The Foreign Service Journal, January 2007

paperback book, The Collected Poems of Lord Byron. I approached the table. “Excuse me,” I said. “I see you know English. Can you tell me if there’s a john in this place?” “At the back by the door.” “Thanks. I didn’t know there were any Americans living here.” “I’m not American. I’m Irish,” he said. He tried to put on an Irish accent, but it sounded wrong. “You’re Donald Brady, and you’re American,” I said. “Your family’s been looking for you for years.” “I’ll show you my Irish passport,” he said. “Anybody with an Irish granny can get one of those,” I replied. “I’ll bet it shows your birthplace as the U.S.” “Oh shit,” Brady said, forgetting his Irish accent. “Who are you?” I told him who I was, and related the series of events set off by his disap- pearance. He told me his story. It was long and sad and unsurprising. An unhappy marriage to a woman with religious objections to divorce. Spoiled, demanding kids. A job he hated. About to return home from an unsuccessful business trip, he’d decid- ed to fake suicide but didn’t want to leave his possessions and the note on the river bank, where they’d be stolen. His flight from his locked hotel room was easier than I’d imagined. He used a bungee cord from his suit- case to lower himself onto the balcony below. Then he whipped the cord sharply to unhook it from the balcony rail, entered the empty room below by the window, and left the hotel quietly through a back entrance. He was looking for an unguarded border crossing when the war broke out, and took a job teaching English when the regular teacher was called up. He was learning the local language. He was happy. “And the Irish passport?” I asked. “I got it years ago. It’s like you said. My grandmother was born in Ireland. There are no Irish people here, so there’s nobody to know I’m not the real thing.” Brady and I moved to a small table at the back to avoid his friends, and ordered coffee. “All right,” he said. “You’ve found 48 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J A N U A R Y 2 0 0 7 Between sips of the revolting brandy — it smelled like prune juice and tasted like cleaning fluid — I scanned the crowd in the café.