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.