The Diplomacy of Paineiras and Cats: A Day in the Office with the Ambassador
It was just another typical day at the office, or at least that’s what I thought. The Ambassador—my ever-peculiar, high-ranking superior—had summoned me, as he often did, for a little dictation. But today, this was no ordinary task. No, this was a full-on diplomatic endeavor, and I was about to learn that, in his eyes, every letter he crafted was an exercise in perfection.
"Rui," he said, with that deliberate tone he reserved for what he considered important matters. "Paper. I need you to take this down."
I’d been working with him long enough to know what was coming. This wasn’t just about writing a letter. This was about crafting a masterpiece. And as I stood up to fetch my pen and paper, I knew it was time to settle in for another one of his "sessions." The moment I returned to my desk, I noticed his distinctive pacing—back and forth, back and forth—like a penguin trying to find its way through a maze.
He was a man of action, always moving, always in motion. His feet tapped anxiously on the floor, his polished shoes clicking with a rhythmic precision as he rounded the desk like a clock ticking toward a deadline. I could swear that, over time, his incessant walking had made an actual dent in the floor beneath the rug. The man was always in motion, a bundle of energy and obsessive detail.
“Are you writing all this down?” He asked, his gaze shifting from the window to the paper I was writing on. I could practically feel his presence over my shoulder as he hovered like a hawk, scrutinizing each line. "Spacing," he instructed. "Margins. Font size. It all matters. Make it look good, Rui."
I glanced at the paper in front of me, my handwriting now looking like some kind of battlefield as I adjusted, readjusted, and readjusted again. I’d been doing this for years, but somehow, with him, every letter felt like it could change the course of history. I was in the trenches, trying to keep up with his ever-moving feet and ever-moving thoughts.
We were writing a letter, but not just any letter. No, this was a diplomatic letter—one about paineiras. You know, those large, majestic trees that grace Brazil's streets with their massive trunks and enormous umbrellas of leaves. The trees that were—according to my boss—at risk of falling. Apparently, they could cause a "tragedy" in the neighbor’s backyard. Of course, the letter wasn’t just about trees; it was about the fate of the neighborhood, the environment, and, most importantly, the future of all diplomacy between neighbors. This was, without question, an issue that demanded meticulous attention to detail.
"The forestry engineer from NOVACAP confirms," he dictated, with exaggerated precision, "there is no danger of the paineiras falling… They are perfectly stable." He paused, tapping his foot against the floor in rhythm. "Make sure you spell 'paineiras' correctly. And get the dates right."
I adjusted the paper again. Everything had to be just so. Spacing, margins, font size. And as I rewrote, he walked. And walked. Back and forth, up and down the room, as if trying to escape the very idea of sitting still. It was the most bizarre dance I’d ever witnessed. A frenetic waltz, punctuated only by occasional comments on the content.
"And don’t forget about the cats!" he added, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. "You need to include that too. Cats are a real problem in this neighborhood, Rui."
Yes, of course. Cats. The neighbors' cats had been leaving their paw prints all over his property, particularly on his pristine white walls. The absurdity of it all made it almost impossible to keep a straight face. But I couldn’t laugh. No, that would have been too dangerous. The Ambassador was watching, every word coming out of his mouth a sacred decree.
"In return for my 'neighborly civility,'" he continued, "I request that Your Excellency take the necessary steps to prevent the various cats from your property from invading mine."
I could hear his voice, still in my ear, as I meticulously recorded every word. “Get the tone right, Rui. Diplomacy isn’t just about what you say; it’s about how you say it. Polite, but firm. Subtle, but clear.”
The cats, the trees, the barking dog next door—it was all a strange mixture of official language and domestic drama. And there I was, in the middle of it, trying to keep up. Each time I thought I had the document correct, it came back for another round of corrections.
“Margins, Rui. Margins. The font size,” he insisted again, pacing now more urgently. “And don’t forget the dog. We need to address the dog. Every Sunday. It barks. For hours. It’s unacceptable.”
With every new correction, I began to feel the absurdity of the situation sink in. This was my life now—drafting and redrafting, correcting and re-correcting, writing about things as ridiculous as barking dogs and stray cats in a letter that could very well be sent to a high-ranking official. But there was something else in all of this. Something deeper. My boss trusted me with this task, even though it was wrapped in layers of humor and frustration. He believed in my ability to get it right. He was teaching me something, albeit in the most unusual way.
Eventually, the letter was finished. Or at least, I thought it was. He looked at it, nodded approvingly, then said something I would never forget: "Now, Rui, you need to read Camões. Trust me. It’s important. You will thank me later."
I smiled, probably too amused at the situation, but he wasn’t having it. "No, seriously," he said, eyeing me with the look of a man who had just imparted some ancient wisdom. "Tomorrow, I expect you to know Camões. And don’t even think of asking why. It will all make sense soon enough."
As I left his office that day, exhausted and perplexed, I couldn't help but laugh. What had just happened? I had written a letter about trees, cats, and a dog, with more corrections than I could count. But in that moment, I realized it wasn’t about the letter at all. It was about learning from a man who, in his own bizarre way, had a deep sense of what it meant to be perfect in diplomacy. And as I headed out, my mind already running through the lines of Camões, I knew this strange lesson in the office would stay with me forever.