***

Nate changed the subject while they rode. She went into theory. The refusal to embrace radical positions, she was saying, is not a sign of mildness, or timidity, or dull thinking or any of those other characteristic sins of the placid and middlebrow establishment. At least not always. Sometimes it’s the opposite: a courageous recognition of how important the frustrating, irreconcilable center really is. That’s realism. The unpalatable but unavoidable moral gloom of Kissinger, Bismarck, Metternich. And the endless nuance, the tragical-historical dismay of President Obama.

She was trying to convince him.

“Tragical-historical?” Henry asked.

“I know,” she allowed, “tragical-comical-historical-pastoral. So I’m half-quoting Polonius now, but the analysis is valid.”

Her canvas bag was prominent, conspicuous on the seat between them. She kept her hand on the flap. She was casual, she wasn’t sitting in an awkward position, but neither did she ever let go of the vessel, its leather strap and brass D-rings.

“The alternative isn’t so much idealism, which is the canonical way to draw the dyad, realism vs. idealism, but something more like absolutism. A values-based policy will always be inflexible. And therefore dangerous.”

“You always talk like this?” Henry asked.

“Like what?”

“Like…I don’t know, like Henry Kissinger. Like you swallowed Kissinger.”

“No, sometimes I talk like I swallowed George Kennan.”

“Ah.”

“What about you, how do you talk?”

“How should I talk?”

Nate looked at him. “I like the shape of your chin, Henry,” she said. “And you look sharp. Most foreign service guys, Henry, I gotta tell you, I don’t know what they ask their tailors to do, but their clothes… Yeesh. Everything they wear seems to…flap.”

With that emphatic and derisive final verb, Nate seemed to relax, to become less electric, less analytical, more drawn in. Drawn in to the familiar and unhurried moral chaos that was always with her, in her. The pills must’ve been kicking in. Her voice became low, a weather-beaten murmur. “But not you, Henry,” she said. “You’re all razor cut. What does it mean?”

‘I don’t know. My old man was a barber.’

“Whereabouts?” Nate laid her head back languorously on the leather headrest.

“Kansas City.”

“Mm,” she said, closing her eyes. “Harry Truman territory.”

“Before my time, yeah.”

“What time is your time? How old are you?”

“Forty-eight.”

“And only on your second tour? What’d you do before the State Dept.?”

“How’d you know I’m on my second tour?”

“You told me.”

“No, I didn’t. I don’t tell people things.”

“You told me you were from Kansas.”

“Kansas City.”

“Told me your old man was a barber. You’re open as blue sky, Henry.”

“That’s different. I meant I don’t like to talk about my career. Previous to this.”

Nate shrugged without opening her eyes. This was minor stuff, she was the National Security Advisor to the VPOTUS, she could find out who her control officer was in advance if she wanted to.

“How about your old man,” she asked. “Was he big like you? Big and square-chinned in his barber shop? Henry, Sr.? Hank?”

“My size.”

“What did he look like?”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I like men.”

“Maybe we should talk about—”

“I like men’s hands, big hands below a proper cuff and watch. I like your watch.”

“You can’t even see it, your eyes are closed.”

“I like your knees, beflanneled. Good solid back spread out under a shirt. Grippable.”

“Ms. McMullen, I—”

“Nate.”

“Nate, I think we’re edging up on an EEO claim here.”

Her eyes opened. “I love you in the morning,” she said, staring straight at him, “when you have to pee and you’re all warm, and heavy-veined and sausagey.”

Henry blinked.

Nate closed her eyes and laid her head back on the seat again. “C’mon, Henry,” she said. “I know you’ve seen a place or two in your time. You’re not a prude.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I was being honest, not aggressive. There’s a difference.”

“I understand the difference.”

“I mean it,” she said, seeming to drift off. “Men can be so beautiful.”