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But this time waiting did no good at all, because Eduard was in a hurry to start living. Two days later, tired of marking time while his mother's friends deliberated, he decided to enroll himself in an art course. He started learning about color and perspective, but he also got to know people who never talked about sneakers or makes of car.
"He's living with artists!" said his mother tearfully to the ambassador.
"Oh, leave the boy alone," said the ambassador. "He'll soon get sick of it, like he did of his girlfriend, like he did of crystals, pyramids, incense, and marijuana."
But time passed, and Eduard's room became an improvised studio, full of paintings that made no sense at all to his parents: circles, exotic color combinations and primitive symbols all mixed up with people in attitudes of prayer.
Eduard, the solitary boy, who in his two years in Brazil had never once brought friends home, was now filling the house with strange people, all of them badly dressed and with untidy hair, who listened to horrible music at full blast--endlessly drinking and smoking and showing a complete disregard for basic good manners. One day the director of the American school called his mother.
"I think your son must be involved in drugs,"
she said. "His school marks are well below average, and if he goes on like this, we won't be able to renew his enrollment."
His mother went straight to the ambassador's office and told him what the director had said.
"You keep saying that with time, everything will go back to normal!" she screamed hysterically. "There's your crazy, drug-addict son, obviously suffering from some serious brain injury, and all you care about are cocktail parties and social gatherings."
"Keep your voice down," he said.
"No, I won't, and I never will again if you don't do something. The boy needs help, don't you see? Medical help. Do something!"
Concerned that the scene his wife was making might embarrass him in front of his staff, and worried that Eduard's interest in painting was lasting longer than expected, the ambassador, a practical man, who knew all the correct procedures, drew up a plan of attack.
First he phoned his colleague the American ambassador and asked politely if he could again make use of the embassy's medical facilities. His request was granted.
He went back to the accredited doctors, explained the situation, and asked them to go over all the tests they had made at the time. The doctors, fearing a lawsuit, did exactly as they were asked and concluded that the tests revealed nothing abnormal. Before the ambassador left they demanded that he sign a document exempting the American Embassy from any responsibility for sending him to them.
The ambassador immediately went to the hospital where Eduard had been a patient. He talked to the director, explained his son's problem, and asked that, under the pretext of a routine checkup, a blood test be done to see if there were any drugs in the boy's system.
They did a blood test, and no trace of drugs was found.
There remained the third and final stage of his strategy: talking to Eduard himself and finding out what was going on. Only when he was in possession of all the facts could he hope to make the correct decision.
Father and son sat down in the living room.
"Your mother's very worried about you," said the ambassador. "Your marks have gotten worse, and there's a danger that your place at the school won't be renewed."
"But my marks at art school have improved, Dad."
"I find your interest in art very pleasing, but you have your whole life ahead of you to do that. At the moment the main thing is to finish your secondary education, so that I can set you on the path to a diplomatic career."
Eduard thought long and hard before saying anything. He thought about the accident, about the book on visionaries, which had turned out to be only a pretext for finding his true vocation, and he thought about Maria, from whom he had never heard again. He hesitated for some time, but in the end, said: "Dad, I don't want to be a diplomat. I want to be a painter."
His father was prepared for that response and knew how to get round it.
"You will be a painter, but first finish your studies. We'll arrange for exhibitions in Belgrade, Zagreb, Ljubljana, and Sarajevo. I've got influence, I can help you a lot, but you must complete your studies."
"If I do that, I'll be choosing the easy route. I'll enter some faculty or other, get a degree in a subject that doesn't interest me but that will help me earn a living. Painting will just recede into the background, and I'll end up forgetting my vocation. I'll just have to find a way of earning money through my painting."
The ambassador was starting to get irritated.
"You've got everything, son, a family that loves you, a house, money, social position--but as you know, our country is going through a difficult time, there are rumors of civil war. Tomorrow I might not even be here to help you."
"I can help myself. Trust me. One day I'll paint a series entitled Visions of Paradise. It'll be a visual history of what men and women have previously experienced only in their hearts."
The ambassador praised his son's determination, drew the conversation to a close with a smile, and decided to give him another month; after all, diplomacy is also the art of postponing decisions until the problems resolve themselves.
A month passed, and Eduard continued to devote all his time to painting, to his strange friends and to that music apparently expressly designed to induce some psychological disorder. To make matters worse, he had been expelled from the American school for arguing with a teacher about the existence of saints.
