Panama

Panama

A novel by Eric Zencey

The embassy secretary was a dour-looking young man with oiled hair and a sharp chin. He watched Adams carefully and with obvious mistrust, as if by letting Adams wait for Hay he was being asked to play some sort of confidence game that he could lose if he wasn't attentive.

Adam sighed and surveyed the anteroom for distraction. Having finally grown uncomfortable with the damp solitude of a cab, and wanting to find a way out of the funk he felt descending on him, he had decided to find Hay. To feel at peace with him, to feel once again welcome in the bosom of friendship, would be a comfort. But Special Envoy Hay wasn't in; he was expected shortly, would Adam be pleased to wait?

Yes. And no. Adam was unambiguously pleased, though, to spy a copy of that morning's Le Temps on a chair across the room. He rose to retrieve it, forcing a smile at the secretary, gratified to find that the paper hadn't been read: he liked the crisp flatness of fresh of fresh newspapers, all their pages aligned. Clover had known this, and had always seen to it that he got the papers first.

He scanned the Panama story on the front page. Loubet was promising to bring the chécquards to justice, no new warrant had been issued, and the Chamber was selecting its investigating committee – the Socialists were agitating to have the matter taken up by the courts (a more thorough non-partisan investigation, the argued), and the Boulangists has abstained, saying no investigation run by the Chamber itself could possibly be legitimate. They had a point, Adam thought. The paper went on to note that there was no word on who, exactly, the chéquards were, and it opined that in the face of the ignorance the responsible citizen could only reserve jugement.

Adam had began reading correspondences' reports from the Crimea by the time Hay arrived. “I'll see Mr. Adam now”, he told the Secretary, motioning Adams to follow him. “I hope you don't mind,” Hay said when they were seated, a silver-handled, ebony-bladed letter opener in his hand. “I have to deal with this.” He pointed at the stack of afternoon mail on his desk. More of his officiousness, Adams thought, it will make it easier to hold me at arm's length. “Have you seen Lizzie today?” Hay spoke absently, without even looking up, as he sliced an envelope. Adams watched him glance at the letter, the set it and its envelope into the wooden tray on the left side of the desk.

Finally Hay looked at him. No, he hadn't seen her. “Not since last night.” He would keep the details of their talk to himself.

Hay nodded. “She and Cameron had a visit from the police. She's very upset by it. Apparently the police were rude. Abusive, she said. Perhaps she exaggerates, but still”.

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He unfolded another page, glanced at it and set it in the tray.

Life at the top. Photograph by Elena.