I drove him home — he lived just across the Fairfax County line from Arlington-and by the time I headed back it was past eleven. Staying off the turnpikes, I took my time along Wilson Boulevard to the Key Bridge, then headed back into Georgetown, coasting sedately down Q Street just before midnight. These blocks, making a village, are where Washington's rulers live: on quiet, narrow streets behind black wrought-iron fences and neatly trimmed hedges; in tastefully restored terrace houses with bow fronts and carved lintels over the windows. My father had bought a house here when his own father had died, and my parents had always kept it, giving them a place to call home as the State Department shunted them all over the world. It was small, the end door in a row of three: white-painted brick; wrought-iron railings for the tiny three-step stoop and wrought-iron grilles over the first-story windows; a graceful dormer roof for the attic. I had always loved the house, but with my mother's passing it had turned into a problem. I couldn't bear to sell it but I didn't want to live in it, and so I used it now as a pied-a-terre on my trips into Washington. Given the taxes, it was a luxury I really couldn't afford, but tonight I was grateful for it. There was only one disadvantage: as with most of these houses, there was no garage, not even a lane, and the curb was so jammed with cars that I had to park around the corner, halfway up the next block.
The street was quiet; slamming the car door seemed an uncivil disturbance. Over on Wisconsin, the traffic made a soft, cozy hum and the wind rustled gently through the trees: old oaks whose shade was so thick that you were cool even in summer. I walked along in their shadow. On my right hand, the parked cars lent a soft sheen to the night, and as I walked on, memories swelled in the darkness. No wonder. My whole childhood had been spent just like this, coming back to this house: my return rendered all the more poignant by the certainty that I'd soon be leaving again. I could never walk down this street without getting the same old feelings: anxious expectancy, then glad recognition, and finally a fresh flowering of excitement because the place was never quite as you remembered. I'd loved it here. So had my mother — probably more than I had. After my father had gotten her out of France, she'd lived here for almost eight months by herself and she always claimed that it made her feel completely at home: it was so old, she said, and almost inconvenient enough to be French. Indeed, the house was really her house; my father had liked it, of course, but I associated him more with our summer place in Pennsylvania or our cars (one old Packard especially) or trips to New York on the train…
But now I'd reached the door: three stone steps, then you're inside. Now I stood in the hall, its shadowy perspective stretching before me, the maple floor and oak paneling softly gleaming. To my left, a little light filtered into the dining room and glittered against the glass doors of a cabinet. Flipping on the light switch, I hung up my coat and went straight upstairs, but instead of going into my room, I ascended the narrow, switchback staircase that takes you up to the attic. I'm not sure why. I must have been thinking of my father, still caught up in the train of memories I'd brought into the house, for the attic had always been his retreat. There were two low rooms. The smaller of these had always been a storeroom, the larger my father's study, where, after his death, my mother had kept those of his possessions she couldn't bear to part with. I opened the door. Nothing here had been changed for years. Thus, since I knew precisely what to expect, there was an instant when that's what I saw, the past forming itself from the soft highlights within the shadowy gloom. There were the Art Nouveau curves of his Horta armchair; the neat rows of Foreign Relations lined up in the bookcase; the framed Foreign Service map (with its washed-out colors) that would always be the world to me; and beneath this sat his desk, with its serried ranks of framed photographs: my father's graduating class at Foreign Service school; my father, pinched in a high collar, helping the embassy staff bid farewell to some ambassador; my father at meetings and conferences; my father playing center field on the consulate softball team; and my father, fixed smile on his face, shaking hands with all those names you can barely remember: Acheson, Dulles, Christian Herter… For a second, as I say, that's what I saw. But then I realized what was actually in front of my eyes.
It would be wrong to call that room a shambles, or say it had been dismembered — that would imply a degree of violence that just wasn't there. But someone had taken it apart, just the same. The spine of every book had been sliced open with a razor: but so neatly that a piece of tape would mend them again. The old map had been pulled completely apart: but then neatly propped against the side of the desk. And although every one of those photographs had been removed from its frame, all the pictures, and all their little cardboard mattes, were arranged in separate, neat piles.
Brightman's house… Travin's room… and now this. I was almost too tired for shock, and the question—What were they looking for? — barely registered. But then I felt very afraid. Quickly, I crossed the room to the window. Peering cautiously into the street, I could see two men get out of a parked car, about thirty yards down the block, and silently close the doors behind them.
Later, I was to realize how lucky I'd been. Since I'd parked so far from the house, my car had given them no warning; in all likelihood, they hadn't even seen me come down the street — only my turning on the light in the hall had alerted them. But, as I say, I only worked that out later: then, I just moved, and without hesitation. I think that saved my life. Striding out of the room, I ran down the stairs to the second floor, then raced down the hall to the back stairs. These took me to the kitchen. I felt my way through the darkness to the back door; as I reached it, I could hear scratchings around at the front.
I stepped into the night. The backyard was small — six feet of patchy lawn, two feet of border, a chest-high fence. I vaulted this, landing among my neighbor's fall bulbs. I scrambled ahead, through some shrubs, leaves shaking like tambourines and shadows poking into my eyes. Groping along the wall of the house, I came to a gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. I decided against my own car. Walking quickly, but normally, I turned down 31st, reached Q, then ran all the way across to Wisconsin. There were still a few people about; keeping close to them, I hurried south till I finally flagged down a cab. Half frozen, I slumped down on the seat and told the cabbie to take me to the Hay-Adams. It's expensive, but that night it seemed far safer than home.
10
It was three days before I got back to Berlin. Once again, it was a question of taking the long way around — and even before I left I had to make several detours.
The most important, of course, involved May.