Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  “Did you even vote for him?” Persephone asked, then instantly regretted it. If you were smart, you never asked another State Department member’s political affiliation. It only caused unnecessary conflict. The Big A. ignored her question, proving she was, indeed, worthy of the ambassadorship. Instead she picked up her knife and fork and took a delicate bite of her quiche.

  “People don’t know this, but it was the Italians that actually came up with savory eggs in a pastry. Not the French. Fourteenth century.” She chewed delicately and put down her napkin. “This is mediocre. I can’t stand Namibian bacon.”

  “I’m sorry,” Persephone said. She thought about trying a bite, but her stomach was so queasy from nerves she could only manage a sip of sparkling water. “Now, as I said, I know I’m not supposed to know about Adam’s status, but I guessed it. You can’t blame him. And I absolutely hope this doesn’t affect our next post. We’re so looking forward to—”

  “Persephone,” the Big A. said. “Stop.”

  “Oh right. We can talk outside, if you’re worried about—”

  “Adam is not in the CIA.”

  Persephone found that she was blinking incredibly rapidly. The wall was doing that wavy thing that usually only happened to her after too many cocktails.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He lied to you. I’m sorry to say this, but there’s no way in hell or on earth we’d recruit him for the CIA. He’s fine as a diplomat, but quite lazy … and not exactly brilliant.”

  “Oh,” Persephone said. She shifted in her seat. Of course she knew all these things. She was his wife.

  “Between you and me he blends in just fine as a middling State Department employee. Though I’m very annoyed that he pulled that stunt, telling the Namibian police about this Nazi mailing business without my permission. Do you think I ever would have let that happen? In any other world than the one we’re living in right now, we all would be burned at the stake for that. Arresting kids for shipping trinkets abroad! But under this administration … well. Let’s just say, idiocy is celebrated.” She took another bite. “And then there’s the other matter. Well. We’re sending her home. It’s not very #MeToo, but that hasn’t hit the State Department yet, and he outranks her. Anyway. You won’t have to see her.”

  “What matter?” Persephone asked. “See who?”

  The Big A. took a last bite of quiche and pushed her plate away. “Why am I always the one ripping off the Band-Aid? Ainsley, my dear. She and your husband are having an affair.”

  “What?”

  “I am sorry. I never was interested in marriage myself, exactly because of this sort of business. Anyhow. You, my dear, are a jewel. A real figurehead of a State Department family. Which is another reason why we’re keeping Adam and not Ainsley.” She patted Persephone’s arm. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? We just can’t let ourselves lose a top Trailing Spouse like you.”

  / 32 /

  Mark had dropped his seething wife off, with promises of returning with Nando’s chicken. Then he had done what any reasonable father with a freshly imprisoned nine-year-old would do: drive to Embassy Liquors, buy some bourbon, and then head to his favorite bench at Avis Dam in order to figure out what to do.

  Windhoek was showing off her full plumage in terms of sunsets. Purples, fuchsias, yellows, and greens seeped through the sky. The more he drank, the more the colors deepened and turned, until he could only believe that he was being offered a true revelation. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It wasn’t a number he recognized, but he answered anyway, just in case it was good news.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Persephone Wilder.”

  “Oh, hi, Persephone,” Mark said. “Sorry to sound disappointed. I thought you might be the consulate with news.”

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice decidedly chilly.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about Shark Island.”

  “Where?”

  “Shark Island,” Persephone said, “was the biggest atrocity committed during the German colonization of Namibia. You know. The holocaust. The one you’re supposed to be writing about?”

  “Oh.” Mark was totally confused and a little pissed at her attitude, what with his kid in jail and all. But something told him to hold his tongue.

  “I’m just giving you the facts. Because I happen to know you’re a total fraud.”

  “What—”

  “You see, the Germans were basically using the Herero and the Nama as slaves. Indentured servitude, shooting them for no reason in the fields. That sort of thing. So they rebelled in 1905. Like you would, if some Herr Rumpelstein took Amanda as his concubine. Or whatever.” Her voice was shaking with anger. “They killed some Germans, which was very bad. So the Germans did what they did at the time, which was overcompensate. They sent fifteen thousand troops to drive the Herero and the Nama to the desert—all of them, not just the fighters, so that the men, women, and children died of hunger and thirst.”

  “Okay.” She really sounded off her rocker.

  “But the worst part, the pièce de résistance, was the concentration camp they constructed. It wasn’t in Walvis—which was how I knew you were a faker. As anyone who cares an iota knows, this infamous travesty took place on Shark Island, off the town of Luderitz. They later included the Nama people, too, as they were trying to exterminate that tribe as well. Documents written at the time by the Boers—no strangers to brutality, Mark—said they were so shocked by the conditions they had to leave. Historians widely agree this was the precursor to the concentration camps of World War II.”

  She stopped. The line was so silent, Mark wondered if she was still there.

  “I’m just letting you know,” Persephone finally said, “because on top of being a cheater—”

  “Cheater?” Mark said. “I’m not a cheater.”

  “I’ve spoken to Amanda, Mark. Don’t deny it. Anyway, on top of being a cheater, you’re also a huge fake. I’m the only one who knows that part. The only one who’s figured out that you’ve used the suffering of the native Namibians for your own financial gain. I was trying to decide what to do with that information … like, should I tell the ambassador? But I don’t want dear Amanda to be even further embarrassed, so I’m giving you CliffsNotes for when people start asking you questions.”

  “Well…”

  “Well, what?” Mark was almost pleased to hear Persephone Wilder give an honest-to-God snort. “Blech. I mean, just … sho.”

  And then she really did hang up. Mark looked at the phone for a moment, then shrugged and pocketed the thing. So some State Department wife thought that he’d been having sex with Mila Shilongo for months … as did his own wife. As unbelievable as it was, it seemed trivial, in light of his other problems.

  Wait. Of course. The situation wasn’t impossible. Despite his wife’s tears. Despite Persephone’s out-of-the-blue wrath. The ambassador had been perfectly clear about how to get Meg out of this. It was her friend, Taimi.

  If Taimi took the blame, all she would get was, at most, a large fine, probably—whereas Meg would spend her youth in a foreign prison. What parent of any child would let that happen to another? Even if Mila was angry at him, he could make the case. He could make her the savior in all of this. He remembered Esther as a reasonable person. Wonderfully reasonable. Kind. She couldn’t have changed that much. All he had to do was find her.

  It was dark now. Mark stumbled down the trail, tripping a couple of times on the rocks. Once he got into the car, he popped a piece of gum to cover up the smell of liquor and drove toward where he vaguely remembered Mila’s house being, taking a couple of wrong turns before reaching her long, precipitous driveway.

  When he got to the mansion, it seemed even more like a fancy psychiatric ward than before. He was thinking what he was going to say when he rang the bell, but he didn’t have to. The gate was open, and the Herero housekeeper, today dressed in a stunning ensemble of green and gold, was struggling down the d
riveway, her arms full of plastic bags of clothes.

  “Good evening,” Mark said.

  The woman grumbled something he couldn’t quite make out.

  “Is Mrs. Shilongo home?” Mark asked.

  “Miss Mila is gone. And I am leaving.” She looked defensively at her bags. “Mr. Shilongo said I could have these.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “She will not be back. Gone, I said.” She peered at him. “Can you give me a lift to the taxi stand?”

  “Sure,” Mark said, reaching over and opening the car door for her. The transfer of the bags and her layers of crinoline was somewhat of a production. Her double-horned Herero hat, which up close looked like a brightly colored matador’s hat with cone ends, bumped against the roof. He reached over to help her, but she swatted his hand away.

  “Okay, okay. So … what do you mean, Miss Mila won’t be back? I really need to talk to her.”

  The housekeeper looked over at him, her mouth clamped shut.

  “You can try walking with those bags, if you want.”

  She gave a snort.

  “If you give me the information, I’ll take you all the way home. No taxi.”

  The woman looked at him with a taunting smile on her face.

  “You will drive this car to Katutura? You’re not scared?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’ve been there.”

  “Well, no. But I was planning on going someday. So let’s do it. But first you have to tell me what happened.”

  The woman looked up at the house. “He has thrown her out because the little girl was arrested with the American girl.”

  “That seems like an overreaction. It’s not like it was Mila’s fault.”

  “He thinks it is. He is quite heartless, sometimes.”

  “Well. I’m the American girl’s dad,” Mark said, backing down the drive.

  The woman whistled. “Things are bad for you, my friend.”

  “I just really need to find Mila. If her daughter steps up, she’ll just get a little slap on the wrist. If Meg takes the blame, she has no rights.”

  “We’ll see,” the woman said, indicating with her hand which way he should drive. “Namibian courts are very strange.”

  “Where should I try to find her?”

  “She maybe at the Hilton. She likes it there.” She adjusted her two-horned hat, thinking. “She could be at her sister’s restaurant on Independence. Or at her other sister’s house, in Katutura. I do not know the address. And she hates her sisters … Ah! Or with her other daughter.”

  Mark stopped at the bottom of the drive a bit too hard, propelling them both toward the dash.

  “Her other daughter?” Mark asked carefully. “Mila has another daughter?”

  “Of course. I do not like her. Libertina did not raise her, that’s for certain.” She looked at him. “Libertina. That is me. Anyhow. The other daughter, she had no rules. She is very naughty. Big temper.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty, I think? Perhaps more?”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Swakopmund. She wants to be a fashion person or jewelry artist or some what-what.”

  “Fuck,” Mark said. “Oh, fucking hell.”

  “You sound like a Boer,” Libertina said distastefully. “Miss Mila would have had to get there on a bus somehow. She has no car. But you might look for her. Her name is—”

  “Anna,” Mark said.

  “Yes,” Libertina said. “That is correct.” She pointed her gnarled finger, painted gold at the tip, up a long, dark road. “I live just that way. Five kilometers or so.”

  “All right.” They drove in silence. Mark had reached the Location now. The township was nowhere as large as those in Cape Town or Johannesburg, though the structure, Mark had read, was similar. At the center was an organized network of streets lined with proper houses and flats, most with large fences and gates—though the gates weren’t nearly as elaborate or tall as those in the white neighborhoods. Those affluent avenues gave way to narrower lanes of smaller houses, shops, and shebeens, which spilled out to dirt alleys lined with corrugated tin shacks of various sizes and complexity. The longer you lived in a place, it seemed, the more rooms you added; some family complexes spread out haphazardly for several meters, as if made of Jenga blocks.

  The Location looked fun. Men and women hung out in the streets talking and laughing; kids played soccer on poorly lit dirt fields despite the time of night. No one in Mark and Amanda’s neighborhood, Klein Windhoek, would dare go out at night.

  Libertina directed Mark past the more prominent streets to a shantytown. A bus in front of them halted, and men in blue coveralls and women in domestic work outfits streamed out, bearing flashlights, as there were no streetlights on this side of the neighborhood. A girl Meg’s age ran in front of the car, bringing him back to his seemingly hopeless predicament.

  “Man,” Mark said. “Have I messed up my life.”

  “Ah?” Libertina said, raising her eyebrows. “I am interested. How does a white man like you mess up his life?”

  “Well, Libertina,” Mark said, rubbing his jaw, which was sore from clenching, “I gave away all of my family’s savings to Anna, and she took off with it. Like, a week ago. And I haven’t heard back from her yet.”

  “Hmmm,” Libertina said. “Yes. That is something Anna would do. Naughty. And to have no money, that is a problem.” She shrugged. “But you are white. There’s always more.”

  “Yeah, but I have to ask for it.”

  “Also not a problem.” Libertina looked at him sideways. “Use your voice.”

  “Okay, I see where you’re coming from. But also, I had an affair long ago with a woman. Now it looks like she had a daughter and I never knew about it.”

  “Affair.” Libertina raised her eyebrows. “She had a husband?”

  “Oh. No.”

  “So you had the sex and then she fell pregnant?”

  “I guess. But she never told me.”

  “That’s not your fault,” Libertina said, folding her arms over her chest.

  “Well, actually … I could have tried a little harder to be in touch.”

  Libertina shrugged. Herero men were known to be scoundrels. Why would Americans be any different?

  “And now it looks like the daughter is someone I actually know.”

  They were approaching Libertina’s house now. The older woman sat up straight. She was proud of her house. It was in the shantytown, but was a comparatively luxurious bungalow, with two tiny bedrooms, a living room, and an indoor kitchen where everything was blue, right down to every cup, saucer, and the plastic cutlery. There was a wall around the small plot, laced with barbed wire and shards of cut glass. Inside, her daughter was waiting for her. They would drink beer and watch South African Idol on the television, and later her husband would be home. So, although she had to have a dog to scare away the thieves who scaled the wall monthly, and although she now had no job, in actuality she had more than this sad white man. She was glad for that.

  “Well. Goodbye,” she said. “I hope your problems go away.” She took up her bags and, with some effort, got out of the car. As he drove away, Libertina thought about giving him a blessing. But she knew the American would be all right in the end, so she saved it for someone in real trouble.

  One of the little girls, perhaps.

  / 33 /

  It was two in the morning when Mark walked in the door. Amanda was still sitting at the table, a half-empty bottle of vodka in front of her next to a glass of melting ice and a few massacred lemons.

  “Hey,” Mark said. He stumbled a little as he made his way to the table.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked, sitting across from her.

  She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, looking at him through her messy dark bangs. “Well. My theory is if I drink all night, I won’t have a hangover. I’m alternating each glas
s I drink with a glass of water. See the water?” She motioned toward a pitcher next to the vodka. “That’s the way Swedish people drink. Did you know that? One water. One drink. That’s why they look so good all the time.”

  “I think that’s the Swiss, babe. Also, the Swedes don’t always look that good. Remember when we watched The Bridge?”

  She ignored him, pouring more vodka. “I’m also using lemon to battle antioxidants.”

  “I’ll try it with you,” Mark said, getting up to fetch a glass. He threw in some ice and came back.

  “What do you think Meg’s doing?” Amanda said.

  “Sleeping.”

  “How can she sleep in that cell? She needs a night-light. Do you think they let her have a night-light?”

  “Yes,” Mark said.

  “I called three times, but those ash-holes said I couldn’t … Can’t talk right now correctly. Assholes.” She giggled suddenly. “Do you know that Meg knows what a dickwad is? Like, the scientific definition?”

  “That’s disturbing. What is it?”

  Amanda took a big sip, crunching down on the ice. “A urethra blockage.”

  “Huh. And here I thought the official definition was Adam Wilder.”

  “Exactly.” They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the symphony of insects outside.

  “So you’re pretty wasted?” Mark said. “Because I’m pretty wasted.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And we have all these things we need to talk about.”

  Amanda tipped her head up to meet her husband’s bloodshot eyes.

  “You’ve been having an affair with Mila Shilongo who used to be Esther, yes?”

  “No!” Mark said. He wagged her finger at her. “Errrrrp! Incorrect. I really did think she was dead. I saw the records and everything.”

  “Huh,” Amanda said disinterestedly.

  “But here’s the kicker,” Mark said. “We had a kid together. I think.”

  “Huh,” Amanda said again. She downed her vodka and dutifully filled the same glass with water. “Taimi?” she asked.