In his suitcase, Charles had packed only essentials: linen shirts, pressed linen trousers, comb, wax, shaving brush. Several blades, notepaper, and personal documents. A single pen. Once these had been packed, he felt at a loss. There was nothing of particular importance to add. He owned little. Desired less. Surveying his bedsit, he had chosen, without looking, a book from among the four or five perfunctory volumes that lined the shelf.
He was drawn only by the cover. The title, Les Diplomates, was superimposed in white lettering over three monuments of seemingly unrelated nationalities: Big Ben, an Egyptian monolith, and a domed cupola of vague Turkic origin, all rendered in an unflattering neon yellow.
Upon locating the embassy, he had experienced surprise. Down a narrow street, unchaperoned, he had spent the better part of an hour blinking sweat onto the crumpled brown paper containing the address. As a building it was impermeable, not due to fortifications, but thanks to a dense scattering of objects that made the facade unreadable. A wall of inconvenient height, perfectly surmountable, was overgrown with the droppings of two large palm trees. The foliage also obscured any clear understanding of the building’s architectonic language. Charles could not tell whether it had been rendered in the western style, popular for some two decades, or in the city’s more storied vernacular. Not that it mattered, since neither would have lent the building much consequence in its depleted state.
Inside, he was plunged into almost immediate crepuscularity. An embassy worker met him in the foyer. Taking his bag, the worker led him through a practically labyrinthine series of halls, pausing occasionally to describe the artwork hung, gallerystyle, on the walls: 19th-century watercolour landscapes, diplomatic portraits, official photographs (doctored and undoctored), hunting scenes. The works were charmless. Chiefly intended for a kind of post-war diplomatic aesthetic that nobody, save the deeply patriotic, could enjoy without boredom.
The guide stopped before a small, non-descript portrait of a seated woman. The figure’s back was turned to the viewer, her gender suggested by a slight flourish of the brush around the shoulders that hinted at effeminacy.
“What’s the origin of this work?” Charles asked, stopping
“That was brought to us recently,” the worker explained. “It bears no relation to the other works here. They are all purposeful: dignitaries, territories, records. I’ve found this far too…sentimental.” The guide looked significant at that moment, focusing on the figure.
“Although I suppose, it is unclear what purpose embassy artworks should have at all”.
Written by Lydia Eliza Trail
