My wife and I had been there a few years before, as tourists, and didn't like it. We found Paris expensive and the French arrogant. They drove on the wrong side of the road - and honked at me for having the temerity to follow the speed limit. They didn't speak English.
The kind Izhar-ul-Haque, about the best Commerce Secretary we have had, wisely didn't take me seriously. After all, he was not exactly consigning me to the Gulags. Friends weighed in. The more sophisticated extolled of Monet and the Orangerie; of Sartre, Camus, and that delightful scoundrel Jean Genet; of all those - Picasso to Hemingway to James Joyce to our very own Sadequain - who found their muse in Paris. Friends who knew me better spoke of things not appropriate to this special issue to salute Shabir Ahmed for his richly deserved recognition by the Government of France.
I was not persuaded - until I learnt of the concurrent accreditation to Dublin. At least there the dinner I ordered and what I got would not be lost in translation. There still stood, between me and the Elysian Fields, this small matter of training. Most of it was a breeze - until we got to that one day at the Foreign Service Academy, ostensibly to learn how to use forks and knives, when in walks Foreign Minister Sahibzada Yakoob, Francophone to his immaculately manicured fingernails. As I bowed reverentially in the reception line he rattled off something at supersonic speed that sounded quite cute. Relapsing into Anglaise he thundered, "How can you represent us if you don't speak French?" "I will learn, Sir", something meek squeaked out. I suspect the timbre in my voice didn't sound too convincing to the polyglot Foreign Minister.
I got the books and the videos - and practised on my wife who claimed to have done French in college. Come October 1982, I land at Charles De Gaulle Airport, full of my French. I might as well have been speaking Balochi. Everyone responded to me in Queen's English - with an attitude. And French became my bête noir. The Ambassador Jamshed Marker was, and still is, very indulgent. Not his charming wife Arnaz, who epitomised diplomacy. She put me on notice, sounding very Yakoobish: learn French or ship out. Luckily, enough French came back to my wife, quickly enough, to provide a cover. On my part I enjoyed leafing through Le Monde on the plane as the guy on the next seat spoke French to me and could not understand why someone who reads Le Monde can't speak French.
I was still going through my French books and tapes at the end of my posting when my wife brought me down to earth: "Are you preparing to give your farewell speech in French?"
Back to the beginning, the first day in Paris. My predecessor quickly parked us at the 'residence' on Avenue New York - a great address - and disappeared. You could view the Eiffel Tower from outside, and see the high heels clicking away from inside this lower level apartment. The next day the land lady, Russian nobility, turned up with an inventory list and proceeded to give us Sotheby-like prices of the chairs and the chandeliers and the paintings that we will owe her if damaged. A few days later, as I was giving the dining room chandelier a polish, the chair I was standing on tripped. I fell to the floor. My wife rushed in. "God, hope the chair is not broken". No prayers for my leg. It wasn't there on the landlady's inventory.
We moved away from Ave New York when we felt threatened, especially for our two little daughters, by the rats who scurried over from the Seine that flowed by. The new apartment that we moved to became home for over four years. It was quite exquisite and our French friends found the appointments, a tribute to the good taste of the landlady, a fair setting for the curries and kebabs and daal chawal we inflicted on them.
We indulged in the French cuisine. We travelled. From Strasbourg to Deauville, from Lille to Cannes. What beautiful country, what fascinating blend of history, superb architecture, and variegated natural beauty; each little town steeped in character, each claimed uniqueness, each immersed in its own idiosyncrasies.
Ambassador Marker was really into music. He knew all the musical icons of the day - Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Zubin Mehta (a fellow Parsi), Daniel Barenboim - on a first name basis, and tried to make an aficionado out of me. Generous to a fault he would often invite us to an opera or a symphony. One day we got caught in traffic and got late. During intermission I was royally reprimanded by Arnaz: "when Jamshed was courting me he told me he will wait for me at every corner but never at a concert". My rump stinging, I never again got late for an appointment with the Ambassador.
But hadn't I gone there not as a tourist but to accomplish the arduous task of making Pakistan's exports soar? That's the trouble with a beautiful country and its beautiful people: the contest between work and surroundings is grotesquely unfair. Luckily for me I had an Ambassador who insisted I get out of the office by 10 am - meet buyers, get an idea of the state of competition, window shop. I dutifully obliged. I was also a frequent visitor to Quai D"orsay and the Ministry of International Trade - became an avid fan of Minister Edith Cresson - largely because Musee DÓrsay happened to be enroute. Serious economic work I astutely 'delegated' to the Ambassador who was remarkably good at it - and generous enough to let me take the credit for it.
Inevitably, there were digressions too - delegations from Pakistan, the several trade fairs that we participated in, chasing carpet importers who owed money to our exporters - but getting to know France, the French, things French remained the abiding priority.
1987. I didn't want to leave. I had fallen in love.
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