The Foreign Service Journal, November 2011

midriff it is seemly for a teenage girl to expose for public consideration at school. A brief but memorable pe- riod of domestic harmony reigned over the residence, which was bro- ken when Mrs. Williamson, carried away by her own enthusiasm, added a new wrinkle to the plan. “It will be a great adventure,” Mrs. Williamson said one day, in- specting the rows of cages with the relaxed panache of a contented commander-in-chief. “I mean, you must come. I found this very nice man and all, and his truck is very reasonable, but I just decided that I had to follow the truck myself in my car to make sure that it was done right. One has to think of the poor kitties and all.” Mrs. Ambassador did not require much convincing. A departure was set for the next Saturday morning, and Mrs. Ambassador and Fawn happily discussed appro- priate attire for an ambassador’s wife on such an out- ing. Many of us are blinded by love. Mrs. Ambassador did not notice that Fawn’s enthusiasm for her mother’s trip was not motivated by an interest in promoting eco- tourism. While promising to spend a quiet evening baby-sitting Cassidy, Fawn — in the most extreme abuse of Right Speech in this narrative — put out the word at the International High School that an All-Night Full Moon Residence Rave would take place on Saturday, blissfully bereft of parental supervision. We waved good-bye that Saturday morning to Mrs. Ambassador and Mrs. Williamson, following the aged Chinese truck in Mrs. Williamson’s Ultra-Destroyer 6000 Sport Utility Vehicle. We feigned cheerfulness, but the gardeners, maids, security staff and I were un- easy. We knew that young amateur chemists at the In- ternational High School were harvesting local plants and mixing them with various compounds to make a potent new substance, which improved their popularity with their peers. Fawn exercised her charms on one young chemist and, inspired, he came up with a new mood-al- tering substance, based on the species Valeriana offici- nalis. Fawn gained face amongst her peers by announcing that this new substance would debut at the All-Night Full Moon Residence Rave. This ensured at- tendance by many, because the substance was both novel and not yet, technically, illegal. I n such circumstances, a cook can take refuge in her art. I cooked my specialties for the assembled youth, who perhaps lack discernment but not appetite. I endured the hours of loud repetitive music from the back yard, unpleasant smells, mock- outraged screams of young ladies being thrown into the pool, and the occasional interruption of my kitchen solitude by trysting youth in search of privacy. The party was entering an especially fevered state when Soh, the security guard at the front gate, came run- ning in, his eyes betraying panic. “They’re here!” he hissed. “Who?” I asked. “Mrs. Ambassador and Mrs. Williamson! And the truck! Outside! They came back! I had to pretend to break the key in the lock on the gate to keep her out!” Soh said. “What should I do?” “I’ll come outside,” I said. Soh informed me of further details as we walked to the front gate. Mrs. Ambassador and Mrs. Williamson said that the driver had gotten partway to the destination. He had stopped the truck for a snack at Long Ning Village. After he was finished, the driver announced that the truck was broken, and he would go no further. After some dis- agreement, the driver agreed to drive back to the capital, even though the truck was “broken.” Mrs. Ambassador and Mrs. Williamson were deep in an argument about what to do next, so I was able to make my way to the driver unnoticed. “Look here,” I said. “What’s all this about? Do you want more money?” “I wouldn’t drive this truck there for all the money in the world,” the driver said. “Why not?” I asked. “Spirits. The people at Long Ning Village told me that the previous driver of this same truck had died right there in the parking lot, at the wheel, after a meal of Peppered Ants’ Eggs in Spicy River Weed. Clearly the truck must be cleansed of spirits before we proceed,” he said grimly. Mrs. Ambassador was at my shoulder. “What’s going on here? Can you ask him what’s the matter?” she said. “He ... say ... brake ... no ... good,” I said. At this point, the driver turned off the motor of his Chinese truck, which idles with the sound of a disabled jet F S F I C T I O N 56 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 I cooked my specialties for the assembled youth, who perhaps lack discernment but not appetite.