The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

46 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 5 F O C U S O N F S F I C T I O N W HEN F ANG F ANG C OOKED THE J ACKAL here were some things that were not talked about at the club, not even in the bar. Each day by late afternoon, the regulars would straggle in, quietly sit- ting at the long wooden bar or alone at tables close to the single air-condition- ing unit, until the first drink had been consumed, the first cigarette smoked and the day’s misadventures mulled over. The murmur would begin gradually, first from the far corner where the Irishmen usually sat, as the smoke grew and spiraled up- ward to be torn apart by the ceiling fan. As the last golden rays dwindled into lavenders and deep purple, as the bare- footed staff began to turn on the wall lights, the talk would get louder as each offered an assessment of their day’s par- ticular paradox, the state of the war in general, and Pakistani bureaucracy in par- ticular. More and more would drift in as the night came on, filling every seat and the standing room in the only bar between the Oxus and the Indus, a draw to foreign aid workers as light is to moths. Most did not care that it was under the auspices of the American consulate, that lone- ly outpost of American diplo- macy on the frontier of South Asia. Lonely, that is, until the Russians invaded Afghanistan next door, a few miles away through a high mountain pass. Now one might rub elbows at the bar with the likes of Dan Rather or con- gressmen looking to absorb some local color and the ambiance of war to flesh out their stories when they went home. The tenor of the talk around the bar did not change; most of the regulars had seen or been a part of events so hair-raising, so beyond ken, that there was no need for embroidery. “Did you hear about the Germans?” Smitty asked Sean as he made the universal sign for another round of drinks for himself and the Irishman. The Pakistani bar- man left off stirring his milk tea to deliver two more Heinekens. “What were they doing on the Dara road after 5 p.m.? Everyone knows it’s no place to be at dat time of day.” “Yep, downright silly of the buggers if you ask me.” Jock, the Australian deminer, offered, taking the last seat at the bar next to Smitty. It must have been the last seat in the house because no one willing- ly sat next to Smitty, at least not for very long, unless they wanted a drink, a cigarette or to be bored stiff amidst whiskey fumes. It never seemed to bother Sean; as long as Smitty bought him drinks and shared his cigarette pack he would sit there all T A SHAGGY DOG STORY HAS A STARTLING ENDING . B Y J ANICE S. S MYTH Philippe Beha