The Foreign Service Journal, January 2007

J A N U A R Y 2 0 0 7 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 47 and it was crowded with grubby-look- ing militiamen and their girlfriends, strolling in the chilly sunshine. My hosts led me to a relatively intact café. I don’t speak the local language really well, and my mind wandered as the mayor and the militia colonel trad- ed war stories. Between sips of the revolting brandy — it smelled like prune juice and tasted like cleaning fluid — I scanned the crowd in the café. They were mostly thin, dark, shabby men. Suddenly, my eyes locked onto a man with thinning blond hair, much taller than the group seated around him. He seemed to be wear- ing silver-rimmed aviator glasses. Anxious to get a closer look, I mut- tered “toilet” to my companions and headed across the crowded, smoky room. I paused near the blond man. Without the photograph for com- parison I couldn’t be absolutely sure it was Brady, but I’d never seen any native of the country wearing aviator glasses. I tried to overhear his conver- sation, and pick up his accent, but his companions were doing the talking. Back at my table, I asked the mayor about the blond man. “He looks like an American,” I said. “If he is, I’d like to meet him. We’re supposed to register all Americans in the consular district.” “I know him very well,” the mayor said. “He is an English teacher in our secondary school. A brave fellow who kept teaching here all through the siege. When those scum on the other side bombed our school, he moved classes to the shelters and kept on teaching. He also served as a stretch- er-bearer on the front lines. But he is not an American. He is an Irishman. The colonel also knows him.” The militia colonel nodded. “I myself pinned a medal on him. Some of our wounded fighters owe their lives to Mr. Brady.” My companions offered to intro- duce me to their star English teacher, but I declined. At last I had a chance to resolve the Brady case, placate the congressman, and make the ambas- sador happy. I wanted to approach Brady alone. I waited the next day outside the school and followed Brady as he walked home. He was accompanied by a gaggle of enthusiastic adolescents, and I could hear their awkwardly phrased English trailing in the air behind them as they tried to impress their teacher. In the market square a militia man on crutches hugged Brady and pound- ed him on the back. An old lady in black kissed his hand. The students drifted away. Brady crossed the shell- pocked square, heading for the same café where I’d seen him the night before. He sat down alone at the same table, perhaps waiting for the same friends to join him. He took out a