Art of the Bluff

Sandra Beasley's first book, "Theories of Falling," won the 2007 New Issues Poetry Prize. (Courtesy Author)

"No, no," the blonde said. "You really need to whip it. It's better if the person next to you does it." She nodded at a middle-aged woman sitting next to me. "Let her do it!"

I looked at the woman, still wearing her pearls from the office. She seemed nice enough, but I couldn't remember her name, and she was about to hit me with an oily tree. I closed my eyes and breathed in steam. There was vodka upstairs, waiting. Lots of vodka.

When we dressed and went back upstairs, there was vodka, but no men. Except one: the featured journalist, fidgeting apologetically in his tweed jacket.

"I'd rather not take off my clothes right before I speak," he said.

There I was, with the man of the hour's undivided attention and a stack of business cards in my pocket. But I don't read up on nuclear fission in my free time. I was

afraid to ask about the Yucca Mountain project without knowing whether to pronounce it Yuck-ah or Yoo-kah. So, instead, I jabbered away about holography research I'd done "back in school," leaving out the fact that it had been in high school.

After everyone reassembled, the ambassador led us to a buffet table heaped with glistening dishes. He welcomed us, partially in Finnish, and we applauded as if we'd followed every word. People picked up their china and circled, complimenting the display, but no one around me took any food. I wondered what the problem was.

A silver-haired man leaned over. "The ambassador said there's reindeer carpaccio on the table," he whispered, "but no one wants to ask him which plate it is."

"Mmmm, Rudolph." I said. "Bring it on."

I was bluffing, but, hey -- I was in good company.

Sandra Beasley and column editor Sandy Fernandez will be fielding questions and comments about this article Tuesday at noon.