The Foreign Service Journal, December 2019

THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL | DECEMBER 2019 57 In all the time that he spent in the chair in my office, Cohen had rarely spoken, except to ask after his brother or for help getting to the bathroom. Just before it was time for the airport, he asked me why I was here, in the embassy. I told him that the U.S. government had sent me to do the government’s work here; to underscore the point, I unfurled the large American flag that stood on a pole behind my desk. He stared at me and, after a long pause, said, “God put you here to take care of me.” I replied that maybe he was right, but it was time for us to go. I was allowed to board the plane with Morris Cohen, to fasten his seat belt and to wish him good luck. I reminded him to visit the Dime Bank with his paperwork from Chase and that he would be met by some nice people from Social Security. When the plane was wheels up, I left the airport. Cohen arrived and was met by SSA as planned. I never heard anything more about him. After almost a whole week never far from him, I reflected that I had probably done a few things not in the protection and welfare officer’s manual of best practices. Throughout my time as a PWO, I cannot claim that all my decisions about what was sensible and practical and expedient worked out as well as those I made for Morris Cohen. Conrad von Blanton The assistant manager of the toney Hotel Crillon in Buenos Aires called the embassy for help; several days earlier, he said, an American had checked in and had neither left his room nor allowed housekeeping staff to enter. Most alarming to the manager was that the American had a dog, who had not left the room either. The desk clerk directed me to the room of Mr. Conrad von Blanton, who reluctantly let me in after I identified myself. The room was not nearly as bad as I had expected, though a certain tell-tale scent left no doubt that an animal was present. Said animal was “Bongo,” an adorable if annoying little dachshund who peered at me, shivering, from the bathroom. Von Blanton explained that his mother was angry. He could not venture out while she was in this mood. I asked whether she was also staying at the Crillon. No, he replied, she was deceased. She came to him in dreams (or hallucinations), the source of his fearfulness. Argentina, he went on, was to be a new start where his trust-fund money would go further and his life would be calmer. It was not an auspicious beginning. Giving himmy card, I urged him to register at the embassy and to let me know how he was getting along. Famous last words, these. He did visit me at the embassy, dressed nattily in white, sporting a cane and a white Panama hat and a cigarette in an ivory holder, much like a character out of a Graham Greene novel. He also began calling me—at almost any time of the day or night—for assistance with interactions with Argentines, where to get household things done, and about his mother. He came to my office to discuss his life in Argentina and problems with those who controlled his trust. Months went by, calls to get him out of one scrape or another became more and more frequent, and he became increasingly agitated and fearful of almost nightly “visits” from his mother. I told von Blanton that I could work on his return home if he wished. He would think about it. A big impedi- ment was Bongo, who could not enter the United States without a long period of quarantine. A political officer and his wife (an unflappable and patient mother of four) agreed to take Bongo in; von Blanton agreed. I set the wheels in motion for his return to the United States with help from the Social Security Administration. He flew to Miami, where he was met successfully by SSA—after a daylong detour in Lima occasioned by a “visit” from his mother that resulted in his being taken off the original flight. Soon after, I received a thank you note from von Blanton for helping him return home to a more stable life. But about two months later, I received a testy letter from the department—von Blanton’s attorney had informed State that I It was not an auspicious beginning. Giving him my card, I urged him to register at the embassy and to let me know how he was getting along. Famous last words, these. ISTOCK/ IVAN_BARANOV