The Foreign Service Journal, January 2012

F OCUS 30 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J A N U A R Y 2 0 1 2 ting it. Papa emerged from the back room where they had a small heater, his curiosity overcoming the frigid tem- perature. “What’s happened?” he asked ea- gerly. “The American has lost her cat again,” Mama sadly explained. “Acchh…” he rolled his eyes. “It’s not important … just let it go.” Mama grunted at him. “It’s just a cat!” he said, looking from his wife to me. Mama slapped him on the arm and told him “shame on you” in words I didn’t fully understand. They bickered back and forth for a second before he decided — or was told — to help me look for her. He sighed and said, “When did she go missing?” I explained that it must have happened during the day while we were at work. Grabbing his gloves, he said, “Let’s go talk to Igor. He sees everything.” We set off back down the street past our building to the construction lot on the other side. Igor was the gold-toothed guard of the construction lot who, when we had first arrived, spent an inordinate amount of time drinking and sleeping. We always waved from our back balcony whenever he walked around the lot; he saw us, but never waved back. Then a budding ro- mance developed between Igor and the janitress of the building behind us. Love made him effusively friendly — smiling and shouting hello and raising a glass to us up on the balcony as the two sat at a small table in the parking lot below. We would raise our glasses and say hello back, glad to share in his happiness. Papa banged on Igor’s green metal gate that blocked the entrance to the lot. After a few moments, I heard a groggy “Who’s there?” from inside the little trailer where he lived, just on the other side. “Igor, it’s Mete. The American has lost her cat again.” The light from Igor’s trailer pierced the darkness as he emerged, slightly tipsy. He opened the gate and pulled his thin uniform coat tighter around him. He looked baffled as Papa explained why we had roused him from his warmth and asked if he had seen anything. Yes, as a matter of fact, he had seen the cat. He knew our cat because he’d often seen her on our back balcony and had seen her today on the sidewalk in front, before a young woman picked her up and carried her away. Papa listened intently, then turned to me with a satisfied grin. “See there? Now you don’t have to worry about the cat anymore. She’s someone else’s cat now. No more problem!” I smiled feebly and thank- ed him for his help. The Quest Continues When I got to work, I had one of my local colleagues translate a “Have you seen this cat?” poster, complete with a photo, and that evening my husband and I put them up all over the neighborhood. I thought there might be a chance that the “young girl” who had taken her lived in the neighborhood and would return her if she saw the posters. Every place we stopped to hang a poster, a neighbor would recognize us and, seized with uncontrollable cu- riosity, would come up behind me and read over my shoulder. Without exception, their comments were akin to the hushed conversations one has at a funeral. So sad. So young. A life cut so short. Some of them were so sympathetic that they impli- cated their neighbors in an attempt to be helpful. “There’s that woman — you know her — the cat lady who lives across the street,” one babushka huffed. I didn’t know her, but I went along. “Yes?” “Well, I was just noticing the other day that she had a new black cat in her window. If you go back through the alley — right through there — to the back of her apart- ment, you’ll see your little cat and you can get her back. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, and before I could formulate an appropriate response, she exclaimed, “She shouldn’t be taking other people’s cats.” The “Poodle Lady” in the park across the street also offered friendly advice, telling me that she would be sure to watch for her before adding a disclaimer: “She’s prob- ably dead.” Vodka and Sympathy As I tried to digest this blunt but well-meant comment, one of the neighborhood drunks staggered slowly toward me. I recognized him by sight and smell, for we had given himmoney or a light for his cigarette on occasion. He had never spoken to us before except to ask for these things, but did wave whenever he saw us. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the poster. His Some neighbors were so sympathetic that they implicated others in cat-nabbing.