Monthly Archives: June 2015

Checking Out

It was Saturday morning.

Leavitt, the American Chargé d’affaires, was in his office on the second floor of a villa converted into the American Embassy in downtown Minsk.  The building had originally been the residence of the top Soviet general in Byelorussia, or White Russia, after the World War II.  Now, the office windows were sealed and taped, and the Chargé could barely see out to the Russian Embassy next door. The town was silent, typical for a Spring weekend.

No one else was in the Embassy except for the Marine guard at “post one,” sitting in his glass booth at the entrance. Leavitt was composing a cable to the Department, which he would send out on Monday.  It would review the latest developments on the proposed Russia-Belarus Union.  This was not the type of cable you ground out in a few minutes; it required some thought and reflection, the type of thing you did on weekends, when the phones were not ringing and there were no appointments on the calendar. It was a typical weekend in the life of a Foreign Service Officer. He had a diplomatic reception to look forward to that evening.

The Embassy was quiet.  Leavitt walked down the stairs out the back door, through the courtyard and around to the family liaison office in the basement of the Embassy.  He pulled a bottled Coke from the refrigerator, a reward for spending his Saturday working.  Noticing some catalogs, Lands End, L.L. Bean, and the other lifelines for FSOs abroad, he was tempted to sit down and look through one, but knew he was just stalling since he really didn’t feel like working on such a beautiful day.  He walked back upstairs, through the courtyard, and up to this office, aware that he was being watched by the cameras.

Since the Nairobi and Dar-es-Salaam embassy bombings, Leavitt had been devoting a lot more time to security issues, even taking daily walks around the block just to observe, relying on his seven years experience living in the region and trusting his instincts to notice anything unusual, paying particular attention to individuals in passing cars. He had also asked the Belarus government for extra support, and when they hesitated, he called on the Russian Embassy next door, showing their Ambassador photos of damage done to buildings next to the American Embassy in Nairobi. He knew the Belarusans would not say no to the Russians on this.

It had been a long tour, and one Leavitt had disliked from his first day in country.  The bilateral relationship was adversarial. He had been rushed out to Minsk to take over after the Ambassador had been recalled to Washington.  Belarus, tiring of human rights criticism, had forced European and American ambassadors to vacate their residences.  The U.S. and Europe had responded by withdrawing their ambassadors and placing sanctions on Belarus.  Unfortunately, Europe had sent its ambassadors back.

This downturn in relations had been accompanied by an even sharper deterioration in the Belarus’ human rights environment. There were a number of disappearances of opposition political leaders and attacks on others. Clips were appearing on the government-controlled television station, saying the American Ambassador, before he left, had passed out money to dissidents under its democratization programs. Not long after, NATO began its Kosovo bombing campaign against Serbia, making the U.S. even more unpopular in Belarus, where the Serbs were seen as Slavic brothers.

Leavitt had taken a tough stand on human rights from his arrival, showing the flag. His first act was to visit a Belarusian democrat who was recuperating at home after being attacked by “skinheads” at a local metro stop. He worked daily with the local OSCE office to protect threatened opposition leaders, and delivered frequent harsh human rights demarches to the Foreign Ministry. He asked tough questions at Belarusan government press briefings.

On this day, Leavitt knew he needed to be near the phones, since a large opposition rally was taking place at noon, and his deputy, Tom Hayes, was downtown covering it. Leavitt was concerned that Hayes, always zealous in covering human rights, might get a bit too close to the action. Hayes’ car window had recently been smashed outside his apartment, a not so subtle warning, and Leavitt advised Hayes on this day to stay across the street from the rally, a block away if possible.

The Marine at post one didn’t need to be told why Leavitt was in the Embassy with his car and driver standing by. It was not really to write some cable, but to take care of the troops. Leavitt was close to the Marines.  He helped them obtain a new Marine House residence, and was the one they often asked to pin on their Sergeants stripes when promoted.  Leavitt would always remind the Marines that he had once been a Sergeant as well, in the Army, to which the Marines would always reply, “doesn’t count sir.” It was the standard joke between them.

During the U.S. bombing campaign in Kosovo, the Marines had been targeted by a local government-controlled newspaper, claiming they were the advance guard for a future U.S. attack on Belarus like that directed against Serbia.  Leavitt had charged down to the Foreign Ministry to put an end to such reporting “which could stir up local citizen anger against off-duty Marines.” The Ministry gave the usual answer that it had no control over the “independent media,” and Leavitt told them “we both know it isn’t independent,” and the U.S. certainly would not place negative articles in the Washington Post which could lead to attacks on Belarusan Embassy staff there.  No more articles criticizing U.S. Marines appeared.

Leavitt continued to work on his Russia-Belarus report while awaiting a situation report from Hayes.  At about 1:00 p.m., a call came in on his line.

“Yes, Jeff,” he said to the Marine at Post One.

“Sir, I am transferring a call from Ambassador Faulk.”

Ambassador Faulk, a retired German diplomat, ran the local OSCE office. He and Leavitt had known each other since 1981, when the latter was a junior political officer in the American Embassy in Moscow, and Faulk was the German Ambassador. Faulk spoke English with only a slight accent.

“Hello, John,” Faulk said, calling Leavitt by his first name, “I am calling to see if you have heard anything on the demonstration.  From our sources, the rally was peacefully dispersed with no incidents.  The police were restrained, as were the demonstrators, and no arrests were made.”

“Yes, Ambassador Faulk, that is what we hear.  Hayes just called in to the Marine.  He is on the way back.”

“Good,” Faulk continued, “I am meeting with the European Ambassadors this afternoon to draft a report to Vienna.  It appears the local police have shown some moderation.  I will let you know what we report.“

“Thank you, Ambassador Faulk, but the key point is that the protest was not approved in the first place, not that the marchers were dispersed gently.”

Faulk said “of course,” and signed off.

The Chargé had the greatest respect for Faulk, but he could envision the European report. The French and German Ambassadors, both of whom wished to tread softly with the Belarusians, had the upper hand in the EU, and they were still smarting over what they saw as U.S. moralizing diplomacy which had almost got them all kicked out of Belarus for good.

At about 4:00 p.m., while debriefing Hayes who had just returned from the demonstration, Leavitt received a call from the Personnel Bureau in the State Department. Hayes started to get up, but Leavitt waved him to stay.  It was probably some routine matter.  But, it was strange that “Personnel” would be calling on a Saturday.

The person on the other end of the line identified himself and said he was calling to inform Leavitt that the promotion list had been finalized, and, although it hadn’t come out yet, Leavitt’s name was not on it. Since Leavitt had not been promoted for six cycles, he would be forced to retire under the Department’s mandatory “up or out” policy.  Leavitt “no doubt knew that.” The current procedure, the caller added, was to give individuals an early heads-up before the list was published.  Leavitt could stay at post until the end of his tour, two months away, or leave service now if he wished.

Leavitt responded that he was inclined to stay to the end of his tour since there was unfinished business here, and the European Bureau would probably want him to stay on until a replacement arrived. Leavitt signed off, saying “thank you for the call, I was planning to retire at the end of the tour anyway.”  At this point, Hayes, with a long face, got up and left the room.

Leavitt hung up and picked up the Wall Street Journal lying on his desk. He had not had time to read it.  Opening the paper, he noticed a BMW automobile advertisement on page two.  Yes, retirement would be fine, he thought. He had taken tough assignments, and felt good about his twenty-five year career. Leaning back in his chair, he thought about Interstate 40, running between Albuquerque and Santa Barbara, through Gallup and Flagstaff, as far as Barstow, a drive he loved to make. Yes, I’ll be going home to New Mexico he thought.  He was going home, to the American West, where he always wanted to be.  It had been a long time getting back.

An hour later, after finishing the Russia-Belarus cable and calling Washington with the demonstration results, Leavitt packed up for the day, spinning the dial on his safe a second time to be sure.  He walked slowly down the stairs to the entry where the Marine post was located, wondering if Hayes might have said something to the Marine on duty.

This time, all the Marines were there, each shaking his hand as he left the building.  No words were said.

Helena and Bozeman, Thoughts of Tel Aviv and Vladivostok

Helena

It is 2009. I am sitting in“Cafe Organica,” my coffee shop of choice in Helena, near Reeder’s Alley, a restored pioneer section of town. A piano piece is playing softly in the background, the high notes strung together, the tune vaguely familiar, classical. My son is with me, visiting from Las Cruces.

“Organica” is reserved and elegant, in a European bistro-style, with small, round, black onyx tables. An expensive Italian espresso machine stands behind the counter, and large, white porcelain cups are hanging from wooden ceiling racks. The coffee bar counter is also polished onyx. The walls are plaster, soft lavender. Some of the windows have art glass, others hold potted plants with red blossoms which look like poppies. David, the proprietor, makes new espresso for us, replacing the cup of old that he had initially offered. It is quiet. We are the only customers, even though it is approaching noon. We are journaling, something we started doing together on previous vacations in Santa Barbara.

A cool breeze comes through the screened open window next to us. Through the window, I can see some pines and small birch trees and, closer up, some small fruit trees just outside, facing Park Avenue running by us. There is no traffic. Blue skies and white clouds peek behind the green hills rising a few blocks away. The lower part of the hillside is covered with light green grass, clear of trees, perhaps due to past fires. Higher up, it is forested.

Directly across the street, built on a large park-like area, are some dark brown stained, Swiss style, chalet condos. The grass there is a lush green. There has been a lot of rain lately. There are medium sized Blue Spruce, my favorite trees. I brought Charles here so he could see the nice chalet apartments, in case he ever wanted to live in Helena. I never mentioned that to him, just noting in passing how nice those apartments were. He probably knew.

I ask Charles what date it is, for the journal entry. He says August 6. I am reminded of Hiroshima. It should be more of an issue, I tell myself, more recognized, perhaps a siren should go off for five minutes as in Japan and everyone stop what they are doing and get out of their cars in remembrance. Truman would have disagreed. My mind wanders to Tel Aviv, where, once a year on Holocaust Remembrance Day, everything stopped, and everyone got out of their cars. This takes my thoughts to Israel in 1976 and Charles’ mother.

Tel Aviv, my first tour, just married, is a bit of a dream now. The good memories are of falafel stands in Jerusalem, of falafel with French fries crammed inside, eating while dictating cables in an embassy car with driver on the way back to Tel Aviv, or sitting in the living room of Moshe Dayan’s house, carrying messages, meeting planes at night carrying the Assistant Secretary, carrying letters from President Carter to Begin, being in Jerusalem at the King David hotel for Sadat’s arrival. It is trips to the Negev, and the Mediterranean beaches, and to the kibbutz on the Sea of Galilee. It is the bright sun, temperate climate, and olive groves, the old town in Jaffa, weekends at the UN hotel in Gaza, hearing morning calls to worship from the minaret, the Embassy’s Plaza hotel penthouse suite in Jerusalem, overlooking the Mount of Olives, the outdoor cafes with humus, pita, and schwarma in Arab restaurants, lights shining on the stone walls around you at night, the beautiful nights and smell of the sea. It is “R and R” in Cyprus at a hotel with trellises overhead in the garden where you lunch before walking to the beach in Limassol. It is the weekends snorkeling and camping on the beach in the Gulf of Eilat, directly across from Saudi Arabia, whose coastline you could barely see, from the village of Nueba, the camels braying, the Arab vendors, the braziers and the baklava. It is the unforgettable feeling of landing in a new country on your first tour overseas, seeing new streets and exotic sights on the way in from the airport and coming to your white stucco house in the old garden area of Kfar Sherimayhu, an original German Jewish agricultural settlement with farms dating from the 1920s.

But, there were down sides, the terrible pressures of work, the demanding Ambassador, the consular work, the mistakes on the job, the broken friendships with Israeli friends. But, you had a lot to look forward to. A new start with Russia for your next assignment, a child on the way. You were to be in the Russia club, the elite, your life’s dream. You were in over your head in Tel Aviv, but then you had always risen to the occasion. Your days in the office were ones of waiting, standing by, reading the Ambassador’s traffic, sorting it and prioritizing it. You proofed his cables and arranged meetings and cars and sat in on meetings. You worked long hours, including Saturdays, hurting your marriage and furthering your career. You had the advantage of feeling part of a great cause, Camp David. She didn’t. She could write, but no one took it seriously at the time. But, you were in over your head, and soon discovered that. You didn’t have the staff officer skills and the confidence.

David, the waiter, comes back to our table to see if we want more espresso. Charles seems to be writing quickly, solidly. I look back out the window, my mind returned from 1978 Tel Aviv. Looking out the window again, silver and white clouds behind the hills are now being pushed out of the picture, to the north, by gray clouds. The wind pushing the clouds is coming from the south, from Yellowstone.

Bozeman:

I wander into the local Holiday Inn restaurant for breakfast, two eggs, over easy, biscuits and gravy. The good waitress brings strong coffee and leaves the thermos. She also brings orange juice without asking. She is efficient, in her 60s, a bit gruff but accommodating. I have just dropped Charles off at the Bozeman airport for a 6:30 a.m. flight, so I am a bit groggy, thinking of him on the flight to Denver.

At the table next to me, two men are talking, probably local professors from their conversation. I hear bits and pieces. They are discussing exchanges with Russia on fisheries. The one with an accent is doing the talking about Russia. My ears perk up.

This is typical of Bozeman, connected to the world, a university town. Michael Keaton was at Plonk Restaurant last night. Ted Turner has a ranch here. California license plates are not unusual, with Big Sky Ski Resort and Yellowstone down the road. International architectural and engineering firms, linked to Korea and Japan, are located here, so are Ernest Hemingway’s grandson, James Salter’s son, and Harry Bertoia’s daughter. You can get the New York Times daily. BMWs and Audi’s predominate. Outsiders are everywhere. Bozeman is contemporary modern lodge, steel and stacked stone, architecture, high tech, set against beautiful mountains to the north and the front range in the southern distance. Its downtown is old Montana small town, masonry buildings, one main street, but with a wide variety of upscale products and boutiques and coffee shops and independent bookstores and vintage watches and fly shops. It, and Whitefish, are the Montana versions of Aspen, Jackson Hole, and Sun Valley.

At the table, a third man joins the professors. He is the business type who does the legwork for the professors, apparently just back from Moscow. He tells his frustration at dealing with the Russian officials.  I smile, it is so familiar.

I think of my years in Vladivostok and the similar frustrations, operating in a cloud. I could help these Bozeman businessmen. I am thinking of my Foreign Service colleague, David Ackerman, and our three years starting a new consulate in the Russian Far East. Dave and I knew what was true. You had to have a lifetime of experience, and knowledge of the language and history of Russia, to make correct judgments, which were often intuitive. There was little to rely on since Washington was also winging it. It was a new Russia and confusing, but we had the benefit of extensive contact with the average Russians. We knew how things in Russia really worked out in the provinces.

We knew we had to gain trust. We knew not to promote a lot of USAID studies that delivered no resources or money, and only offered advice and promises. We knew not to support less than upright American businessmen criss-crossing Russia searching for partners. We knew not to preach too much. We knew to keep the post “open,” more like a trade mission, and to avoid Russian intelligence provocations. We knew the Russian public was watching us for keys to behavior, for clues to right and wrong as seen in the West, and, therefore, we knew to support local democrats and shun former communist leaders who were unreconstructed. We knew not to be friendly with a regional governor who was getting over his private joke on us, wearing a “Zek” hat—like the Gulag prisoners wore—on Human Rights Day. We knew to help Japanese, South Korean, and European firms getting started in Russia, even if they were potential competitors of American firms. We also knew that there was no age dividing line between reformers and old thinkers, that fifty year old former communists could be brought around if given a stake in the new system. We knew that an intellectual newspaper editor whose newsprint spouted anti-American propaganda could be brought around. Being a true intellectual, not just a member of the Academy of Sciences, he would be inclined to change. His instincts would be naturally liberal.

We knew the good guys from the bad, and could spot the former secret police, now businessmen. As western role models, we also knew the importance of smiles and of Western behavior, open, unafraid, and free. But, we knew when to put on the mantle of authority, to ride in the back seat to meetings with the governor, who would respect authority, otherwise riding up front with the driver, like the American common man. We knew how not to smile in negotiations. No, not everything could be worked out with smiles and positivism. We knew the relationship between the provincial governors and Moscow ministries, and how far the latter could push the local authorities under Yeltsin. We recognized the hard-line communists, the power elites, and the former governor, our bete noir, and we understood how communists and “Soviet men” like him despised weakness, were ruthless, and understood power and how to use it. We knew some democracy had to be crammed down from above, via Yeltsin. We knew what to say, what lines would resonate with the public regarding former empire (“you don’t need it anymore”), the Cold War (“lets not go back and try to survive it again”), and Russian corruption and crime and poverty (“America also is not perfect”).

We knew that Peace Corps programs to promote business were a bit unrealistic, but we knew Peace Corps volunteers rubbing elbows with Russians would make a difference, so we asked for volunteers. We knew there was some good in the old system with its welfare net, and that social democracy was perhaps better suited to Russia in transition than laissez faire capitalism of the U.S. We knew the Russians were proud and that assistance had to be identified as mutually beneficial and a two-way street. We knew the importance of (USIA) cultural exchanges, that the battle was over culture and for the youth. We knew that the resistance to reform was ideologically based and not just a matter of battles over turf and money, or to protect Russian parastatal business interests. We went public, doing television interviews and talking about our lives in America, traveling frequently around our consular district, bringing in Martha Graham dancers, hosting U.S. Navy ship visits, organizing hospital-to-hospital exchanges, etc.. We knew where to put our effort. We knew the importance of winning over our local Russian employees.

We knew to avoid the new oligarchs emerging. We knew the importance of symbols, to refuse properties that had KGB histories. We knew the importance of building strong ties to the Japanese consulate, giving us more clout. We knew not to drive by an election rally for a nationalist hard liner in order to gauge his popularity. We knew not to tolerate bad behavior by a consulate driver. We knew to build ties to the Russian Navy commander to get a new consulate building when all else was failing. We knew not to accede to being escorted by armed guards through a defense plant which we were touring. It was a matter of principle. We knew when to support a democratic Mayor in his struggle with a hard-line governor, even if it encroached a bit on Russia’s internal affairs and got in the newspapers. But, we knew how far to go.

We knew to demand that visiting USG officials stop by the Consulate while visiting an our district. We knew to keep certain American charitable organizations (CRS) and Peace Corps at arms length from the Consulate for their own independence. We knew how to respond when one regional governor refused to meet with a visiting American Senator. We knew to avoid playing up indigenous local separatists in a visit to the Yakutsk (Sakha) Republic. We knew how use reciprocity to get our Consulate building, not releasing their building in Seattle first…

The waitress brings my bill. I ask for a glass of water and a paper cup to take some coffee with me. I take my pills, leave a tip with the check, and stand up, gathering my journal, taking a glance at the men at the next table as I leave. The one with the accent, older, looks Eastern European. He has a bit of that European formality, old school, Polish I decide.

Mozambique Peace Talks

It was dark inside the administrative offices located in the back section of Santa Maria church in Trastevere. The negotiator for the Mozambican rebel movement, RENAMO, was wearing sun glasses due to a stigmatism, and he seemed nervous in Rome, a bit unsure of how far he could go in negotiations. He was constantly on the phone to his boss, Alfonso Dhlakama, fighting in the African bush, in Gorongoza.

The Mozambican government representative, on the other hand, was a polished, Portuguese educated, lawyer, with smooth European manners. He was dressed in an expensive pin-striped suit and had all the accessories, gold cigarette lighter, cuff links, a simple tie pin, and Italian leather shoes. He was the number two in the government and a successful businessman in a socialist regime that was transforming itself gradually in the direction of the market and democratizing. He reflected the practical, non-ideological side of the Mozambican regime, willing to accept what he called a mixed economy, partially private but with a large government controlled sector as well. He was for some reason, accepted by the old hard-line Marxist revolutionaries who formed the backbone of the ruling FRELIMO party, whereas his President, also a pragmatist, was viewed with some skepticism and had to move slowly.

Still, it was hard for the government to sit down with the rebels, who had waged a cruel, terrorist style war for ten years now, and rejected all of the socialist goals of the independence movement from Portugal in 1975. The government negotiator referred to the guerrillas as “bandits” rather than give them political credibility, but he was, nonetheless, negotiating with the “bandits” as equals behind the scenes with the help of the Vatican’s mediation and the United States’ facilitation. The war at home was a stalemate.

The American envoy was explaining to both sides how neither side should expect to get all that it wanted in a negotiation. This was the key point, he said. Both sides have to compromise a bit to get a lot. This was the experience of the American government in negotiating peace in Liberia, Camp David, Ireland, and elsewhere. He was like a grandfather, kindly and sensitive, non-pretentious, with a sense of humor, speaking common sense more than anything else. The two sides responded well to him. His point on not expecting everything you want was a simple, obvious one, but helped break the logjam.

His presence, as the representative of the American President, was symbolic of American commitment, both moral and tangible, to rebuild Mozambique and be a fair broker. “What we have done,” he explained, “is to keep the parties at the table in control. Success or failure will be yours alone. We will just help you where we can. The negotiator, Sant Eggidio in the Vatican, has no bias. Our job is to facilitate, offering our expertise, resources, influence, and contacts to assist St. Eggidio. He went over some ideas on federalism, power sharing, and representative democracy.

The government and RENAMO negotiators listened passively, not looking at each other as he spoke, but paying close attention, nonetheless, through the translators sitting beside them. The Mozambique government negotiator spoke English, but also relied a bit on the translator.

The American told RENAMO not to get hung up on the government’s public statements calling RENAMO “bandits.” The important point was that the government was sitting down with them. He told the government not to worry about giving RENAMO legitimacy. it didn’t hurt to sit down with RENAMO, since these were just exploratory talks and not yet official negotiations. He gave them a view of the final picture, of Mozambique rebuilding with foreign assistance. The American side included U.S. military experts, who could show the mechanisms for building a new national army from the two warring sides.

I was there as the State Department Desk Officer for Mozambique, carrying the bags of the senior U.S. envoy, and drafting cables back to the Department on the status of discussions.

We broke to have lunch at an outdoor cafe on the plaza outside. The Mozambican teams went their separate ways for lunch, but it was significant that the day before, their chief negotiators had dined together.

Bernadette Hayes, the Deputy Chief of Mission, the number two at the American Embassy in the Vatican, was a friend. She and I slipped away for lunch on her patio, served by her cook/housekeeper Maria. Bernadette was the American government’s day-to-day contact for the negotiations. This was in addition to her regular duties at the small embassy. Her cottage was a small two bedroom house in the European modern style, situated down the driveway next to the garden of the Ambassador’s residence. Her villa was white stucco, and the interior was Danish modern, with books and bookcases overflowing, typical for Bernadette.

“It appears the Mozambique government is giving up a lot in terms of allowing a multi-party state and perhaps some regional autonomy? Why would it give up its socialist program?,” she asked after we had sat down.

“Mozambique,” I answered, “is changing under President Chissano, and seems to really want greater democracy and a freer market. It may be that the government has come to the conclusion after ten years of war, that it can not win. It will always be a stalemate.”

I paused to consider how candid I should be in a non-secure location, then went on: “The government may be willing to gamble on free elections, thinking they can win fair elections easily and that RENAMO will be bound by the results. That is a gamble, since part of the population is tired of the ruling party and corruption, and since some of the insurgency is tribally based.”

Maria brought us some iced tea with limes in it, garden salads with vinaigrette dressing, and sliced baguettes with platters of olive oil to dip the bread into. Europe was always so wonderful.

“What does RENAMO feel about elections,?” Bernadette asked.

“If they are free and fair, they say they will win a majority, but may not really be that confident. They may trust that even a decent showing would guarantee them a sounding board in the new multi-party legislature. The press would report speeches of Congress. They would have legitimacy and could build on that in a more open system. How many seats they win, and whether they win the Presidency, would not be so vital. The important thing is that the system would be opened to real opposition parties and different ideas. It’s all about process.”

“Is Chissano popular at home?”

“We think so. Our Ambassador feels so, and she is plugged in with everyone. She is an icon there.”

“I hear that Mozambicans are naming their daughters after her.”

“Yeah, her pet project is rehabilitating the youth who have been traumatized when their villages were raided by RENAMO and they were forced to take part in killing their own parents.”

“What do they do to help those kids?”

“She brought in children’s psychiatrists who specializes in this. Role playing is the key. They create a village and re-enact the situation, including where a twelve year old son has to torch the hut his parents are in. This way, the boy sees he had no choice, with AK 47s pointed at him and his sisters. The acting out seems to work. The Ambassador has also put together foster homes and obtained UN money to help orphans. She had assignments at the UN in the past, as you know.”

I paused to avoid being too graphic in describing the atrocities. “I saw one boy about nine,” I said, “who was catatonic when they brought him to the rehab center. For eight weeks, he didn’t say a word to anyone…”

I had to pause to maintain control, remembering little Carlos.

Bernadette asked Maria to bring some more olive oil, with a normal voice, not letting on. I smiled back at Bernadette, and dipped some bread in oil, then continued, overcoming a slight blurring of the eyes. Bernadette had known me during the 1984 Ethiopian famine, which had been an emotional experience. At the time she had been working for the Secretary of State on the 7th Floor.

“You are always getting yourself caught in these humanitarian tragedies,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Anyway,” I continued, “the catatonic boy suddenly pulled through, and is now the spark plug of the Center, helping other kids like him take that first step forward to abolishing their nightmares. The Ambassador is a saint.”

“She is a patron saint for women in the Foreign Service,” Bernadette added calmly.

“I was just with her and her husband in Maputo,” I said, “staying at the residence. She was always running over to take recipes to President Chissano.”

“I hear Washington was impressed with Chissano when he visited. He didn’t promise more than he could deliver, and never asked for more than he could use. He didn’t come with his hand out,” Bernadette injected.

“Yes, Chissano is soft spoken and quiet, and a real gentleman. He studied medicine in Zurich. But, our Ambassador deserves a lot of credit for getting talks started.”

“You are she are close. I know,” Bernadette said. “I loved to see you running downstairs to the Department cafeteria to get her coffee how she likes it. You wouldn’t have done that for Chet Crocker.”

“Yes, I would for Chet,” I said.

“Oh, yes, he was your teacher at Georgetown before the Service.” Bernadette never forgot anything.

“Does the Ambassador still have the monkeys in the tree over her table on the patio? ” Bernadette asked.

“Yes, and I heard a good story about that, by the way,” I said. “Her favorite monkey living in that tree is apparently named ‘Monkey Monkey,’ a real ham, who often drops down to steal pineapple slices from the breakfast table, scampering back up. I have experienced that. The Ambassador feeds him at the table.”

“So, anyway,” I went on, “this monkey went missing a couple of months ago and the Ambassador searched all over the neighborhood for him. Even President Chissano offered full assistance to find ‘Monkey Monkey.’ Finally, the Ambassador cancelled a trip upcountry and went to the local pound, where there were all kinds of animals which had been picked up. They took her into a huge room with hundreds of cages stacked from floor to ceiling, half of them with monkeys inside, rhesus monkeys, like ‘Monkey Monkey.’ They all looked identical, of course.”

Maria brought us swordfish steaks, pink in the middle, with asparagus on the side. She refilled the tea.

“The room went quiet when she came in with the keeper,” I continued. “The Ambassador yelled out “Monkey Monkey,” her call to him in her Monkey Monkey voice, and guess what?”

“‘Monkey Monkey’ was there?”

“Suddenly, in one of the cages, this monkey reached out to her, raising a hell of a commotion. The Ambassador ran to the cage and recognized ‘Monkey Monkey.’ They opened the cage and ‘Monkey Monkey’ climbed into her arms and onto her shoulder and it was family reunion, and they went home and everything was normal again pool side.”

Bernadette returned to the negotiations subject. “What about RENAMO, will they be serious in negotiations?

“We are counting on both sides’ war weariness,” I said. “RENAMO’s terrorist tactics have turned off many villagers who used to support them but now oppose both sides. We hear RENAMO may be ready to compromise. We will see.”

“What about South Africa, are they supporting RENAMO?”

“We think so, at least with some arms and command and control. RENAMO has sophisticated communications equipment. But, we think South Africa will cooperate.”

“Did they say they would?”

“The Foreign Ministry seems inclined to, but there may be elements in the military who could carry on a secret war despite their own government.”

“We are relying on two rings in this peace process,” I added. “The inner ring consists of the two parties to the conflict and the Vatican sitting at a table, negotiating. The outer ring is the countries surrounding Mozambique, the actors and states supporting either the government or RENAMO, plus the international community in general, and world opinion, all of which can leverage the two parties in the inner circle towards compromise. Our job is to get them to use their leverage to achieve peace.

Bernadette and I moved into her house for coffee. There was only one small sofa, which we both sat on since her chairs were stacked with books. I found it hard to relax this close to her. She seemed to be studying me. She had soft, wise eyes, and she was always positive. I had never heard her say anything negative about anyone. For someone with such a meteoric career, she was very unassuming. But, I knew how smart she was, taking on the toughest staff jobs, getting by on few hours sleep, and doing first rate reporting. She always knew more than she let on.

“Tell me more about RENAMO,” Bernadette said, “before we go back.”

A couple of days after my lunch with Bernadette, during my last evening in Rome, I took some personal time to walk around the Vatican to admire the architecture of Bramante and his colonnade around St. Peter’s square, stopping for pizza marghareta later at a cafe not far away.

As the sun was going down, I caught a taxi to Piazza Novona, one of my favorite places, for a last look at Michaelangelo’s fountain over cappuccino from a sidewalk cafe. I was thinking of the beauty of early Renaissance architecture, of Alberti’s Santa Maria Novella church, and the Pizzi palace, with its thick walls going right up to the street, and square cupola. Then there was Brunelleschi, the Florence Cathedral dome and the Invalides Hospital, with its light, delicate piers. Nothing equals Brunelleschi. I let my mind roam to the Roman Forum and its Ionic columns, then to the Spanish Steps and Keats’ house. I wouldn’t get to them this trip. On my last visit, I had sat on the steps reading a William Faulkner novel I had brought with me.

I flew back the next day, and didn’t get back to Rome for negotiations. Things went well with Vatican mediation. The two sides held successful elections and shared power, ending the war. By then, I had moved on to the Bureau of Intelligence and Research, watching Africa from Washington, but burnt out from witnessing failed states like Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Somalia.

Burundi was occupying my official time, but my mother had just died, and I was spending a lot of time away from my desk, hiding in the Department library on the third floor, doing my own research on subjects of interest to me. It was my way of coping, and my boss, a friend and fellow Africa hand, understood, and gave me some space and time to heal.

Around this time, I saw a tourism advertisement in the New York Times, with a photograph of “rediscovered Mozambique,” showing dhows off the Indian Ocean and Mozambican children playing on the beach. I cut it out and pinned it on my bulletin board as a reminder of what was wonderful about being a diplomat. Nice memories of Rome came flowing back: dinners in Trastevere, a gentle clasp of the fingers from the Pope, a ride on a Vespa.