it’s funny how little you understand as an expat sometimes, and how quickly the unexpected becomes commonplace. just now enid was showering, getting ready to go out to dinner, play the corporate wife and help the man woo some visitors from the usa. then the doorbell rang and the dogs let rip as if a horde of people in stripey jumpers were making off with the family heirlooms.
drat, thought enid. she pulled a dressing gown on and ran downstairs. the video entryphone showed two policemen in peaked caps. enid opened the door and tiptoed onto the landing (it was dirty, and she had bare feet). policeman 1 greeted her, then let off a barrage of less comprehensible russian.
“i’m sorry, i don’t speak russian,” enid replied in her best russian.
policeman 2 dredged his memory, and the interrogation began in english.
“number this house?”
enid gave her answers, then the policemen apologised (for getting her out of the shower, she presumed) and went away.
why did they want that information? were they checking on the address enid gave at immigration? will enid get in trouble because she’s living in the country but only has a three month tourist visa? will they be deported? were they just getting out of the rain? enid hasn’t the foggiest.
she reflects that, had this happened in the uk, she’d have wanted to make damn sure why the police wanted this information before giving it to them. perhaps she’s just a sissy who’s scared of police with guns - or perhaps she’s been an expat too long.