Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  Saara was crafty as a businesswoman as well. For one thing, she made herself indispensable, learning the accounting books backward and forward, better than anyone else. When, inevitably, she was put in charge of procurement, Esther’s sister was able to buy soap and potatoes in bulk, sell a bit on the side for extra money, and still come in with a huge savings for the business.

  If Mrs. V.W. suspected foul play, she didn’t admit it. “I don’t mind trusting the Blacks,” she often said. “No Black is smart enough to fool me.”

  Everyone liked Saara. Her presence was happy and light, her jokes smart and cutting. “God gave you the face of a goddess and me the brain of a cat,” she said one night as she played cards with Esther on the floor. “If only we were melded into one.”

  “You’re just as pretty as I am,” Esther said.

  “The fact that you are saying that only proves what I’m saying about your brain.”

  “If you went to school,” Esther said, carefully switching the subject, “would you study accounting? Or literature?”

  “I’d study it all, you giraffe,” Saara said, laughing, and Esther knew her little sister simply had to go.

  But four-twenty a week, with an extra two hundred Saara sometimes brought in. And four hundred out again for food and washing, as the hotel didn’t feed them and charged them to launder their clothes. They had to do something. They had to make a plan.

  And she had to do it soon. Girls like Saara, clever girls with nothing who worked at hotels, who lived too close to the riches of others, who were constantly made to touch the clean white sheets slept in by wealthy tourists, who daily witnessed the way the privileged were able to look nonchalantly at a loaded buffet table of food and walk away with one piece of bacon, those girls were not able to be patient long. Esther was smart enough, but she would be happy to work quietly at the hotel until something nice happened, perhaps a marriage to a good man or a slightly better job at a business down the street. Already Mrs. V.W. had promoted her to the front desk because of her looks; more things would probably happen soon. But Saara didn’t want to wait. She was constantly using her big mind to scheme, to plan.

  “If I get Mrs. V.W. fired, maybe I’ll be in charge, hey,” she said one morning, braiding her hair intricately and peering out the tiny window at the parking lot. “I can make it look like she stole some money by fooling with the checks and the banks.”

  “You can’t get anyone fired,” Esther scolded. “Please. This is our job. This is where we live. Don’t mess with the hotel.”

  It was about this time, just when Saara was beginning to move on from drinking beer to Four Roses, just when she was beginning to show up to the accounting office, with its lazy, beating fan and pictures of Jesus pinned to the wall, so sloppy and reeking of booze Mrs. V.W. put them both on probation, that the American came to Oshakati.

  That’s what everyone called him. The American, otherwise known as the young, tall man with the brown hair and the fancy trainers who spent his days at the clinic. The American, it seemed, thought he blended, what with his volunteer job where he sat with sick patients, and his meager little shack. But everyone knew who he was. An American! Here! In Oshakati! the aunties crowed at the shebeens and grocery corners. Who is tall and looks like he is from television! Who wears glasses that make him look like an owl! Who in real life probably lives in a house with a piano and marble floors and has Popsicles every day!

  The maids at the Oshakati Country Hotel, including Saara, knew everything about him. He had his own bungalow near the Pick n Pay. He didn’t have a gate or a dog, but he padlocked his door when he left the house. He went to the post office every day, sending letters and packages. He ran on the tar road in the morning, usually with a trail of boys following him. He didn’t live like an Afrikaner. He was friendly. He tried to invite people in for tea. He said he wanted to learn more about their country.

  “Our country!” the aunties said, laughing. Well, no one came to tea. Everyone knew this was a trick. How many times had Ovambos seen these volunteers who came for a year, befriended you, and pretended to be like you? They insisted they understood. They said they were your friends. They let you cook for them and gave you oranges and their running shoes and drank with your father and bedded your sisters or even sometimes your brothers. They would promise plane tickets, jobs in America, all sorts of things they could never actually give you. Then they would go back to their air-conditioning and mountains of food and never write you back.

  Still, word was this American was polite. Mrs. Solumbe, the laundress, invited him over after church, and he brought her a month’s worth of groceries. He drank, but not too much. He was helping at the hospital, and he had sat with the Angolan boy while he was dying after being run over by a tractor.

  No one was surprised when he began coming to the café every day to stare at Esther. She already had a group of admirers kept at bay by JoJo. It was a fine line; JoJo wanted them to come to the café to ogle his waitress, but if she took up with any of them, it would be bad for business.

  “Don’t worry,” Esther said. “I’m not interested.” Her beauty had become a hindrance. She wanted a nice man, not someone who hung about drinking all day. She wasn’t stupid enough to be a foreigner’s slut. Nothing good ever happened to those girls. Sometimes they had mixed babies no one would accept; other times they went back to their villages, scoffed at and shamed. As the café was the hub of town; she’d had a front-row seat to more than one example of ruin.

  Saara, though, was not as careful. She noticed the American the first day he came to the café, and positioned her body his way, singing just for him. When she saw that he only had eyes for Esther, she drank her way into the night and took it out on her sister.

  “Of course he only wants you,” she spat. Her skimpy dress was covered in stains. “They always want the pretty stupid one.”

  Esther was growing tired of Saara’s rants. It was four in the morning, and she had to work at the desk at six. Though Oshakati Country Hotel was in town, it butted against the grasslands. She could hear the mosquitoes and the hornbills outside, preparing their morning warm-ups. “I’m not stupid enough to think his attention can do anything for me.”

  “What about us?” Saara cried. “Do you know how easy it would be for him to give you two thousand NAD? That’s probably what he pays for one of those trainers he wears.”

  “You go after him, then,” Esther mumbled.

  Saara shook her head and put her shoes back on.

  “Where are you going?” Esther asked.

  “I’m getting more Four Roses from JoJo.”

  “Please,” Esther begged. “You have to be at the office at eight. Mrs. V.W. says the books aren’t up-to-date. She was going on about you yesterday.”

  “She can’t fire me, Esther. She doesn’t know how to do anything by herself.”

  “She ran the place before we got here, Saara,” she said, suddenly very tired. But her sister had already left.

  Later that morning, Esther was at the desk at six. She was exhausted, but her uniform was pressed and her hair was clean. She concentrated on checking out the guests who were moving on that morning, her eyes burning as she looked at the numbers. The desk was busy, and the hours went mercifully quickly. Then, a little before lunch, she heard Mrs. V.W. screaming in the back.

  “You get out of here, you thief! And take your slutty sister with you! You kaffirs, you can’t help but steal, hey? Get the hell out!”

  “I didn’t steal anything!” Saara yelled back.

  “Oh? The till’s been short for days, so I marked the bills. You know where they turned up? JoJo’s wallet. Says you paid him for liquor. Little bitch.”

  Esther felt the floor drop away as she watched Saara stagger out, still wearing her clothes from the night before.

  “I didn’t!” Saara protested, more feebly this time.

  “What happened?” Esther whispered, shooting a placating smile at the guests.

  “Your sister
’s a thief, is what happened.” Mrs. V.W. swelled through the door, her mottled cheeks aflame. “You’re both out. Go pack. Now.”

  Saara looked at Esther, tossed her head, and strutted out the front door. The only thing left for Esther to do was leave the front desk and follow. She could feel the eyes of the waiting guests on her back. Outside the gate, the birds and animals of Ovamboland were approaching their dawn crescendo. As the sisters circled behind the building to the staff dorm, fear gripped her chest, and she felt as if she might faint.

  “Saara,” Esther whispered. “What have you done? We have nowhere to go.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Saara said through clenched teeth as she climbed the back stairs.

  “How? We have nothing. Not even our house in Onesi. Don’t you know what happens to people like us?”

  “I said I’d fix it.”

  But Esther had opened the door to their little room and collapsed on the mattress. Flies batted the light bulb above. She could hear the tin sounds of JoJo’s cooking pots below, and the tickling fingers of hunger crept into her belly.

  So this is despair, she thought as a heat worse than fever enveloped her.

  Saara went down the hall to the washroom and showered, then came back and dressed. “I’ll be back,” she said, but Esther had turned over to face the wall. The door closed, and Saara went out. Esther stayed in bed for a long time, mostly because she had nowhere else to go. She knew JoJo would come up soon to force her out upon Mrs. V.W.’s orders. But hours passed, and nothing happened. She finally fell into a light sleep, only to startle awake when she heard footsteps outside.

  “It’s me,” Saara said, tiptoeing in and shutting the door behind her. “I fixed it. I told you I’d fix it.” She opened her purse, and a shower of money fell out.

  Esther sat up slowly. “How much is that?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “What? Saara, if you stole that—”

  “I didn’t steal it.” She sat on the bed next to Esther and took her hand. It had been a long time since the sisters had been this close, and Esther couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit hopeful. “Look, sister. I have good news.”

  “How?” Esther asked, sitting up.

  “The American wants to take you to the beach.”

  “What?” Esther moved away. “What?”

  “He gave me the money so you’d come to the beach.”

  “I’m not … You can’t pay me for that!” She gave Saara a sharp push. “I’m not a prostitute, Saara!”

  “It’s not like that.” Saara’s face was resolute. “I’m going, too. He just wants to go on a trip.”

  “He’s paying for our company?”

  “Look,” Saara said. “I said it’s not like that. Esther, we’re out of choices. We’ve got to get out of here. The American can get us to Windhoek. He gave me three thousand, and he has more. He didn’t ask you to do anything. He just asked you to come.”

  “No,” Esther said. “No. I don’t like this. All he does is stare at me.”

  Saara’s lips twisted. “He didn’t ask for sex with you. Not specifically.” She grabbed Esther’s hands. “And he’s not bad, is he? He’s not old. He’s not fat. You should see some of these Boers I had to—”

  “I don’t want that,” Esther cried. “Oh, Saara. This was a good job.” Esther put her face into her hands.

  “All right.” Saara stood above her, her hands on her hips. “Esther, if we don’t do this, I can work for Duncan. He can give us a place to sleep tonight.”

  Esther’s head shot up as she looked at her sister in horror. Duncan was the town pimp. His girls were forever being found beaten and dead on the outskirts of town. Sometimes they weren’t found for weeks, and their bodies would be picked clean by jackals, their bones bleached by the sun.

  “Duncan.”

  “I’ve already sent him a message.”

  “No,” Esther said. She stood up and found her knapsack under the bed. “No, Saara. Go get the American. Tell him I’ll go.”

  * * *

  Back in Windhoek a lifetime later, it was now time to leave the plant nursery and go home for a family day in an estate more luxurious than that former version of herself would have dared to imagine. Except she was going alone with her daughter, because her husband, it seemed, didn’t want her anymore.

  “I should take a lover,” Mila said suddenly.

  Josephat glanced around at the other tables nearby, making sure no one had heard her. “Mila, what has gotten into you?”

  Patrons were gathering their bags and blankets and drifting toward their trucks. It was Saturday, nearing one o’clock, signaling the deadest stretch of the afternoon. Already the café staff was shutting down the slushy machine and hovering near the front door with a bouquet of keys; Mila could almost hear the simultaneous crash of the iron gates slamming across the entrances to the shops throughout the city.

  “Mila,” Josephat said now, bringing her attention back. “Don’t think I don’t understand how you’re feeling, my dear.”

  “Oh?” she said, foolishly hopeful at his kind tone.

  “Yes,” he said soothingly. “You’re over forty. Soon men will not want you at all. I can see why that would make you angry.”

  Mila was so surprised it took her a moment to speak. “You think this is about my age?”

  “Of course. But, Mila, you must get yourself together. This close friendship with an American woman? The oryx prank? The fits? I have to think you are going through your change. You’re not thinking correctly.” He draped his arm around her, patting her shoulder. “Go on a trip, why don’t you? Take Anna to Paris.”

  I should fling his arm away, she thought. But it feels so very nice there, him touching me.

  Oh, it was maddening. When had she become so pathetic?

  “That would be the very worst thing for Anna,” she finally managed. “Reward her for being spoiled?”

  “Then take Taimi. Or better yet, go to the north. Visit your village and see how far you’ve come. And watch yourself. Just remember what happened to…” He stopped himself, obviously thinking better of it.

  She did pull away this time, so that she could face him. “To whom, Josephat? Saara?”

  “Yes,” he said, finally. “You could have been Saara.”

  She could kill him. She would kill him.

  “Mother?” Taimi said. “Are you quite well? You’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, looking away from Josephat. “Mummy and Daddy are just having a disagreement. But it’s over now, girls. Let’s go.” She let Josephat walk ahead with the girls. Dropping behind to take her phone out of her purse, she sent off a quick text to Adam Wilder, inviting him to see Osha.

  God help her. She would show these men something about control.

  / 15 /

  Mark sat in a café in Omaruru, his back facing the street. Not that he would ever see anyone he knew in Omaruru. But then, this was Namibia, the second least populated country in the world. (People always said that, he mused. What was the very first least populated? Mongolia? Siberia?) The point was, someone might see him. One of those embassy people who were always chasing him for historical reports, or some college buddy, now rich as Midas, here on a luxury safari. Then Mark would have to explain just what the hell he was doing in rural Namibia, without his family, meeting up with an extremely sexy twenty-year-old with a jewelry habit.

  Today was the third trip Mark had taken to meet Anna. Just as a year ago he never would have guessed he’d be hanging out alone on the veld, and he definitely never dreamed he’d be taking multiple gem-purchasing trips with a woman who wasn’t his wife. But something—funny? interesting? no, strange—had happened since he’d gotten those morgue records a month before. He’d stopped giving a shit. And it was just easier not to tell his wife. But he also didn’t feel that nervous. If someone as beautiful and alive as Esther could be extinguished so easily … well, the worst would happen eventually anyway, wouldn’t it?

  As
fate would have it, things were actually working out. Once he’d made the oddest decision of his life and given Anna a thousand American dollars, she brought him back three thousand. He gave her back the three; she brought him nine. Now he was giving her five. It was going so well, Mark was actually beginning to hope that this easy little avenue out of the dreariness of his current profession might actually be successful.

  Before returning to Namibia, he’d really tried to ignore how much he hated academia. It was a difficult thing, to admit you’d wasted twenty years of your life. But the moment he boarded that 787 to Johannesburg for the first leg of the trip, he’d felt the great weight that had been sitting on his chest for years just lift and disappear. The millstone had been there so long, he hadn’t even known he was miserable. The job he had was fine; he liked teaching the kids, because he felt like one himself. Well, he didn’t care about the Holocaust in France anymore. It was sad, true, and he found the stories compelling. He’d even sobbed upon reading the letters he’d come across in a French archive, handwritten notes from doomed children to their dead mothers.

  But another scholar had already covered those. And yet another historian had written about the conspiracies in the 4th arrondissement, and the secret tunnels used to transport food to refugees, and the farms where Resistance heroes hid families in root cellars. There was nothing new to say, and, worse, Mark didn’t care if he said it. He didn’t want to read any more books on the mechanics of persecution, or persecution’s long-term effects, or, actually, anything about persecution ever again. He didn’t give a fuck about history. He wanted out. So he was hoping, out there as it was, that this crazy gem thing might be the answer.

  Mark did run the idea by one person: Jaime. Mark loved Jaime, but he didn’t really like him anymore. The red Tesla, the imported beard oil, the endless parade of young women, puffed to perfection by implants, who festooned his Instagram page … If Mark met his oldest friend now, he would instantly dismiss him as a douchebag. But one truly wonderful thing about this douchebag was that if you were his buddy, he backed you. Even if you called him up with a notion that would clearly lead to self-annihilation.