Discretion Read Free

myself. I thought myself the most unfortunate child in the world. Not only did I not have a mother, but the mother I once had had sinned against God and was condemned to burn for eternity in the fires of Hell. And why? Because of love. It was for me, then, when I was young, when life had not yet schooled me, had not yet humbled me, the most shameful, the most dishonorable, the most incomprehensible reason for taking one’s life.
    And yet I was not the most unfortunate child. Even friends who know my story, my beginnings as the son of a mannish woman and womanish man, say the silver spoon was still firmly planted in my mouth. “That Oufoula Sindede,” they say, “nobody can take his silver spoon out.”
    Perhaps that is true, for the missionaries arranged for me to go to the University of London, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in English literature. When I graduated, I was not only fluent in my native tongue but also in two of the most important languages of European diplomacy. I spoke, read, and wrote French and English.I knew the writings of the most important men and women of letters from England and France. This knowledge of their literature and their language would serve me well, for I was destined for a career in the diplomatic service. Though no one envied me when I was a child, I would be envied then by men older than me, wiser, and, perhaps, more worthy of the prestigious positions I would hold in my lifetime.

2

    I am told that I am a handsome man. My skin is the color of black plums. It is pitch black, but my blood shows through it and gives it a richness many admire. At fifty-five I still have a young man’s physique and vigor though my back is bowed slightly at my shoulders. It is a habit I developed from talking to men shorter than me. An instinct for diplomacy I had even as a teenager when I had already reached a height few in my part of the world ever attain. Though at first I bent merely to hear more clearly, it soon became evident to me that others saw this simple act of lowering my body toward theirs as an indication of my generosity. For in my country, as in Western countries, physical height is often mistaken as a sign of virility. My seeming modesty, my willingness not to flaunt an advantage that could bring into greater relief this particular area of sensitivity in others, gave me a reputation for kindness before I had done anything to earn it.
    My hair is beginning to turn gray now, but it is doing so slowly, powdering my thick nap of tight curls sparingly, but more densely along my temples. I consider myself fortunate that my hair did not gray early, for, like many of my colleagues, I could have been persuaded to dye it. Like physical height, black hair reassures a man ofhis masculinity. But had I dyed my hair, I would have regretted it. I perspired profusely when I played tennis, soaking the collars of my shirts with my sweat. On more occasions than I care to remember, I have been witness to the embarrassment of my partners who discovered too late, when we were off court, having cocktails or engaged in some diplomatic social activity, that the rinse they had used to dye their hair had stained the back of their collars.
    Tennis, it did not take me long to discover, is the game of the diplomatic world, a world in which I have spent most of my adult life. The tennis we diplomats played, not the gladiatorial spectacles one sees on tennis courts today, requires
sprezzatura
, an ability to make the game seem easy, to mask the effort needed to achieve that ease, and to conceal one’s anger and jealousy when beaten by a rival. When I discovered this word
sprezzatura
, I liked it because it applied so well to a skill that was essential to possess in my profession, where appearance counted for everything.
    You wore a white shirt, white pants, white socks, and white shoes when you played tennis. You sweated in the sun chasing after a little yellow ball. When the game was over, you shook your