The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 19 If the rain stopped, the embassy pool would open at 10 a.m. The econ counselor’s daughter would probably be there. She was tolera- ble, and pickings were slim in Asun- cion. Would she wear a one-piece or a bikini? I only had three weeks to work on her before Christmas vacation ended and she went back to college in Boston. Why had I been chosen to administer the Foreign Serv- ice exam today? Does the most junior officer in the em- bassy ever have a choice? Would anyone even show up? Probably not. Three days of rain had closed roads all over the country. I switched on the radio and toggled over to the shortwave band. VOA had too much static, but the BBC was coming in loud and clear. Haldeman was testifying once again. Bob Hope would be leaving soon for Cam Ranh Bay to entertain the troops for the Christmas holidays. I switched it off. None of it seemed to matter much here. No one wanted to talk about Vietnam or Watergate. My student exemptions had shielded me from the draft, and I was thousands of miles from both places. Oh, I’ve put you to sleep, have I? No problem. I’ll pre- tend you’re listening. I can still recall the taste of her lips — that hint of mango and yerba maté, those musty, hand-rolled cigars we shared in the evening after dinner, the limes she plunged into her gin and tonic. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The newest batch of Peace Corps Volunteers had ar- rived in September, and the DCM had asked me to give them the standard political briefing before they went off to their villages. The Peace Corps had never interested me. It seemed like such a waste of time. The thought of being out in the middle of nowhere for two years, speaking some godfor- saken indigenous language and trying to improve the lot of a group of puzzled locals, did not seem like a useful step- ping-stone for someone with my ambitions. There were 32 of them. A scruffy lot. They filed into the library in their jeans and sandals, laughing, looking at me like I was an alien with my tropical suit and tie. The girls looked like the ones I didn’t pay much attention to in college — dangling earrings and no bras, not that I minded. I warned them that the Stroessner government was still a fairly brutal dictatorship, and gave them their instruc- tions from the ambassador: stay out of Paraguayan politics, don’t advo- cate contraception or distribute the pill, don’t use drugs, make your country proud—and don’t come to the embassy unless there is an emergency. When I finished my talk, I asked how many of them were taking the Foreign Service exam in December. They all looked at me with blank stares. One volunteer raised her hand. “What’s the Foreign Service exam?” Her headscarf, a cobalt blue, matched her eyes perfectly. I was staring. I blinked, looked away and explained to the whole group what the test was and how to sign up for it. “Would any of you like to take the exam in December?” She raised her hand again, as did three of her male col- leagues. Brave woman, I thought. Until a year ago, the State Department had a rule requiring female FSOs to re- sign if they got married. The four hopefuls filled out the necessary paperwork and departed with the rest of their colleagues. I took the applications back to my office and read hers. Katherine Delaney, 26, from Portland, Ore. Born June 7, 1946. Her father must have returned from Europe right after V-EDay. Mine had been delayed for a year in Japan. There were four exams in the sealed packet that damp December morning as I waited with the Marine guard at the entrance to the embassy. The streets were flooding, the rain incessant. No one was coming. I went back to the library, gathered up the pencils I had set out at the four testing stations and prepared to lock the exams in my of- fice safe. The Marine guard rapped softly on my door. “Sir, someone is here for the exam. She’s an hour late. Shall I send her away?” “No, sergeant, send her in,” I said, with enough irrita- tion in my voice to conceal my excitement. Her chestnut hair was streaked with ocher mud. Her sandals oozed water, leaving damp imprints as she crossed the carpet. “I’m so sorry I’m late. They closed the dirt track through my village to all vehicles last night, so I had to ride my horse 15 miles down to the paved road. “I left himwith a volunteer in Carapequa on Route One and took an early bus into Asuncion. My host family did not understand why I would ride through the rain to get F O C U S “So, Mr. Important American, do you have a pencil sharpener?”