I love photo albums with their yellowed photos, but also tiny birds on the cliffs of nests. I am a man of two ages, the senior and the adolescent, the years when the senses dominate, and time is on the mind, moving one direction or the other. I skipped the years between, when one is hardened against youth and not yet chipped away by age, that long middle age which lacks both the nobility of the antique and the tease of the nouveau. I am a man both behind and beyond my years, in other words.

You could say I lost my way in time and stumbled through the college years, eventually falling. Only an accidental skill at typewriting, and well-placed Uncle Sam, saved me from technical school. There are worse things than being a secretary (I prefer "adjunct," but tire of the correction). I am free to pursue the imaginary birds on my cliffs and touch the yellowed photos that not yet are, but will be.

Whatever you think of me, remember this: Uncle Sam is not as loyal as the name suggests. He's a minor diplomat in the service of the national relationship with Turkey, his duty, as far as I can tell, entertaining, or rather, boring guests at various state functions. I have never seen a man better able to put a dent in incidents. He is the antidote to anecdotes. If he were a gardener, the seeds would grow downwards and the plants die when they hit the dirt.

Perhaps he was chosen not to rile. Well, monotony is not where his betrayal arises. That garden grows closer to the backyard than country borders. Oh, it lies quite a ways inland, indeed. To this I can attest from an incident early in my youth.

I was fifteen and she a year younger, arabesque with black flowers for hair, half-Persian, not a cousin but nearly so (however that works). We were watching I Claudius in a room downstairs when Uncle Sam (that foul name, shortened until it was worth a penny -- it should have been dropped in a 7-11 take-one-please tray) barged in and ruined what had begun as the slide and dip of my hand, upwards, inside -- almost, but ruined! As soon as she was gone, I ran upstairs and heard him say, whether to himself I do not know, "Forgive him and put this matter behind you." And what was she to him? Barely blood, if at all. To this day I'm not sure where the family branches touched, but he meant to keep them separated, our plain king. 


I never would have forgiven him this interruption of my digital introduction, if not for the occupation he later provided, which I suppose was offered as restitution.

Now you can see the position I'm in and the reasons I'm in it: He left me no choice from the very beginning. For whatever reason, the memory of that Roman day lodged in my mind. Ever since, it has begged not only for recurrence, but fulfilment. It has become another bird on a cliff, its ledge interior. How it longs to sail. 

Its destination: A Turkish girl, daughter of a family friend, very like my not-cousin, arabesque and flower-curled, and about the same age as the original when all this started so many years ago. You could peel one image from the second, except time had already peeled them apart. Now she threatens to appeal.

She had come to our office with papers needing signature, bringing gold skin into gold light, triggering a chain reaction of memory. In two seconds I sailed through imported Turkey, half of Persia and televised Rome, not to mention the PBS channel listings. She had the embarrassed way of young girls. I pretended I was chilled and wrapped a scarf around my neck. She giggled. She lingered and I climbed onto an invisible perch and watched this birdie prepare to fly. Come to me, I thought, it's not that long a flight from your ledge to mine. 

The seconds seconded and the minutes minueted. The next thing I know the door sailed shut (aided by a breeze from the fan on the floor, which I kicked in the right direction). I guessed the length of her skirt, arm's length, for she was short, diminutive but not dim-witted (not purposelessly, anyway). I found a reason to stand -- I said the sun was hot on my neck -- and then I kissed her. At first she kissed back, until my elbow passed her knee. Then one image slid towards the other, and the two began to merge, when she recovered and slapped me, knocking all three countries and not a few miniseries from my head.

"I'll tell him," she said. "I'll tell my father. Then we'll see where this gets you."

As I brushed off that shock, I had a realization: What if this accusation came to pass? Could it not be transferred, laid in the lap of someone else; say, Uncle Sam, representative of the United States of America, and fast friend of her father, the very minor ambassador from the Republic of Turkey?

Embarrassment for all, and quite a long test flight for such a young birdie.

This is how it might occur:

"Morning, Charles."

"Morning, Uncle Sam. Top of the day. Greetings to ye. Thank thee for everything."

"Come, now, tell me what tweaks thy mustache, what twitches thy eyebrow?"

"Ah, sir, you know me too well."

"Verily." 

"Well, then," I say, "perhaps I should make a clean break of it?"

"Do, then."

"Well, sir, it seems I've come across several photographs which reveal you've been -- how shall I put it -- illustrating the daughter of the Turkish ambassador, and barely, by which I mean literally, and photo realistically. The very same daughter who hardly has reason to brandish the Lady's Gillette. Let me be plain, in the manner of the times: Are you bonking the ambassador's daughter? His fourteen-year-old daughter?"

"Jeeves!"

"Goddamn it, my name isn't Jeeves. I'm an adjunct, not a butler or secretary."

"You've known me longer than that!"

"Then what about these prints?"

I toss them on the desk. They slide across, landing in his palm. He will not look at them. 

"Forgeries!

"I assure you they are quite real."

"It's a lie. I will not admit it."

"Scandalous!"

"As you like."

"I like it not."

"Open a window, then, nephew! Let the air upon these rank accusations, and see whether they wilt or bloom."

I open the window, allowing in the ultra-humidified Washington smog.

"Well," I ask, "have the photographs grown backwards? Have they un-developed?"

"This entire matter is pre-developed."

"Like your lover -- or shall I call her 'loverette'?"

"Quiet! One of the conservatives will hear you."

"Are you in love with this mini-Turk?"

"In love? I am innocent. Methinks Photoshop at work."

"I have seen even worse photographs, sir, but, and you can thank me later, they now exist only in my memory. Still, you are inserted herein," I said, tapping my temple, "or should I say 'her-in'?"

"I shall destroy even the memory of this lie."

"Then mark this moment as the end of it, Uncle. Never mention it to anyone."

But that's not how it will happen. It's too complicated. This outwits drama, dramatic as it is. It's rotten. You can fish in any century you like; the fish on your hook still stinks. Of course, I do not yet have photographs and the girl maintains her threat: Call it The Turkish Delay.

I would confront her that night at the diplomat's ball. Such an event still somehow clings to currency, waters rife with fish for a cameraman's hook.

***


My uncle and I have visited their house a hundred times throughout my life, so I know the house well and could walk the path to her bedroom with eyes closed. Exterior-wise, I've a few times already enjoyed a perch on the branch of a willow tree, which dips like an airplane stuck midair fifteen feet from her window. She must have thought the tree quite noisy on several occasions. 

Tonight I'm quiet as a willow growing. The moon is full, nature's flashbulb. She reaches for her dress -- I'm nearly too late -- and I reach for my camera. I manage ten shots at ten different angles, as she checks for signs of growth, examining protrusions real and imagined. My snaps are fast and silent. Thank you, moon.

But, mission accomplished, I cannot stop watching. Now she paints her lips and applies the blush (unnecessary, her cheeks already pink as the corresponding wine). Her father must be proud of his not-so-vintage stock. He must at times consider the relative question, if you know what I mean; after all, it's natural by law, if not unnaturally lawful.

If I were judge, and a merciful judge I'd be, I'd cut the statute of limitations to the time it takes one neuron to transmit its electricity to the next: If a man can catch and stop the lightening there, but fails, then guilty he should be, but if the lightening passes through his grasping hands, then free he should remain, free as the cat chasing string, or, if you choose, we who scramble after nature's toys.

***

I return home, tuxedo myself and penguin my way to the ball, photographs in pocket for safekeeping.

The event itself is lovely as the lack of care in falsifying it can achieve: That is, neither Henry James nor today's director (Scorsese, let's say) would be impressed, but perhaps at least the extras and the grips are charmed. If everyone conspires to believe this fabrication is good as that which it half-attempts to replicate, well, then, there's no use calling the evening cheap or shoddy. Partners change hands, candlelight flutters, chandeliers tinkle, waiters twirl and bathroom seekers shuffle. There's something missing, of course, the primary thing, in fact, but let us leave it unnamed if not unrecognized.

Meanwhile, I watch Uncle Sam bore with all his might, mining monotony. His conversation lacks not only a subject of interest but subject altogether, with so many ums and ahs that a mosquito could plunge into his vein and fall asleep as if sipping anesthesia. 

More importantly, there she stands, over there, in the corner. Every few seconds her eyes move my direction, two black balls reflecting her own witchery like two-way mirrors, with me on the spy's side of the window. 

Oh, I see you, my dear, Turkish one, once again precarious on your cliff, waiting, you think, to swoop down, only you're not ready to fly and certainly not to soar, much less to play the vulture.

Soon, I will edge her way, but not until confident I am not merely magnetized. I must limp the soft way to her.

And then -- carefully, carefully -- I approach. She looks away. She looks down. Confidence wanes, never steady in one her age, even less so as I watch her slightest movement, telegraphing that I can see every tiny calculation she makes in this motion or that. For in the moments it takes to cross the space between us, there lies time for three hundred thousand gestures, the slightest turn of the head, twist of the hand, bend of the finger. And so she freezes, as much as all the mechanizations of the body can be stopped by will. However, the vast majority cannot be so controlled, which she proves with a shudder, spilling her drink. 

An invisible jag in the line ruins the straight arrow, my sweet; it is such a waste of time trying.

She had been standing alone for ten minutes, not to mention the twenty seconds it took me to reach her, which might as well have been an hour. She had all the time in the world to shudder right out of my frame, but now it's too late: My shutter is open.

"Well," I begin, "what are we thinking about, I wonder?"

"Don't you want to know?" she says.


"Yes, no, maybe? Check a box."


"You're nasty," the girl says, "nasty as they come."

"I haven't yet."

"I know what you mean. Don't think I don't."

"How do you know I think you don't?"

"Because I never would with you. I only kissed you because --"

"What's the pause? Why don't you say what you mean directly?"

"Because I knew I shouldn't kiss you. That's the only thing you hold over girls. You're just a secretary."

"Adjunct."

"Fancy secretary's all. And I'll tell my father what fancy secretaries do with girls half their age."

"Is that right? And what if I told you I have incriminating photographs of you? I could invent quite a story around those pictures, my dear. I'm good with words."

"Photos from where?"

"Right outside your window."

"That was you rustling? I should have known."

"Too late, now. Anyway, what a shock for your father when he learns my uncle and you have been -- well, there's no need for details."

"Your uncle? Sam? But I've never --"

"Never and ever, a single 'n' between them. Such short distances make all the difference in life. And with those letters my uncle wrote you, well, he won't believe his skill at poetics. But if you think I'm good with words, why, with images, I'm Prospero."

"I can't understand half of what you say, but a quarter tells me know you're full black evil."

"I'm darker than a shot dead moon, my love. So what will it be? Come on, purse thy lips and think."

"Why do you talk that way? Like a play?"

"Because I've scripted your part and you're wasting my time with rehearsals. Now come along, let's drop this matter and get to business."

"You mean you think I'm going to let you --"

"I'm already half a sword to the sun and counting."

"But your uncle is such a good Christian. He should drag you to church."

"I'm no Christian. I can't stand my neighbor, much less love him."

She rolls her eyes, and then -- I see through those mirrors -- thinks for a moment, rifling through her young files. Finally: "You can talk in circles all day; I won't sleep in your cat's cradle. There will be no sequel."

"So what is it you have in mind?"

"You'll have to wait 'til morning."

And with that she stalked (even if I remained behind her) away.

***

Now I sit behind that great desk where yesterday I finally almost left my fingerprints. I cross my legs and watch my uncle, the photographs inside my jacket. He holds a manila envelope, his expression unreadable. A strange recipe brews in his eyes, one part anger, another sorrow, and still another some unknown ingredient.

"I found this under the door this morning," he says.

"An envelope," I answer.

"Hmpf," he says. "Can I get you a Pepsi?"

I shake my head. 

"It has the number one on it," he says, turning the envelope around so that I can see.

"One?"

"Yes. I wonder what that means?"

"I guess I --"

"You and Karli seemed to get on well last night."

"She's nice."

"She's very nice. And such beautiful handwriting. You can learn a lot from that."

"What handwriting?"

"The note she left on the papers she delivered yesterday. You were here, weren't you? Remember this?" He hands me the note.

"Oh, that. I was. Yeah."

"You don't seem yourself this morning. You seem out of syllables."

"I'm very tired, so sleepy."

"Perhaps this will wake you up. There's a note in this envelope. Very strange note. It simply says, 'Ask your nephew about me. Ask him to tell you everything.' Now, what does that mean?"

"It means -- nothing. I don't know what it means."

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

"I said it's nothin'. She's just a schoolgirl."

"Exactly."

"You don't think I --"

"That you what?"

"Nothing."

"You sound almost like a boy your age. I mean, man. But then, she's awfully young for a man your age. Or are you interested in her as a boy your age?"

"Uncle --"

"Do you see what I'm getting at? That I think you're fixated? Oh, but I can't prove it." He drops the envelope on the desk and stares straight at me. "You live in a dream world, nephew. You better stay there."


***


Throughout the day he watches me, but says nothing. With every delivery, I again see that envelope, except it seems to move an inch across the desk between each visit, as if, by touching it, he rekindles his doubts and re-imagines whatever he thinks happened, which no doubt exceeds what would have happened had I gotten my way. By the end of the day, the envelope is gone. He leaves without saying goodbye. It is Friday. Thank God I will not have to see him for three entire nights.

And so I begin typing my letter to a certain reporter at The Washington Post. It is a true hardship framing the accusations in the words of the maid, who supposedly found the photographs; I of course find it difficult to communicate in such a vernacular. But eventually I find the right words to express her outrage. 

The letters I have written for Karli come much easier, especially now that I have her note from which to copy her beautiful handwriting and create the disturbingly precocious love notes she "sent" (and I now deliver) to dear Uncle Sam. Poor Karli, taken advantage of by an old fool of an ambassador.

When I seal the envelope, I imagine I am tasting her.

***

The following Monday, I have quite a few letters to type. It seems Uncle Sam occupied himself all weekend with his dictation machine; he never was a man to bore himself to sleep, although his words played back have that very effect on me. Nevertheless, he seems in better spirits today. Earlier, he even asked if I would like something from the sandwich shop for lunch. I said no, of course. Sandwiches! Still, the gesture was born in normality and I welcomed its reincarnation.

Then, late that afternoon, the telephone rings. I take the call and pass it through. A few moments later, Uncle Sam emerges. 

"I have to go," he says, minus three sheets. "I've got a meeting."

"Whatever could it be?" I ask.

He looks at me for a moment and then disappears out the door. I realize that, since my day is almost over, I won't see him again until things have changed.

I finish my typing and set the stack of letters on his desk. That's when I see the manila envelope has made a fresh appearance. 

I open it and find inside the first note. Paperclipped to it is a second envelope, its seal ripped open. I notice the note Uncle Sam had read the previous Friday bears an unread postscript: "P.S. Should there be any question in the truth, open envelope two." I slide my fingers inside the second envelope and remove the note. "Your nephew attempted to touch me yesterday, when I brought the papers. I kissed him once, and then I changed my mind, but he wouldn't let go. Then, before the ball, he took photographs of me -- I think you know what kind -- and later hinted he would accuse you of --"

I do not read on, but notice something scrawled at the bottom of the page, in the tiny scribble I know as my Uncle Sam's handwriting: "Forgive him and put this matter behind you." I wad up both notes and envelopes and stuff them in my pocket. 

The next morning on the train out of town, I read all about the scandal. Then I set the newspaper aside and study my fingers, imagining them moving up, up, up Karli's leg.