American Romantic by Ward Just

one side and on the reverse a date. Compass, he said, a gift from my dear wife many years ago. When you return, I expect it back. But for now it’s yours. Who knows? You might need it. It’s always brought me luck.
    Harry took the case and snapped it open. It had the look and feel of a fine timepiece. I’ll keep it safe, he said.
    And one last thing, Ambassador Earle said. A friend of yours arrives tomorrow. I’ll have to tell her the cover story, you on leave. She will be disappointed. She certainly did want to see you and sends her regards.
    Harry barely managed to ask the question: Who’s that?
    Congresswoman Finch, he said, the battle-ax from the Foreign Affairs Committee. She’s leading a delegation to assess how things are going, meaning when do we take the gloves off and let the army fight as it was trained to fight. How in God’s name do you know her?
    Friend of the family, Harry said. And with that, he took his leave. In the outer office Marcia handed him an envelope. Greenbacks, she said. One thousand U.S. In the event of an emergency. You sign for it here, she said, and handed him a pen and a slip of paper. Harry signed, tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, and hurried down one flight of stairs to the street. He paused a moment, squinting into the morning sun. The street was crowded with cyclos and taxis, here and there an army jeep. The temperature was near ninety and rising. His mind was crowded with questions to which there were no ready answers. He thought of them as gaps, a tumultuous landscape in deep shadow. He did not know where he was going, except it was south. He did not know whom he was to meet, not a name or a rank or an age. He did not know the agenda, if there was one. They had given him one thousand U.S. in the event of an unspecified emergency and Marcia had leaned close, touched his elbow, and murmured, Stay safe, Harry. Take care. He carried the gold compass in his pocket, a good-luck charm. And all this guaranteed by a Frenchwoman named Adele, a woman of the Left barely trusted by Basso Earle. Trusted just enough to—smooth over the gaps. Harry could hear the undertow of excitement in the ambassador’s voice. His confidence was contagious, a kind of American fever. Harry lit a cigarette and noticed the tremor in his fingers. Not fear but anticipation of the sort a man might expect on his wedding day, flowers in the church and a mighty organ groaning in the choir, a beautiful girl at his side—and out of sight but palpable, the shadow line dividing past and future, or youth and maturity. He was embarked on a great voyage, alone at the helm. The street filled up and Harry marched away to his villa to stuff a few things in a duffel and wait for the ambassador’s driver.

Three
    S IX days later, Harry awoke in a string hammock in the damp heat of early morning. He had not slept well, bothered all night long by insects and unsettling dreams. He lay still and heard the feral rustle of the jungle, indistinct and undefined except for the sudden meow of the camp cat and, a moment later, the waking cry of a bird. How many days since he had bathed? Five days? No, six, counting the night in the market town before he had set out at dawn on his mission—the ambassador’s much-discussed “moment of consequence” that now appeared to be a moment of no consequence. Harry eased himself out of the hammock and stood, listening once again. He had heard heavy breathing during the night, unmistakable sounds of lovemaking and not for the first time. Unmistakable was probably the wrong word. In the deep jungle anything was mistakable, including heavy breathing. The jungle was disorganized, without form. He remembered reading somewhere that the deep jungle’s shapes and colors were luxurious. They were not luxurious, they were coarse, mean sights, without harmony, the very soul of chaos. The sounds at night were neither benign nor consoling. They were