Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  Briefly, her mind went back to a time when she was beholden to no protocol. Back when she could act like she wanted to at a party without having to make anyone think well of anyone else. When she could just wear fishnets, if she wanted to, and swim in the punch bowl. Just imagining it brought on a rush of freedom. It would be nice to be Amanda, she thought. Aside from that shifty husband.

  Persephone grabbed three glasses of white from the kindly-looking bartender (who, she knew, counted every glass each guest was having and then reported who was drinking what to the Big A. after the party) and carried them back to her friends.

  “Treasure hunt should begin any minute now!” she said. She took a sip and puckered. Clearly, this Big A. was not as generous with the wine budget as the previous lead diplomat. There was a flutter of activity—a telltale sign that the Big A. was leaving her post by the front and moving back to the patio. If one wanted a word tonight, now was the time to hover. Because after the welcoming remarks and the hunt, it would be time to clear out. No ambassador liked guests who hung on to the party after the call time.

  Persephone watched coolly as Shoshana sailed over to the ambo’s side. The Big A. was holding court with a few people; it didn’t look as if she was any closer to Shoshana than to anyone else in the circle. But … training plan!

  Persephone sighed. It was nothing short of brilliant. What busy athletic woman wouldn’t want a training plan and a personal coach to cheer you along? Shoshana would be guaranteed to have the ambo’s ear for hours and hours. Persephone knew she shouldn’t be worried; after all, her husband was doing double duty with the most exclusive organization in the government. Still, Shoshana was working out with the Big A., and here Persephone was, still relegated to Miss.

  “What are you staring at?” Amanda asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It kinda looks like you’re shooting the ambassador a death stare.”

  “Oh! No, I was just … thinking about how I need to work out more.”

  “Weird,” Amanda said, grabbing two mini-droëwors from a passed tray. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” Persephone said, stuffing the greasy meat into her mouth. “Well, this ambassador … socially, we’re very restricted, you see. But it would be so wonderful if Adam and I could get to know her better. For us, I mean. I know it’s backwards…”

  “No, I get it,” Amanda said.

  “Once Tim Cook visited Amanda’s company and the nerds were swarming all over him,” Mark said. “I was there. And he thanked Amanda for the gathering and it was like Cook had slimed all over her, Ghostbusters-style. Everyone was so pissed and jealous. Remember?”

  “Business socializing is worse than high school,” Amanda said. “Just be straight. Ask her to lunch.”

  “No! I can’t. It’s … it’s not done.”

  Amanda finished her wine and handed Mark her glass.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Persephone watched as her friend marched across the patio to the tight, fraught group of people by the door. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Amanda tapped the ambo’s arm and started talking. Oh Lord Almighty.

  “What is she doing?” Persephone wailed. All the other Trailers were openly staring. Shoshana looked positively murderous.

  The Big A. listened, head tilted. Then she nodded and smiled, and said something back. The two shook hands and Amanda came back.

  “More wine, please,” Amanda said. Mark dispatched himself.

  “What on earth did you say?” Persephone asked, even as Kayla glided by them slowly, in the manner of a shark.

  “I told her about our rhino project. How you and I need to know the ins and outs of how diplomats and American nonprofits work together. She suggested lunch.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. So, you and I are lunching with her sometime in the next couple weeks. Sound good?”

  Persephone beamed. Perhaps Amanda would make a bona fide Embassy Wife after all.

  On the drive home, Persephone quizzed Lucy on little Meg. The twins were completely useless; Kayla had been predictably lazy about hiding the candy and, after placing about fifteen pieces in the bushes, dumped the rest of the Costco jumbo sack of chocolate doubloons into the garden shed. So the twins and some other kids, royally pissed at finding no candy, broke into the shed and shoved about thirty pieces into their mouths each. Now her two youngest were so cracked out on sugar, she’d had to relegate them to the way back with the emergency dehydration kit.

  “But what is Meg like at school?” Persephone said. “Bullied? A bully? Which one?”

  “No one is mean to her. She plays with Taimi,” Lucy said. Her daughter, who was used to her mother gathering intel from her, was by this point a fairly reliable spy. “They sit on the trampoline and play Servants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That game where kids pretend they have servants.” Lucy said this in a tone that indicated Persephone knew perfectly well what the Servants game was.

  “Is Meg a servant?”

  “No. Though it’s really Taimi’s game. She used to play Ministers, where she was president and the other kids were her government. Now she plays Servants, where she and Meg are fancy ladies and all the other kids are supposed to do things for them.”

  “Huh.”

  “Seems like she’s having an okay time,” Lucy said. “And of course, they have their company.”

  “What company?”

  “Hey, is that Daddy?”

  “What?” Persephone looked out at the street. “Where?”

  “I just saw Daddy getting into a car. With a lady. But he’s gone now.”

  Drat. This was getting serious. She was proud Adam was tapped for spy duty, but honestly, he should have let her in on the plan for tonight. This lying was getting tiresome.

  “Daddy’s in Katima,” Persephone said, pulling into her driveway. “Remember? Interviewing scholarship people for the Mandela fellowship. We’ll call him now-now.”

  She waved at the night guard and closed the gate, then handed Lucy the phone. As she prodded her mad children up the steps, she heard Adam’s voice spill into the kitchen. Booming, reassuring, cocky.

  Good man.

  She poured herself the second glass of wine she’d skipped at the hunt to keep her count down and sat, kicking off her shoes. What had Lucy been saying about Meg and Taimi? She was exhausted suddenly. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dining hall mirror and went to take a quick bath and moisturize. Dermatological upkeep is important, she imagined telling Amanda. Despite everything, the newbie was still her protégé.

  / 13 /

  One of the many surprising things about Namibia, Amanda thought on her morning run a couple of weeks after the Leap, was how reminiscent the place was of South Carolina during the 1980s. The acknowledged segregation, the reliance on an actual paper newspaper to get local news, the importance of a man’s being home for lunch. And then there was Windhoek’s Radiowave radio station—the sort that spewed inappropriate jokes and top forty hits 24-7. Amanda made a point of streaming the station as she jogged around the wide, hot streets of Eros, just to stay in tune with what was happening in the city.

  She adjusted her headphones, which kept slipping out of her ears because of the sweat. Sheryl … Yes, babe?… I’m dumping you. I’ve found someone thinner, hotter, and better! And who will pay me big bucks … Nooooooo … CALL HOLLAND INSURANCE THE HOTTEST INSURANCE BROKER IN TOWN … I’m having the worst time with my maid. All of my stemware is cracked! And then there are my missing earrings. Who can I trust?… CALL MARTHA MAIDS, ‘CAUSE IF THEY STEAL, WE CATCH ‘EM … George, I was just dreaming of the first time we met … Really, Renata? Because I was dreaming of that new hunting rifle down at Agra, complete with a complementary round of ammo at just two-triple-nine … VISIT AGRA FOR ALL OF YOUR SHOOTING NEEDS. AND MORE!!

  In other news, a Russian billionaire was buying an illegal amount of hunting land after paying off SWAPO. A toddler had drowned in
a latrine in Omaruru. And a springbok had gotten stuck in someone’s garden in Kleine Kuppe. The police thought about tranquilizing it, but, not having the correct equipment, just shot it instead. No one could decide who the meat belonged to, so they had a braai in the garden that afternoon for everyone involved.

  Running was hard here, as the sun screamed down all day beginning at seven, and the air was so dry it slurped every bead of moisture out of Amanda’s lungs. But she had noticed that the other Trailing Spouses went one of two ways in this town: they either became alcoholics, or they got very fit. After choosing health for the day (perhaps tomorrow she’d opt for booze), she jumped into the pool with her clothes on, changed, and headed over to the school.

  When the bell rang—as if released from a swollen pressure chamber—children in sun hats shot out of the classrooms, spraying across the dirt play yard. Idly, Amanda watched the parking lot show. There were Persephone’s girls, pushing each other to get on the trampoline. There were Kayla’s girls, strutting in the shade in mock-designer clothing Kayla had her seamstress copy from magazines. And, finally, there was Meg.

  Amanda nearly cried when she saw the blissful smile on her daughter’s face, as she walked arm in arm with Taimi Shilongo. Their heads drew together as if they were conspiring, then Meg, spotting her car, sprinted over—narrowly missing being run over by a Malawian diplomat in a BMW tank.

  “Hi, Mom.” Meg gave her a look she couldn’t read. “Everything okay?”

  “Of course, pumpkin.”

  “Not sad about anything?”

  “No more than usual.”

  Meg frowned.

  “Kidding, honey! I’m totally fine.”

  “So you’re over the orphanage thing?”

  She smiled at her daughter. “Thanks for remembering that, honey. It was a while ago. But yes, I was terribly disappointed, honey, you’re right. Nothing would make me happier than helping out those kids. Other than you, of course.”

  “Maybe there’s another way to help them?” Meg’s eyebrows were drawn together, and as she waited for an answer, she sucked her lip.

  “Don’t do that, honey. You’ll get chapped lips. Anyway, it is what it is, I suppose.”

  “Okay.” Meg looked back at the playground. “Um, can Taimi come over for a playdate?”

  “Sure,” Amanda said. “Tell her to hop in.”

  This solicited an onslaught of squealing, as all clouds of previous seriousness drifted away. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans,” Taimi said a moment later, climbing into the backseat. “Thank you for this excellent visiting opportunity.”

  “No problem. Here, girls. Snacks.” Meg took the bag wordlessly, ripped it open, and stuffed a handful of pretzels into her mouth.

  “May I ask what these are?” Taimi asked.

  “Oh. Yogurt-covered pretzels.”

  “Aha.” Taimi looked them over thoughtfully. “And may I have some water?”

  “Sure, here’s my water bottle. It’s iced, so—”

  “Oh no. I never share bottles. My father says it is dirty. I will need my own water, please.”

  Meg stared at her new friend.

  “Well, I…” Just then Amanda saw Persephone across the parking lot. “Hang on, girls. I’ll just get one from the tuckshop. Lock the door, okay? Don’t open it.”

  “No,” Taimi said. “We will not. And you will leave the air-con on. Of course.”

  “Uh … sure.” Amanda slammed the door, feeling vaguely apprehensive. Though if a predator did happen to approach the children in broad daylight in the parking lot of Windhoek’s fanciest school, Taimi could probably handle it.

  “Amanda!” Persephone cried. She was wearing a white jumpsuit and her red hair was ironed out silky straight, though she seemed to have missed one spot on the left side of her head that stuck out like a little pipe cleaner. Persephone truly was always almost perfect; it was the almost part that made her so damned lovable.

  “Ugh. I am so over Adam being away. Not that he does anything, but without him there’s no discipline. I mean, this morning I caught the twins comparing each other’s poop in the toilet.” She rolled her eyes. “With a ruler, no less.”

  Amanda shifted to position her face away from the sun. “Future scientists at work.”

  “Anyway, I still can’t get over what you did at the Leap. I know it seems silly, but Trailers usually don’t invite ambassadors or their wives to things. There’s a strict unspoken protocol. I swear, it’s like from 1955. I love that you just stepped out!”

  “Actually, that reminds me. We need to get our eyes on this rhino ASAP. Before we meet with her. Like, next week.”

  “All right.” Persephone looked over her shoulder. “Is that Taimi Shilongo in your car?”

  “It is. Playdate.”

  “Ah! Well.” Persephone was visibly trying to smooth the peeved look off her face. “Obviously I’m the only one who thinks Mila’s crazy. And after my husband.”

  “Persephone. Be a big girl.”

  “Amanda. I am an Embassy Wife, representing the United States of America. I would never knowingly hang on to a grudge.”

  “Never.”

  “It’s just that she’s so—”

  “Rhinos, Persephone. Do it for the rhinos. ’Cause I think she’s got a real live one that will make this nonprofit a reality. That’ll impress Miss Ambassador, don’t you think?”

  Persephone squeezed Amanda’s arm and floated away in an aura of satisfaction.

  The fact was, Amanda was almost as thrilled about Meg’s finding a new friend as she’d been about her own burgeoning friendship with Mila Shilongo.

  She loved Persephone, of course. And when she and Mila began spending time together (you couldn’t use the term “hanging out” with someone like Mila) she even felt a little bad about it. Persephone disliked her so, and she’d gone to so much trouble to try to make Amanda like it here, however impossible. And they had a bond, as Caucasian middle-class Southern women born into the seventies; they shared a complex lexicon of Laura Ashley, white guilt, Dave Matthews, ma’am, hot rollers, Boone’s Farm beverages, and the kind of teenage sex that happens in a car during a church picnic.

  But her friendship with Mila … really, it was a foreign-girl crush. Mila’s beauty, for one thing, was almost debilitating. Amanda never got tired of looking at her face, how it changed in the light as she moved it from one direction to the other. She imagined this was the way artists felt when they found a muse. She had never been physically attracted to women, and she wondered if this mild obsession was what it felt like.

  It was not a casual friendship. Their meetings were arranged well ahead of time. The appointments were always lunch. Amanda usually hated going out to lunch; it reminded her of hot afternoons in Charleston with pink, frilly cousins. Yet Mila never granted her an audience anywhere else. If the women ran into each other elsewhere—say, at school pickup or at a social function—Mila acted cool and formal, as if she were Amanda’s boss.

  Still, their lunches. Amanda loved them. During the first few minutes she was always too dazzled to be comfortable, but then Mila would make a joke, and she would grow more at ease. Mila was catty and funny and wise. She always arrived dressed beautifully in white pants and an exquisite blouse, or a tailored dress. After showing up for their first two meetings in shorts—a move which elicited obvious disapproval—Amanda made an effort to dress up, too, sometimes buying a last-minute outfit from Poetry just to pass inspection.

  It was really something, to walk into a place next to someone as beautiful as Mila. She would open the door, and life would just stop. Amanda loved to see the variety of expressions on people’s faces: dismay, envy, lust, surprise, joy. Mila seemed utterly impervious to it. Amanda wondered if she even noticed.

  “You must get any table you want, looking like that,” she whispered once as the servers scrambled in the Stellenbosch courtyard. But Mila gave her a look so cold, Amanda felt it shoot right down to the bone.

  “No,” Mila said.
“Of course I don’t.”

  Her friend had rules about where she would eat and sit: always a table in the back of the Stellenbosch, or at Sardinia Blue Olive in the manager’s section. Sometimes she insisted they move tables two to three times. After a few lunches, Amanda figured out that Mila would only sit where she was certain to be served by a white person. And then, as if to personally rectify all the past wrongs of apartheid right there in the restaurant, she would set out to torture the server.

  “Where is the food?” Mila asked once, five minutes after ordering. “Is it being born?”

  “No one had to kill the cow to make this steak,” she snapped another time to the manager. “It’s so tough, it must have died naturally. Of thirst.”

  During their conversations, Amanda would try to glean information about her new friend’s childhood, and the snippets she did get were fascinating. Mila didn’t have a father. She had no education. Her name used to be Esther; she’d changed it so her family up north wouldn’t track her down later. (They did anyway.) She met Josephat while working a desk at a political conference. And she was the most glamorous person Amanda had ever known.

  “Where did you get that outfit?” Amanda asked breathlessly each time Mila arrived.

  “Oh, someone made it for me,” Mila would always say with a wave of her hand. If Amanda pressed, Mila said she would send her the name of the tailor, but of course she never did.

  Sometimes Mila would talk about her husband. Amanda had never met Josephat, as he never did school pickup himself. But one day he happened to walk into the courtyard of Stellenbosch as they were finishing up their oxtail and Greek salads. He was a formidable figure, tall and built like an American football player. Mila must dress him, Amanda mused, as she looked at his tailored suit and gleaming shoes. The effect of the beautiful clothes on his husky frame was splendid.

  In a completely unexpected moment of vulnerability, Mila grabbed her husband’s hand. “Join us, Josephat.”