by Katie Crouch
“How did you get the stuff to Windhoek?”
“We put them in my suitcase when I visited. When Mom was out on that safari. We only sent stuff that could fit in the suitcase. And then Taimi brought other stuff when she went back on weekends.”
“Hmmmm. Okay,” Mark said, scribbling something down on a notepad. “Who gave you the mailing supplies?”
“We took them from Mr. Shilongo’s desk.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Mark scribbled some more.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” Meg asked. “They haven’t let me pee yet.”
“Those assholes!” Mark cried. He shot up and yanked open the door. “Hey, fuckers, I’m calling Amnesty International on you. This kid needs to go to the bathroom. Now!”
It had been years since Amanda had seen Mark this passionate about anything. As Meg was ushered to the toilet, Amanda detected a faraway rumbling inside her—the sleeping giant of her lost lust for her husband.
“So what do you think we should do?” she asked. “And what are you writing there? Did you also secretly go to law school or something?”
“Or something.” Mark scowled at his notes. “I’ve been reading a lot about the illegal export and smuggling trade in Namibia.”
“Why?”
“For … um … my research. Anyway—I think we need a technicality. Some adult that helped. Even vaguely.”
“I’ll take the blame,” Amanda said. “She obviously did it to please me. She said so.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t physically help. Is there anyone else you can think of?”
“I mean…” Amanda paused, looking at Mark. “Maybe Mila knew.”
Mark didn’t look up from his notepad, but she could see his hand freeze.
“All of this went on at her house,” Amanda went on. “She’s my friend, but if our kids were selling Nazi crap and she knew—”
“Amanda,” Mark interrupted quietly.
“And I know you won’t want to blame her because she’s your ex-girlfriend.” Her husband stared at her, alarmed. “Yeah. She once told me her old name, which I remembered on the way to the school today. So that whole thing about her being dead was also bullshit, huh?”
“No,” Mark said, shaking his head. “I hadn’t seen her until today.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“No, really, I—” The door slammed open again. Meg reentered, trailed closely by the ambassador.
“Hi, all,” the Big A. said. “Sorry for the delay. I’ve been on R and R. Was at a fabulous little place called Jack’s Camp. No phones, no contact. Just lions. You can’t even walk anywhere without an armed guard. I guess one year some Finnish woman left her sweater at the al fresco dinner table, and she went back to get it in the dark and the next day all they found of her was—”
“Excuse me,” Amanda said. “Can you please tell me when my daughter can get out of here?”
“Right. Sorry.” The ambassador adjusted her stance. “Bad news on that front, I’m afraid. Listen, I didn’t approve this. It was that witless wonder boy they’ve given to me as counsel. Went off and tried to impress me, and he’s caused a huge mess. I never, in a million years, would have green-lighted this production.”
“Can’t you stop it?” Mark asked.
“Well, he’s started the ball rolling, and I’m afraid the Namibians are being sticklers. And our current administration doesn’t want to be seen as overly lenient toward Americans living abroad.”
“She’s a kid!” Amanda cried.
“Look. I understand. I’ve spoken to the Namibian minister of justice. I guess there is something that will help us.”
“What?” asked Mark.
“Someone over there wants to take down Josephat Shilongo,” she said. “If Meg testifies against Taimi, we’ll probably have enough leverage to make this all go away.”
“No,” Meg said.
“Meg,” Amanda said. “This isn’t up to you.”
“Yes, it is,” Meg said. “I did it. I’m the one who knows what went on. Taimi’s my friend, and I’m not getting her in trouble.”
“Fine girl you’ve got here,” the ambassador said. “But, Molly, think carefully. I don’t think you want to go to Namibian prison. They’re quite uncomfortable. I don’t even know where they put the children.”
“I’m Meg,” she said. “And I’m not a rat.”
“Aristocats?” Mark asked.
“Ratatouille,” she answered.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” Mark said. “For the record. You never have to eat another broccoli stalk again.”
For the first time all afternoon, Meg allowed a few tears to fall.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“This is all very touching,” the ambassador said, standing. “But also bad news. And tiring, given that I spent all afternoon at the minister of justice’s office. All right. I’m afraid little Meg will be here for the night.”
“Here?” Amanda said. “There’s no bed.”
“We’ll arrange a cot.”
“Well, I’m staying with her,” Amanda said.
“Mrs. Evans,” the ambassador said. “I don’t think you understand. We are just one step away from a prison cell. Moms don’t get to spend the night with their kids in prison. Until the situation changes, Meg sleeps here, alone. Your little girl is in a lot of trouble. And this is Africa.”
“This is Africa,” Mark repeated. He wrote it down. “What does that mean?”
“Pick up a history book,” the ambassador said. “Happy endings are not guaranteed.”
/ 31 /
Persephone didn’t stick around for the dismantling of International Day. The supervision, a huge task, was definitely a chore attached to her label of PTA president. But after the arrest, Pierre had given her an out. Amanda was frothing at the mouth to kill Adam, and the faces of the rest of the mothers definitely portrayed a collective opinion that they believed the sacrifice of the children was all her doing. And it wasn’t like she could say something like, Actually, I have no idea what my husband does over there at the embassy! Her job was to support him, wasn’t it? Which probably meant knowing a little about his day-to-day tasks and if he was planning on arresting her best friend’s child.
Oh dear.
“Miss Frida?” she called. A few moments later, Frida appeared, causing Persephone to frown into her wineglass. She was wearing one of Persephone’s donated outfits, a sunny yellow knit dress from the days before Persephone had figured out the Uniform. Frida was curvy in all of the places that Persephone was stick-straight. The woman had children in college, yet there was an unlikely upward bounce to her bottom, as if defying gravity itself. Persephone knew she was being ungenerous, but every time she saw Frida in one of her hand-me-down frocks, she felt a wave of envy, and she sort of wanted to ask for it back again.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked Frida now.
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t like prosecco?”
“I don’t drink, miss.”
“Oh,” Persephone said. “I barely do, either. Well. If you ever feel like you want to…” She stopped herself. She had already given away half of her clothes. Was she telling the nanny to drink on the job, as well? She smiled sweetly, indicating that Frida could go.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Persephone refilled her glass, trying to guess who it might be. Perhaps Amanda, coming to say she was sorry for practically physically attacking her after they carted her daughter away. Or Kayla, fishing for gossip. Or Shoshana, with some news to lord over her about the fabulousness of her next post. And yet, Frida returned with none other than Mila Shilongo.
It was a strict policy of Persephone’s not to gloat, even when she really, really wanted to. Well, maybe to her sister, sometimes. Yet Mila Shilongo, standing here, obviously in need of something, so shortly after dressing her down! It was almost enough to break her rules.
“Mila,” she said. “How can I help you tonight?”
“Hell
o,” Mila said. She was dressed in a beautiful green dress, but something seemed off. Her hair was a bit askew, and one of her nails was chipped. “This is a very fine house.”
“Thank you. It’s not mine, of course. I mean, the family photos are, and some of the furniture. But mostly—”
“I see you are drinking champagne.”
“Prosecco.”
“I’ll have some, please.”
“Sure.” That was one thing she liked about Mila: she was direct. Persephone popped up and grabbed another glass. The cheerful nature of the bubbles and the way they fizzed over the side seemed perversely incongruous with the mood of the day. “I’m so sorry about Taimi. Is she all right?”
“She is fine,” Mila said. “Her father will sort it out.”
“Oh, of course he will.”
Mila walked to the window, looking at the olive grove. “Josephat has thrown me out,” she said.
“What? But that’s impossible.”
Mila continued as if Persephone hadn’t spoken. A rather annoying habit of hers, Persephone couldn’t help but note.
“I have nowhere to go. I was supposed to spend the night in Katutura at my sister’s house. She is trying to humble me, so she told me to sleep in the living room. My cousin drinks and watches TV all day and night.” She made a face. “I have been walking all day. All day in this heat. I walked through Katutura, dragging my bag. Boys made fun of how I looked. Men asked me if I had a price. Dogs were tearing through the trash. I worked hard to get away from that place, Persephone. I abhor poverty.”
Persephone was uncharacteristically unsure of what to say. I abhor poverty, too! didn’t seem correct when one was inhabiting a mansion in a developing country. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe he threw you out. Doesn’t Taimi need you?”
Mila tapped her finger distractedly against her glass. “Couldn’t your husband have picked something else to focus on? These are children. There are many adult criminals here to arrest, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there were something I could—”
Suddenly it hit her. There was something Persephone could do for Amanda and Mila and their girls. She could talk to the Big A.
They weren’t friends, exactly, yet, but they had had lunch together, hadn’t they? Besides, her husband was putting his life on the line for their country at this very moment. Surely that afforded her an audience.
“Mila,” Persephone said, “I know it may seem odd hearing this from me, given our background … but please feel free to stay here.”
“Here?” Mila asked.
“Yes. It’s the least I can do.”
She prepared herself for Mila’s protests, but none came. Instead, Mila picked up an orange from a bowl on the table, inspecting it for bruises. “That’s very kind of you. I will accept.”
“Okay,” Persephone said, a teensy bit unnerved by Mila’s ability to feel instantly at home. “I have to go out, but … make yourself comfortable. The fridge, the shower, everything is yours.”
“Thank you, Persephone,” Mila said.
Persephone hurried about, grabbing her lipstick and keys. “Now, if there’s anything you need—”
But it seemed she didn’t have to worry. Mila was already taking her suitcase to the sunnier of the guest suites, speaking Oshiwambo to Frida as if they were the oldest of chums.
Once Persephone was in the car, she made two quick calls: One was to the embassy to see if the ambassador was in. The answer, a curt no. The other was to the ambassador’s chef, who had given Persephone her card after their disastrous luncheon.
Was she preparing dinner for the ambassador tonight? Persephone asked.
“Yes,” the chef said, sounding a bit hopeless. “I’m making a quiche. Do you know the origin of quiche? I know she’s going to ask.”
“Tell her farm wives created it to feed troops during the French Revolution. Is she dining alone?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Persephone hung up, spruced up her makeup, spritzed the wine smell away with the Shalimar she kept in the car for such occasions (Doni Oppenheimer!), and drove out the gate. As she drove the two blocks to the Official Residence, she felt positively radiant with pride that she, Persephone Anne Wilder, would actually be the one to fix all of this. There was something so satisfying about solving people’s problems. Usually emergencies she took care of were much more subtle. Getting a sick child to the proper surgeon to have an appendix out, for example. Talking a Trailer out of leaving his family because he couldn’t stand doing nothing for one more week. Expatriate blues, awkward dinner party guest lists, groping diplomats from other countries … she had dealt with them all. But this was an actual political crisis. Children were imprisoned! And she, Persephone Wilder, had the cards to play.
Before she could ring the bell, it was yanked open by the Big A. herself. Persephone almost yelped in surprise.
“Ellie listens in on Chef’s calls,” she said. “No stone unturned in this house. Please come in. Have some quiche. Which, by the way, was definitely not created during the French Revolution.”
The ambassador was wearing a silk robe, pajamas, and bunny slippers. Her Rhodesian ridgebacks, usually hidden away in some elaborate kennel on the other side of the house, swirled around her legs. She didn’t even have on an ounce of makeup, which actually made her look much younger. Persephone was constantly cross with the complexions of African women, whose skin only improved with age, while her own freckled and cracked without the constant application of salves and moisturizers.
“I apologize for my casual attire, but you are unannounced, aren’t you? I’d have sent you off, but it’s better for me to conduct this sort of business in person.” The ambassador waved her into the sitting room. She plopped onto a comfortable chair with down cushions, leaving Persephone to teeter on the State Department sofa.
“Well, I really wanted to talk to you about the situation,” Persephone said. “Given Adam’s relationship with the embassy, isn’t there anything we can do?”
“I’m afraid not,” the Big A. said. One of the dogs hopped up on the sofa next to Persephone, stretching out luxuriously. So that’s the intended function of these ghastly couches, Persephone thought. Large-breed dog furniture.
“It’s tough, because usually I’d have Ainsley handle the next steps, but for reasons I hope by now you see as obvious, she’s not the perfect fit.”
“No,” Persephone said. “Ainsley certainly doesn’t have the skills to handle international law.”
“Well,” the Big A. said, “she certainly has an interest in law. If you see what I mean. But in this case, I’ll have to talk to Barry.”
“Barry? To handle diffusing the Amanda Evans case?”
The Big A. shifted a bit uncomfortably.
“No, Persephone,” she said. “To fire Ainsley. She can’t consort with her higher-ups like that.”
“Ainsley?” Persephone asked. “Postage-stamp-skirt Ainsley?”
The ambassador’s face lit up. “Her skirts are like stamps. Too brief!”
“She consorted with Barry?” Persephone asked, trying not to sound too delighted. This was classified information indeed.
The Big A. cocked her head. “Persephone, have you talked to Adam since he brought the Evans girl in?”
“Why, no,” Persephone said. “He told me he had to go to Swakop. For…” Was she supposed to keep pretending? “A mission.”
“Again, please?”
“I know I’m supposed to deny this, but I can’t anymore, Miss Ambassador. The truth is, I know all about it.” Persephone straightened up proudly in her chair. “It’s not Adam’s fault. I just guessed.”
“You guessed…”
“Why, that Adam is your CIA plant.”
The ambassador pressed her fingers together, up and down into little tents. It was exactly what Persephone’s boarding school headmistress used to do when she couldn’t decide whether or not to suspend a student for sneaking a beer into the
dorm or pulling a fire alarm. Oh dear. Was she going to be taken to the veld and shot?
“I know I’m not to talk about it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Ellie!” the ambassador called, rising. “Set up the quiche in my office. Follow me, please, Persephone.”
Persephone dutifully walked behind the Big A., her feet sinking into the thick white carpet. Of course. She was such a ninny to say that out in the open! The entire residence was probably bugged, if not by the Namibians, then the Russians!
The Big A. stepped into a surprisingly small office. This tiny segment of the house hadn’t gotten the attention of the State Department interior decorator, apparently. The walls were paneled with cheap brown overlay. The bookshelves were stuffed, both with government tomes and, to Persephone’s delight, pulpy celebrity memoirs by the likes of Rupert Everett and Barbra Streisand. There was also a large framed photo of the Big A. standing on the railing of … a dock?… a yacht?… with the Big T. himself, looking puffy and orange as ever—if a little more windblown.
“Is that real?” Persephone asked. It wasn’t an out-of-line question. The American Cultural Center had a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Big T. right by the front desk. Diplomats were known to borrow it and snap photos next to it in picturesque places, in order to keep framed photos with the president in their desk drawers. Such pictures were exceedingly helpful when haggling with local diplomats over PEPFAR conference dates and reserving parking spots. Namibians weren’t fond of the Big T., but power was power, and if you had a picture of you next to the president of the United States, you were someone to be contended with.
“That is real,” the Big A. said. “That was a restaurant opening in Italy. I used to manage restaurants all over Europe, and he happened to come to this one. We talked about golf. I never thought the exchange would result in an ambassadorship, but then, I never knew he’d be president. One of his people remembered me and figured I’d be somewhat neutral in my views toward him.” She paused. “They had to fill a lot of posts.”
“This is your first State Department job?”
“Running an embassy in a sleepy country is a lot like running a restaurant, Persephone,” she said. “It’s all honoring rank and throwing decent events.”