bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 2 (1992) — Spring 1992 // Printemps 1992, pp. 11–12
Good deeds and absurdities. These four words just about sum up the life of an ambassador’s spouse. Manifested as a barrage of fanfare and folderol, caviar and cold cuts they constitute a pitfall for the unwary who come to believe the folderol and fail to remember that caviar is only fish eggs and cold cuts are just fancy baloney.
Surely there is absurdity in the fact that, a scant ten minutes before a black tie reception at one’s Official Residence, one is up-ended under the kitchen sink digging a rotten potato out of the goose-neck pipe, praying that the rubber apron keeps the muck off one’s new black silk skirt…. In the meanwhile, six shocked staff members stand around moaning, “¡Oh, Señora!” — they were the ones who stuffed it down the drain pipe with a broom handle in the first place! … Segue from plugged drains to hugs and kisses from tuxedoed “Honourable Ministers”, and bejewelled “Madame Ambassadors”, (I hope the “Patou” hides the potato).
I wonder what they were doing ten minutes ago?
Another occasion: the entire diplomatic corps, in the form of Heads of Mission, have descended on a local capital for a Presidential Inauguration. Most present actually reside in other countries and, as hotel rooms are non-existent, many have been housed with various “hosts” scattered around the city. As these hosts naturally were wealthy, they tended to live on remote hilltops and outlying estates, removed from the dirt and congestion of the inner city. The end result of this local kindness, quickly became a security and logistical nightmare.
Each Head was assigned a four-person security force, a personal transport vehicle, and an outrider jeep for the security people. These outriders were grim-eyed teenage soldiers equipped with automatic weapons and radios. The drivers were silent types whose answer for security concerns was to drive as fast as possible, steering with one hand while talking into the radio or blowing the horn with the other. A rare treat; especially at night. One wondered at whose hands lay the greater security risk. After one such excursion, I had to pry my left hand off the door handle.
The approved schedule for arrivals and departures from official events was precise and not up for discussion. Still buttoning and zipping, we were chivvied into the waiting vehicles. In a city where every location can be described as “on the corner, where is the bar and the repair shop”, and in which roads consist of equal parts potholes, people, puppies and switchbacks, and wherein even normal driving is a nightmare, the result of tightly orchestrated scheduling was a foregone conclusion. The radio traffic went something like this.
“Where are you?”
“On the corner with the bar.”
“Which bar?”
“The one next to the repair shop.”
“Wait there until we come.”
“I think you just passed us.”
“You’re supposed to be in front of us.”
“Well, get behind us!”
“Where are you?”
On the morning of the inauguration, within a period of thirty minutes, forty Ambassadorial entourages in full kit were to arrive at a central football stadium and to parade before the assembled masses. Naturally, about a kilometre before the stadium, the traffic had ground to a halt, and official schedules and security fell apart. Trapped in vehicles, enmeshed in milling foot-traffic, there was nothing to do except stare back at the faces pressed remorselessly against the glass and wait…. The drivers helped by leaning on their horns, calling attention to the predicament, while the various security teams played Buddha — their eyes to the four winds.
Finally, released in front of the stadium, the assembled Excelentissimos huddled like cattle in a holding yard, clinging to their hats and skirts, and shuddering in the biting wind, made more stinging with the grit from under the bleachers. The host Protocol Officer prodded the Important People into correct Diplomatic Order and we all marched off stoically to endure three hours’ of parades and speeches in the blazing sun. To the cheers and clapping of the populace, we sashayed around the cinder track of the local soccer stadium, accepting the applause with gracious waves and blown kisses.
Imagine the consternation and ruffled feathers later when, parched and steamy, the Corps realized that while Government Ministers were riding off in cars, diplomats were supposed to scrum their way out of the rear of the stadium and whistle up their own transport….
Brushes with reality can be uncomfortable, as well as edifying.
The Order of Protocol and Seniority in which Ambassadors and other Heads of Mission are required to line up on formal occasions is reminiscent of life in a private school. Throughout the course of the day, the Headmistress or master rings a bell and lines form for morning prayers, meals, roll call, afternoon walks, and study period. The trick to lining up quickly is to remember the two people in front and the two behind you as, surely, not all four will be absent at the same time. Our current ranking is just behind a Lady Ambassador who has a predilection for grand hats and deep necklines (though not necessarily at the same time) and immediately in front of the Corps’ shortest Ambassador, whose hairline approximates the lower limits of Madame’s cleavage…. I’m never sure whether this male colleague appreciates our timely arrival or not.
Over time as Ambassadors leave and their successors take more humble places at the end of the line, one moves slowly toward the head of the queue. Canada rarely reaches this heady position as we do not tend to linger in position very long and rotate out before becoming fixtures of the Corps. That being the case, serendipitously, Canada avoids the obligation of having to deliver speeches whenever the Corps assembles and, instead, is free to listen, or to doze, through the traditional expressions of mutual friendship and brotherhood. Occasionally, however, a rebel threatens to break the bonds of custom and a twitter rocks the dovecote….
One such occasion arose recently. Having done nothing en masse for many months, the Corps took it into its collective head to fête the Host Government at a black tie affair. Arrangements were left to the management of a newly completed luxury class hotel. In the absence of the Papal Nunçio, the Deputy Dean of the Diplomatic Corps decided to augment the customary speech with a few well chosen personal comments for the edification of the President. No doubt this was intended to be kind paternal advice to help the President through the troubled waters of recent political defections and public criticism. Rumours of this speech had filtered through the Corps during the day. It was with bated breath and fixed smiles that we listened and watched as the ice melted under the shrimp cocktail and formed on the face of the President.
Just as the Deputy Dean was hitting his stride, through the partitions of the hotel ballroom, rolled the resounding chords of the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin, rendered by an exuberant five-piece band. It was a tense moment; any inadvertent titter would have released mass hilarity. To the Corps’ credit, not a snicker wiggled out, although many a clenched and twitching lip could be seen. I have no idea what was actually said because not a further word was heard, the length of the speech and the bride’s entrance having fortuitously coincided. It could not have been intentional that during the President’s reply, the soothing strains of an intense Italian love song floated through the partition.
I wonder if the departure of the President before the coffee service was significant? It is possible that he heard more than we did.
From time to time, an Ambassador’s spouse carries out activities of an official nature alone. These usually fall into the category of good deeds, tours of worthy institutions, openings, conferences on gender issues, delivery of monies or items from the Canada Fund, and compassionate visits to disaster sites. These events give rise to an irritating conundrum: technically, the spouse of an Ambassador is not an official part of the Embassy and, as such, nothing is formally required of the individual. On the other hand, the host country, not to mention the Ambassador, may have an opposite point of view and may expect a great deal.
Seemingly innocent-sounding invitations may carry hidden traps for the novice. Early on our current tour of duty, an invitation was extended for La Señora Embajadora to visit an orphanage to which various Canadian funds had been given. I should have been warned by the arrival of a driver in a high wheeled four-by-four that maybe this was not to be a routine walkabout and cup of tea occasion….
This adventure has lead me to formulate two rules: always be prepared to give a speech; and to change your shoes. Never, never hang this unofficial person out to dry. Technicality or not, hoisting one’s hemline to the hose-tops for Queen and Country and having to clamber over a raw construction site in the muddy countryside is officially beyond the call of duty….
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 2 (1992) — Spring 1992 // Printemps 1992, pp. 11–12. Read the rest of this issue →
