Death and the Ambassador

by Charlotte Appleton

So far as I have been able to ascertain, my poor friend was not feeling at all well that night. He paced the Persian carpet between mahogany and ormolu. Above him the crystal of the chandelier tinkled faintly in the draught from the air-conditioning. Sometimes he coughed a little, but there were otherwise no outward signs of his distress. Apart from the ambassador, the house was empty.

"He would need nursing, morphine, other help. The case was inoperable, there was nothing to be done."

The news from the doctor had not been good. He had at most a year. He could stay at his post for the next six months, but then things would begin to become awkward. He would need nursing, morphine, other help. The case was inoperable, there was nothing to be done.

He had many friends, but nobody close to console him. He had never regretted this before, but now the chances he had missed unfolded before his eyes like the life of a man who is drowning.

He saw his first love, who came to him somewhat late in life. She was a beautiful Japanese girl of good family who never forgave him for abandoning her.

A host of young, loose-limbed beauties followed her casually down the next decade, none of them ready or indeed needed for a lasting attachment. His work absorbed all of his dedication and amusement. Sex, food, sleep; these were all needs easily disposed of.

There was the lady anthropologist who had finally married someone else, out of desperation, the poetess who had written him a whole sequence of sonnets, the actress who had turned out to have unsuitable connections, the model who slid into the gutter very rapidly after he rejected her for her lack of perspicacity.

There were many, and they had all passed on, one way or the other. There was only one he later regretted, and she had died, in his arms, the victim of a revolution he had been powerless to prevent. A Maya Indian, her name was Concepcion.

"A figure was forming, of fireflies and dust, rather like the negative of a photograph, but in four dimensions. It was all fire and blackness and the song of wings."

Outside the window, in the torpor of the tropical night, stood a kind of porch. It was usually lit up at night for security reasons. Gnats and fireflies basked and spiralled lazily in the beam of the floodlight.

In the artificial glare, their movements were not so aimless. Very slowly and gradually they acquired more numbers and purpose. The cloud of motes thickened and became opaque.

At first the ambassador, in his pacing, did not see what was happening outside the French windows. But a low whispering eventually diverted his attention to the events in the porch.

A figure was forming, of fireflies and dust, rather like the negative of a photograph, but in four dimensions. It was all fire and blackness and the song of wings.

Although he was a practising Catholic, he had really never seriously considered the possibility of the supernatural. The more apparent movement and substance the figure acquired, the more still and breathless with fear he became.

The figure rapidly presented the shape of a woman, slender, beautiful, and utterly fey. Except that he knew that figure. It was exquisitely, terrifyingly familiar.

"Concepcion!" he muttered.

"Armand..." sussurated the figure.

The voice was a silken hiss of wingbeats. The windowpanes rattled and buzzed with its echo.

He stood and stared as the figure approached the glass, gliding rather than walking on indistinct feet.

"The ambassador stood shivering in his tracks for a few minutes, then swallowed a pill, closed the door, locked it, and turned down the air-conditioning."

He backed away, until his ample buttocks came to rest against a sturdy, hardwood table. The unlatched window opened, letting in the moist smell of decaying vegetation. The ambassador feebly beat the air. He had never liked bugs.

But the figure just stood on the threshold, as if waiting for an invitation. When it got none, it spoke again.

"Soon, sssoon!" it repeated, until the voice became a drone again and the insects dispersed and went about their usual business, repelled by the cold air drifting out of the house.

The ambassador stood shivering in his tracks for a few minutes, then swallowed a pill, closed the door, locked it, and turned down the air-conditioning.

The next day, he telephoned the Embassy psychologist for an appointment, and his physician also, complaining of hallucinations. They counselled him to rest, and changed his prescription, so he took a few days off, and went to the beach. He had to decide when to resign, and soon, for a replacement must be found, and his was a touchy, specialist assignment.

At the beach, there was a villa reserved for Embassy personnel, with its own compound, bougainvilleas, dogs, and guards. The civil unrest in that region usually started after six in the evening, and it was considered strictly necessary to retreat behind the electrified walls of the compound after that time.

He usually felt very safe there, but this time no tranquillizers or music could still his sense of unease. By day, the heat seemed too torrid, and by night, sleep would not come.

The guards, patrolling the perimeter with their Alsatian dogs, noticed his vigils, later and later each night, with the whisky bottle. They reported this back to the Embassy, but nothing was done. His immediate subordinates knew that his time there was limited, and that he must soon withdraw from the field. Why not let the poor man drink?

So when a cloud of flying fire-ants broke out of their nest one evening, no-one thought to look where they were heading.

The Embassy received his resignation from the hospital the next week. A secretary—me—had been necessary, since his face was too swollen for him to open his eyes. He did not seem to mind his condition too much, extreme though it appeared.

When he heard my voice, he attempted to smile, and sighed; "Concepcion!"

"Who the devil is she?" I asked in concern, so he told me his tale.

Later, as I left the private room with the necessary papers signed and sealed, he was still whispering her name, in yearning sighs—

"Concepcion ..."

Copyright © Charlotte Appleton 2003