Quickie: Fiction with a Dash of Reality …

“I was 25, single, on my first overseas tour of duty in Asuncion — a newly minted political officer issuing nonimmigrant visas. I had degrees from Georgetown and Johns Hopkins. I tested at a 4/4 in French! Why, in God’s name, did the State Department make me learn Spanish and bury me in the consular section of this South American backwater?”

From The Roads Are Closing
First Place in the Journal’s 2009 Foreign Service Fiction Contest
By Patricia McArdle
Read the whole story here | July-August 2009 | See pp 18-22

Brief as Photos: Still Gunning for 52

It’s easier said than done. Writing short-short stories, that is.

I started my “Brief as Photos” series exactly a year ago last week. My first, Lara’s Story was posted on April 26, 2008. The idea was to write a short-short story of less than 1,000 words every week for a year. That would have amounted to 52 stories in a year. But – as you can see, I did not even get to my half-way mark, which is really a bummer … sigh! I will continue to write my short-shorts until I get to 52. It may take me a year … or two… we’ll see. I may be on a move in a year or so. I did blogged my 500^th post on May 1st …okay, that’s not an excuse … but I wasn’t idle, just writing about something else…

Here are the stories I wrote this past year:

Brief as Photos - 19: Ambassador to the South

Brief as Photos - 18: New Hire

Brief as Photos - 17: The Winner

Brief as Photos - 16: The Djinn of Small Wishes

Brief as Photos - 15: The Adventurous Life of a Fingerprint Scanner

Brief as Photos – 14: Japanese Roulette

Brief as Photos - 13: An American Abroad

Brief as Photos - 12: Gorgeous Princess Goin' Fishing

Brief as Photos - 11: My Mother's House

Brief as Photos - 10: Houses with Arches

Brief as Photos - 9: The Senior Spouse

Brief as Photos - 8: Campaign Props

Brief as Photos - 7: A Diplomat’s Wife

Brief as Photos - 6: The Good Consul

Brief as Photos - 5: Nurbibi

Brief as Photos - 4: Lottery

Brief as Photos - 3: Tandem Couple

Brief as Photos - 2: Bus Ride

Brief as Photos – 1: Lara’s Story

Brief as Photos - 19: Ambassador to the South

He thought he would make an exceptional ambassador one day. He lobbied hard to get a stretch assignment even in the belly of Africa but was not quite lucky. Instead he got a Principal Officer’s assignment in some backwater country. It was not the ambassadorship he had hoped for but the country was large and his consular district straddled two-thirds of the country. So he was not entirely unhappy.

He was in one of his trips to the southernmost part of his district when he realized that people had difficulty trying to understand his title as principal officer of the consulate. He thought of introducing himself as the American Consul, but his hosts often think of that as exactly the same level as the Honorary Consul of Belgium or Liechtenstein or some other old European country. In one of his radio interviews, he explained his role as kind of the “ambassador to the south.” And before long, he was being introduced as the U.S. ambassador to the south. He was quite popular wherever he went. He visited just about every large city in his district and a few smaller towns with ethnic and indigenous populations. He shook hands and chatted with politicians in fancy clothes, tribal leaders in colorful attires, farmers working in their fields, housewives carrying babies, students in town hall meetings and more. He listened and dutifully wrote a cable after every trip. He told himself that sooner or later, somebody was going to discover the wisdom of his insights, as well as his reporting skills, and send him somewhere important.

In May, he received word that the US ambassador wanted to host an official 4^th of July celebration in his district. It was going to be their largest reception ever, as the U.S. ambassador wanted to meet all their local contacts in the southern part of the country. By early June the list had been finalized, the invitations all sent out, and his office was conducting telephonic confirmation for all the missing RSVPs.

The 4^th of July reception at the residence was the talk of the town. On the night of the reception, the principal officer happily introduced his local contacts to the U.S. ambassador. Some have travelled from the far ends of his district.

A man in a colorful tribal get-up with a large smile walked excitedly towards where the principal officer and the U.S. ambassador were greeting the guests. The officer remembered him as the senior leader of a large tribal group.

“Mr. Ambassador, I’m so glad to see you again, sir!” the man said as he shook the principal officer’s hands.

The principal officer quickly introduced the tribal leader to the ambassador, hoping the latter would put the incident to nothing more than ignorance on the part of the guest.

But the tribal leader was not to be deterred. “It is nice to have two ambassadors here; it shows that we are a very important country,” he declared.

“Mr. Salamuddin,” the principal officer interrupted, “we only have one American Ambassador here. I work for him.”

“But I don’t understand, you are the ambassador to the south, no?” the tribal leader persisted.

The principal officer dared not look at his boss’ face. With an arm across the tribal leader’s shoulder, he quietly walked him away from the receiving line.


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Brief as Photos - 18: New Hire

Photo from Wikimedia Commons

After they’ve completed one domestic tour and halfway through their third overseas tour, she became convinced that real jobs were difficult to come by in this lifestyle. She hated begging for jobs at every post. It was not that she was not capable; there were just not enough jobs to go around.

One day she made the leap to becoming a secretary; she thought this would afford her a job as she moves around with her husband every two-three years. She taught herself the Microsoft suite, applied online and easily got into the OMS program. She left her two kids with her husband in South America and went back to DC for training. They talked every week and she worked really hard. She had no problem completing the training but she missed her family every single moment. Then she learned that she was going to Barbados for her first assignment.

Considering the other places where she could have ended up for her first directed assignment, Barbados seemed like heaven. Except that her husband was being sent to the other side of the world. She came up with four locations where she and her husband could have served together but the assignment office told her “no.” She helpfully pointed out that one of the four places in her list had not been filled for the last two assignment cycles. The answer was still “no.” She talked it over with her husband and they’ve decided she should still go to Barbados. So she put in a request to visit her family and pack out before she shipped out to Barbados. The answer was also “no.” There was no time to spare; she was needed at post immediately. She wondered out loud if the needs of the Service will now always outweigh the needs of her family. Her assignment officer did not have anything to say.

One day she was a new hire, a few days later she was part of some statistics. It almost felt like a dream, except that she had a bill asking that she pay back all the training and related expenses. All of it.

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Brief as Photos - 17: The Winner

Photo from Wikimedia Commons under
Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0

It was her last day at work. She came in at her usual time, had coffee, and avoided answering the phone. She has started cleaning up her desk months ago, perhaps years ago, she could not recall. Yesterday she took all the photo frames and her knick knacks home. On her last day at work, there was really nothing else to do. But they all pretended otherwise, it was her last day at work, after all. She found some paper towels and armed with a can of Pledge proceeded to work on making her oak desk shine. She could not remember the last time she has done that in her long years of working there.

Somebody collected some money and they had pizza for lunch. After the afternoon coffee break, they had cake then they gave her a pin to commemorate her service. They also give her a card signed by all her co-workers including those she barely knew. Then they gave her a nice plaque, an award for something they said she did. There were hugs and goodbyes. They told her to come back and visit often. At quitting time, she was the first one out the door.

She had a big smile when she got on the elevator. The young man already in the car, smiled back.

She said, “It’s my last day at work today.”

The young man said, “Congratulations! You must be happy to sail into retirement.”

“Yes, I am,” she replied. “And I never had to put in a full day of work in 36 years,” she added proudly as she stepped out of the elevator.

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Brief as Photos - 16: The Djinn of Small Wishes

© Jupiter Images from clipart.com

George was a creature of unvarying habit. His afternoon walk, for example, usually ended at one of the benches inside Rumeli Hisar. He often liked to sit there with a good book. His favorite bench was on an elevated spot where he could sit and watch the Bosphorus all day, if he had all day. Sometimes, George sat there simply to watch the ships plying the route between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara.

George started fiddling with the samovar’s faucet, his newfound bargain from the Tahtahkale market. Then quite suddenly he heard a man clear his throat. He looked up to find an elderly fellow sitting at the other end of his bench. Not having heard the man approach, George was surprised to see him at all. The old man was wearing a dark Ottoman style tunic and pants. A red fez crowned his obviously bald head. His long, bushy and elegant mustache curled ostentatiously upward at the ends. George nodded to him abstractly.

“Pardon, efendi,” the man said addressing George in a Turkish honorific, clearing his throat again and standing up. “Ahhhhgggg, I have been waiting to do that for sooo long,” the man added, making a grand production of

stretching his back. “You have no idea what such a tiny space can do to your bones,” the man continued in a heavily accented baritone.

“I guess not,” George answered to be polite.

“Thank you, efendi,” the man said formally. “I am Mustafa. At your service,” the peculiar man said as he bowed.

George did not know what to make of all this. Although the man did not look like a vagrant, he was acting strange. And for all his obvious years, the fellow seemed robust enough to do damage if so inclined. George decided to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. He had no desire to give up his bench any time soon.

“I am deeply indebted to you, efendi,” the man informed George. “You may ask for anything you want,” he offered expansively.

“Thank you, sir, but I have not done anything,” George replied.

“Oh, but you have!” Mustafa exclaimed, launching into a brief foot-shuffling dance. “You released me from that horrible prison.

“I released you from prison?” George asked. “From this?” George inquired with obvious disbelief in his voice as he looked at his samovar. “Okay, so who or what are you,” he asked good-humouredly after a pause.

“I am a djinn, of course, efendi,” Mustafa replied with a huge smile, as he proudly twirled one end of his mustache.

“A djinn? Ahh, you mean flying carpets and Aladdin’s lamp,” George asked trying to keep a straight face.

“Efendi, please,” begged Mustafa. “I am a djinn, of course, but not the flying carpet sort. Those are a lowly bunch.

“I see,” George replied skeptically. “Please do tell me, am I the only one who can see you?”

“No, no, efendi. Of course, other people can see me,” Mustafa exclaimed. “Naturally, I can make myself invisible if I choose to,” he added with a wink.

“I see,” George replied. “Please stop calling me efendi. My name is George.”

“Of course, of course,” Mustafa replied. “I call you efendi merely to show my great respect. “If you are in doubt, you may ask the first person who comes by what they think of my fez.” When George did not respond, Mustafa continued, “You still don’t believe me? Okay, efendi, why don’t you make a wish?”

“All right,” George said, “make me the American ambassador to Turkey.”

“Efendi, you must understand,” Mustafa protested. “I am a djinn of small wishes. I can make many wishes come true one step at a time, but a colossal wish like that is beyond my domain.”

The man answered so seriously that George almost wanted to believe him. “Ahh, Mustafa, you are good,” George replied with a sigh. “Tell me, what is it you really want? A visa?”

But small wishes matter, efendi,” Mustafa insisted. “Many small wishes add up to a big wish, if you know how to ask...” He paused, and then asked, “What is a visa?”

“Never mind,” George replied. “So you mean that if I want to be rich, I should wish for a nightly win in the casino for what, a thousand days?” George could not keep the derision from his voice.

“Well, kind of like that, efendi,” Mustafa answered. “Of course, it need not be a thousand days,” he added seriously.

George was growing tired of the strange fellow’s game. “Okay,” he said, “here’s a small wish for you. I want to see three boats sailing under the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge right this minute. I want their colors to be lime, pink and yellow, in that order,” George smiled as he asked for the most impossible colors he could think of in a sailboat.

“The Fatih Sultan …” the man stuttered, looking confused. “Ahh, is that what they call that thing now? The Conqueror’s bridge…” Mustafa gestured towards the bridge. “Er, what kind of boats, efendi?” he asked, turning to George once more.

“Any would do, Mustafa,” George replied as he tried to keep a straight face. No sooner had the words left his mouth when he saw a slow procession of the ice cream colored boats sailing under the bridge. “What the hell!” he exclaimed, quickly jumping to his feet.

“Another wish, efendi?” the djinn asked calmly, obviously satisfied with his handiwork and the reaction to it.

“Well, let’s see now -- how about a fish sandwich from one of those fancy boats by Galata Bridge?” George asked drolly, still not quite sure a real djinn is right before him. This only happens in fairy stories he told himself. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “How many wishes do I get?” he asked looking as if he just won the lottery.

“As many as you like, efendi,” Mustafa replied with a slight bow. “One fish sandwich coming up,” the djinn announced.

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Brief as Photos - 15: The Adventurous Life of a Fingerprint Scanner

Photo from wikipedia under GNU Free Documentation License

She tried to make them feel comfortable and relaxed so she could get them to follow her fingerprint instruction as quickly as possible, but it was unavoidably hard to calm them when all they could think about was that visa interview. If you know anything about consular work, you know that most of the clients were nervous wrecks by the time they get to the window, any window for that matter. They’d placed their palm on the scanner, or they’d put their thumb on the edge or their pinkie on the side of the scanner. They’d place their folder, or hat, or handbag on top of it, too. You name it; she had seen just about every which way they thought their finger (and possessions) could get scanned. And she had only been working there for several months.

She smiled and told the lady once more to put her left index finger on the red light. The lady looked at her with a slight confusion on her face then proceeded to take off her eyeglasses and placed it on top of the scanner. “No, señora,” she said even more gently. “I need you to put your left index finger on the red light,” in as clear a Spanish as she could muster. The woman smiled widely, hesitated momentarily then took off her false teeth and placed it on top of the red light.

False teeth on her scanner - imagine. But she never freak out. Not even when a mommy whip out a booby to calm a screaming baby right when she had to capture those fingerprints. Not even when a bulky gentleman made a pass at her and tried mightily to collect her phone number. Not even when she was presented with an extra digit from each hand. Cool as a cucumber could not even begin to describe her.

She realized that you’ve got to have a straight face in this business or you’d ruin it for everyone else the rest of the day. She and the old lady had a good laugh afterwards after all the brouhahas died down and the scanner had been cleaned. They had no hard feelings, and they both had fun stories to tell – everybody knew that you could make the same mistake easily with these new technologies (she could already imagine the scenes if they ever go into ear or retina scan).

All part of the day’s adventure she thought as she looked out into her line that snaked through the doorway and into the waiting area under the fine tropical weather.

Since the office where she worked was a “test” post for the fingerprint program, they became kind of a showcase. And as the “it” person doing the fingerprinting, she sort of became a showcase, too. One day they had a visit from Mr. Big Politician whose name has been thrown about in the veepstakes. He also came from the same border state where she was registered to vote.

The Consul General introduced her to the entourage as the sole biometrics person at post, as if somehow that is a laudable distinction in someone’s so called career.

“Thank you for the great job you’re doing,” said the visiting politician. She realized she should not be offended but she has always been taught not to say things you don’t mean.

“Caught any terrorist lately?” the politician asked. She thought, this guy must be joking, but he looked absolutely full and serious. Before she could stop herself, the response was out, “Unfortunately not. I do have to report that I snagged the teeth of the little old lady from Chamachenga last week. Who knows what else is out there?”

The politician let out a bellyful of laughter and the whole room burst into laughter with him, of course. So she went on and told him the story about the old lady who left her teeth on her fingerprint scanner.

“How many applicants do you fingerprint every day?” the politician queried after the laughter died down.

“Between 400 and 500,” she replied.

“We issue that many visas in one day from here?” the politician inquired with alarm.

“No, that’s the average number of visa applicants we get, the number we issue are significantly lower than that,” explained the Consul General quickly.

“Then why don’t you just take the fingerprints from those that you will issue visas to, instead of everyone?” the politician inquired helpfully.

“EBSA,” she piped up aware that the Consul General was giving her a look. But she was not sure if the look was encouraging or career ending, not that she really had any career to speak of.

“What’s that?” Mr. Big Politician asked.

“Enhanced Border Security and Visa Entry Reform Act which you helped passed in 2002,” she replied without batting an eyelash. “Which also dictate that I must take the prints of all visa applicants unless they are below 14 or over 79,” she added helpfully.

“Is that so?” Mr. Politician answered without blinking an eye. “Interesting.”

“You know of course, that the bad guys are not going to line up here to have their fingerprints scanned, right?” she asked her elected official before she could stop herself.

“How’s that?” Mr. Politician replied swiftly.

“Well, there’s this big hole up north as large as a dinosaur and over here, they hire “coyotes” to take them through that hole,” she added for effect, referring to the human smugglers popular in Central America. “Sometimes their services go “on sale” and the $5K fee gets a price reduction."

“Is that so?” he replied. “Well, best do your job, best do your job well honey, and I’ll do my best to worry about this,” her honorable politician promised as he walked away leaving a wafting smell of the brewery in his wake.


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Brief as Photos: 14 - Japanese Roulette

Fugu Sashimi - by Hajime Nakano
Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0

I was unpacking the remaining boxes from Tokyo. I sat down and looked through the photographs of my previous life as Mrs. Hofer Halstead III at the U.S. Embassy in Japan. I was surprised to see that Hofer's head had been cut out from all the photographs. I must have done it during a fit of anger, but I could not remember doing this.

I came back to the house in Seattle six months ago and did not contest the divorce. When a man asked for one, he was already gone. I did not see how the lawyers or the courts could get me back my husband's affection. I had little doubt that he was in love with the Japanese woman. He not only agreed to give me the house in Seattle, but he also offered a generous settlement, including a share in his pension. One might say that I was bribed to give him a divorce. Perhaps - but perhaps I have gotten tired of being his appendage and had come to realize that there was another life for me, separate from him. Or maybe I just was not ready to fight and lose out to a woman half my age.

My wristwatch alarm reminded me that I needed to be at Akiko's place by six o'clock. Akiko was my Japanese friend from the dog runner’s club. She was throwing an eight o'clock dinner for her husband's associates and I promised to come.

"What are you preparing there?" I asked as I walked into her kitchen.

"We’re having Japanese roulette tonight," Akiko laughed as she begun to carve out the fish into fillets. "I'm actually making sashimi. This is my husband's favorite delicacy - fugu. You call it puffer or blowfish here," Akiko added.

"I think one of your famous Kabuki actors died after eating fugu liver when I was in Tokyo," I said.

"Ah, yes, I remember that," Akiko said as she started slicing the fillets into thin diamond-shaped pieces. "It's the epitome of gourmet dining. When we were in Japan he actually sent me to apprentice with a licensed master fugu chef,” Akiko said as she let out a strange little laugh. Akiko was smiling but her face looked tired, her eyes bloodshot as if she had been crying.

"Must have been interesting," I replied.

"Don't worry, I'm almost a fugu chef myself, you can safely try it in my house," Akiko assured me. "I know exactly which parts are poisonous.”

Akiko was a most gracious hostess; the haggard face and bloodshot eyes were gone and her face had taken on an almost radiant look by the time the guests arrived. The dinner bell rang and we all went to the dining room. Akiko sat across from her husband. A red-haired woman was seated to the left of Akiko’s husband. I noticed a lingering hand on the husband’s shoulder as the woman sat down.

"My wife prepared a most delicious dish for us tonight," Mr. Kobayashi announced. He went on to explain to his guests why eating puffer fish is considered the Japanese gastronomic version of Russian roulette. "Fugu toxin is 1200 times deadlier than cyanide," he claimed. "If even a tiny touch of it is left on the meat, you're gone," he added with a smile. "My wife had studied under a famous fugu master chief and has prepared fugu for me many times. But if you're concerned, you don't have to eat the sashimi, of course," he laughed.

There was soft chatter afterwards then the red-haired woman suddenly put one hand on her throat and looked as if she was breathing laboriously, "I can't breathe!"

But before anyone could react, there was a peal of laughter.

"That's not a very nice thing to do, Patty Ann," Mr. Kobayashi lightly scolded the young woman as the guests settled back with relief in their chairs.

"Oh, can't you take a joke?" the red-haired woman complained, still laughing. "I'm sorry, Mrs. K," she said addressing Akiko directly, "I just could not resist it."

I watched Akiko remain seated regally at the other end of the table. She gave a slight nod, a frozen smile pasted on her face. I was eating the last sliver of fish on my plate when I happen to glanced at Patty Ann who was still giggling over her little joke.

But it was Akiko’s husband who caught my attention. He looked odd. Then, as if in a slow motion, I watched as his chopsticks clattered on the table. He seemed unable to speak or sit up and he collapsed face down on his plate. Akiko and Patty Ann screamed at the same time. Patty Ann held on to Mr. Kobayashi's arm as Akiko rushed to her husband's side, crying his name. Somebody shouted 911.

I held Akiko's shoulders as she bent over her husband. She was weeping quietly and murmuring something in his ears.

"You killed him," Patty Ann screamed at Akiko, mascara streaks running down her cheeks. "You killed him rather than let him go."

Akiko straightened up, face wet with weeping and said icily, "I have no reason to kill Hideo, I
love him very much." She looked at the other woman still holding on to her husband's arm, then leaned forward until her face was only inches away from the other woman's.

"It should have been you," Akiko told Patty Ann in a voice filled with venom. Then she picked up one of the two sashimi plates between the woman's plate and her husband and shoved the remaining fillets into her mouth with her fingers.

"No!" I shouted too late.

Akiko looked at me briefly and shook her dark head. Then she turned to Patty Ann and said gravely, "May we live in your conscience forever. Now get your hands off my husband," Akiko ordered quietly.

Brief as Photos - 13: An American Abroad

Photo by Another Sunshine under Creative Commons License

They lived in an area not too far from the embassy. There was a taxi stand right around the corner from them, and it often felt like all she needed was a magic wand. When she ventured out, she would hit the buzzer right on the electric pole outside their apartment building, and a taxi would show up. It was cheap and it often came with free language lessons, as almost all the drivers were big friendly talkers.

The first week in town, she was careful not to call attention to herself as an American living overseas. Not that it was any big secret who were living in their building. One day on a long drive to the old part of town, the driver in his local language asked her where she was from.

“I’m from the Philippines,” she replied in the same language. As somebody with ancestral roots going all the way back to Kublai Khan, Lapu-Lapu and Hang Tuah her reply was technically true.

The driver looked at her in his rearview mirror and smiled. “Ah, Arafat!”

She probably exhausted all her knowledge of the local language trying to explain that she was not talking about Palestine, but the Philippines, a country in Southeast Asia. The driver did not seemed to understand what she was saying and went on chattering like a bird about Arafat this and Arafat that. So that was that.

There were no jobs at the embassy so she spent most of her days exploring the old city. The taxi drivers, the rug merchants and the rest of the shop keepers got to know her really well. At another taxi ride, the driver did not asked where she was from. He just presumed that everyone in their building came from America.

“You’re American.” He said.

Afraid that she’d spend another long ride in a one-sided discussion on Arafat, she thought it would be safer to respond “yes.”

He wanted to know about California and the bevy of Baywatch babes (the show was on cable television). So they talked about that a bit; the driver in his spotty English and the passenger in her artless articulation in his local language. As she was paying him, he asked for her name. She told him “Madame Devereux.” Their eyes met in the rear view mirror and his looked deeply puzzled.

“You look like this (he gestured at the almond shape of her eyes), you have a French name and you are American.”

She nodded and he shook his head as if trying to drive away some cobwebs on the air. He smiled as he drove away but the puzzled look stayed on his face.

It often surprised her how much foreigners did not really know about her country beyond Hollywood. They seemed to think that all Americans lived in million dollar homes, drove fancy cars, and did not have to clean their ovens; and that they also kick their kids out of their houses as soon as they turn eighteen; and that they leave their grandparents in old peoples' homes and never ever visit. And the people were all gorgeous with sparkling white even teeth, and they picked the green bucks off their sweet-smelling moneytree orchards. It was amazing how much and how little they know at the same time.

She had been in the country for about six months when a teacher’s assistant job at a local school in their neighborhood was advertized at the embassy. The pay was not great (they never were) but she thought it would give her something else to do. She sent in her resume and a week later, she was asked to go in for an interview.

The director of the school who was also the owner invited her into a small office. The woman who was in her 60’s looked exceptionally well put together, from her bouffant hair to her Bruno Magli shoes. The director inquired in flawless English if she would like some tea. She declined politely. The director looked through her resume and asked some inconsequential questions. She answered politely.

After chatting for about 10 minutes, the director looked at her and said, “You are very qualified for this job,” she smiled, “your resume is excellent and you speak very good English.” The director’s tone was supposed to be complimentary and kind, then she said, “But I’d like to hire somebody who looks American.”

So that was that. She hailed a taxi and went on exploring the old city some more.

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Brief as Photos - 12: Gorgeous Princess Goin' Fishing

I usually go fishing early morning because that’s when the fish are awake in the other side of the world. I’d logged into my computer and check my messages in the dating website. BTW, when you go fishing, you do need bait. So last week, I posted mine. Looks great, huh?

photo from travel.state.gov

I scroll down my messages; I have several but started reading through the multiple messages from American Joe of Ohio. This one sounds needy and ready.

American Joe: I’ve missed you, please talk to me.

Gorgeous Princess: Hello my prince and only comforter, how are you today my love?

American Joe: I tried calling your cell yesterday but no one was answering.

Gorgeous Princess: Sorry, dearest, something bad happened yesterday. Mr. Khafayat who was helping me with my papers was in an accident. i had to see him at the hospital. but don’t worry. he made contacts with them at the embassy but was reassured that i would be paid back$1050 when i get to the usa after they verify with you that i came for a visit and not to work.

American Joe: Whew! That’s good to know.

Gorgeous Princess: I know there is nothing too hard for our God to do

American Joe: Yeah! Hope he gets well soon. Anyway, I'm wondering - have you ever rode in a big truck around America?

Gorgeous Princess: No

American Joe: You wanna?

Gorgeous Princess: If you want me.

American Joe: Ok cool! Then we can do all sorts of things then!! If you have an open mind it can be a ton of fun on the road!

Gorgeous Princess: Like what?

American Joe: You’ll get to see things that you’ve never seen before. It’s like having a tour of the United States. And I’ll be your personal tour guide!

Gorgeous Princess: Ok, but I think you should have let me come and see your lovely face before ending of this month. Why March?

American Joe: I have to get settled in Nashville first so I have a place for you to come to.

Gorgeous Princess: See, when I love you I love you for real.

American Joe: Plus that’s when I know I’ll have the money to pay for your ticket over here.

Gorgeous Princess: i will be sleeping in where you sleep….

American Joe: You’re so sweet!

Gorgeous Princess: And if you don’t mind we will go to Ohio to my dad’s house.

American Joe: We could do that.

Gorgeous Princess: Thanks. So if you wish I come, send the money trough Western Union so I will pay for the ticket.

American Joe: Can’t I pay for the ticket form over here?

Gorgeous Princess: Yes, I do agree and that could have been the best, but government says it does not improve their economy system so they have banned any imported ticked buying in other countries.

American Joe: F**k those f**kers! Ok, I’ll find out how much that’ll cost me.

Gorgeous Princess: Can you imagine this Nigeria? that’s is why I hate them. the ticket is $1200. you will send it trough Western Union. then I will go and collect and pay the ticket.

American Joe: I’m sending the $1200 to a bank?

Gorgeous Princess: Yes. let me ask you a question. because I need true love. if you know that you really love me and you want to marry me then send the money. i will come and see you, but if you don’t love me and you never want to marry me please, i don’t want to see your money and don’t send any. Please, I need true love.

American Joe: I printed your pictures off of the dating site and I look at them every day. I hope you don’t mind.

Gorgeous Princess: Let me tell you, if you will see me from morning 'til night when I come you will. and if you will talk for hundreds hours I will with you, Honey. I love you because I have a strong believe that you are a trustworthy man and man that will be a father of my children.

American Joe: The men are going to see this drop dead gorgeous blonde haired, blue eyed girl walking through the airport and they are going to just fall out at the sight of you!!

Gorgeous Princess: And nothing they could do because I belong to you honey.

American Joe: I can’t believe my luck!! Is these pictures really you?? My God I would be the happiest man walking!!!!!!

Gorgeous Princess: I LOVE YOU honey and I will always love you since you continue treating me well

American Joe: Is the girl in these pictures really you?! I just can’t get over your beauty!!!! I can’t believe my luck!!!!!!!

Gorgeous Princess: That’s really me. would you send the money this week so I may buy ticket

American Joe: Aww babe, I don’t have the money yet. I will send it in two weeks. Don’t you worry your pretty lil head, hun.

Well, ok, he was not quite ready as I thought he'd be, so we said a sweet, sticky goodbye … Damn! Two weeks! More massaging work needed, I guess. Maybe more eye candy would also help, I thought as I looked through my photo files. I did an auto search for something demure but sexy. While waiting, I poured more coffee. I know I'd be there for a while. I scrolled down on the rest of my messages. Charlie, the electrician from West Virginia had just sent two messages in the last hour. I opened his first message and started typing:

Gorgeous Princess: hello my prince and only comforter, how are you today my love?

* * *

NOTE: According to the State Department, its Consular Affairs Bureau receives daily calls about international scams involving Internet Dating, Inheritance, Work Permits, Overpayment, and Money-Laundering. Many scams are initiated through the Internet; victims range in age from 18 to 81 and come from all socio-economic backgrounds. Read more here. Part of the story above was excerpted and tweaked from here (PDF file).

Brief as Photos - 11: My Mother's House

One day, my brother from the old country called to report that father was sick. Barely 24 hours later, he called back to let me know that he passed away. Together with my brother in Portland, and sister in L.A., we went back to bury my father in the island of our childhood. My grieving mother had just turned 75.

A few months later, my mother left my brother’s house in the city and went to lived for good in the island. She took over running my father’s poultry business and started talking about building a new house. We were all dismayed. We all thought she was going to immigrate to the United States and lived with us. As the oldest sibling, I was tasked with convincing her to change her mind.

“Ma, why do you need to build a new house?” I asked gently.

“Why – I have so many things in different places,” she replied. “I have some furniture from your grandfather’s house, some stuff in your brother’s house, here, there ….,” she paused. “I’d like all my things in my very own house.”

“What stuff?” I asked.

“Oh, plates, gifts, those things inside the china cabinet at the rented house in the city,” she replied.

“But those are mostly plastic items, aren’t they? I asked.

“What do you mean plastic?” her voice went up a notch. “Those were gifts for my wedding, plates and platters I bought through the years, souvenirs,” she added heatedly, displeasure unmistakable in the tone of her voice. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to ask you for money to build this house,” she added testily.

“Well, it’s not that - how big is this house you’re planning to build?” I asked.

“I’m thinking a normal size house with five bedrooms,” she replied curtly.

“Isn’t that a bit too big for you? We don’t want you getting lost in your own house,” I joked.

“That is so you have a place to stay when you all come down to visit,” she explained simply

I thought that it would be really hard for all three of us working in the United States to coordinate our vacations and visits all the time. I pointed out that even if we wanted to, we could not afford to visit with our families every year; that it would not make sense to build a large house for that purpose alone.

But my mother was adamant. Her mind was made up that all her children should be under one roof whenever we visit. It does not matter if the visits occurred every five years. The house would be there, our rooms would be waiting for us.

“We’ve talked previously about your coming to live with us,” I reminded her. “So when can I file a petition for you?” I asked.

“Later,” she replied.

“How much later?” I persisted.

“When I finished building my house,” she answered

Three years later, she still would not let us file a petition for her. Her house was filled with my grandparents’ furniture - tables, rocking chair and beds, my grandmother’s shell collection, my father’s clothes and old shoes, her wedding gifts and all sorts of useless brick a brack that she had stored inside the warehouse built behind the large house. We talked to her often on the telephone but I’ve stopped asking when she wanted to come lived with us. She seemed happier there with her things and her memories.

Brief as Photos - 10: Houses with Arches

© Paul Cowan | Dreamstime.com

It was a nice day in early fall when I drove out to the country side. I ended up in a small village of Klonari where I saw a sprinkling of stone cottages and some abandoned old houses.

I was drawn to a ruined house where only a stone arch and part of the walls were left standing. I took some pictures. It looked like the arch was located between the living room area and dining room and kitchen. It seemed strange that it remained standing after the walls have fallen apart.

“Are you an architect?” a voice asked. A elderly man has parked himself by my car and was looking at me curiously.

“Yes,” I replied automatically. I was not, but have often found it easier to agree than explain what I was.

“You are interested in arches … I can show you more,” he said. “Just over the bend, down the valley, there are more houses with arches,” he told me as I loaded my camera into the car. “Before the war, this was, what to say …. a bustling town, with beautiful stone houses and fragrant orange groves,” he continued as his eyes took on a distant look.

So we drove down the valley to look at the houses with arches; they were mostly ruined houses with roofs, and entire walls missing. A sunflower was beaming from one of the window boxes, but there were no doors and wood shutters have fallen down. There were rotten wooden arches carved with lovely flowers and grapevines. There was life here, once, I thought to myself.

There were no children’s laughter, no sounds of farm animals of any kind. Except for the occasional stray dog and the malnourished black cat following us around, the village felt desolate as an island.

But I took some more pictures.

Later, I thanked my guide and asked if he could give me direction to get to the coast.

He smiled and solemnly declared, “I am 75 years old. I’ve lived in this village all my life. I am happy here, see?” he paused. “I see no reason to find the road to elsewhere.”

Brief as Photos - 9: The Senior Spouse

It was going to be a summer of great changes for us. My husband and I have finally decided that it was time to leave the Service. And I could not say that I felt terribly unhappy about this decision. As much as we loved representing our country, and learning about new cultures and exploring new places, reality has been staring us in the face for many years now. It had been extremely difficult to find work in my field and I have not been particularly good in mixing with the coffee crowd nor happy to be a trailing spouse. We have decided that my time has come. We were excited at the prospect of starting a new life back home.

“Do you have your tickets for the fashion show?” a high pitched voice behind me interrupted my thoughts.

“I’m not sure we’re going,” I replied. The question came from the wife of a senior officer at the Embassy. She was also the president of the local American Women’s Club and the main organizer of the annual fashion show.

She gave me a crooked smile. “You do realize who writes your husband’s EER, don’t you?” she asked sweetly.

Holy crap! This old bat just threatened my husband’s career for not attending her fashion show? That must be why her events were ever so well attended by embassy folks. She knew how to persuade with sugar and spice.

“Oh yes!” I replied with a five-inch smile then excused myself. If we were “newbies,” I probably would have had second thoughts about my husband’s career, but she picked on the wrong, "ready to move on," demographic.

Now this story would have ended after this brief encounter except that the senior spouse could not leave it alone. That night, I got another mass email from her, advertising the remaining tickets for the fashion show, pointedly asking those who have not yet purchase their tickets to do so. She did not even have the courtesy to put the email addresses on blind carbon copy. So there was nothing else to do but reply politely. And before I knew it, the keyboard went clickity clack:

Dear Mrs. Senior Spouse:

Thank you very much for your email.

Since you reminded me so very clearly today that your husband writes my husband’s Employee Evaluation Report (EER), we have changed our minds and are now anxious and eager to attend your annual fashion show. Please reserve the following tickets for us:

#1 ticket for my husband[the one your husband rates]

#1 ticket for myself[I could use some fashion sense]

#1 ticket for Ozzie[She won’t bite/bark]

#3 tickets for my neighbor’s triplets
[We have borrowed these toddlers especially for the occasion]

Thank you again for your thoughtfulness. I will leave the money for 6 tickets at the CLO office. We look forward to seeing you at your fashion show.

Sincerely yours,
XXX

I re-read my email quickly; made sure I had it on “reply to all,” then clicked the “send” button.

I could not say how it all went because we never did get our tickets. I could tell though that Ozzie was happier playing with packing boxes than she would have been under the skirts and gowns at the show.

I did hear that the senior spouse went on vacation shortly after but we got busy packing out.

Read:
About this series and the All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer

Brief as Photos - 8: Campaign Props

It was early Monday morning when we were summoned to the Front Office for an urgent meeting. We were told that one of the political candidates running for office back home has requested to visit the embassy that week. No one seemed to know why but the ambassador who was a political appointee from the ruling party suggested that the visit was a harmless one. “She will be in town next week for speaking engagements and would like to say hello to her countrypeople,” he explained, almost sounding as if we were country bumpkins.

One of the senior officers brought up the restrictions under the Hatch Act. But the ambassador waved that away. “She is not campaigning here, folks. And we’re not supporting her campaign. She is a private citizen visiting us and we should be mighty proud to be visited by somebody who could be the first woman president of our blessed nation.”

“But won’t we be giving the impression of support by entertaining such a visit?” asked a less senior officer.

“Wouldn’t she be using this visit to burnish her foreign policy credentials and us as props? Is that allowed?” somebody asked loudly from the back of the room. “I don’t like being used as a campaign prop,” I declared helpfully.

"I heard that she was a bee-keeper, is that true?" asked the secretary.

“I stopped voting after Nixon, so I don’t care who gets elected. But Sir, I am concerned that her visit would throw my appointments on Wednesday into a mad scramble. I have a thousand people scheduled for interviews,” added the woman sitting in front.

“Listen up, boys and girls! I have requested and received guidance on this already. We’ve been told “no” and although I disagreed with that, I thought it would be useful for ya’all to know about this should you receive inquiries from local contacts. I have personally called her to apologize for turning down her request; our Press Officer here will distribute talking points so we’re all on the same page,” the ambassador explained.

That must have been the longest unscripted speech I have ever heard him uttered. This was the same ambassador who proudly proclaimed his love of golf and gambling as credentials for becoming ambassador. I supposed you only need to tee or deal, so he got a point there but it was a revelation to hear him speak in complete sentences.

By mid week, the candidate was in town with the entire press corps in tow to mark this historic occasion – at the border crossing pointing at the marker dividing the United States from its neighbor, at the tomb of the Great Hero laying a wreath of white gladiolas, at a farm for bat crap for renewable energy, at the wave factory (I seriously don’t know what they manufactured there), and other such places. She was so popular, that the local newspapers had to run a morning and afternoon edition since she arrived. By Friday, after her big do at the Presidential Hotel, I was looking forward for the traffic and TV programming to return to their normal schedules. But on Friday afternoon, just before quitting time, pandemonium broke in the most unexpected way.

“My name is ---. I am an American and I want to see my Ambassador!” the presidential candidate told the embassy guard at the gate as cameras flashed.

“We are closed now madam. What is the problem?” the guard politely inquired.

“Do I have to talk to you? The ambassador knows me,” she answered sweetly in a low voice as she smiled and waved to the cameras.

“I am the embassy guard madam, you have to talk to me or you don’t go in,” the old guard answered simply, unfazed by the crowd.

“Very well; please tell the person in charge that I’ve lost my passport and I need a new one A.S.A.P,” she enunciated each word carefully as if afraid that the guard would not understand what she was saying. Then she turned and waved to the adoring media some more.

To make a long story short, when the security officers and the senior embassy officials got wind of the fact that the candidate was really at the gate, they had no choice but to come down and meet her. The Ambassador excitedly escorted her to the Consular Section where the Consular Chief (the one who was worried about her visa appointments) supervised the ACS officer in quickly generating an emergency passport.

The next day, the front pages of local and international papers came out with full spreads of her foreign policy meetings at the American Embassy. My favorite photo was of the candidate blowing a kiss to her countrypeople as she got into a car departing the embassy grounds. Right smack in the middle of that photo was somebody wearing a big pumpkin head. The caption reads: "Who is this Pumpkin?"

Tee-hee! That was me.

Read:
About this series and the All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer

Brief as Photos: All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer

Some of my regular readers know that I started the Brief as Photos series after I read Paul Theroux’s Twenty-Two Stories in Harper’s and felt moved to write brief stories of no more than a thousand words. The idea is to write one story a week; that's 52 stories or approximately 52,000 words in one year. I wrote earlier that these would be short-short fictional stories with mostly a Foreign Service slant; I'm not sure there is a name for this genre - but I called this haiku fiction. This series is named “Brief as Photos,” after John Berger’s 1992 book, “And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos.”

Liam Schwartz who writes the Consular Corner for www.ilw.com recently requested the inclusion of one of the stories here for his bi-monthly issue. Although these stories are clearly labeled as fiction, I imagine that Liam have more readers than this blog and I figure this would be a good time to add a clear "all persons fictitious disclaimer."

So please note that the names and events included in the Brief as Photos series are fictional, that is, formed and conceived from this author's imagination. Any resemblance to people and events, dead or alive, are purely coincidental.

There. Now I'm going back to baking under the sun. Stay well in your corner of the world!