Uncertain whether to laugh or cry, Myra set down her glass. “Oh, my darling,” she said. “You’ve never been in America, have you?”
Suddenly worried, Ranjit turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
She reached out to stroke his hand. “Just that you haven’t noticed that they’re pretty old-fashioned there in some ways. The way they still use miles instead of kilometers, for instance. And—I hope this won’t upset you—the way they cling to the Fahrenheit thermometer scale instead of going to Celsius along with the rest of the world?”
22
THE NEW WORLD
Apart from the great thermal disappointment that the climate of New York represented for Ranjit, the news that kept coming over their hotel suite’s large supply of TV sets was even more disheartening than usual. For example, South America had been relatively quiet, war-wise, for some time. No longer. Now (as one of their American hosts explained it to Myra and Ranjit) what had changed was the fact that the United States had revised most drug crimes down from felonies to, at most, misdemeanors. That had decriminalized nearly all the stock in trade of the Colombian drug merchants. That change in the laws made it possible for any American addict to get what he needed for his habit, cheap and without gangster intervention, at any local pharmacy, thus effectively putting the gangsters out of business. (It also made it pointless for any neighborhood pusher to hand out free samples to twelve-year-olds. That would no longer ensure him a supply of addicted customers for the future, since none of those future customers, if there were any, would be buying from him anyway. And so each year the census of American addicts slowly dwindled as the oldest ones died or went dry, and few new ones came along as replacements.)
But that was only the good part of drug decriminalization. There was a bad part as well.
The bad part, or the worst of the bad parts, was that the drug cartels, deprived of the profits from their coca plantations, began to look longingly at the equally addictive stuff that was being exported by their neighbors in Venezuela. Why, there was even more money in oil than there ever had been in drugs! And so armed parties from the Colombian drug citadels were infiltrating the oil fields of their neighbor. The relatively small (and often quite purchasable) Venezuelan army was putting up a show of resistance, sometimes, but the powerful motivation was all on the Colombian side, and so were almost all the victories.
All this, of course, in addition to the latest list of vicious little escapades from the Adorable Leader’s North Korea, and in addition to the renewal of violence in the irreconcilable fragments of what had once been Yugoslavia, and more and more heavy fighting in parts of what had once been the Soviet Union, and the Middle East….
It was all bad. What made up for it, a little, was the city of New York itself, not in the least like Trincomalee, or even Colombo, and in fact not all that much like London. “It’s so vertical,” Ranjit told his wife, as they stood at the sixty-sixth-floor picture window of their hotel suite. “Whoever heard of sleeping this high up?” And yet in the panorama of the city that lay before them there were a dozen or more buildings much taller, and when they walked in the city streets, there were times when the sun seldom appeared because steep concrete walls shut it out except when it was directly overhead.
“But it does have that beautiful park,” Myra pointed out, gazing at the lake, the giant apartments that lined the far side of the park, and the distant roofs of the Central Park Zoo.
“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Ranjit told her, and indeed he had little to complain about. Though Dr. Dhatusena Bandara’s office in the UN building was just across town, the doctor himself was somewhere else, on some errand that no one chose to discuss. His office had, though, provided them with a young lady who had taken them to the top of the Empire State Building and introduced them to the Lucullan joys of oyster stew in the old Grand Central railroad station, and who stood ready to get tickets for them for any show on Broadway. Which wasn’t a great thrill to Ranjit, whose entire lifetime experience of performances had been on a flat screen, but greatly pleased Myra. Which itself much pleased Ranjit, not to mention that he had discovered the American Museum of Natural History, only a few blocks away—wonderful in its own right as an exemplar of that new delight in Ranjit’s life, its museumness, but thrilling in the great planetarium that filled its northern space. “Planetarium” was hardly the right word, in fact; the structure on Central Park West was so much more than that. “I wish Joris could be with us!” Ranjit said, more than once, as he strolled its thrilling exhibits.
And then, following a long enough interval that Ranjit had stopped thinking he might actually show up, appeared the one person, totally unexpected, who could make a pleasant visit unforgettable. When Ranjit opened the door of their suite to a knock, supposing there would be no more than a chambermaid with an armload of fresh towels on the other side of it, there in fact, grinning, stood Gamini Bandara, with a spray of fresh roses in one hand for Myra and in the other a bottle of good old Sri Lanka arrack for the two of them. It was the first time they had been together since the wedding, and the questions came thick and fast. How had they liked England? What did they think of America? What was it like back in Lanka these days? It wasn’t until the men had poured their third round of arrack that Myra noticed that all the conversation went in the same direction, questions coming from Gamini, answers from her husband and herself. “So,” she said at last, “tell us, then, Gamini, what are you doing in New York?”
He grinned and spread his hands. “One damn meeting after another. It’s what I do.”
“But I thought you were based in California,” Ranjit put in.
“I am, right. But there’s all sorts of international stuff going on, and this is where the UN is, isn’t it?” Then he swallowed his third shot and looked serious. “Actually, the reason I’m here, Ranjit, is that I want to ask you to do me a favor.”
Ranjit said promptly, “Name it.”
“Don’t say yes so fast,” Gamini chided. “It means making a commitment for some time. But it’s not a bad commitment, either. So let me get right down to it. When you’re in Washington, you will be contacted by a man named Orion Bledsoe. He’s a cloak-and-dagger guy, and he’s high up in the part of the government most people never hear about. For that matter, he has quite a record of his own. He’s a veteran of the first Gulf War, and of the troubles in what used to be Yugoslavia, and then of the second, and much worse, war in the Gulf, the one in Iraq. That’s where he got, in that order, the wound that cost him his right arm, the Purple Heart, the Navy Cross, and, finally, the job he’s got now.”
“Which is what?” Ranjit asked, as Gamini seemed to pause for a moment.
Gamini shook his head. “Come on, Ranj. I’ll have to let Bledsoe tell you that—there are rules I have to follow, you know.”
Ranjit tried again. “Is it going to be about a real job?”
That made Gamini pause for thought again. “Well, yes, but I can’t tell you what that is right now, either,” he said at last. “The important thing about that job is that you’ll be doing something useful for the world. All we need Bledsoe for is to see that you get the security clearance you need.”
“Need for what?” Ranjit asked.
Gamini, smiling, shook his head. Then, looking faintly embarrassed, he said, “I have to warn you that Bledsoe is a kind of old-fashioned Cold Warrior and a bit of a silly ass, too. But once you’re in the job, you won’t have to see much of him. And,” he added, “since when I’m in America I’m usually based less than half an hour’s drive from his part of the world, you probably will be seeing a lot more of me, if you can stand that.” He winked at Myra. And then reported that he was late for another of those damn meetings way on the other side of town, and he hoped they’d all see one another one day soon in Pasadena, and was gone.