The Foreign Service Journal, November 2011

explicably keeps his family under control. So it was with apprehension that we heard the news one sultry morning in May of his imminent two-month departure to attend to his duties as president of the American Fly-Fishing Enthusiasts’ Association. E vents moved with the speed of a Peace Corps Vol- unteer to a buffet table. The day after Mr. Ambas- sador’s departure, Mrs. Ambassador was in the small receiving room with Mrs. Williamson. Sixteen-year-old Fawn and her 12-year-old brother Cassidy were at school, and I had settled in for a morning of contemplative pa- paya-chopping when Mrs. Ambassador came into the kitchen. “Nita, please,” she said, holding up two fingers. “Two ... coffee ... cups. Understand?” To be honest, I have not shown Mrs. Ambassador the true level of my mastery of English. I nodded my head with the socially appropriate level of servitude. “One cup ... black ... you know black?” she asked. “Yah, ...” I said. “Black ... coffee.” “O.K.,” she said. “One ... cup ... black ... and ... one ... cup ... with milk. O.K., understand?” “Uhhh,” I said, affirmatively. She returned to Mrs. Williamson. It only takes a moment to set up a coffee maker, so I was able to quickly get into position near the small re- ceiving room door to document their remarks. “They just have one terrible problem and all,” Mrs. Williamson said. “I mean, there are some perfectly nice young men trying to get an eco-tourism operation started and all. They are doing the whole thing out of bamboo, I mean, bamboo everything, walls, floors, dining rooms. They’d do bamboo pillows and all if they could, I mean. It’s very charming, really.” “So what is this problem?” Mrs. Ambassador asked. “I mean, the rats and all,” Mrs. Williamson said. “Just so many. I mean, everywhere. I saw a young German lady leap the bamboo counter top and hurl an entire set of darling bamboo beer steins off the back of the bar at a family of them. They’re everywhere. And poison is so expensive and all, and using poison would really be against their principles; I mean, eco-tourism is all natural, right?” I could hear the ghostly sigh of the coffee maker com- pleting its duty, so I had to retreat. I arranged the second- best cups, poured, and walked into the room to serve. “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Ambassador said. “Why do you need to bring cats to them? Why don’t they have their own cats already? Thank you, Nita: black for Mrs. Williamson.” “Because they’ve used them already and all. For food, I mean,” Mrs. Williamson said. “Eeeewww,” Mrs. Ambassador said, not unreasonably. “Don’t be that way,” Mrs. Williamson said. “They’re poor, very poor, after all. It’s heartbreaking just to see the children sometimes. That’s why they need this eco- tourism project to work. And that’s why I need you.” Thus did Mrs. Williamson entangle Mrs. Ambassador in the plan of the 150 Cats of Labor. It was Mrs. Williamson’s plan to take in as many strays as she could, rent a truck and driver, and deliver her feline cargo to her friends in the eco-tourism business. On its face, the plan was levelheaded enough, as our capital is overburdened with pitiful strays and the cost of renting a truck is mini- mal for a group of wealthy foreigners. But the difficulties were also obvious, as Mrs. Williamson knew. Trapping even the leanest and hungri- est cat is a time- and labor-intensive process. Trapping 150, especially if you are a foreign guest in our society and eager to escape unfavorable attention, takes time. While you search for your 50th cat, your 100th cat, or your 150th cat, you need a place to put your first, second, and etc., cats. The place must be isolated and free from prying eyes and wagging tongues. It must be well secured and well guarded. The ambassador’s residence, she calcu- lated, was the ideal spot. But for Mrs. Williamson, there was one drawback to the residence: Mr. Ambassador already lived there. Now, although the ambassador tolerates Mrs. Williamson’s presence, he still remembers the incident in the large re- ception room with the string quartet, when Mrs. Williamson interrupted a violin solo to announce that the embassy’s money would be better spent on condoms for local teenagers. She later apologized to the ambassador, but certain things, once said, cannot be unsaid. Thus we see one of the advantages of Right Speech. So, when Mrs. Williamson saw the photo in the news- paper of the ambassador boarding the flight to the United States with fishing rods strapped to his briefcase, she felt F S F I C T I O N David McAuley, an English teacher and husband of Vi- entiane deputy chief of mission Susan M. Sutton, has worked for the State Department in London, Bucharest, Chisinau and Washington. No ambassadors’ wives were harmed in the making of this story. 54 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 1