The Foreign Service Journal, November 2007

N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 7 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 41 he mud-brick room somehow smel- led of lavender and mothballs. Cole’s relief at escaping the blazing Sahe- lian afternoon only partially offset his frustration at another unexplained delay. His driver, Mr. Oumaru, had taken the sputtering Land Cruiser to ... to wherever vehi- cles are repaired in the West African desert. Almost as an afterthought, Cole was left to an indefinite wait. He tried not to think of the relative comfort of the provincial capital’s frayed Hotel Sofitel, over three hours away by rutted dirt piste: air conditioning and satellite tele- vision, cold beer chilling serenely in the minibar. Cole’s eyes adjusted to the shadows of the forlorn village restaurant. He’d be lucky to find a warm bottle of Coke here. The few rickety tables were bereft of settings. The entire back wall was fronted by a wooden bar, although any alcohol to be had was apparently kept out of sight. Cole installed himself on a stool and waited for someone to emerge from the door behind the bar. As if to taunt him with his unraveling schedule, the electric timepiece watch- ing over the room captured Cole’s gaze. The clock advertised Abati, the ubiquitous national brew hawked with the slogan: “La vie Abati. On vous attend.” The Abati life: We’re waiting for you. On billboards, the slogan complemented beguiling spreads of slick profession- als relaxing in nightclubs or lounging on beaches. Here, the words seemed surreal as they beamed their promise to the dull earthen walls. Cole was surprised by the quiet appearance of a woman behind the bar, and even more startled that she was Asian. “Bonjour, monsieur.” Her French was heavily accented. Taking his cue from the clock, Cole asked for an Abati and was relieved when the woman swiftly produced a frost- ed brown bottle. She looked to be in her 40s, and was dressed modestly in a jacket and trousers made of faded local fabric, the vibrant prints now dulled to muddy red, green and brown. Lank hair was gathered at the nape of her neck. The woman was striking only by her very pres- ence, presiding calmly over this mudhole of a saloon. A BORED POLITICAL OFFICER IN A W EST A FRICAN BACKWATER VOLUNTEERS TO INVESTIGATE A REGIONAL PROBLEM AND , ULTIMATELY , LEARNS A THING OR TWO . T B Y H ANSCOM S MITH This story won fourth place in the Journal ’s 2007 Foreign Service fiction contest. Hanscom Smith entered the Foreign Service in 1990 and has served in Cameroon, Denmark, Thailand, Cambodia and Washington, D.C. He is now at the Tai- pei office of the American Institute in Taiwan. FS F I CT I ON L A V IE A BATI