The People Who Report More Stress Read online

  Despite our height and age disparities—three inches and ten years—Brad and I bound to one another like a small magnet to a refrigerator door. It happened quickly too. I can’t quite articulate how or why, but a week after the eggs and bacon, his toothbrush and retainer appeared in my medicine cabinet.

  As an unspoken rule, Brad and I didn’t acknowledge each other at work, but whenever I delivered a report to the Americans, he made sure to be waiting. The elevator doors would open, he’d pop his head inside, and we’d embrace until the beeping commenced. Those few, wet kisses constituted all of the contact we had outside of my apartment. At his request, we also avoided arriving or leaving the UN at the same time, and we never discussed work. I preferred it that way. Better was to make dinner with him, interrupt dinner preparations to have sex, continue dinner-making, eat while watching reruns of Designing Women—a show he’d never heard of, which led to an awkward moment in the third week, when we were both reminded of our difference in age—and have sex again. Through it all, there was no mention of trade relations or species on the verge of extinction or tsunami relief or the official song of the World Cup. Our interactions were of the most basic variety: eat, fuck, sitcoms. And I questioned none of it, including our eventual shift into the middle place between lust and love. No man’s land was an unfamiliar, classless, colorblind waiting room so comfortable that I didn’t care what was next.

  Until the sixth week. That’s when I noticed reticence. Reticence in the kitchen. Reticence on the couch. Reticence in the elevator.

  “Do you want to call it quits?” I asked.

  “What? No! Why?”

  “Oh. Well, you’ve been distant or uneasy lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and folded himself onto the couch like an origami giraffe, leaving nary an opening between us. “It’s work. Just work stuff. Nothing to do with you. I promise.” Then he kissed my neck and unbuttoned my shirt. Afterward, both of us were famished but neither wanted to cook. We ordered dinner from the new pan-everywhere vegan restaurant that he’d been wanting to visit, and before going to bed I acquiesced to a rerun of Modern Family, which he’d been advocating for all week.

  The following night, his typical, upbeat confidence was again adagio. I wasn’t as worried as I’d been when I’d thought his mood had something to do with me, but I wanted him back to the way he was nonetheless.

  “Do you want to talk about it?—The thing at work, I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  “Might make you feel better.”

  Up to then, we’d done well by our rule of never discussing work, which should not have been easy, since our livelihoods were in some way tied to most current events as well as all of history. But after a bit more prodding, Brad opened up. “You see, the deputy rep is putting a lot of pressure on me to secure opposition for an upcoming resolution. And it’s more difficult than I expected. To complicate matters, a colleague let it slip that I’m on some sort of probation. Apparently, I’ve been underperforming.”

  “Is it because of me—Us?”

  “No, no. I don’t think so. I’ve just been trying to do too much. I was hoping to move from communications into something legislative. But now I have to get my act together. Without this job, it’s back to Bunkport for me.”

  “Which resolution is it? The one that’s giving you trouble.”

  “The, uh—The one calling for a truth and reconciliation commission to investigate war crimes in El Salvador.”

  “I know it well.”

  He nodded.

  “You know, my family is from El Salvador.”

  He nodded again, and I suddenly felt trapped. Between what or who, I wasn’t sure. I began to nibble the inside of my lip.

  “It’s more complicated than you think,” he said. “This may surprise you, but we plan to get behind the resolution. The problem is that China signaled support for the T&R commission first, and we can’t go on record agreeing with China about a human-rights issue. That would set a bad precedent.”

  Maybe I’d been working at the UN too long, but in that moment, his reasoning made perfect sense.

  During dinner, Brad remained quiet. He spent more time dragging his spaghetti around the plate than eating. Afterward, he loaded the dishwasher and washed the pots and lids that didn’t fit—something he did often and that felt anomalous to who he was and where he came from. I mean, white men certainly wash dishes, but not white men who have family homes in Kennebunkport and who call Kennebunkport “Bunkport.” And never pots and lids. When we were done cleaning up, Brad didn’t want to watch any television, preferring instead to continue reading a tome of an LBJ biography in bed. I was left feeling like an unwanted guest in my own home, or the child of working-class parents around the first of the month, or a drunk person in a library. Finally, I broke the silence. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  Brad set the gigantic book down over his bare abdomen. “I don’t want to mix you up in all this.”

  “So there is something?”

  “I don’t know. You see, China agreed to support the resolution after El Salvador cut its diplomatic ties with Taiwan. We believe that if El Salvador were, in some way, to re-recognize Taiwan’s existence before Friday’s vote—even a minor overture—China would recant its support for the resolution, leaving us free to back it.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it for a minute.

  “I don’t understand. Why the sudden concern for human rights?”

  “That’s not fair. We are for human rights.”

  I didn’t respond, but Brad must have read my face. “I can see why an outsider would think that,” he said.

  “I’m not an outsider.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I knew what he meant, but I also thought it was possible that he could mean several things at once.

  “Charles in Charge, we care about El Salvador. It’s an ally.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Well”—Brad sat upright—“there’s a Central American trade agreement coming up. We plan to ask El Salvador to rename its largest garment-factory city ‘USA.’ If they agree, the majority of textiles and apparel coming out of the country will read—”

  “Let me guess: ‘Made in USA.’ ”

  Brad shrugged.

  “What’s the point? The clothes would still be made in El Salvador.”

  “People just want to see it on the label. This is something that unites the local-sourcing movement on the left and the nationalistic patriots on the right,” he explained. “No one is going to investigate past the label—we’re getting ahead of ourselves anyway. What’s important is that we support El Salvador’s resolution now, so that they come through for us later. A win for retail and for human rights. It’s a no-brainer.”

  Brad had come up onto his knees and was resting irresistibly on his heels, an impish grin across his face. The bedsheet had slid down onto the bed. Apart from the portrait of LBJ covering his johnson, he was naked.

  “You overestimate my position and abilities if you think I can get El Salvador to change its stance on Taiwan.”

  “I don’t have any doubts about your abilities,” Brad said before Lyndon Baines Johnson went face down onto the bed.

  * * *

  The center-left party in El Salvador had campaigned on promises of de-privatizing water and truth and reconciliation. After winning the election, the new president signed bills that nationalized half of the drinking-water supply, but he was dragging his feet on T&R. In the 1990s, the first UN-sanctioned investigation into the atrocities of the country’s civil war lay the preponderance of blame on right-wing paramilitaries and oligarchs. The Salvadorian government at the time was composed of conservative factions who disregarded the findings and never again mentioned truth or reconciliation. Although the left was now in power, it, too, feared what an investigation might uncover, especially with so many former revolutionaries in the government, including the new president. They knew t
he right would use false equivalency as a winning strategy, and the left would risk losing a power they had only just acquired. A trap door, vis-à-vis Taiwan, would be an appealing option.

  “Oh, mate. Getting into bed with the Americans is a terrible idea. They’re all cute hoors,” Quimby said, something he was wont to say of anyone he considered unsavory. “Besides, T&R has been sought for years by the survivors of the war. If it falls apart now …” Quimby raised his pint and his eyebrows.

  Politically speaking, Quimby was a mellower version of the young man I recalled from my college days, the one who wrote his dissertation about the Irish struggle for northern independence as a J’Accuse of the British monarchy (“Anglican? How about Angliwon’t! Fuck the King, the Queen, and the Entire Chessboard”). Even so, he never passed up an opportunity to openly disdain the descendants of his own countrymen here, whom he accused of desecrating their anti-colonialist histories: “Is there anything more despicable than a New York City cop with an Irish surname?” he’d say whenever we walked past a white police officer.

  “And what about your family, Charles in Charge?” Quimby set the empty glass down, revealing a light foam mustache. “Have you thought of them?”

  The political congruencies between El Salvador and Ireland had always interested Quimby. In the afterglow of our office-hour romps in college, he’d ask me to recount the few family tales I knew because he said they reminded him of the stories his mother used to tell him. Lore about aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d worn wigs and prosthetic noses, baked codes and coordinates into pupusas, and trained in armed combat in jungles and university basements. People I’d never met, some of whom were still alive and, frankly, needed—if not urgently, then sooner rather than later—truth and reconciliation. Much of the country did. And while I may not have felt much allegiance to these stories and characters, actively betraying them seemed unnecessary.

  “Don’t view it that way,” Brad said on my couch, on the eve of the vote. “Besides, it’s a moot point. Thanks to you, we’re free to support El Salvador.”

  Brad had been right about China. Once Taiwan reentered the picture, the Chinese balked.

  I was the one who had made sure Taiwan reentered the picture.

  Hipólito, El Salvador’s assistant to the deputy ambassador, tended to cruise near the Boutros Boutros-Ghali Gallery on the twenty-fourth floor. As a place of art, it was unremarkable—a room full of empty plinths and lesser works by well-known painters that had been found in the rubble of war zones—but at the end of the mustard-colored corridor, there was a single-occupancy restroom that was rarely occupied. The guilt of cheating on Brad left me impotent at first, but after a few minutes, and despite the cold tile, I was able to enjoy myself. When we were done, Hipólito sat bare-assed on the sink, running his knuckly fingers through his hair. “Uff. Eso me hacía falta,” he said before exhaling forcefully.

  “I also needed that,” I replied, as I handed him his pants. “Oh, and just a heads-up, Australia is going to propose an emergency amendment to the resolution, one that requires immediate extradition to the International Criminal Court for anyone found to have aided or abetted war crimes during the civil war. I heard they want to go hard after the current administration so that the right wing wins the next election.”

  “¿Qué?” Hipólito hopped off the sink, scrambled for his shoes, and ran off.

  By lunchtime, the Salvadorians were abuzz. The following morning, the president of El Salvador, who had been scheduled to appear at the UN for Friday’s vote, canceled his visit. This signaled to everyone that something was awry. And when the Salvadorian mission announced that the president would be visiting Taiwan instead, everyone assumed the resolution to be dead on arrival.

  * * *

  “You tested positive for gonorrhea. You’re asymptomatic, but you’re still a carrier,” said Dr. Pangilinan over the phone, on the morning of the vote. “Nothing to worry about, just refrain from sex for a week after you’ve completed your treatment. And please notify all of your sexual partners since your last exam.”

  I hadn’t had gonorrhea since college.

  “Down with your draws,” said Quimby, who kept a stash of ceftriaxone and azithromycin in his desk. The former was an injection; the latter, pills.

  “Shit, Quim, there have been dozens of men since my last checkup, and I don’t have any of their phone numbers. I might be responsible for a global epidemic.”

  “That’s nothing. Half the UN died in the 1980s,” he said. “But don’t fret, everyone here is on PrEP, and they know to keep a drawer full of these.” Quimby held up the bottle of Zithro and the empty syringe. “Feel bad for the tourists.”

  I nodded along, like a poorly trained public-health worker.

  “Are you going downstairs for the session? Your vote should be coming up soon.”

  “No. I’m going to watch from the Ban Ki-moon Room,” I said, as I zipped up.

  When I arrived at the viewing deck, groups of second-tier aides and elementary-school students were making their way into the plexiglass-encased chamber above the Security Council. Just outside was Jaya, her hand over her chin, softly squeezing her own face. I’d never before seen her away from her office. “This one has slipped from of our hands,” she said without looking at me. “There is a populist fool waiting to capitalize on the disillusionment of the Salvadorian people. Our failure today will certainly guarantee him the next election. I fear for El Salvador’s history and its future.”

  “It will happen today. I’m certain of it,” I responded.

  “Have you not heard the murmurs in the corridors?”

  “Gossip. That’s all.”

  Jaya looked at me askance. “We almost had a win,” she said. “Almost.”

  “Worst case, we can prepare for another vote in a few months,” I said, hoping to lighten her mood.

  “Tell me, Charles in Charge, during your brief tenure here, have you ever witnessed a motion fail and return for a vote? There has not been a landmine resolution since Princess Diana.”

  “Have some faith, Jaya.”

  “Faith?” Jaya gave a scornful shake to her head. “Faith is for the unseen. Am I not visible to you?”

  I nodded slowly, unsure if she’d used a double negative.

  “You know, Charles in Charge, many people come here looking inside of these walls for what they have never been able to find outside of them. You’re not the first.”

  Although I didn’t understand what Jaya meant, I continued nodding. She turned, as if to leave, but remained in place with her back to me. “Charles in Charge,” she whispered, “a piece of advice: you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, but don’t get in the fucking way either.” Then she marched back toward her office.

  * * *

  The speaker system in the viewing room created an uncanny effect: everyone was living the experience while simultaneously listening to it over a radio. The agenda listed the vote on El Salvador as the fourth of five items. On the floor now was the second, a resolution opposing a statue of Slobodan Milosevic in Manila, part of the new Filipino president’s homage to his heroes. (He’d already erected tributes to Suharto, Mussolini, and Andrew Jackson.) The first vote of the day, a resolution banning plastic bags, failed 8–7. Australia, which had classified it as an environmental MUSE (a Matter of Utmost Security and Exigency), cast the deciding vote against itself. With the United States breathing down its neck, Australia argued that the resolution was poorly written and ultimately inefficient—never mind that Australia had written the text to begin with.

  In a rare win, the proclamation against the Milosevic statue passed 10–4, with one abstention, despite protestations from the Filipino envoy. “Spain and the United States made us this way!” he shouted while leveling his shoe against his desk. “And all of the airports here are named after warmongers!” Afterward, there was a fifteen-minute recess.

  The third item was sanctions on Israel in response to its Friday massacres of Palestin
ians in Gaza. But no sooner had gavel hit table than Israel’s representative interrupted to argue that the measure didn’t clarify if it included today. “Today, after all, is also a Friday,” he said. “If the resolution includes today, it is invalid because we have definitive proof that Israeli Defense Forces have not yet fired upon anyone. And it is too early to assume that anything will happen later.” Before any other delegates could respond, the US representative offered a motion to table the resolution until the following Friday so that they could have time to gather information about this Friday. Without a single hand going up or down, the functionary announced that the motion had passed 14–1. Everyone, including the Israeli delegation, looked gobsmacked. A slow train of sighs, boos, and tsks gradually circled the hall and entered our enclosed aerie.

  Next was El Salvador.

  As the chamber reshuffled, I noticed Brad conferring with his delegation, a small coterie of faint pinstripes and one sienna skirt suit, most of whom were seated and balding. Whenever he bent over to speak to them, he pressed his tie against his midsection—the red one with white diagonal stripes that I had picked out that morning. The Americans nodded with bobble-headed fervor. Brad then walked over to the Australian delegation and went through a similar protocol. He shook their hands before walking up the aisle and disappearing a level beneath me.

  The United States put forth the motion to support the Salvadorian resolution. Venezuela, Vietnam, Uruguay, Sweden, Burkina Faso, the United Kingdom, and the United States voted in favor, just as we had foreseen. Opposition arose expectedly from China, Russia, France, Guatemala, Poland, Kazakhstan, and Uganda. Australia was the last to cast its vote, and when the ambassador raised his hand, he said, “No.” Then he added, “Without prejudice.”

  “The resolution fails by a vote of eight to seven,” announced a short bespectacled woman at the podium. “We will take a short recess and resume the agenda on the hour.”

  I leaned forward and pressed both hands against the plexiglass. The crowd of people behind me trickled out of the room. Half of them were nonplussed in a traditional English manner; the other half were North American nonplussed; all of them hummed the “Marseillaise.” When I thought the room had cleared, the sound of faux throat-clearing entered. “Charles in Charge,” he said.