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312 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2018
It was the first experience of apartment living for either Tom or I—but with two bedrooms, a single open-plan dining room and kitchen, and small separate study, I thought we could make it work.
‘It’s lovely, although a bit small—just one hundred square metres,’ I said.
Svetlana and Jutta burst out laughing. ‘My apartment is forty square metres,’ Jutta said.
‘Mine’s thirty-five,’ Svetlana said.
What did a thirty-five square metre apartment even look like? (15)My own flat is, incidentally, forty square metres, and frankly, I struggled to imagine how someone who was dismayed by the thought of having 'only' two and a half times this space would manage to come back to a more relatable place. (Not that it's a bad thing to have more space, obviously; I just wonder how you can relate to the average resident if even living in an apartment rather than a house feels like a brave step into the unknown.)
Tom had written to Canberra to request extra resources. Canberra refused, citing Tom’s non-working spouse, and so now I was part of the [unpaid] team. (61)At no point was Martin a paid part of the diplomatic corp (note that some, but not all, countries pay diplomatic spouses, but I can't work out whether or not Australia does and in any case the payment typically amounts to a paltry stipend), but she was expected to, you know, play the supportive wife as needed. Run errands. Speak Polish as required, once her Polish—which she learned on her own time and at her own cost—was up to the task. Smile and look interested and not be offended when she was written off as wife:
I didn’t have to come to any of these events. Most spouses didn’t, and I could understand why. I was used to briefing ministers and heads of government departments on media strategies or complex social issues. But I’d had no training in making chitchat with them over canapés—or how to respond to the bored look they’d give me when I revealed I was just a wife. Spouses were invited to the events, but not into the conversations. (43)And perhaps I was off base to think that a diplomat should be able to relate to the locals they're living with, because certainly many of the diplomats—and diplomats' spouses—Martin got to know could not. It was not, for many of them, their job: not their job to learn Polish, not their job to travel beyond Warsaw and Kraków, not their job to make an effort to get outside the gilded zone. Rather, it was their job to rub elbows with other diplomats, to make connections, to go to dinner parties and art openings. To set the groundwork for favours being asked and answered. Sometimes that life sounds terribly sad to me:
‘And where is that painting from?’ Harry pointed to one bayside beach scene that took up almost a whole wall.
‘Oh, it’s all from Artbank,’ the Ambassador said. The name of the service senior public officials could avail themselves of to decorate their offices and homes elicited another laughing nod between Harry and the Ambassador. (132)Not that everyone has to be deeply invested in décor (certainly I am not), but golly, I think I'd feel like I was living in a hotel if I was just borrowing art from a central collection—arbitrary art with no story. And yet, at times, we see the people who seem to get it:
Alex put a canapé in his mouth and chewed. ‘You know that last ambassador [of the US], the one with the baby elephants [on his tie]?’ he said, ‘He also had a map of Poland on the wall of his office. And he put a pin in every place he went to. And by the end of it, you almost couldn’t see anything of the map for all the pins. And the “serious” people at the embassy would grumble about what a waste of time and money it was when they were off doing “real” diplomatic work. But over the years, they realised that people in the remotest corners of Poland were positively disposed towards America, because an ambassador had bothered to go there and shake their hands, and no one had ever done that before.’ (262)Martin managed to cover an impressive span of the country (and a few others besides—although I must note that while I cannot speak for her Polish, the little German included in the book when she travels to Germany is appalling; as an example, she uses a zo as an interjection multiple times, and I can only assume that ach so is intended) and pick up all sorts of information in her time in Poland. Far and away my favourite story is that of the Eighth Polish (and Sixth International) Hand Scything of Boggy Meadows for Nature Championship. Yes, really. It says something that this exists, but it also says something about those who choose to attend as spectators.
‘I suppose I can tell you something now,’ Julie said, looking at me.
So this is the part where she confessed she hadn’t really wanted to come, I thought.
‘I thought we would be doing the scything.’
‘You thought we’d be doing the scything? And you came anyway?’ I was pretty sure then that our potential friendship was more than just a case of common geographic origins. ‘So that’s why you brought the gumboots?’ (164)Truly, how great is that?