25. Pretoria, 1995 - Quick thinking
In which Eleanor says goodbye.
Eleanor's given an opportunity. Some celebrate. Some mourn.
Part Three — Egypt, 1995 — 1997
Pretoria, 1995 — Quick thinking
Eleanor
Sizwe puts his head around the door. “Henrik wants to see you. He says to go to his office.”
I look up, nervously. “What about?”
“He didn’t say. Good luck!”
Sizwe has become one of my closest friends at the Department. We loved doing Arabic together. And we’d both volunteered for inauguration assignments. He’d gotten event planning, I’d gotten security. Now we’re both on Middle East desks in the Department: him on the North Africa desk led by Imaad Musa; me on the Levant desk led by Francois du Plessis. He’s fascinated me with his stories of enduring the freezing winters of Moscow, where he received his military training from the Russians as an ANC fighter. He’d given me a whole list of things to see and do in Moscow, which I added on to my trip to the Beckhams in St Petersburg two months ago.
He went into exile when he was fourteen. Fourteen! I cannot imagine having left St Anne’s, Mom and Dad, Tig, everything I know, at fourteen. His cheerful face and uproarious stories mask a pain so deep he never talks about it. And I don’t pry. There are things I will never know about what it was like to be black in South Africa. Then he got sent by the ANC to London and to Cambridge University. He was part of the first wave of ANC people returning from exile to be placed into the Department. He is rising fast, and is expected to get his first posting any day now, as more and more new missions are announced. He’s coy about it, but I’m sure he already knows which one he’s going to. He’s too young to be made an Ambassador on his first posting, I know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the first of our year of freshly graduated cadets to receive an Ambassadorship.
I walk down the corridor to Henrik’s office now, a knot of nerves. Henrik, who I first interviewed with, is the Chief Director for all of the Middle East and Africa. He drives a high standard of reporting, and with all the new missions opening up in the region, he’s got a direct line to the Deputy Minister, who is pushing for the process to be accelerated, while the Director-General, a hold-over from the prior administration, seems to want to slow it. Henrik doesn’t stand for foolishness and drama and has a way of looking at you as if he sees right through you. What on earth can he want with me?
“Ah, Eleanor, thanks for coming right away. Come in. Sit down.”
I sit on the edge of the chair in front of his big desk. Feeling small and nervous.
“We’ve just got word. We’ve got a spot to send one person from the Department to the Arabic program at the British Council in Cairo. It’s a two year placement. Thom Poole recommended you as the best candidate, given your performance in Arabic class.” He moves some papers to one side on his desk, then leans back in his chair, steepling his hands. “I conferred with Francois and Imaad, and they both seconded Thom’s assessment. Thing is, the program starts in two weeks. You’d need to leave as soon as possible. I need to know your decision tomorrow. Do you want it?” His gray eyes rest on me appraisingly. As ever his face is impassive. You never know what the man is thinking.
I’m dumbfounded, trying to process what I’m hearing. Me. Cairo. Arabic. Two years. Leave immediately. Decide now.
“Yes,” I blurt out. “My answer is yes.”
I don’t need to think about it. Every fiber of my being wants this. I’m stunned. I’m elated.
“Wonderful. Glad you can decide so quickly.” He actually cracks a smile. “Call Antoinette Meyer in Transfers and she’ll walk you through all the next steps.”
He stands up and walks around the desk. I scramble to my feet.
“Well done,” he reaches out his hand. I’m barely aware of mine shaking his. “Thom, Francois and Imaad all speak highly of you. Do us proud. You’re the first South African doing this. Your success will determine if we send others or not.”
“Thank you. I’ll do my best, sir.”
I walk out of his office, down the corridor and back to my desk in a daze. It’s surreal, it’s awesome, it’s terrifying.
I’ve barely sat down when Sizwe pops his head around the door. “What did Henrik want?” he asks, curiosity written all over his open, kind face.
“I’m going to Cairo. As soon as possible. Arabic program at the British Council for two years.”
Sizwe whistles. “Lucky girl. How did you score that?”
“Thom Poole apparently. And recommendations from Francois and Imaad.”
“I should be envious, but I’m not, Miss Smarty Pants. First in your foreign service exams, now first to become an Arabist. Come here ‘sis. Let me be the first to congratulate you.” He wraps me in a hug, then gives me a comrade handshake. “Now, this calls for a celebratory lunch. Let’s round up the others and head out.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the office, my mind still dazed at how everything has changed in fifteen minutes.
“That’s wonderful news. Congratulations! Very richly deserved,” Mahdi beams at me when we meet up for a sedate coffee later. My heart aches that we will be separated. But I’m also so excited.
“Will we be able to see each other, do you think?” I look at him imploringly.
“I’m sure we can make a plan,” he soothes me. “You’ll be back for trips home. We could meet up in Dubai, or London for a weekend, or when you have breaks in your study schedule.”
He reaches for my hand across the table. We sit there in stillness, me melting in the liquid warmth of his kind eyes and gentle face, softened by his decades in the struggle. My face flushes. I wish we were somewhere private. Somewhere we could…
We steal a long, slow kiss behind the coffee shop before we head back to our respective buildings and offices.
“What?” wails Mum over dinner when I tell her and Dad the news. “So soon? To Egypt? Are you sure you want to go? Won’t it be awful—all that crowding and pollution and dirt? What are you going to do about your apartment?”
Mum’s normal fretful anxiety ratchets up to higher levels of intensity. I find myself irritated. I’m a diplomat, for god’s sake. Getting posted is the whole point. She knows this. She’s known it since the day I got the job two years ago. She knows I love Arabic. She’s fretted me with stupid questions like “What if you fall in love with an Arab and you move away?” I simply don’t dignify that one with an answer. She knows nothing about Mahdi, and I intend to keep it that way.
“It’s all sorted, Mum.” I’m curt. “The Department will send movers to pack up the apartment. The Embassy has a hotel for me and will help me find an apartment once I get there. Transfers is arranging all the travel. All I need to do is pack a bag and get on a plane. It couldn't be simpler.”
“Can you at least stay the next few nights with us, so that we can spend more time with you before you leave?” she asks plaintively.
I sigh, exasperated. “Mum, I’ve got things I need to do at the apartment. I can’t stay here.”
“Oh Ellie,” Mum moans. “It’s all happening so quickly. I didn’t expect this so soon. I thought we’d have more time to get used to you leaving, whenever you got a posting. I’m happy for you if it’s what you want. But it feels very hard to have this all be so rushed and on such short notice.”
Then she brightens. “You’ll need some new clothes, though. Will you let me take you shopping at least?”
I concede that I can at least give her that.
Book Club #3: Saturday January 4, 2025
Young Diplomats in a Young Democracy
It was the dawn of the new era. Freedom had come. And we were young and literally right there, starting our careers as diplomats.
Sober? Generally. Sedate? Sometimes. Hopeful? Overflowing.
Our guests this month are Linford Andrews, now head of Electoral Support at The Commonwealth, and Ingrid Kirsten, who’s career has focussed on nuclear disarmament and non-proliferation.
