Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  / 29 /

  The traffic around the school, for some reason, was much busier than usual. Mark recalled something about some event that was happening that day, but in this moment, just as before, he didn’t care. He just wanted to get his kid and get out of there. Now that he had pulled into the parking lot, he saw there was definitely a to-do going on. There were tents and the kids were wearing … almost nothing.

  Jesus, Mark thought. Was that his daughter, crossing the breezeway in a sequined miniskirt?

  He craned his head to get a better look, not realizing his foot had eased off the brake. There was a subsequent bang! and an awful crunching sound from his car.

  Mark covered his face, as his car was withstanding a rainstorm of glass, though his own windshield seemed intact. Taking his hands from his face, he felt the need to swear, though he’d used so much profanity already today, nothing seemed appropriate.

  “Myaaaaaaaah!” he screamed in frustration. Mothergoddamnedassfucker. He was going to have to pay for the damage to this super-fancy SUV. Why does this day have to be like this? he wondered.

  Taking a deep breath, Mark got out of the car to cry mea culpa, only to see that some rich person’s chauffeur—Mothergoddamnedassfucker—was already surveying the damage.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mark said. “I didn’t see you … I mean, I was looking at…”

  “Talk to my boss,” the man said, frowning at the glass. He nodded at the open door. “She’s in a state. A bit nervous about accidents, hey.”

  “Sure,” Mark said. He made his way to the open door, though he couldn’t quite see inside at first. “Hello. I’m so sorry … I—”

  She was looking at him, the light on her face. After all that time. She was there, uncurling herself from the inside of the car.

  * * *

  It would have been 1998. Another place, another time. The house Mark settled on for his new wife, Esther, was in Vermont, in the hills outside of Montpelier. He’d decided to go to medical school after all, and UVM had let him in after he’d completed a correspondence course in organic chemistry, the one course he’d failed to take at Brown. But Burlington didn’t fit somehow; it was too tie-dye, too Phish. When Mark took Esther to the Ben & Jerry’s on Church Street (she adored ice cream), Esther had stared wide-eyed at the stoners and the raving homeless men who lurked on the corners. She hadn’t complained directly, but he could read her. So instead he’d steered them east to the middle of the state, where the house prices were cheaper and there was less pressure to conform to nonconformity.

  Their new home was marvelously decrepit, with slanted floors and window frames warped enough to keep them from closing. Built in 1841, it was on top of a hill. An old porch that looked out on the Green Mountains clung precariously to the front. The farmland all around had already been sold over the years, so corn was planted on three sides of the house, save one acre, which was cordoned off as a yard with a picket fence. The old couple selling had defected from New York in the late sixties with the other artists and writers who, they said, had either moved back or died. They kept chickens and had filled the place with huge mismatching antiques they wouldn’t bother taking with them.

  “A mixed couple!” the woman kept saying. “It’s so exciting! We don’t get that much, I suppose because it’s too cold.”

  Esther and Mark laughed at that. What did the weather have to do with it? Before leaving, the old lady showed Esther where to put the buckets to catch the leaks, and hugged her. Mark took out a small mortgage, and the place was theirs.

  Coming home to Esther. When Mark would get off 89 for the back roads of East Montpelier, he’d find himself speeding to the house, running lights and pissing off farmers with the dust. He would jump out of the car, sometimes while it was still running, and rush in to find her. Sometimes she was cooking dinner; other nights she’d forgotten and was busy studying, as she was taking basic classes over at Goddard.

  Wherever she was, he’d go to her, wrapping his arms around her waist desperately, burying his head in her neck. He would turn her around and hold her, conforming to her body so that she was completely pressed against him. They’d once had drinks down the road with a cattle farmer, and he’d told them how they calmed the cows down before slaughter: they held them, womb-like, so every curve of their body was supported. That was what Mark did for Esther when he came home. It wasn’t a matter of whether she liked it; it seemed to be what she needed. Between them, a sort of humming erupted. Her body would go slack in his arms, relaxing completely. Most of the time they would give up on eating and go upstairs to bed, where Mark would make slow love to his wife, marveling at every inch of her body. After, they would sleep like babies until the next morning, and then …

  And then.

  How many lives can we live? That was the question as he gazed now at Esther, who was not dead, and not much older, but standing in front of him, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed into an unfamiliar frown.

  He blinked a few times and leaned forward, but as he did, she moved back away from him.

  “Sorry,” Mark said lamely. He couldn’t read her expression. He was unable to register anything, other than the treacherous thrumming of his own heart. “Esther?” he finally ventured.

  “Mila,” Mila said.

  “You’re Mila,” he said, chewing on the words. “Mila.”

  She nodded.

  “You changed your name,” Mark said.

  “You hit my car,” Mila said.

  Mark looked at her more closely. She was older, after all; her face was thinner, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. He ran his hand self-consciously over his belly, thinking how he must look to her. She wouldn’t be accepting of his age. Unlike Amanda, she wouldn’t have been around long enough to be used to it.

  “Mark!”

  Mark’s body jolted awake. It was his wife’s voice—Amanda, his real-life wife—ripping across the playground and parking lot.

  “Oh,” Mila said, her eyes widening. Mark turned his head to where the voice was coming from. It was indeed Amanda, but she didn’t look herself—she had a dress on, but she was barefoot and her hair was wild. Her purse was strapped to her body like a military canteen, and she held a shoe in either hand.

  “Amanda!” he called. “Are you okay?”

  Suddenly a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. Windhoek International School had the old-fashioned kind of PA system, the same sort South Africans during apartheid used in their prison camps during apartheid. It rendered the words of whoever was speaking as ominous and all-knowing; everyone in the parking lot jerked their head at the noise.

  “Attention. Parents. We have a grave situation.”

  “What, did they run out of biltong?” Smiling at his own stupid joke, Mark looked at Esther to share the moment. But this wasn’t Esther—this was Mila. And when she looked back at him blankly, he remembered that this was the sort of thing he did with Amanda. His actual wife.

  “Would the parents of Taimi Shilongo and Meg Evans please come immediately to the gym? This is an emergency…” In the background, the crowd could hear the buzz of off mic discussion. “Excuse me. No casualties, parents. Remain calm. But…”

  Now Persephone’s voice trilled over the PA system:

  “Amanda! They’re arresting the girls, darling! Get the hell over here and talk to the police! Now!”

  / 30 /

  The art of what is known as modern diplomacy began in Italy. There, nobles would construct beautiful buildings, eventually known as embassies, where they would discuss the business of their city-states. Embassies ranged in size and grandeur, usually in direct proportion to the power of the country represented at the time. For example, the British Embassies in Cairo and Tokyo are architectural marvels meant to show off the arm of the empire. Even today, the brand-new American Embassy in London cost upward of a billion dollars to build, and resembles a sleek museum, filled with modern art.

  The U.S. Embassy in Windhoek was not one of these architectural
marvels. Designed to survive an attack from above, the squat structure was largely underground and wedged at the end of a shabby street. Entering required a tiresome screening by sleepy guards … one that was more than mildly annoying when one’s daughter had been carted into said compound by the police for selling Nazi contraband.

  Amanda, of course, couldn’t believe this was happening. It must be some cruel, elaborate joke. Yet this was what Barry Levin, head of public affairs, had told Amanda on the ride over. Her daughter, Meg—her nine-year-old daughter—had been tracked selling authentic Nazi artifacts to Neo-Nazis in Africa, Germany, and the United States.

  “They used Taimi Shilongo’s computer to set up a password-protected online store,” Barry said, rubbing his hand back and forth over his bald head. “That in itself is troubling, if not illegal. Though there are hate crime issues. And probably it was mostly the Shilongo girl. But then there was the fact that they were using the U.S. diplomatic mail pouch to deliver the packages. That’s where we get into trouble.”

  “She used the pouch?” Amanda asked in disbelief.

  “It was actually quite clever,” Barry said. “They decorated the envelopes with hearts and flowers to make them look like care packages. If she doesn’t go to juvie, she can put it on her application to Wharton.”

  “Juvie?… As in juvenile hall?” Amanda felt tears coming on, but she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. This was not the time to get hysterical. Manage the project, Evans, she commanded herself sternly. “I’m certain this is a mistake. Mark’s Jewish, for God’s sake. But let’s say, for a moment, it wasn’t a mistake. What, exactly, is illegal about these … sales?”

  “Amanda.” Barry looked at her in a manner so decidedly condescending, she couldn’t help but feel a strong urge to bring his laptop down over his head. “We’re a little pressed for time, so I won’t give you an extended history lesson. But this was a German colony, turned South African, turned independent. The Germans were very, very mean to the ancestors of the people who make up the present government. And the government’s been pretty nice to them. As in, they haven’t killed a bunch of them, or even taken their farms, like they did over in Zim. But having Nazi stuff is illegal. Selling it is absolutely illegal. The second part of the equation is that they stole it from the Shilongos, who, like I said, shouldn’t have had it in the first place. Though it sounds like it was sitting on the property when they bought it. The final problem is that using the pouch under false pretenses and for commercial use is absolutely illegal. And that’s the biggie.”

  “Well … well…” Amanda struggled for proper words. “What were they doing with the money?”

  Barry rolled his eyes to the sky. “They were EFTing it to Our Hope Children’s Hostel.”

  “Oh.” Amanda felt the tears coming again. She got it now. Meg did this for her. “Well, that seems okay.”

  They were in the front hallway now. Barry lowered his voice. “It’s not,” Barry said. “None of this is okay. Precocious as it is. Can’t say I’m not impressed.”

  “Obviously you’ll have her out of here in an hour.”

  “Well, there’s not much I can do.”

  “What about the embassy?”

  “Um…”

  “Isn’t that your guys’ job? To protect us in internationally confusing situations?” Her voice was veering into the shrill zone. Desperation, thick and cold, was beginning to creep into her gut and chest. And where the hell was Mark? She’d hurried to the school gym as soon as she heard the announcement, but once they’d been briefed on the situation by the frantic headmaster, they’d run to their respective cars. She pulled out her phone and fired off a text:

  Meg arrested for selling Nazi gear

  cum to US. Embassy we r being extraordinary

  no not that

  fucking iPhone

  *EXTRADITED*

  “Oh look!” Barry said, brightening. “Counsel is here.”

  Amanda turned to see Adam’s graceful figure cutting a swath through the hallway. “Adam. Thank God. Hi.” Persephone’s husband flashed his killer grin, causing Amanda to recoil slightly. “What are we going to do? What’s your strategy?”

  “My strategy?” Adam repeated, cocking his head.

  “Yes!” She felt her hands shaking, and balled them into fists. “To get Meg out of this mess.”

  “Amanda, I’m the ambassador’s counsel. Not your daughter’s.” He patted her shoulder.

  If one more damned diplomat talks down to me today, I’ll get myself arrested, Amanda thought.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It’s my job to protect our country’s interests. Which do not include your daughter using U.S. property to sell stolen Nazi gear.”

  “You don’t have proof of that,” Amanda said uncertainly.

  “We have emails coming from your computer. We have messages coming from a cell phone in your house. We have pouches tracking to your account. We do have proof.”

  “Wait.” Amanda shook her head. “I don’t get it. Is the U.S. arresting Meg? Or the Namibians? Because they were Namibian police, but she’s here.”

  “We’re holding her as a courtesy to you. We didn’t think you’d want her in Namibian prison.”

  “And Taimi? Her friend?” Amanda looked around for Mila or any sign of the Shilongos’ entourage. “Where is she?”

  “Oh. She’s under house arrest.”

  “What the hell?” Amanda asked. “Why can’t Meg have house arrest?”

  “Because Meg is not the minister of transportation’s daughter.”

  Amanda put her hands on her forehead, pushing her hair back in exasperation. “So how the hell do I get her out of here, Adam? This is ridiculous. You can’t arrest a nine-year-old for opening an e-store.”

  “Listen. I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t.”

  “Okay.” Amanda brightened slightly. “Great.”

  “It’s not actually in the American government’s present interest to protect Meg at the moment.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, the last administration would have. Of course. But these days we’re more interested in culpability. We’ve got to build some cred after POTUS labeled the whole continent a dung bucket. Meg did do something clearly illegal here. So any chance to gain—”

  “Don’t say another damned word,” Amanda hissed. “Let me see my daughter. Now.”

  “Well, technically, I’m not able to—”

  “Now, Adam. Or I’ll call The Washington Post. Who, after our article on your wife, I have on fucking speed dial.”

  Adam looked at Barry. Barry shrugged, then turned and led them both down a grim hallway that led to an even grimmer stairway, which in turn opened up into a line of cells in the basement. Barry punched in a code and opened a metal door, leading Amanda to a cell with no windows where Meg was sitting alone at a metal table.

  “Seriously?” Amanda said to Adam. “She’s nine.”

  For once, Persephone’s husband looked contrite.

  “Mom!” Meg jumped up and threw herself at Amanda. Her daughter wasn’t crying at the moment, but her face was puffy, meaning she had been in this cell weeping alone.

  “You all are fucking animals,” Amanda muttered.

  “I’ll be outside,” Adam said.

  “Sweetheart,” Amanda said as the massive door clicked shut, “everything is going to be okay.”

  “Really?” Meg said, looking up at her mother. “Because everyone here says it’s not.”

  “Meg, you are a very perceptive girl. But today you have to believe that Mommy is going to defy reality.”

  “Okay.”

  Amanda sat down. “Can you tell me about this … store?”

  There was a knock at the door, and Barry stuck his head in.

  “I just need to tell you we’re listening to everything you say.”

  “Go. Away.”

  “Right.” Barry closed the door again.

  “Tell me.”


  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” Meg said. Now the tears started again. “You kept saying how hard it was to help people here. So Taimi made up this way.”

  “How much did you send?”

  Meg sniffed. “A little over fourteen thousand U.S.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Dollar.”

  “Drink some water, honey. So, how did you do this?”

  “Taimi set up a bank account in Namibia.”

  “She’s not old enough to do that, is she?”

  “She used her sister’s name and stuff. We just did it over the phone. It was easy. And then the money comes electronically, and we EFT it.”

  There was another knock at the door, and it opened again.

  “Oh my God,” Amanda said to Mark. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Dol—”

  “Zip it, Meg,” Amanda said.

  “I was getting the full story from those goons in there,” Mark said, rubbing her shoulder. Amanda felt tears rising in the corners of her eyes. “I know it’s been a weird day, but let’s just focus on this, okay?”

  “Okay.” Amanda turned back to Meg. “So, honey, I need you to tell us everything about what was going on here.”

  Meg screwed up her forehead. “The money idea was mine. Needing it. I heard Mom talking about how she was disappointed about not being able to help the kids at that orphanage. She seemed really sad about it, so I wanted to surprise her.”

  Amanda looked at Mark, as if to say: See? She is perfect. At which he shot her a look back that clearly said, Perfect, eh? Then I guess we’re sitting in a holding cell because you’ve been spoiling the hell out of her for nine years.

  “The store idea,” Meg went on. “The part about selling the stuff in the barn, that was Taimi’s.”

  “Do you have proof of that?” Mark asked.

  “Why? Is Taimi getting into trouble? Because I’m not telling on my friend.”

  “Let’s move on,” Mark said, glancing at an apparatus in an upper corner of the room that could only be a camera. “What about transport?”

  “Huh?”