The long afternoons spent by my grandmother’s side, immersed in encyclopedias as a child, remain etched in my memory. The fascination with flags, the history of each country, and the vivid world I discovered from her room—these were the building blocks of my dreams. Years later, I would find myself working as an intern in the office of a peculiar diplomat, who, at that time, was a second-class minister—a position just a step away from becoming an ambassador.
It was all so new to me, and I remember how it felt like a dream finally coming true: to work in the very field I had spent four long years studying at university. Minister Louis was an eccentric figure, always in motion—agitated, quick-tempered, and insistent on getting things done fast. His appearance was always impeccable. His suit, although old, was meticulously cared for. The fragrance he wore was impossible to miss. We could sense his arrival from a distance, not only by the fresh, enveloping scent, but by the palpable shift in the air. It was as if the environment itself trembled before him, as though the leaves fluttered, the air buzzed—an almost supernatural prelude to his entrance.
Inside his office, there were two secretaries. One was deeply religious, absent-minded, and largely indifferent to the minister’s sharp remarks and demands. The other was exceptionally competent, understanding his preferences and routines, and had worked with him for years. I, on the other hand, was just an intern—a fresh face in the diplomatic world. On my first day, the minister called me in for something that felt utterly bizarre: a dictation. Yes, you read that correctly—a dictation. Back then, it wasn’t common for bosses to write their own documents, so he would dictate, I would take notes, rush to the computer, type everything up, and then bring it back to him for corrections.
His office was a testament to his career. Family portraits showcasing his achievements, a set of sofas for receiving visitors, a massive bookshelf filled with books, and photographs with presidents and other dignitaries. In the back, there were portraits of the great patrons of diplomacy. The office exuded elegance, but it was also intimidating—almost as if you were in a palatial chamber. Minister Louis would sit behind his desk, surrounded by neatly organized stationery, speaking in a loud, almost strident tone. When he stood, he gestured wildly, his restlessness filling the room. During the dictations, he would pause, look out of the window, deep in thought, while I hurriedly took notes. He would pace back and forth, lean over what I had written, and make changes—endlessly altering, correcting, and revising. It was exhausting, but more like a workout for him, given how much he moved around the office.
Once the dictation was done, he would demand that I “fly like the wind” to get the document back to him for signature. His expectations were simple: the document had to be flawless—well-written, polished, and free from any errors in grammar, spelling, or punctuation. If I succeeded, I would be showered with compliments, asked about my life, my future, and he would always suggest that I pursue a diplomatic career, as it was the “elite” of the country. But if I made even the slightest mistake, whether in agreement, names, dates, or even the most minor language error, it was an entirely different story. He would become furious, shouting, questioning whether I had even attended school, whether I had studied at all. It was nothing short of humiliating.
One day, he asked me if I had "been to school" after I made a mistake with an accent. “Run to the library,” he told me. The next day, he threatened to “take Camões” from me. Completely confused, I asked, “What about Camões, sir?” He shouted, “Read Camões!” and slammed the door, leaving me in utter bewilderment.
Later, I shared the experience with a colleague, who laughed out loud. It turned out that the minister’s threat was serious, and yet, I still had no clue what I was supposed to read about Camões. Eager to impress and avoid further humiliation, I spent the entire night reading summaries about the poet, trying to prepare myself for whatever would come next. The next day, the minister asked if I had read Camões. He then called me for another dictation. But this time, he asked if he could trust me, that he had a personal request and needed my help. I was thrilled. This meant he trusted my work, and it was my chance to prove myself.
He then turned on the red light in his office. This light was a device next to his desk that, when activated, lit up a small red lamp outside the door, signaling that no one could disturb him. No calls, no visitors, nothing could get through. It was his way of ensuring absolute privacy and focus. And there I was, inside the room with him, while chaos unfolded outside as everyone wondered what was happening. It became somewhat of a spectacle. But for me, it felt like a badge of honor. I had earned his trust, and for a young intern, that meant the world.
He proceeded to explain that he needed me to type a letter to his neighbor, who had requested that he trim the trees on his property, as their falling leaves were causing trouble. The minister asked me to write the letter exactly as he dictated:
Dear Sir,
With reference to your letter dated June 23, 2004, I am pleased to inform you that the forestry engineer from NOVACAP, upon visiting my residence, not only confirmed that there is no danger of the nearby paineira trees falling near the property line of our properties, and thus, as you put it, "causing a tragedy" to your family, but also informed me that there is no record in Brasília of any paineira trees ever falling. This is due to the structure of their trunks, which are much thicker at the base, giving them exceptional balance—hence their name “barriguda,” as they are commonly known. Moreover, given the monumental size of the two trees, their grandeur during blooming season, and their contribution to alleviating the dry climate in Brasília, cutting them down would be an environmental crime, equivalent to killing them, as you request.
By the way, I would like to inform you that the firefighters, who pruned the branches of the two paineiras in March 2001 (with my consent), do not have the technical expertise or authority to determine a "dangerous situation," as stated in your letter.
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However, in a demonstration of goodwill, I have had all the branches that might potentially fall into your yard pruned. Additionally, with written authorization from the NOVACAP engineer, dated June 3 of this year, I was able to request the fire department to remove, as soon as possible, a paineira that, due to its underdevelopment compared to the others, might eventually break (for example, in a storm) and fall into your green area.
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In return for my act of "neighborly civility," and considering your suggestion that "as neighbors, we should resolve matters amicably," I kindly request that you take the necessary measures to prevent your numerous cats from invading my property. I should note that I have been forced to repaint my barbecue area several times (your cats, in search of scraps every time I barbecue, leave marks on the white walls of the house), and more importantly, one of them entered my living room and broke a French biscuit piece with a Baccarat crystal top from the 19th century, which belonged to my great-grandfather, Baron de Mesquita, and is therefore of inestimable value. At the time, I did not bring this matter to your attention "for the sake of good neighborliness."
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Furthermore, I kindly request that, in compliance with the noise control law, you take the necessary steps to prevent your dog, which invariably barks non-stop for hours every Sunday—probably because it is confined or chained—from disturbing the peace of my family and, also, that of your other neighbor from house 14, especially on the one day of the week designated for rest.
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Hoping that after so many years, we can finally enjoy a relationship of good neighborliness, I express my highest regards to you.
The entire day was spent drafting and redrafting this letter. He dictated, corrected, changed, and shouted, pacing around the room like a whirlwind. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Was this really diplomacy? Where were the great issues of the world that I had thought diplomats dealt with daily? Yet, despite the chaos, I took the entire process seriously. It wasn’t about the trees or the letter—it was about gaining his trust, learning from him, and, strangely, enjoying the madness of it all. It was the most important day of my short internship—one where I truly felt like I mattered, at least for a moment.