Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

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  A Note About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  To Paulina Nepembe, with love and admiration

  Summer

  ’N Man kan sy verlede nie ongedaan maak nie. Kan ’n sebra sy strepe uitvee?

  A man cannot undo his past. Can a zebra undo his stripes?

  —Afrikaans proverb

  / 1 /

  Namibia, the country planted firmly above the west side of South Africa, is mostly desert. If you live in Windhoek, the capital as well as the only settlement that might qualify as a “city,” you are surrounded by brown, dry hills. Drive straight west, and the hills turn to scrub and then desert, all the way to the sea. Drive south, and you have scrub and sand again, until you meet the towering red dunes of Sossusvlei. Drive east, and you’ll hit the Kalahari Desert before facing the crocodiles of the Okavango Delta. Eventually, if you drive north, you’ll find some greenery, though it takes nine hours, and first you must go through the giant salt pan of Etosha National Park, where, if you get out of your car to take a photo or pee, there is a distinct chance that you will be eaten by a lion.

  This was a summary thus far of the observations of one Amanda Evans, a very recent forty-one-year-old transplant from California. Amanda was an American living in Africa with nothing to do. She knew her situation wasn’t particularly unique, but she wanted to make herself useful. She’d booked an interview to manage an orphanage, but in the meantime she took notes about the place that she supposed might be a travelogue/journal/memory book for her daughter. Amanda tried to keep her notes as objective as possible, though she had to admit some of her unhappiness might be seeping out onto the page:

  We swim every afternoon, after skimming off the crust of dead wasps on the pool.

  I sneeze red dust. I pee red dust. If we leave the windows open, when we come back the white floor and walls are covered in red, red, red.

  It’s like everything has been turned up on the contrast filter: The colors are brighter. The sun is hotter. The animals are bigger. The sky is farther away. The bugs are the size of birds, the birds the size of pterodactyls. The poor people are poorer. The rich people are richer. And everybody has a gun.

  At the moment it was 6:45 on Tuesday morning, and Amanda, notebook in hand, was trying to figure out the Namibian expat scene. As she sat in the long line of cars waiting outside the gate of the Windhoek International School, she noted that there was a distinct order to things, at least in the school queue. The children of Chinese businessmen, it seemed, led the charge, their chauffeurs having been idling outside since 6:15. The Americans were next (other than Amanda), driven by their mothers, who talked to each other on their cell phones from various makes of white and silver SUVs emblazoned with red diplomatic plates. Next, the Europeans, cool and elegant in diesel Mercedes sedans and legitimately beaten-up Land Rovers. The Afrikaans families were few and far between, having so many school options in Windhoek where their own language was spoken. Yet a few did opt for an international curriculum, just in case their kids wanted to roam farther than a water-starved country inhabited by just 2.4 million people, and those forward-thinking parents rumbled up in loaded bakkies right before the bell. The wealthy African internationals—the Botswanans, the diamond-rich Angolans—didn’t line up at all. Instead, they preferred to arrive well after the bell rang, when they could convene among themselves in the parking lot beside their black shiny BMWs and late-model Range Rovers.

  None of these patterns were scientific, and—as Amanda was always careful to say whenever she made any observations about her new continent out loud—she was no expert. But as the mother of a third-grader at the Windhoek International School, this was what Amanda Evans had observed during her nine weeks and three days so far in the country of Namibia. She wasn’t counting, necessarily, but her daughter, Meg, had been marking the days off in crayon on her Dog of the Month calendar. Every morning, a new big purple X marked twenty-four more hours gone.

  Today was February first. Amanda had gotten a later start than usual, so was far enough back in the line to watch the other Americans from a distance. Persephone Wilder, in her gleaming 4Runner, had the window down. Amanda was vaguely surprised at this, as lowered windows were strictly against U.S. Embassy security rules, and Persephone, with her glossy red hair, creamy skin, and daily uniform of some iteration of white, didn’t seem at first glance like a rule-breaker. But that was definitely her arm sticking out of the window, and even from back here Amanda could make out Persephone’s ponytail bobbing back and forth as she talked.

  Kayla Grant waited behind Persephone in a silver Prado. Her windows were tinted jet-black, so Amanda couldn’t see her, but she could hear Beyoncé vibrating from the car. Shoshana Levin was behind Kayla, her Highlander still covered in white dust from a family trip to Sossusvlei. The Levins, Amanda noticed, had added a pop-up tent to their roof, an impressive investment given the fact that Shoshana’s husband supposedly had only a year left on his post.

  Amanda’s car had red plates also, because of her husband’s consultant position as “special academic advisor” to the embassy. Her car, however, was a relatively modest Subaru Outback. The Evans family had been in Namibia just two days when they’d purchased it, but Mark declared it the “perfect” car, not wanting to be like those “Boer dickwad rednecks” who sprang for enormous gas-guzzlers. Twenty-one years prior, Mark had spent a year in Namibia with the Peace Corps, so he was confident, he told Amanda, that he knew how to get around the country. But then, the very next weekend on a trip to the Kalahari, the family had gotten stuck in sand two hundred kilometers from the nearest farm, with no cell reception. Which, Amanda had thought as they waited for seven hours in the desert until a bakkie stopped to help them, made Mark, in some ways, the biggest dickwad of all.

  What was a dickwad, anyway?

  “Google says it’s ‘a blockage in the urethra.’ Of, like, a man, I think.”

  Amanda blinked. Since coming to Namibia, something was happening where the private things inside her head were trickling out of her mouth in word form without her knowing it.

  “Meg, give me back my phone.”

  “Okay. What’s a urethra?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Amanda said. She frowned. How could that be one more thing she didn’t know?

  “Okay. The line’s moving, Mom. You can go.”

  Amanda looked in the rearview at her daughter. Meg’s green eyes, shaded by bangs, met her own, then slid back down to her notebook, leaving only a view of the top of her hat. Given the intensity of the Namibian sun, all students at the Windhoek International School were required to wear wide-brimmed sun hats anytime they stepped outside, even if they were heading to the restroom in a rainstorm. Meg’s navy-blue hat was a comparatively sober choice, as many of the students wore brightly colored hats adorned with patches, sew-on jewels, and even cloth flowers. From afar, the school looked like a drunken garden party, populated by gnomes.

  Amanda inched forward. Her WIS badge was properly registered
and displayed correctly on the dash, just as the emails from Petra, the school receptionist, had instructed. No entrance without a badge, ever, ever, EVER!!!! Amanda did not know Petra, but she was already keenly aware of her fondness for exclamation points. Not that Amanda had ever seen anyone so much as glance at her badge. Today, the guard, a stunning Damara woman dressed like a New York cop, kept her eyes glued to her phone as she waved the cars through with a slight flick of her hand.

  By the time Amanda entered the lot, the spots nearest the classrooms were already taken. A Swiss mother hurled her car into the Zebra-striped crosswalk, disregarding the waving arms of Headmaster Pierre, the French-Canadian head of the school, who stood in the parking lot each morning trying to instill some sense of order. (Another observation Amanda had jotted in her book: Europeans are not very good at waiting.) As she put the car in park, the furious scribbling from the backseat got a little more intense.

  “I packed you one of those Afrikaner donuts,” Amanda said, breaking the heavy silence.

  “They’re called koeksisters, Mom. Anyway, Miss Ruby doesn’t allow sweets.”

  “Maybe you can eat it in the bathroom?”

  There was a pause. Amanda could only hope it was because her daughter was appreciating her mother’s love, as opposed to embarking upon a lifelong eating disorder.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Around them, the staccato bursts of car doors opening and slamming again. Her daughter, however, remained steadfast, hunching down farther in the backseat. Amanda waited two more minutes, until it was really time to put an end to this stalling.

  “Lolo?” she finally said, resorting to the nickname she’d been using for Meg since she was a baby. “You know what Miss Ruby said about pre-classroom prep.”

  “Didn’t have that at my old school. Where we studied, you know, normal things. And we didn’t have to wear these stupid hats.”

  Amanda sighed in agreement. Namibia wasn’t my idea, sister. Only this time she concentrated on keeping her mouth shut. She might be a bit tired today, but the last thing Mark needed coming his way, she supposed, was more passive aggression about the move—or direct aggression, for that matter.

  Across the parking lot, Persephone Wilder, wearing a white moto leather jacket over a white sundress, was herding her twins and older daughter toward their respective classrooms. She seemed to carry her own halo of light, like a dove that had accidentally swallowed a uranium pellet.

  “How about ice cream after school?” Amanda asked the hunkered little form behind her.

  Meg shrugged. In California, sugar had been so savagely parsed out that a dollop of honey counted as a special treat. In Namibia, not even marshmallow-covered donuts were enough to excite Meg anymore.

  “Or … trampoline-shopping?”

  Amanda held her breath. The trampoline was the big gun, the special surprise Mark wanted to save for a birthday or an excellent report card. And here Amanda was, bringing it out in month three.

  “Okay.”

  From the rearview mirror, Amanda detected a tiny smile. She did an inner fist pump.

  “See you at one-thirty, then. Have a great day!” She winced at her own false enthusiasm. When had she become the sort of woman who bribed and pandered? Meg slid out of the car as if she hadn’t heard her.

  Trampolines. Lies. False promises. How many other betrayals to her family would Africa require?

  Oh, Namibia, Amanda thought idly as she stared at her daughter’s small figure as she trudged across the lot toward the school, built, according to the WIS brochure, to resemble a traditional African rural village. Will you be the end of me? She shook her head, checking her attitude. It’s only two years, she lectured herself. Again. These were the words Mark had used when he’d come home from the library that day seven months ago, his eyes brighter than she’d seen them in years. She still distinctly remembered where she’d been—her Los Gatos kitchen, making salmon in the sous vide. Meg had been doing homework upstairs. Amanda was listening to Ella Fitzgerald on her father’s old record player, answering work emails in a carefully calibrated, decisive, but non-bitchy manner while the salmon burbled away. Everyone was safe. Life was beautiful. They were ripe for a good screwing over.

  “It’s just two years, and they’ve picked me, Mandi. Me. The first time I applied!”

  “Applied for what, now?” Amanda’s chest had done that thing where it constricted and expanded at the same time. “Sorry—what did you apply for?”

  “A Fulbright. A goddamned Fulbright.”

  “Oh—so, it’s money?”

  “Well, actually—”

  Oh no, she thought. It was a well, actually. Which always meant the shit was about to hit the fan.

  “Mark.”

  “I’ve actually been applying for lots of things … fellowships. I didn’t want to bother you with it because, you know, there are so many things I don’t get. But I got Jaime to help a little … Did I even tell you Jaime was here for that seminar?”

  Jaime was a college rowing buddy of Mark’s. He was the friend who’d managed to accomplish everything Mark hadn’t. Jaime had made the Olympic rowing team after college. Achieved academic success. Now he had transitioned into a successful nonfiction writer who penned bestsellers about newly “discovered” historical facts. Tall, blond, and toned, Jaime couldn’t stay with a woman for more than five seconds. Before he’d discovered Burning Man, Jaime had been James.

  “Anyway, his rec must have helped my application somehow. They emailed today, and then called me. A Fulbright’s usually one year, see, but they’re interested in my topic and want me to advise, as well. So they’ll pay for two years of scholarly research, and for school for Meg…”

  “Wow.” Amanda closed her laptop. “So … let’s slow down. I mean, I’m sure I could find work in Paris. The visa part won’t be easy, but—”

  “Oh. Well, actually … it’s not Paris.”

  Amanda regarded her husband, his tousled brown hair, shot through with gray, his big chocolate-drop eyes. The first time she had seen Mark, all those years ago, she’d wanted to put those eyes—no, his whole being—into her mouth, pelican-style, and keep him there forever. His gangly body still besotted her, which was why, when she first heard this plan to uproot the family to God knew where, she promised herself not to lose it.

  “I thought you were writing about how community discord indirectly caused parts of the Holocaust. In France. Paris. Haven’t you even narrowed down the causal percentages by, like, arrondissement? Isn’t that what you write about all day? France?”

  “Well, actually…”

  Amanda leaned on the counter, trying to catch his eye. “Mark?”

  “I shifted last year from that holocaust to holocausts in general—”

  “Does your dean know this?”

  “—and, as Jaime agreed, there was a holocaust in Namibia that’s practically unresearched. When the Germans tried to eradicate the Nama people in the early 1900s. Did you know that? No, right? See, it’s wide open—”

  “A wide-open holocaust?”

  Mark paused and made eye contact at last, only to take a deep breath and look away again to focus on the succulents on the back porch. “Wide open. Yes. So I changed my focus from France to Namibia, and Jaime was right. It worked.”

  “Amazing,” Amanda tried weakly.

  “Plus, since I’ve already been there, I speak a bit of Oshiwambo, which is very similar to Nama, I think. They liked that, too. Like I said, they’ve even made me a special advisor on the Nama thing, which means we get diplomatic status…”

  Amanda opened the fridge, looking for a way to get her out of this. But there was only Trader Joe’s seltzer. And probiotic kefir. And an ancient salad growing its own mini-universe of mold, encased in a plastic salad container that would take two thousand years to disintegrate.

  “Special advisor?” she asked, slamming the fridge door harder than necessary. “How can you advise the government on the Nama when I’ve never even he
ard the word Nama out of your mouth until now?”

  “The point is, it’s two years. Africa, Mandi! I’ve been there before. I know the ropes. Think of the adventure it’ll be for you, though. And think of the learning opportunities for Meg.”

  “Look,” Amanda said. “Look. I’m all for adventure. And I’m so proud of you. I am.” She stopped herself. Was she really? Yes. Yes. He was her husband. “But what about my job?” She noted, with alarm, that her voice had risen an octave. “They just gave me this huge promotion. I can’t just leave now.”

  “Mandi.” Mark said her name as if it were a statement. As if proclaiming, after giving it some thought, that this was what she was, a noun.

  “Yes.”

  He walked over and took her hands. She felt her body go stiff. They touched each other so seldom now, other than during prescribed sessions in bed. She still loved the feel of his fingers, and after all these years she continued to crave his body at night if he was away. But here in the kitchen, when she was supposed to be doing work and getting dinner ready, she had to admit his physical affection annoyed her.

  “How long have I been an assistant professor at that lame school?” he asked now.

  She squeezed his fingers apologetically and moved back to the cutting board.

  “Santa Clara’s not lame. Just because it’s not Stanford…”

  “Well?”

  “Um…” She concentrated on the carrots. “Seven years?”

  “Nine, Mandi. I’m a laughingstock. This, on the other hand. This is major. Now I can be the breadwinner, for once. Do you know how emasculating it was, having you rocket up from receptionist to head of a whole fucking department? You didn’t even like that job at first. I was the one who was supposed to become this star professor—”

  “Emasculation isn’t a thing anymore. Also, I was an assistant, not a receptionist.”

  “Just give me two years,” Mark said. “Please? I mean, I stayed home with Meg all that time, didn’t I? It’s my turn, Amanda.”