bout de papier, Vol. 18, No. 2 (2001) — Summer 2001 // Été 2001, pp. 29–31
Stockholm: Taxing the Ladies of the Night — by Kurt F. Jensen
ин! we cany lyrus. At that time, I was a newly- tic minted Immigration Officer and spent much of my time interviewing prospective immigrants and writing reports on Sweden. In those years we were required to prepare a Monthly Narrative Report (MNR), a politico-socio-economic report running to ten pages or more on the essential developments in Sweden. Written in a terse style, these narratives were dull. To liven the reports, I tended to conclude with something a bit lighter.
Sweden’s then-Social Democratic government was obsessed with taxing the general populace as part of social engineering. Prostitution in Sweden was legal and it was inevitable that taxes and prostitutes would eventually meet. So it came to pass that a debate ensued in late 1974 about defining prostitution as a “professional occupation for gain,” and as such highly taxable under paragraph 27 of the Communal Tax Law. A decision to tax prostitution was upheld by the Stockholm County Tax Board and successfully met a challenge in the Fiscal Court of Appeal, mounted by members of the profession.
As the Fiscal Court of Appeal case involved earnings in excess of $250,000 over four years, we assumed that the skill digit for this occupation must be quite high (the salary was on a par with that of an Ambassador!). Without initiating field testing, we also surmised that the demand would be quite high for the services offered. As Immigration Officers, we were perplexed by how we would view this new career sector should any of these professionals seek to ply their trade in Canada. Would they be an economic threat to the existing Canadian service sector? Our bewilderment seemed a perfect issue to raise in the MNR.
Assuming that the then-Canadian Immigration Act would be changed to permit entry of what Sweden obviously viewed as an honourable (i.e., taxable) and venerable (i.e., oldest profession, etc.) occupation, we carefully checked the CCDO, a Canadian dictionary of occupational titles, but found no entries for ’prostitutes, ’hookers’ or similar descriptives. Being consummate professionals, we proposed to headquarters in an MNR that immigration applications from professionals in this category might best be handled as auxiliary occupations to ’Stripper- Layouter’ (CCDO 9515.138), ’Recreation-Equipment Erector’ (CCDO 8793.142), or ’Thrill Performer’ (CCDO 3339.199).
The response from headquarters was not immediate.
About a month later, the regional Social Democratic party congress made a motion for the establishment of brothels in all of Sweden’s hospitals. Doctors would issue ’prescriptions’ for those people who were ’needy! The cost for the patient would be about $3 per ’cure, the same cost as a visit to a doctor (cost recovery was in vogue even then!). ’Attendants’ would be both male and female and, this being Sweden, would be eligible for the National Supplementary Pensions Scheme, in addition to their salary. It was unclear whether the ’attendants’ would be self-employed or state employees.
About a month later, we received a response from headquarters (I won’t cite the author!). Amid general praise for our efforts to keep up with the times, there was the observation that, “If hospitals here, for example, were to include the kind of services mentioned in your report for January 1975, I could envisage complete disappearance of the problem most of us have with respect to accumulated sick leave credits!”
Consular Tales — by David Bickford
Consular tales are always the best! My first posting was to the consular section in Mexico. I completed my rigorous training course in Ottawa (one day in Consular Division: “Sit down, young man, and read the Consular Manual. Treat this as your bible for the next two years.” I dutifully read and whiled away the hours, itching to be off.) Eventually I arrived in my big (by Ottawa standards) office in Mexico – a real Vice Consul, hot dog and expert.
The phone rang. It was the receptionist. “There is a call for you, Sir,” (wow, I’m a Sir!), “long distance from Veracruz.” Confidently, I waited.
“I’m bleeding,” bleeped out of the phone. Visions of a poor man stabbed in the back, crawling to the nearest phone, plopping in a peso and calling his Embassy while bleeding to death.
Confidence deserted me, and the best I could do was blurt out: “Where are you now, Sir?”
He responded: “I’m in my hotel room. I got drunk last night and my haemorrhoids are killing me.”
Well. Five years have passed and I have arrived in Brasilia. Sleeker, well-rounded, a man of the world, I’ve seen it all. The phone rang. It was the receptionist. “There is a call for you, Sir, long distance from Rio.” No longer thrilled by being called ’Sir, confidently I waited.
The caller offered the Embassy the gift of a full-grown African lion. “Why?” I asked. Well, it appeared that the lion was eating several kilos of meat per day (expensive in Rio at the time), and the neighbours (he lived in an apartment building) were becoming concerned about the roars and grunts all night I, delicately, did not enquire about toilet facilities.
For a moment I pondered. The refrain from “Born Free” began to course and swell through my mind; wouldn’t the gardener move a bit more quickly about his work with the beast stalking him? There wouldn’t be any security problems…. Common sense got the better of me. I responded, “Why don’t you call the British Embassy? The lion is one of their national symbols. Although, if you come up with a beaver, please keep us in mind.”
Une partie de hockey à Moscou — par Reine Fournier
C’était en 1985 a Moscou.
Une équipe de hockey canadienne, composée de jeunes joueurs prometteurs à qui on voulait donner de l’expérience internationale, participait à la Coupe Izvestia et disputait un match contre l’équipe de l’Armée rouge. Naturellement, tout le personnel de l’Ambassade était la.
A notre arrivée à l’aréna, nous découvrons qu’une section complète avait été réservée pour l’Ambassade, alors que nous n’en remplissions à peine le quart, et les deux sections voisines, à droite comme à gauche, étaient complètement vides alors que toutes les autres sections affichaient complet. Et, tout au milieu de notre section, certainement par coïncidence, un spectateur russe, qui tenait une Pravda à la main.
La partie commence et les amateurs de hockey russes réagissent à une partie de hockey comme les amateurs de tennis. Ils suivent le jeu, en applaudissant les bons coups, mais dans un silence quasi complet, alors que le personnel de l’Ambassade était muni de cloches, de drapeaux, et ne ménageait pas les encouragements bruyants.
Toutefois, il s’est vite avéré que l’équipe canadienne n’était pas de taille à affronter l’équipe russe. Le personnel de l’Ambassade continuait à crier ses encouragements aux joueurs canadiens mais à voix plus basse, passait des remarques désobligeantes sur la piètre qualité du jeu de nos athlètes. Genre, à voix basse, « ma grand-mère patine mieux que lui! » et, à voix haute, « vas-y, t’es capable!
Notre spectateur russe ne ratait pas un mot, pas une farce, et se cachait la figure dans sa Pravda pour rire. Et plus il riait, plus nous trouvions cela drôle.
A la fin de la deuxième période, l’équipe russe menait par environ 10 à 2. Un spectateur de notre groupe déclara alors que nous ne gagnerions jamais cette partie avec nos joueurs sur la glace et qu’il valait mieux la terminer pendant qu’ils étaient hors de la patinoire. Un autre Canadien se mit alors à décrire une partie fictive où les Canadiens comptaient à tout coup. Les cloches sonnaient, les drapeaux s’agitaient, les bravos retentissaient et personne dans l’aréna ne comprenait ce qui se passait. Les spectateurs tournaient la tête dans tous les sens pour essayer de découvrir ce que nous applaudissions. Excepté, naturellement, notre ami russe qui, à ce point, riait tellement qu’il ne pensait plus à se cacher derrière sa Prada. Sa figure était toute rouge, les larmes coulaient sur ses joues. Et sur les nôtres aussi. Il y avait peut-être 25 000 spectateurs et donc 25 000 spectacles aussi drôles les uns que les autres.
Le fou rire nous reprenait à tout moment au cours de la troisième période et à la fin de la partie, notre ami russe sortit d’un côté et nous de Tautre, i rait encore et it nous adressa un signe de la main, comme pour nous laisser savoir qu’il n’avait jamais passé une soirée aussi réjouissante. Puis, il est sans doute aller faire son rapport. Après tout, il était le seul Russe à savoir que nous avions gagné la partie.
Sunken Hopes — by Stephen Woollcombe
From the annals of Canada’s legendary export promotion endeavours, this is a little publicized (and quickly covered up) tale of unconsummated glory.
The scene was Indonesia in 1978. It was the height of the post-Vietnam Cold War. Suharto and his vast straddling archipelago was a stable and committed ally of the west. Best of all, he had money and resources. Big western companies, banks, governments and arms salesmen were falling over themselves trying to do business there. Positioning ourselves as usual on the side of the peace angels, Canada earnestly eschewed too much peddling of offensive weapons. We watched others make deals that we sadly but proudly shunned.
All of a sudden, however, like manna from heaven, a big prospect emerged. In February, we in the Embassy heard that Indonesia wanted to re-equip its huge army with armoured personnel carriers. This was right up our alley, since not only could these vehicles in good conscience be classified as logistic and “fire support” equipment, but General Motors Canada just happened to specialize in manufacturing the most modern, effective model available, the famous MOWAG “Grizzly.” Not least of the Grizzly’s virtues, as we impressed upon the Indonesian army procurement officers, was its amphibiousness. What could be more ideal for Indonesia’s peculiar island geography?
With stars in our eyes we figured we might sell them as many as 270 vehicles, worth upwards of $170 million and jobs for hundreds of Canadian workers! Over the next few months our marketing pitch developed, the drama heightened, the rival French started wooing Indonesian generals in their turn, the Export Development Corporation approved a potential big loan, and the Minister formally granted the necessary export approval.
The crucial point of the process was to be a live demonstration. By Tuesday, June 27, all was in readiness for the big event: the Grizzly was to perform an amphibious landing after a two-kilometre ’swim’ in Jakarta harbour. The Army brass was assembled. The Indonesian minister and the Ambassador were there. The proud Canadian government and GM reps were looking on. The TV cameras were at the ready. Finally the landing ship tank (LST) chugged into sight, a special ship carrying the star of the show. Slowly the LST lowered the ramp in its hull to the water surface. Then, with all eyes fixed – was a band playing? I don’t recall – the Grizzly, driven by a Canadian Forces NCO, rolled out onto the ramp to begin its swim.
Alas, fate was cruel. As the great and glorious vehicle touched the surface, it simply put its nose down, filled instantly with sea water and sank nine meters to the bottom of Jakarta harbour! The hapless driver was quickly rescued from the filthy water and the next day a soothing press line was concocted and the pathetic foundered Grizzly was salvaged by an Indonesian floating crane and marine divers.
Only then was it discovered that all eight drain plugs in the floor of the vehicle had been removed for cleaning and forgotten about.
Needless to say, we did not make the sale.
La jolie blonde et le consul — par Arthur Blanchette
C’était au début de 1949. Les armées de Mao Tsé-tung s’approchaient de Shanghaï quand mon téléphone à l’Ambassade du Canada au Mexique sonna.
La réceptionniste m’appelle. « Il y a une très, très jolie jeune blonde dans la salle de réception. Elle semble inquiète et veut absolument voir le consul. Peux-tu la recevoir? » J’accepte et j’ai vite constaté que la réceptionniste avait raison : une très, très jolie blonde.
Et, de fait, elle semblait inquiète. Elle m’explique que sa mère et son frère se trouvaient à Shanghai. Il s’agissait d’une famille de Russes Blancs, établie en Chine depuis bon nombre d’années. Elle voulait les en faire sortir le plus vite possible et elle entre en matière immédiatement.
Elle m’offre $20,000 (US) pour deux passeports canadiens pour sa mère et son frère et «tout autre service d’ordre plus personnel dont le consul aimerait jouir ». Compte tenu du fait que mon salaire annuel à l’époque se chiffrait dans les environs de $3,000 (Cdn), j’avoue que j’ai subi un moment de tentation. Quoi qu’il en soit, je lui ai expliqué que cela m’était vraiment impossible. Le contrôle des passeports était très serré. De plus, j’étais au début de ma carrière et je ne voulais pas y nuire inconsidérément. Quant à son autre offre : dommage, j’étais tout récemment et heureusement marié. Nonobstant, j’ai mon petit côté romantique. Comment faire avancer cette bonne cause? Je lui ai alors fait la suggestion suivante: C « Je vais vous donner le nom, l’adresse, et le de téléphone d’un haut fonctionnaire du Ministère a: mexicain de l’Intérieur. Si vous lui faites les mêmes offres que vous venez de me faire, je m suis persuadé qu’il saura vous aider. » Elle est n partie en me remerciant. Plusieurs mois passent, quand un bon matin mon téléphone sonne. La réceptionniste m’interpelle. « Tu te souviens de la jolie blonde qui est passée à l’ambassade il y a quelque temps?. Elle veut encore voir le consul. » Je me rends donc à la réception et de fait t. elle s’y trouvait, mais cette fois accompagnée :- de sa mère et de son frère. Beaucoup d’émoet tion chaleureuse. Moult remerciements. deux jouissaient de passeports témoignant du fait qu’ils étaient bel et bien citoyens mexicains, tous deux heureusement nés dans l’Etat de Chihuahua au nord du Mexique. Ma suggestion avait donc porté de bons fruits. Mais dans les circonstances je n’ai pas osé lui demander de quelle façon elle s’était prise pour obtenir une si belle réussite!
The Protest — by Harold Hickman
As official spokesperson for the Canadian Consulate General in San Francisco in 1984, I dealt with numerous protests from groups such as Greenpeace and the Abalone Alliance. They were practising protest tactics for that summer’s Democratic National Convention. So it was no surprise when, during the Convention, the receptionist called and said there were protestors in the lobby. It was a small demonstration – only two people – so I went out to speak with them.
As I approached, I noticed one had a microphone and a tape recorder with the markings of the largest all-news radio station in Northern California. The other was a young woman wearing a tight top and short skirt. She introduced herself as the head of COYOTE, the female sex-workers union. She noted that COYOTE was in town for their own Convention, as well as the DNC. She wanted to protest Vancouver police harassing streetwalkers so they would move from a residential neighbourhood to an industrial area.
After she presented her case, and very conscious of the microphone and tape recorder, I gave an extremely boring response noting the Canadian constitutional split between federal lawmaking powers and provincial enforcement. This would ensure that the story would not get past the tape editor’s desk. As they were leaving, the reporter asked for my business card. As I gave him one, the head of COYOTE also asked for one. I hesitated for a second, worried that my card would now be in a very interesting Rolodex, but the reporter gave a look which suggested that this might be his hook for a story, so I gave the young lady my card.
Seeing the great potential for misunderstanding, I then immediately wrote a memo to the Consul-General, explaining that if my business card was ever found by the police in the Rolodex of a professional sex-worker, it was for my professional reasons, not hers!
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Originally published in / Publié à l’origine dans bout de papier, Vol. 18, No. 2 (2001) — Summer 2001 // Été 2001, pp. 29–31. Read the rest of this issue / Lire le reste de ce numéro →
