The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

20 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 here, so I made up a story about meeting an important American at the embassy this morning. “So, Mr. Important American, do you have a pencil sharpener?” She pulled a stubby # 2 pencil from her macramé shoulder bag and began to laugh as she caught me staring at the water pooling around her feet. “I’m ruining your carpet!” “I have pencils,” I stammered as my gaze rose to her thin cotton dress, which had been thoroughly soaked and made somewhat irrelevant by the rain. “That’s OK, I’ll use my own.” Her face, arms and legs were the color of my morning café con leche, but when she removed her soaked sandals at my suggestion, I could see the creamy white cross- hatchings where straps had covered her feet. No one else came to take the exam that day. She fin- ished at 2, and I desperately wanted to invite her to lunch. I was trembling inside as she handed me her essay and tossed the stub of her pencil into the trash. Scanning my bookshelf, she spotted Travels with My Aunt. “Oh, I love Graham Greene,” she cried. I didn’t, but I told her I did. That copy had belonged to my predecessor, who met the author when he came through Asuncion doing research for the book. I handed it to her. “Take it. It’s signed by Greene him- self.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, handing it back. “He sent us a whole box of signed copies when the book was published,” I lied, pressing the book into her hands. “Take it.” The sun had come out, summoning clouds of steam that rose like spectral ghosts from the streets and side- walks. As she vanished around a brick wall draped in hon- eysuckle, I stood mute and immobilized in the driveway of the embassy. “Is there a problem, sir?” asked the Marine. I shook my head and went back to my office, where I fished her pencil out of the trash and dropped it into my pocket. I locked the exams in my safe and headed for the pool, where the econ counselor’s daughter was deep in conver- sation with one of the Marine guards. Feigning disinterest, I plowed through a month-old copy of The New York Times and worked on my tan. The following Monday, I called the Peace Corps office to ask where she was assigned. The deputy di- rector told me she was the first vol- unteer they had ever sent to Acahay, a Guarani-speaking village 70 miles south of Asuncion. She was working as a health educator. Her village had no electricity, no running water and no cars. “Kat usually comes in once a month to pick up her mail,” he said. “She was just here this morning. Shall I tell her you called the next time we see her?” I said no and struggled to put her out of my mind. She was not my type, after all. I had almost succeeded—until the evening I accepted an invitation from several junior officers, who frequented the city’s discos, to accompany them to the Safari after a long and boring dinner at the ambassador’s residence. I’m not a big dancer, never have been; but I agreed to go. The place was dark, crowded and noisy. I did not plan to stay long, but then I spotted Kat dancing with a French coopérant volunteer, a tall skinny guy with dark, curly hair whose fingers meandered slowly down her back. She was laughing. I ordered a beer and hoped she would look my way so I could casually raise my glass in her direction. An hour later, she was standing near me at the bar sip- ping something with ice and arguing with her dance part- ner. She had not yet acknowledged my presence. The Frenchman suddenly slammed his fist on the bar. “Putain!” he hissed at her before storming out of the room. I was on my third beer. She walked over to me as I was about to order a fourth. “So, what books have you been reading lately?” I stared at the hollow of her throat, then raised my eyes to meet hers, trying to remember what was on my night- stand. “ The Winds of War ,” I stammered, “and Crichton’s The Terminal Man .” “Guy books,” she laughed. “Don’t you dance?” “I’m really not very good at it.” She stood and extended her hand. Wasn’t I supposed to do that? The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” was winding F O C U S She never invited me into her room and she refused to come to my apartment, but we inhaled each other’s kisses.