“Where’syouroffice, amai (mother)?” thephonecardvendorasksasIstridetowardashoppingmallineasternZimbabwe, mylaptopslungovermyshoulder.[1]
Istoptothinkforasecond. Office? Idon’thaveone.
ThelasttimeIworkedinarealofficewasnearly 10 yearsagoattheheadquartersofanewsagencyinParis. Computersweresprinkledoverdeskslikeungainlyconfetti, colleaguesordered “recasts” and “wraps” ascoollyasiftheyweremilkshakes, andthegracefulPlacedelaBoursewasseveralfloorsbelow.[2]
Beforethat, myofficewasthedarknewsroomoftheInternationalHeraldTribuneinNeuilly-sur-Seine, where, freshoutofuniversity, Idistributedphotocopiesofthatday’spaperlayoutanddreamedofaswashbucklingfuture.[3]
Whenin 2000 ImetthemanI’dmarryjustsixmonthslater, mylife—andmysubsequentoffices—changedbeyondrecognition.
AsfreelancersinSouthernAfrica, welearnedtosetupmakeshiftworkrooms, mybeauandI, inmanyplaces.[4] LikethatdingycafeontheMozambicanborder.[5] Ithadluridflowerylampshadesandgreasytoastbut—joyofjoys!—alargeflat-screenTVshowingCNN.[6]
Orthelivingroomofaflatwerentedonce. Ithadpostersofdolphinsonthewalls, whichwerecardboard-thin: WhenIwashedourlineninthebathtub, Icouldheartheansweringslap-slapofmyneighbordoingherownlaundryafewinchesfrommynose.[7] Wehungduvetsroundthestairwelltocreateasoundproofboothformyhusband’sradiorecordings.[8]
返回查字典首页>>