Vodka and Apple Juice

by Jay Martin

  ‘I don’t think that’s a reason,’ I said.

  Our behaviour had attracted the attention of another security guard, who had now joined us.

  ‘We no have tickets, we please like to come in.’ I tried again with the new guard. ‘We from Embassy Australia.’ I had almost turned to leave before I’d finished getting the sentence out.

  There was a flicker of response. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We are from the Australian Embassy,’ I said again, managing to get the whole proper sentence out this time. It was one I’d practised.

  They looked us up and down.

  ‘The Austrian Embassy?’ one said.

  ‘Aus-TRAL-ian.’ I emphasised the middle syllable that marked the difference between the two countries in both Polish and English.

  There was a conversation between them, during the course of which both of them looked skeptical, and both of them looked both of us up and down a few more times. For whatever reason – whether they decided, on balance, that it wasn’t worth starting a diplomatic event over, or that other Australians were unlikely to come and demand entry on the basis of precedent – they stamped our hands and waved us in.

  As we wound our way through the exhibitors and kiosks, I saw why they’d looked skeptical. With most of our clothing still on the ship, we had done our best to cobble something together that I thought said ‘diplomats at play’. Maybe in Australia it did. Here, people put a great deal more effort into dressing. All the women had full make-up, stylish shirts and matching jewellery. No one else here – man or woman – was wearing practical footwear. We walked past dozens of stalls, exhibits and kiosks showing necklaces, jewels and stones, staffed by people who must have known I didn’t belong as surely as I did.

  Finding our Australian-Polish artist was like looking for a needle in a haystack – an unwelcoming haystack at that – and I was almost tempted to abandon our first diplomatic mission, when we both saw it: a blown-up photo on a giant billboard, showing rock formations the colour of sunsets, deep blue waters, and the pearls of one of its main industries. It couldn’t be anywhere near here; it could only be Broome, Western Australia. We’d spent our honeymoon there.

  We had found Ola, our Polish-Australian jewellery artist. Now in her fifties, she had left communist Poland in the 1980s and gone to live in Australia. She’d lived and worked between the two countries since, designing, making and selling jewellery. According to her bio, anyway, which I read while Tom found her and introduced himself. My attempt to remain inconspicuous failed as he called me over to meet her.

  ‘How fantastic it is to meet you!’ she greeted me with three enthusiastic kisses on alternate cheeks. I fumbled the third one. It seemed one too many. ‘I was just telling Mr Armstrong how fantastic it is that someone from the embassy could make it here today! Here, let me show you my exhibition!’ She grabbed her Mr Armstrong – my Tom – by the elbow and swept him away towards the almost life-sized wall-mounted photos of the Kimberley shore, rugged red rock bordering the deep blue ocean, giving no clue of the thousands of irritated oysters gestating world-class pearls beneath its depths. I followed in their wake.

  ‘I spent a lot of my time in Sydney, of course, but this is where I felt truly at home. Have you ever been to Broome?’ she warbled.

  ‘Actually, we spent our –’

  ‘You must go! It’s fantastic.’

  Her attention was diverted by something else she wanted to show us, and she led Tom off towards another corner of the stall. Tom and I glanced at each other. He gave me a quick smile; I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Photos,’ she announced, digging around in her bag for a small digital camera.

  By the time I caught up, Ola was calling out to someone passing by. ‘This is the artistic director of the gallery,’ she introduced us to man with pointed shoes, a striped shirt and a bald head. He gave us a polite smile. And this is Tom and Jay Armstrong.’ I had never changed my name but I let it go. ‘They’re from the Australian Embassy,’ she finished with a huge grin. As though two embassy representatives had been a compulsory item on a treasure hunt.

  ‘Bardzo miło mi pana poznać,’ I greeted him as I’d learned in my textbook, holding out my hand for the gallery owner to shake. He took it and kissed it. No one had ever kissed my hand before. And I suspected, from the look on his face, that he may never before have kissed the hand of anyone wearing hiking boots.

  ‘The embassy?’ he checked.

  ‘Can you take a photo of us?’ Ola said, pressing the camera into his hand. One photo turned into a dozen, of her and us, as the Kimberley sun set in the background. And when there was a break, the gallery owner handed the camera back and got his own out, while Ola got out her mobile and reeled off some rapid-fire Polish into it. Within minutes, an entourage was assembled: artists, jewellers, museum and gallery heads, all lining up to have their photos taken with us. She continued her ring-around to find other people to show us to.

  ‘Don’t they get we’re just ordinary public servants? And that Canberra’s full of thousands of us?’ I asked Tom during a lull in the craziness.

  ‘Warsaw’s not.’

  Now it was me wondering what on earth these people expected from me – as a diplomatic wife. I didn’t know, but I suspected I was disappointing.

  ‘It was fantastic to meet you,’ Tom said when Ola’s contact list was exhausted and we could finally take our leave. Ola pressed an invitation for another exhibition she was putting on into his hand as we escaped.

  Tom punched the number for a cab into his phone and we stepped out into the muddy streets. However did Polish women navigate these streets in those shoes?

  ‘Is this really what diplomatic life is going to be like? It’s more how I imagined being a rock star!’ I said to Tom.

  ‘Either way it’s rather … fantastic.’ He winked at me.

  I made a note to myself: if all else fails, tell them you’re Australian.

  ***

  From then on, diplomatic invites arrived thick and fast. The Indonesian Ambassador would welcome the presence of the Australian Ambassador on the occasion of the country’s national day, the next of them announced in elegant, gold-embossed writing. And spouse, someone had scrawled below. Tom wasn’t the Ambassador, who still hadn’t arrived, but we decided the Indonesians could make do.

  The fact that I was only the (handwritten) spouse of the representative of the person who they actually wanted there did not douse my excitement at the invitation one iota. Our possessions had arrived – all the boxes we’d packed up in Canberra, their contents now stuffed away in wardrobes and cupboards around the apartment. I still didn’t have much to wear here, though. Warsaw had higher standards than Canberra. Still, I could do a bit better than my first attempt. I ironed a plain pants suit left over from my corporate life and hoped that it would suffice. I even found a pair of decent shoes – if you defined ‘decent’ as ‘uncomfortable’.

  I hopped off the tram right outside the five-star hotel, just as the embassy driver dropped Tom there. A quick kiss hello and we linked arms and joined a line of people greeting the hosts.

  ‘Tom Armstrong, Australian Embassy,’ Tom said when it was his turn.

  ‘Jay Martin. Tom’s … ah … wife,’ I said, when it was mine.

  The Indonesian Ambassador to Poland, a rotund, merry man in a batik shirt, and a woman I presumed was his … ah … wife smiled and shook my hand. Their heads bounced up and down as if they were on springs. Tom took my elbow and guided me away. I was clogging up the important-people conveyer belt.

  We proceeded to the hotel’s grand ballroom. Chest-high tables draped in black cloth were dotted around the room, which was bookended by heaving buffets. The throngs thickened there. I joined the crowds, and piled a plate high with noodles and chili prawns, not realising that I’d lost Tom along the way. I retreated with my haul to one of the islands, looking around for my husband in the sea of men in suits and women with big hair in cocktail dresses.

  Just then the room
hushed, and the speeches commenced – Polish, followed by English. I strained to get as much as I could of the Polish.

  ‘Shshshshshshsh Indonesia shshshshsh politics shshshshshsh diplomatic relations.’

  I smiled at understanding two sequential words. Despite all my efforts so far, Polish still mostly sounded like people telling me to be quiet. A blond waiter handed out free champagne, and the room toasted our mutual desire for long and fruitful ties between these two great nations. I drank to that. Although it didn’t seem too hard to have long and fruitful ties with a country at the other end of the world you had little in common with and nothing to fight over.

  I crunched into a spring roll and looked around. What did people talk about at these things? Especially people like me, the invitee twice removed. I’d lost even that tenuous excuse for being here in my rush to get to the buffet. I’d attended dozens of conferences in the past as part of my job, usually representing the minister or the government. People were always seeking me out, keen to get information from me and get me on side. That was before, of course. My old life.

  I smiled at a bald man in an ill-fitting suit who’d taken up at my table. He avoided eye contact. I couldn’t decide whether to feel slighted or relieved.

  A woman who looked to be about my age and to have dedicated a similar level of effort to preparing for the night parked herself between us.

  ‘Hannah.’ She held out her hand to me. I wiped spring roll grease off mine with a crumpled paper napkin and held it out in return.

  ‘Jay,’ I replied, copying her.

  ‘Miło mi.’ She did in three syllables what I’d taken seven for with the hand-kissing gallery owner.

  ‘Miło mi.’ I copied her again. Gosh, that was easier!

  A man with Hannah struck up a conversation with the bald man, who seemed happy enough to talk to him. But neither I nor she had spoken further. I suspected the introduction – such as it was – was on the verge of expiry. I had no idea how conversation worked here. But I was supposed to be practising Polish, wasn’t I? Here was a perfect opportunity. I took a breath.

  ‘A skąd pani jest?’ I tried asking where she was from.

  ‘Ah, mówisz po Polsku!’ she said – you speak Polish! Followed by a flood of fricatives as she told me about what her husband, Piotr, did that had brought them here – something in some kind of ministry or government office, from what I could catch.

  ‘Me from Australia. Me husband work in embassy. He no Polish, he too Australian,’ I replied. I wasn’t sure about most of what she’d said, so I blathered facts about myself that I knew how to say in Polish and hoped that would pass for conversation. I wondered if Agnieszka had a lesson on diplomatic small talk.

  Tom appeared at my side. ‘Me husband.’ I pointed at him. She asked him a question, causing him to admit his lack of Polish, at which point she took up conversing about contemporary politics and emerging global financial issues in English.

  ‘But you speak excellent English, why didn’t you say?’ I asked her.

  ‘My Spanish is quite good, but I am ashamed my English is not better,’ she said.

  Was I supposed to feel bad about inflicting my Polish on her?

  We chatted about her work for a local cultural institution, and discovered a common interest in books and films.

  ‘I very much like Bruce Chatwin,’ she said, naming the Australian author.

  ‘Songlines, yes?’ I could name one book by him – I was pretty sure.

  ‘Yes! I particularly liked that novel, the evocation of the Australian forest and countryside, it leaves a particularly strong impression with you. How did you find it, as an Australian reader?’

  I had to admit I’d never actually read it.

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s worthwhile. And what is your opinion of Polish authors?’

  I scanned my brain for anything on Polish authors. Composers or film directors would probably do at a pinch.

  ‘Singer? Schulz? Reymont? Szymborska?’ she said.

  ‘Have they been published in English?’

  ‘They each won a Nobel prize.’

  I considered myself quite well educated in Australia. Not so in Poland, it seemed, a country with a conga line of Nobel literature laureates. Did Australia have any? I didn’t even know. I had obviously spent more time researching places to go than things to read about Poland.

  The bald man left and Hannah introduced her husband, Piotr, to us, with more finesse than I had Tom to her. Tom and Piotr exchanged handshakes and business cards.

  ‘So what are Polish people like?’ Hannah said.

  ‘They seem nice enough,’ I said. Although in truth, even after a couple of months here now, I hadn’t met enough to have much of an opinion.

  ‘We’re going to Krakow for a wedding in a couple of months. You should come along, we can show you around a bit,’ Piotr said.

  ‘Yes, you should!’ Hannah said.

  ‘How lovely! Thank you!’ My head bobbed up and down. Like it was on a spring. It was a kind gesture, but I’m sure it hadn’t been a serious invite. People didn’t invite people they’d just met away for a weekend.

  ‘If you’ll excuse us, there’s someone Jay needs to meet,’ Tom said, steering me away from them, and towards a grey-haired man in the centre of the room, holding a plate piled as high with spring rolls as mine had been.

  ‘G’day,’ the man greeted us. Was that an Australian accent? I wrangled the serviette out of my other hand and wiped my fingers so I could shake his hand. I bent down a tad to bring my head in line with his.

  ‘This is the ambassador,’ Tom said.

  ‘Which ambassador?’ I asked.

  ‘Yours,’ said Tom.

  Right. ‘Good evening, Ambassador,’ I started again, although it was hard to reconcile the term ‘ambassador’ with the gentleman in front of me with spring roll crumbs stuck to one side of his grey moustache.

  Other than an apparent shared interest in fried Asian food, I wasn’t sure what to talk to an ambassador about. Luckily he was happy to talk for both of us, about the other places he’d lived – Chile, France, Ghana, the US, a few Pacific Islands I’d never heard of – and his plans for his time here, which included meeting up with some of the many friends and colleagues he’d met over the years who were now based in the region. I fast-forwarded twenty years. Arriving at our latest post, comparing it to Warsaw and all the other places we had been in the intervening years, making plans to see all the amazing people we had met along the way.

  ‘You know, a diplomat’s performance review at the end of the year used to include a section on his wife’s performance,’ he said. ‘How well she’d entertained his colleagues, her attendance at functions.’

  I laughed. ‘Ah, well, just as well that’s no longer the case,’ I stole a glance at Tom.

  ‘Anyway, there will be plenty of time for us to catch up. You should be mingling, meeting some new people! It’s the most important skill for a diplomat, you know!’

  ‘Oh, but I’m not –’

  ‘I must be going. It’s been lovely to meet you. Good bye.’ My ambassador turned on his heel and walked off.

  ‘Goodbye,’ we called after him.

  ‘Oh, let me introduce you to someone else,’ Tom said, pointing me towards a couple about our age. And so I met Shannon, slightly taller than me and with flaming red curls, and her husband Paul, dark and slightly shorter. Paul was with the Canadian Embassy, and they had also not long arrived in Warsaw. We had a relaxed chat – it came naturally when it was in English, and not to an ambassador. It turned out we even lived in the same apartment complex. Tom invited them round for afternoon tea on the weekend.

  ‘Lovely! I’ll even bake!’ I said.

  Tom checked his phone. ‘The driver’s here. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Whose driver?’

  ‘Ours.’

  Right. I was. It was exhausting having to think so much about talking. Not to mention that my feet were killing me. I was going to have to navigate
some compromise between Polish footwear standards and my arches.

  ‘So where did Hannah’s husband work?’ I asked, as we made for the covered driveway.

  ‘He’s normally with the Polish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But he’s on a placement at the office of the President. Kaczynski.’

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘That’s the President.’

  Got it. A car with Australian flags fluttering on the bonnet stopped by my side. Tom came around to open the door for me. He greeted the driver by name, and enquired after his son, who’d been unwell, apparently.

  ‘So how am I doing so far as a diplomatic wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Taking to it like a duck to water, I’d say.’ We held hands on the back seat while our driver took us home.

  So this was what being a diplomat’s wife was all about! Yes, this was more what I’d imagined.

  ***

  Shannon and Paul came around that weekend, as well as another couple, Victoria and William, from the British Embassy. As promised, I baked. As a bitter wind rustled amber leaves outside, I handed around the result of my efforts – a soft chocolatey filling and perfectly cooked crust. Not bad for a first attempt. I never would have found the time – or energy – to bake from scratch among the deadlines of my old life. Perhaps I would discover all kinds of hidden talents here.

  Tom, William and Paul talked about some upcoming EU meetings and a major set of climate change talks that were due to start shortly in Poznan, while Shannon, Victoria and I chatted – mostly about how we felt about not having a job. Although Victoria had managed to get her employer to give her work she could do remotely for the time being, she was keen to find something permanent. Shannon, meanwhile, had decided to upgrade her accounting qualifications online with a Canadian university.

  ‘What about you?’ Victoria asked me.

  ‘I guess I just want to do the things I’d always wished I had time to over those years I spent stressing over work. Travelling, yoga, tennis, maybe a bit of writing. But first off I’m going to learn Polish. I’m doing three hours of classes a day.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to reduce stress in your life!’ Shannon said.