Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  “Oh, Miss Frida,” Persephone said. “Shoshana is ten minutes early. So awful. No one should ever be early to a party.”

  “No,” Frida agreed.

  “Let’s let her wait a minute,” Persephone said, flipping an egg. Twenty seconds later, Shoshana buzzed again. Persephone glanced at the screen, enjoying the view of her friend tapping her nails against the wheel. “All right,” she said, when they heard the buzzer the third time. “Buzz her in. But, Frida! Miss Frida. Do not call Shoshana Miss.”

  Frida gave Persephone a perplexed glance and went to usher in their first guest. Moments later Shosh entered, looking—to Persephone’s eye—absolutely horrid in damp, stained workout gear.

  “Perse!” Shoshana crowed. “So sorry. Didn’t have time to change. I’m training for the Desert Dash, you know, so I had to fit in an 80K ride after CrossFit. In this heat! Brutal.”

  “Well, you’re early,” Persephone said pointedly. “Would you like to use my shower?”

  “Nah. We’re all friends here. Hey, can I have a coffee? Iced? No? I always keep old coffee in the fridge, you know, and presto! Oh well. Anyway, this new person isn’t, like, a new ambassador’s wife or anything. She’s not even embassy, is she? Her husband’s like a teacher or something?”

  “He has a Fulbright. Very prestigious. He’s advising on the Nama situation.”

  “Don’t know much about that one. Speaking of which, did I tell you we’ve pretty much nailed our next post? Almost definitely Belgium, baby. Barry’s gonna be the next chargé.”

  “You did tell me,” Persephone said, pouring (hot!) coffee for Shoshana. She found Shoshana’s athleticism inspiring, and her sense of humor charming. Her constant awareness of the State Department pecking order, on the other hand, was less endearing. Particularly when Shosh’s husband would soon be the second-in-command, outranking Adam.

  “Sally will be here soon. She ran out and got you gluten-free croissants.”

  “Oh my God. I shouldn’t have bugged you about it. That is so nice, but those things have some sort of xanthan gum in them or something. You shouldn’t eat gluten-free baked goods, it’s like pouring glue in your gut, literally. No, my Amazon box came today. I’m cool with black coffee and my protein shake.”

  “And your Charmin?”

  “Shhhhhh.” Shoshana giggled. It was no secret that the Levins used the diplomatic pouch—an age-old privilege dating back to the very beginning of the Foreign Service, meant for only the most precious of items—to receive American toilet paper. As if they didn’t have perfectly good toilet paper here. A tiny bit scratchy, but who cared? Yet the truth was everyone, from the ambassador down to the college girl from Iowa who worked as a receptionist, abused the pouch. The back halls of the embassy, unseen by visitors, were stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes shipped from Amazon Prime. At first Persephone had tried to rein her own ordering in, out of principle, not to mention Adam’s lectures.

  “It’s not like it’s free for the government to send Tide Pods from Des Moines to Kuwait,” he told her, back when she first discovered the pouch. “The taxpayers shoulder that bill.”

  And so she had done her best to go local. She really had. But it was so much easier to press Buy Now than to live with your children’s rashes from Namibian laundry detergent, or comb SPAR for organic black beans, or convince your daughter that South African OTEES were the same thing as Life cereal. And so, compliments of the U.S. government, shipping containers toting all of their Amazon items arrived every week.

  Keeping her orders squarely in the middle realm of abuse, Persephone made a point of going to pick up the boxes herself, unpacking them and hiding the Amazon packaging before Adam got home. So far, she had been lucky. Whenever she’d come to the embassy to collect her loot, he hadn’t been there. Kayla was the biggest abuser, anyway. Last year, she had pouched a live fourteen-foot Christmas tree from Vermont.

  At ten o’clock exactly, the other guests started to arrive. Even in slow-paced continents like Africa, State Department people tended to be prompt, particularly when food was involved. (If free alcohol was on the menu, they were early.) Within half an hour, Persephone’s assigned Foreign Service furniture was filled with Shoshana, Kayla, and Margo, along with half a dozen other Trailers who shook Amanda’s hand before pairing off to talk among themselves. Persephone tried not to glare too hard at the knots of women forming in her kitchen, but she found them so … base. If you were eating someone’s meet-’n’-greet croissants, for Lord’s sake, you were meant to meet and greet the person. And make them feel welcome. Honestly. Had these spouses been raised in a barn?

  No, no, she thought. She mustn’t go down that rabbit hole. This was a party! And she was actually feeling warmer than usual toward Margo, who had parked herself on the sofa next to Amanda almost immediately. It was also fortunate that Persephone’s new close friend Amanda seemed not to mind at all when Margo removed little Noah’s diaper and pointed to the silver bowl she’d placed at her feet.

  “It’s a way of potty training,” Margo explained. “You make the right choice available to your child. And, well, hope for the best! Anyway, as I was saying, there are all sorts of ways to dress up these chairs.”

  Persephone busied herself with passing out croissants and coffee. All State Department houses, other than the ambassadors’, of course, were furnished with exactly the same government-issued furniture, designed by an American who could only be a depressed, color-blind man in some cinder-block basement. Every piece, from the dining chairs to the sofas to the tables, was unbreakable and at just the wrong height for everyone. And you could bounce a quarter off the rubber-filled sofa cushions. Even now, the sitting guests looked strained, their legs bracing against the floor to keep themselves from slipping down or to the side. Those with the most State Department experience passed these events standing.

  “I custom-made my own slipcovers from local fabric,” Margo said. “And the other thing you can do is have big pillows made by a local for, like, a dollar. Even a lampshade cover to help the light…”

  “I wouldn’t fuck with the lampshade,” said Kayla. Her husband was the facilities manager, meaning he was in charge of all the housing and furniture. Kayla, therefore, saw this as her jurisdiction as well. “Though slipcovers are a good idea. Because one weird stain, and you have to pay your deposit.”

  “Happened to us at our last post,” chimed in Shoshana, who was balanced precariously on the arm of a love seat, her muddy running shoe pressed against the coffee table. “Four hundred bucks for a coffee stain. It was my most expensive purchase in Madagascar.”

  Persephone smiled graciously, noting that Shosh was now enthusiastically scarfing down a regular, glutenous chocolate croissant.

  “I’ll be careful,” Amanda said. “Thanks.” Persephone tried to catch her eye, but Amanda had turned back to Margo, and was nodding with great respect and concentration at Margo’s instructions on how to make a papier-mâché bird feeder.

  She has good manners, she thought, feeling her approval of her new friend grow. And that was it, wasn’t it? Persephone mused as she went to refill the carafes of coffee and soy matcha tea. It wasn’t a class issue. No, manners were the key characteristic that separated the wheat from the chaff—or the Trailing Spouses from the true Embassy Wives.

  “Then we went to the Gondwana in the Erongo,” Kayla was saying. “You know about the embassy discount, right, Amanda? And oh my God. It was so cheap. Yes, there were frogs in the pool, but I was like, who cares? All four of us get this awesome room and all this food for ninety American bucks? You should go up there. Seriously.”

  “We will. Thanks,” Amanda said.

  “And do you have a housekeeper yet?” Shoshana asked. “Or a nanny?”

  “I don’t use a nanny,” Margo said as she plucked a turd off the floor and threw it back into the elimination bowl. “Noah and I are bonding. No nannies.”

  “If you don’t get a nanny here, you’re fucking crazy,” Kayla said. “Also you
need to, so you can help out the economy.”

  “My daughter is in school all day…” Amanda said. “She’s beyond a nanny, I think.”

  “It’s eighty bucks a week for a full-time person,” Kayla said. “U.S. dollars. And that’s, like, if you’re super-generous. Why not just have someone there to make soup and fold laundry?”

  “Kayla has two nannies,” Shoshana said.

  “Look. I’m here to live the life I want to live,” said Kayla, lifting her chin. “I don’t think there’s any shame in that.”

  “You’re in Namibia because your husband is serving the U.S. State Department,” Persephone said, a tad tersely, putting more gluten in front of Shoshana. “So I trust you’re here out of service.”

  “And thank God for that,” said Kayla. “Amanda, in terms of posts, you scored. Namibia is Africa light. Good malls, good roads, good coffee shops. No danger of getting into a tight spot with a warlord.”

  “Totally.” Everyone was paying attention now. “Africa light” was a favorite Trailer topic.

  “Our last post in Dar es Salaam? Holy shit. I mean, our house was huge. And the help was even cheaper. But traffic was so bad it took two hours to get two miles.”

  Amanda nodded. Persephone was impressed at how placid she was, how she looked as if she was really listening and cared.

  “Hey, Amanda, I found you on LinkedIn before I came over,” said Jeffrey, the finance manager’s husband. The gossip among the Trailers was that he was a secret drinker. Though perhaps secret wasn’t the word, because only a moment ago he had fairly blatantly added whiskey to his coffee cup from a flask. “COO. Pretty impressive. What will you do while you’re here?”

  “I’ve been trying to find a volunteer opportunity I like. One where they actually need me.”

  “Well. We all do IWAN,” Shoshana said. “International Women’s something. It’s sort of half coffee and wine and chatting, but the other half is outreach, raising money for scholarships, that kind of whatever. Or you can volunteer over at Penduka. Where they teach women to empower themselves by making pot holders and things.”

  “I guess I was hoping to do something a little more … direct,” said Amanda.

  “Only you can’t,” Kayla said. “The Namibians don’t want meddling. People here just want to do things their way.”

  “They’ll be happy to take your money, though,” Jeffrey said.

  “Yas, queen.”

  “I don’t think that’s true at all,” Persephone said. “I think you’re being awfully negative, especially to a newcomer.”

  “Exactly.” Margo nodded. “How much did the women from Katutura nursing home love it when we took them to brunch?”

  “You only think they loved it. The woman I was hosting thought she was being kidnapped,” Kayla said. “She cried all the way there.”

  “Come on. You’re giving the wrong impression,” Persephone said. “You can get directly involved. And I’m not just talking about throwing pointless tea parties where we sneak condoms on the saucers.”

  Oh dear. Perhaps she had sampled a little too much champagne.

  “Really, Perse?” Shoshana said. “And what direct impact are you making?”

  Persephone bit her lip, regretting. “Well. I’m very involved in Frida’s family.”

  “So you give extra money to your nanny? Wow.”

  “I never do that,” Kayla said. “First of all, you never know where the money’s really going. Some abusive boyfriend for beer, probably.”

  “And—”

  “Tell them about the rhino project,” Amanda said, putting down her cup with a clear, percussive snap on the table. The sound was so sharp, Persephone could see Margo jump.

  “What?”

  “The rhino project,” Amanda said. She gave Persephone a sly wink and turned back to the Trailers. “The first day I met Persephone, she told me how much she loved rhinoceroses. Wow, hard to say in plural, isn’t it? Rhinos, I mean. She said she wanted to protect them in the field.”

  Persephone nodded. She’d just been babbling, but she had said it.

  “Well, since then she’s been working on her own nonprofit to safeguard the animals. It’s quite revolutionary. Actually, I’m helping her manage it.” Amanda looked at Persephone and grinned. “I’m her COO.”

  “I didn’t hear about this,” Shoshana said, looking hurt.

  “What is it?” Jeffrey asked, before taking one last gulp of his spiked coffee. “Your nonprofit. Explain, Phoney.”

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” Shoshana scolded him, clearly delighted.

  “Well.” For once in her life, Persephone was truly flummoxed. She patted the back of her chignon. “The nonprofit is…”

  “It’s her dream job.” Amanda was obviously trying to jog her memory. “A protection … start-with-one kind of thing.”

  “Start with one?” Jeffrey pressed.

  “Well … obviously I can’t save all of the rhinos out there,” Persephone said, finding her groove. “So I’ve picked one rhino. It’s my responsibility to make sure it’s protected.”

  “From poachers?”

  “Yes.”

  Shoshana crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you using money? Because the State Department prohibits—”

  “No. Personally protecting it, I mean. By visiting it. And … you know. Patrolling the area.” Oh Lord. She was so in over her head.

  “How? With a gun or something?”

  “Well. We might have a gun, in the future. I mean, Adam has one. But it’s totally nonviolent.” Persephone’s head spun as she fabricated. “We’re essentially witnesses. It’s like … we’re taking a nonviolent stand.”

  “I call bullshit,” Kayla said. “Persephone, you hate camping. When we went camping at Erindi you upgraded to the lodge.”

  “The view of the animals was better from the deck up there,” sniffed Persephone.

  “Seriously, though,” Amanda said. “I can attest: this is the real thing.” Persephone could see why her friend did so well at business. Her present tone could shut down the most perilously skeptical room. “We’re meeting tomorrow to figure out the plan. Supplies, and schedule. That sort of thing.”

  “And where is your rhino?” Shoshana asked.

  “The first one is on Shilongo’s game farm,” Amanda said before Persephone could answer.

  “Mila Shilongo?” Kayla’s mouth dropped open. “Come on. You and that woman are oil and water.”

  “Lemons and milk,” Margo said.

  “Tequila and Baileys,” Jeffrey crowed. The other Trailers exchanged glances. “You hate each other.”

  “She’s really turned a corner,” Persephone said quickly. “You know, she donated an entire oryx to the Argentina booth for International Day.”

  All of this was too much for the Trailers. They had arrived at the meet ’n’ greet counting on ironclad alliances. Even small shifts were noted among the State Department community and more than a little resented. When the Wilders had gone to Erindi with the Grants, for instance, and left out the Levins, Shoshana had silently taken Persephone off the host list for Margo’s baby shower. And when Shoshana gave up Margo’s knitting class because she couldn’t make it work with CrossFit, Margo had taken her off the WhatsApp list immediately, pointedly barring her from the other social chat that hummed regularly over that line of communication.

  One could call it catty, mused Persephone. Someone like Amanda, who was only dipping in and out of the Foreign Service, probably would. But the perceived betrayals were deeper than that. When you made your living moving from country to country, bringing your family, pets, and all your belongings with you every three years in a bloated balloon, you could basically count on nothing. In-country friends were always temporary, Adam was always reminding her. Likely, a local would want something from her, in the end. No, the State Department employees had their jobs to hold them down, but the Trailers only had each other. And when there was a power shift, real or imagined, they reeled and swarmed, like c
arp fighting for scarce bits of bread.

  The party ended promptly at 11:30. The guests all hugged Amanda and promised to be in touch, but through the window Persephone could see Margo, Kayla, and Jeffrey lingering by their cars in heated discussion. Shoshana, it could only be assumed, had dashed off to Pilates class.

  Once they were all gone, Amanda and Persephone picked up plates and brought them to the kitchen.

  “What was that?” Persephone asked. “I can’t start a nonprofit. You need actual profit for that.”

  “Yes, you can,” Amanda said. “I was thinking about it, even before today. I think it was when you used the term ‘dream job.’ All you need is a mission. A noble cause and a passion. You really do love rhinos, don’t you?”

  “Of course. They’re splendid animals. The fact that crooks are shooting them and gouging out their horns to make Viagra, or whatever it is, drives me bonkers.”

  Amanda leaned on the counter as if she were at a podium and about to give a speech. “And do you think this is a good way of protecting them?”

  “Sitting beside them and making certain no one murders them at night? Well, yes.”

  “And do you know people who would donate? If your deb sisters saw you putting your flag out for this, would they throw cash at it?”

  “I wasn’t a debutante,” Persephone sniffed, donning her cheetah-print rubber gloves. “In Virginia we were considered new Yankee money. But yes. I know loads of people who would give.”

  “Okay, then,” Amanda said, beginning to pace the room at a leisurely pace. “We could … commit to protecting one. Go out and physically be with it for a few nights. Like Julia Butterfly and the tree.”

  “I seem to remember she had to poop in the tree.” Persephone turned on the spigot a bit too forcefully, and steaming hot water came shooting out. “Drat.”

  “This is a smaller scale. But the same idea. Then we ask people to pick other rhinos to protect.”