bout de papier, Vol. 6, No. 2 (1988) — Summer 1988 // Été 1988, p. 12
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed, “give me the strength to do it all again.”
After the hassle of managing yet another household move, the fatigue of long distance travel and the pain of parting, it did not seem fair that I now had to integrate myself into still another unfamiliar milieu.
“Some things are gonna be, Laurie Ann,” my father used to say, “no sense in workin’ up a lather.”
With that succinct advice in my mind, I had accepted the invitation to a Buffet Bash extended by a fellow Canadian at the mission. “Really casual,” he had said. “Give you a chance to meet some of the Canadians before the official round of parties starts.”
The tinkle of ice on glass and the buzz of cocktail chatter swirled through the mist of the Vapo-mat Mosquito Zapper as my feet struggled for a foothold on the terrazzo stairs. I muttered the litany to myself, “the expatriate community is a source of friends, the expatriate community is a source of information, the expatriate community needs you, therefore, circulate.”
“Into the breech,” I thought, unclasping my husband’s arm and preparing to play ’Red Rover, Come Over’ with the crush of people in the sunken living room.
…Fred and Alice,” “ …like you to meet,” “know you will…
“..so pleased,” “ … love it.” I smiled and burbled frenetically while my mind paired names and faces — beard with glasses equals Stan, beard without glasses equals married to Sarah.
Then, as I gripped the limp hand of Miss Low-Cut Red-Dress and eluded the beery buss of Mr. Green Shirt, a familiar voice caught a thermal and landed in my ear.
“…recommend it, it’s just like home.”
Ah, yes, it was Mr. Maple Leaf. I spotted him in the corner by the stereo system. With rye in hand and securely surrounded by other expats, he was firmly upholding the Canadian way. He would be a sympathetic companion during bouts of homesickness.
“Have you decided whether to join the Women’s Round Table yet? We’re looking for someone to take over the ’Christmas for Kids’ fund raising.”
Mrs. Bustling Beaver held my elbow and gave me her don’t-let-the-side-down look Having arrived almost 24 hours previously, I hesitated to admit that I had never heard of the Round Table. I assured her that once I remembered what country I was in, I would give her an answer.
I eased past the Tête-à-tête Twins and perched on the arm of a sofa. An impeccably manicured hand languidly lifted from the beige cushions and offered itself. “Welcome to Wonderland. I hope you golf. Let me know what days you have free next week so I can plan a little luncheon. By the way, I’m Krystle Sterling.”
“Hello, thank you and yes, I do,” I answered, “although I rarely break 100. Thursday would be fine.” I neglected to mention that my score referred to the front nine only; time enough to clarify that when the situation arose. I wanted to start the posting with some credibility.
“I don’t expect anyone introduced you,” Krystle went on. “It seems to be a free-for-all these days. You know, they actually pay someone to meet you at the plane now. In the old days we looked for each other for nothing. I wish I had a dollar…”
I confessed that formal introductions had been omitted.
In rapid succession I met Ernest Intellectual, Clever Crafter and Vanna Vague.
“Are you going to work?” demanded Independent Erma. I wondered whether she was just curious or being defensive of a restricted job market. “What do you do?”
I found that I hated that question here as much as I did at home. Like many wives of my age and experience, I worked when I had the opportunity. I preferred to think of it as a matter of choice. Fifty was not an opportune age at which to begin a career and my field of expertise was largely indefinable.
“It’s too soon to know,” I answered. “Perhaps I’ll find that I enjoy my leisure.” I wasn’t going to get into what I did; not to mention that I was too tired to be creative.
In any event, before that situation could develop, Mother Canada swooped down and herded me off to the buffet table. Being a skilled person with years of experience, in no time at all she had extracted the pertinent facts; this was my fifth but not final posting, I liked bird-watching and wanted to write books, my sons were in Canada and my dog was en route, my gall bladder was out and my ovaries in, I liked fish and was allergic to nuts.
Satisfied with her work, she steered me to a padded chair where I huddled in stunned reverence. I felt as though I had given blood, I started at the warm rice salad and frantically tried to recall what inner most secrets I had gaily revealed.
A glimmer at the edge of my sight roused me from my reverie. Could it be? Yes, it was Beau Butterfly, and there was Belle. Momentarily at rest, clinging to the banister and sipping bubbly, they were gathering strength for their next sortie. I watched them, waiting for them to lead me on a whirlwind tour of the rich, the famous and the powerful.
I sighed in relief. The gang was complete, and they were not strangers after all.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 6, No. 2 (1988) — Summer 1988 // Été 1988, p. 12. Read the rest of this issue →
