mindas we were talking today. It seems somewhat apt, she said.

And then he went off along the gravel pathway to walk to his

Capital Hill camp. In his hot suit with a briefcase full of what?Propaganda? He had put on his cap.

He turned once to wave, and she waved back. She watchedhim until he disappeared.

She returned to the hotel and to Ambrose, who poureddrinks.

Well, she said.Well, indeed, he said. Your brother the Bolshevik.And what are we to do with my brother the communist?

Here in a city that is not a city, in a world that may well fallapart again into war any minute. She finished her speech feelingtearful. And that suit. And the cap?



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cold light by frank moorhouse sample chapter

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