THE IMPERIALS #2

                                                   

It’s All About Chris

Christine Flowers busied herself with last minute preparations for The Ambassador’s reception. On the surface she was the dutiful public servant, the resentment contained within. With twenty years in the Foreign Service she was a trained, experienced professional. It was demeaning working for an amateur; someone who had bought their title outright. Chris had worked hard to achieve her position as Deputy Chief of Mission. Her classic good looks: green eyes, auburn hair, on a tall, statuesque frame, and propensity to sleep with powerful men may have propelled her effortlessly up the career ladder, but she had invested the twenty years.

Everything in The Ambassador’s office was just right. New furniture, carpets, drapes, and fresh cut flowers from the embassy garden in front of the bay window. And the view. Like a fortress, the embassy compound sat perched atop a three hundred foot cliff towering over the small, picturesque, capital city of Nordea City, in a diplomatic enclave aptly referred to as The Hill. Surrounded on three sides with twelve foot walls, the cliff side was left with only a waist high safety barrier providing splendid panoramas. Among the most idyllic of old European capitals, the city spread out below, across the narrow coastal plain ending with the harbor at the water’s edge. The horizon was dotted with the islets of the Nordean Archipelago stretching into infinity, the sun sparkling on the surrounding waters.

Chris’s office was at the opposite end of the suite. She had the cast off furniture from the previous ambassador, and a view of the driveway and flag pole in the front quad. The furniture was quite nice. It had been custom made by hand to the former ambassador’s personal specifications. Chris had always admired it. But like a small child wearing hand-me-downs, she didn’t want it. It wasn’t new. It was someone else’s rejects.

The time was near. The entire staff gathered on the front steps of the chancery complete with Marine honor guard in dress blues and polished ceremonial rifles. A brief official welcome was planned for Ambassador Howell’s first day at work. Chris just wanted to get it over with. She was tired. The weekend had been too short and too busy. She had attended a conference in Frankfurt. It had been long and dull, but that was the price she paid for a chance to see her current love. Her previous posting had been Frankfurt, and she had made at least one lasting attachment. Ever since she had aggressively sought out every opportunity to return: meetings, conferences, training, and she always insisted on transiting Frankfurt anytime she flew anywhere. It all amounted to government funded conjugal visits. She had returned on the last flight of the previous day arriving in Nordea City late in the evening. To make matters worse, she had had to drive herself home. It infuriated her that she was not provided a car and driver for her personal use. The late night was followed by an early morning. All necessary to ensure the new ambassador was properly greeted.

The flag flapped lazily in the light breeze blowing off the sea. The sun shone brightly in the empty blue sky. It was going to be a warm day. While she waited Chris took out her micro recorder, “Note to self – send a staffer from the embassy to the house to open the windows and let the dog out. Don’t want it stuffy when I get home.”

The Marines stood at parade rest on the steps leading to the front door of the chancery, the entire embassy staff arrayed behind them in anticipation of The Ambassador’s arrival. The embassy complex consisted of two buildings, the chancery and the Residence, an impressive Colonial Williamsburg styled mansion, sitting on opposite sides of the central quad. As the seventy-five staffers stood on the steps, they were looking directly at The Ambassador’s front door, the limousine parked in attendance at the base of her steps.

Chris lived in an embassy owned house across town in an exclusive seaside neighborhood. She called home a rambling waterfront manor with a wall of windows on the seaward side; an indoor spa including a pool, sauna, steam room and hot tub; a guest house; boat house and dock. Nordeland not generally known for its white sand beaches, the house was built along a rough, rocky stretch of coast. Her repeated requests to be provided with an emergency escape and evasion boat having fallen on deaf ears, the boathouse sat empty, the dock unused. All in all, Chris would prefer to live on The Hill.

The eerie silence was broken by the chirp of a cell phone. Wynette Shackleford, the executive office secretary (they prefer to be called Office Management Specialist), began scrambling for her pockets. A quick exchange over the phone. “Everybody, that was Bob. She’s coming.” Wynette managed to get it out as The Ambassador simultaneously emerged from her house just twenty-five meters away. Bob scurried down the steps in front of The Ambassador and opened the door to the limousine. As the car slowly made its way around the large circular drive, Bob sprinted across the quad, through the roses, around the flag pole, and breathlessly skidded to a stop at the curve just as the limo rolled to a stop.

The commands rang out, “ATTENTION.”

The Marines stood ramrod straight.

“PRESENT ARMS.” 

Snap! Pop! Weapons up.

Bob opened the door. There was a pause for dramatic affect. Ambassador Howell exited the car beaming ear to ear. She was in her element.

The rest of the morning was spent conducting the Country Team meeting, a briefing of The Ambassador by all key officers. After a quick lunch Chris returned to her office, shut the door, and sat there. It would be two years until the next election. It could be a long two years if the current blue blood in the front office wanted to make it hard.

Chris had been born in Kansas City. Her father was an assembly line worker at the Western Electric plant and her mother worked part time in a greeting card shop. They were comfortably middle class, but not prepared for the expenses of the education Chris wanted. She had her sights set on the Ivy League. She was tired of the Midwest. Wanted some excitement. She had the grades to gain admission to Columbia, but unfortunately not quite good enough for a scholarship. But she was determined. Her parents paid what they could and she came up with the rest. She got grants, student loans, and worked numerous part-time jobs. She earned a degree in International Relations with a minor in French. The summer following graduation she completed an internship with the State Department spending two months in a tropical paradise. It was possibly the best two months of her life. She had been met at the airport by her sponsor with an embassy car and driver and taken to her apartment. She had to share it with two other interns, but it was in the heart of the city close to the embassy, restaurants, and night clubs. She began to greatly admire the Foreign Service lifestyle: the large houses, maids, gardeners, handymen, almost always someone else to do the dirty jobs. Life in Kansas City had never been like that. Back to college and two years later she had a master’s degree and a job interview to join the Foreign Service. With a degree in French she envisioned a posting in Paris. Two years in the City of Light. Museums, restaurants, bars, parties. Surrounded by history. She forgot about the many French speaking former colonies in central Africa.

If nothing else, Africa was an experience. She worked hard. She played hard. She moved on to other assignments. Always moving to something better. Whether it was due to her job performance, or a combination of her tastefully short skirts, exceptionally feminine figure, and brilliant green eyes, her employee evaluations were always stellar, and she effortlessly moved up through the ranks.

The one detractor of her career was a persistent rumor that followed her from post to post. Almost everyone had heard it. Some were appalled. Some were amused. Others were intrigued. Most would like to have seen the proof. The rest just wanted to ignore it. Maybe it was true. If so, it wasn’t really hard to believe. In her youth Chris had at times been somewhat indiscreet with her personal exploits. She was alleged to have made some porn movies to support herself while enrolled at Columbia. The only bit of evidence available was closely held by a brotherhood, the United States Marine Corps Security Guards. Twenty years prior, members of a detachment made an interesting discovery one movie night. They were watching a cheap production about college coeds. During the finale orgy scene, amongst the mass of writhing bodies, an attractive young woman rose up and looked straight into the lens. There were no long auburn curls. Instead, her hair was a short blonde bob. But those brilliant green eyes were almost unmistakable. In an instant she was gone. All the Marines hooped and hollered. Was it their young junior political officer? Some said yes. Some said no. The debate raged for years. The tape was kept in a safe. Which each transfer the Marines would send the tape via diplomatic pouch to her next post. In time, the contents were transferred to DVD, but over the years it followed her to every new assignment.

Who Moved My Government Cheese?

The Ambassador stepped out on her front porch and looked around. She was all alone with the exception of two geese feeding in the quad. There was no waiting car. No Marines. No one. She waited. It was a pleasant morning under a turquoise sky with a warm sun and cool breeze. She quickly became impatient, began to fidget, then crossed her arms and stood tapping her toe. Her attention was drawn to a small group of staff members on the sidewalk across the quad in front of the chancery. They didn’t seem to notice her at all. She wouldn’t want to publicly admit it, but that irritated her. Finally, she just gave up and stomped across the quad, through the rose bushes, around the flagpole, and up the steps to the chancery.

“Where is my car?” she demanded as she breezed past Wynette’s desk.

“Ma’am?” came the confused reply in Wynette’s lilting Southern twang.

“Where is my car?” The Ambassador repeated.

“I assume it is in the garage with the chauffeur. Why? Would you like to go somewhere? I can call them.” Wynette volunteered.

“Where are the Marines?” The Ambassador persisted. “The Marines. Where are they this morning?”

“Was he not on duty at Post One?” Wynette asked as she followed The Ambassador into her office.

“Not him. The others. Out front. Like yesterday.”

“Oh,” Wynette began to understand. “Ma’am, they don’t do that every day. Yesterday was special because it was your first day.” Wynette embellished her accent when delivering bad news. People seemed to accept it better.

The Ambassador stood there with the look of a child who just found out there was no Santa Claus. “And the car?”

“Well…” Wynette hesitantly began to explain. “The last ambassador usually just walked across the yard from the house.”

The Ambassador pondered that for a moment, “Even in the winter?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s not bad. They clean the sidewalks. And it’s not far.”

Ambassador Howell stood staring at her desk with an expression of consternation on her face. After a minute of soulful contemplation her appearance brightened. “Well, we’ll see how it goes. Time to get to work. Are you ready to take some notes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wynette sat down with pad and pen at the ready.

“First things first. We need to start putting together the entertainment plan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I just love a party. Don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to start with a reception at The Residence for all embassy employees and their significant others this Friday after work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can work with Roberto, my events coordinator on this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Ambassador leaned forward and whispered, “You know he’s a homosexual.”

Wynette joined the conspiracy with a whisper, “Yes, ma’am. I kind-of thought that.”

Returning to her command voice The Ambassador continued, “But I am a firm believer in Equal Opportunity.” Lowering her voice again, “Besides, those people throw the most splendid parties.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

The morning wore on as the wheels of international diplomacy began to turn.

Wynette sprang from truly humble origins. Born and raised on a small farm outside Poplarville, Mississippi, she had rarely even been out of the state prior to joining the Foreign Service. The week after high school graduation she married the only boy she had ever dated, Leroy Shackleford. Leroy worked at a small trucking company and had aspirations of owning his own rig someday. He dreamed of being on the open road. Wynette dreamed of a house and kids. What she got was a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama for a honeymoon, a mobile home her father let them place on the back ten acres, and a career as a checker at the Piggly Wiggly.

Fifteen years into the marriage she went home one Saturday evening after the late shift to find both Leroy and their trailer gone. He had hitched it up to his new truck and left. Later she found out he was living in Alabama with a Shoney’s waitress. Maybe she should have realized something was wrong. During all those years of marriage he had never taken the wheels off their trailer. She had always thought he was just lazy. But apparently he had always wanted to be ready to go. Wynette had never been the brightest child in class.

She showed up on her mama’s door step in tears, and life reverted back to what it had been a decade and a half before. Wynette was a thirty-two year old woman with a ten o’clock curfew. Bound and determined not to spend the rest of her life under her domineering mother’s roof, she enrolled in the Business and Office Technology program at Pearl River Community College. It sounded mighty fancy, but in reality Wynette was studying to become a secretary. She didn’t care. She simply wanted get out from behind the cash register and off her feet. Two years later she immigrated to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and began working for a personal injury attorney. That lasted until he was indicted for attempting to bribe a federal judge and was disbarred. Once again Wynette found herself alone and broke. Trolling the internet looking for her dream job she stumbled across the federal government recruiting site and was reminded of her father’s rants against government workers: overpaid and underworked. Sounded like a job for her.