In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Sara MacDonald

  ‘I am late, as usual. I meant to be here to meet you. I thought you might like to see a familiar face,’ she says, breathless.

  ‘Massima, I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my whole life …’

  ‘Please to get in car now …’ one of the security men says. Poor man, they need me safely away from the airport.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ I ask Massima hopefully.

  ‘Yes, of course. My cousin, he dropped me here …’ She waves to a young man standing by a car. ‘Naas will follow us. I cleared it with Dr Orlov. I will come with you.’

  We climb into the huge Land Cruiser and slide out of the airport and on to the road into Karachi.

  I smile. ‘Massima … how come you knew what flight I was on?’

  Massima grins. ‘Afia, Raif and I met your Russian, Sergei Orlov, at a British Council meeting last week. We were drumming up donations for flood victims. I asked him when you were arriving. He was concerned about your security and whether he would be able to meet your plane. I told him I would like to be there when you land and he was very happy …’

  ‘I can’t tell you how much this means, to have you here.’

  She looks at me curiously. ‘Gabby, I don’t know your plans. Sergei Orlov seemed vague. Presumably, you are staying at his house with other NGOs? I worry that it might not be what you are used to, so I have prepared a room for you in the flat above my gallery, in case you need it. I stay there sometimes if I have to work late or if we have too many relations staying. So, you have somewhere to escape, if you need to be alone, or just to be with me.’

  I am touched and reassured. ‘That’s wonderful to know. I think I’m staying at Sergei’s house, at least initially, but I don’t really have a clue what the set-up is yet …’

  We follow the familiar, frenetic route into Karachi. Huge lorries and packed buses thunder past. So do trucks full of soldiers.

  ‘Life is increasingly uneasy since you were last here, Gabby. Zardari’s popularity has plummeted since the floods. The government has done little to help the millions of people who have lost their homes. Aid is painfully slow. Even wealthy Pakistanis won’t give money when it’s likely to end up in the hands of corrupt officials. The only people really helping the flood victims are tiny local charities, the Pakistan air force and the Taliban. There is a real tragedy unfolding in Pakistan and we all feel helpless …’

  Palm trees bend in a wind. I stare out of the window at the rickety shacks by the roadside and the fruit stalls. Sirens begin behind me. Police cars and Land Rovers full of rangers flash past, bulldozing traffic out of the way. Despite the air-conditioning in the car, sweat runs down my legs and arms. Beggars crowd the car at the traffic lights; children try to wash the windscreen and are sworn at by the driver.

  The sky is dark and ominous, as if reflecting the mood of the country, and there is more rain to come. As if life was not hard enough for those without shelter.

  I say lamely, ‘I think Sergei plans a huge international public relations campaign to convince people that charity organizations, like IDARA, can be trusted with public money and that it will go where it is most needed.’

  Massima smiles. ‘I think that is why you are here, Gabby.’

  We turn off the highway before we reach the centre of Karachi, onto side roads I’ve never driven on before. It’s obviously a wealthy part of the city with large gated and guarded suburban homes. Massima turns to make sure her cousin’s car is still behind us.

  The driver stops outside some high gates and uses his telephone. The gates swing open and we drive in and the gates shut behind us to reveal a security guard with a gun. Massima asks the driver to go out and tell her cousin she will be out to join him shortly.

  A small man and woman appear. They bow and nod to us in welcome. Massima grills them in Urdu.

  ‘Their names are Herata and Badhir. They are Sergei Orlov’s housekeepers. They tell me they look after everything. Sergei has asked them to take care of you until he returns. They are not sure when that will be.’

  We walk up stone steps into a hall with a desk and computer and a wide formal staircase. On the right there is a large sitting room with many sofas and chairs leading into a dining room. Herata rushes away and comes back with cold drinks in bottles and glasses.

  ‘Will you be all right, Gabby?’ Massima is anxious as we drink thirstily. ‘I do not want to leave you on your own, but my cousin he waits outside. We have a business meeting with a textile company from Lahore. I will ring you in a couple of hours to see if you need anything. You can come over to me this evening if Sergei isn’t back, but I think you may be jetlagged.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Massima. I’ll just go to bed and sleep. Stop worrying about me, you’ve done more than enough by meeting me.’

  Massima turns and speaks to Herata and Badhir. They shake their heads. ‘You don’t have a room of your own, Gabby. There are many people staying here at the moment,’ Massima says.

  I smile. ‘I knew Sergei would have a full house. I wasn’t expecting to have a room of my own. I’m here to help, Massima, it isn’t a hotel.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Massima says, looking doubtful. ‘Still, it is not very private for you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that the people living under bits of plastic have much privacy either.’

  ‘But they are used to it and you are not. I am in half mind to take you straight to the flat with me now, at least until Sergei returns. He might not even be back tonight, Gabby.’

  ‘Massima, I am not here to be comfortable. This is hardly slumming it. Go to your meeting. Your cousin will be wondering where you are …’

  I hug her. ‘Thank you. Thank you for you.’

  Massima makes for the door. ‘Promise, you will ring if you need anything?’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘Go!’

  She laughs and runs down the steps. As the security guard holds the gate open for her and she disappears behind it, I feel bereft.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Karachi, 2010

  Badhir picks the cases up and I follow him up the wide stairs. There are three bedrooms leading off a wide landing, all with their doors open. The upstairs of the house resembles an untidy boarding school. There are single beds packed into the rooms with clothes, books, laptops and personal possessions in untidy heaps on the top of them.

  ‘Everyone out,’ Badhir says. He leads me into the large middle bedroom. There is a huge double bed and a small camp bed next to it. Around the bed are two screens erected haphazardly each side, for the illusion of privacy, and two single beds on the other side of the screen.

  Badhir places my rucksack and case near the double bed. ‘Boss say you sleep here, mem. Many people come. Many people go.’

  It is strange to see the evidence of so many people when the house is entirely empty. It makes for the queasy feeling of a catastrophe or a holocaust of some kind. It is all very Sergei, though. He told me he did not like using aid money to put NGOs up in five-star hotels.

  I stare at the huge bed. On the bedside table there are photographs of a younger Sergei with two little boys. This is obviously where the big man sleeps. I smile to myself. There is no way he would fit into a camp bed.

  Badhir shows me a bathroom leading from the bedroom. ‘Food ready soon, mem,’ he says.

  I thank him, shut the door and rake around my case for clean clothes. I shake out a plain shalwar kameez and lay it on the bed.

  The bathroom smells, evocatively, of Sergei; woody aftershave and lemon soap. I shower, dress and go downstairs although I feel heavy and jetlagged and long to climb into bed.

  There is a young Pakistani man talking into a mobile phone and a European girl sitting at the dining room table. The girl is a Dutch journalist called Ardina. The man introduces himself as Malik, a freelance photographer. They are friendly but preoccupied. Their phones buzz constantly during the meal so conversation is fractured and I’m relieved. I cannot tell them, with any conviction, what I am doing he
re, yet.

  Badhir and Herata bring copious plates of rice, spicy meat dishes and vegetable curries and fresh bread. Malik warns Ardina and me which dishes contain the hottest chillies. Ardina leaves abruptly when her driver arrives.

  ‘I have to fly to Islamabad to talk to a reluctant politician. Nice to meet you, Gabriella …’ She grins at me. ‘My advice is sleep as much as you can, while you can.’

  ‘Do you know where Sergei is?’ I ask Malik.

  ‘He is in north Sindh with a medical team doing an assessment. He hopes to be back tonight but it might be tomorrow morning. Flights to and from Islamabad are oversubscribed at the moment, as you can imagine …’

  He smiles at me. ‘I think we will be working together. Sergei told me you were coming out … and just so you know, I am a British Pakistani born in Bradford, so I am still stumbling about getting my bearings …’

  His phone blips and he jumps to his feet with an apology.

  ‘My driver is here too. I am off to take photographs of the river about to burst its banks a few miles out of Karachi. I too advise you to sleep while you can. Sergei does not appear to need much. It is exhausting …’

  I sit for a moment in the silent dining room among the empty dishes. There are obviously many people fulfilling a specific role here. I hope I’m not going to be out of my depth. I pick up a bottle of water from the table, thank Herata and Badhir, and go back upstairs.

  I can’t fight sleep any longer. I close the bedroom door. The room is air-conditioned and cool. I pull on schoolgirl pyjamas, find my iPod, hesitate between the camp bed and the double and then fall gratefully into the double bed.

  I am half asleep when my phone rings. It is Birjees. ‘Gabby! You are safely here. We ring Massima to make sure. Are you are okay in a strange house? Do you need anything? Shahid, he is worrying about you, you know what he’s like …’

  I laugh and reassure her. ‘Please tell Dr Shahid I am fine and say hello.’

  ‘You sound tired. I will let you go, Gabby. I will ring again. You promise you will ring if you need anything?’

  ‘I promise, dear Birjees. I can’t wait to see you both …’

  It is so good to hear her voice again, but I am already half asleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Karachi, 2010

  In the night I am conscious of doors opening and shutting, of voices and lights, but I am unable to climb up from the deep unnatural sleep of jetlag.

  Light filters through glass on the top of the door. I’m aware of someone moving about and wonder if someone is sleeping in the beds beyond the screen. I hear the sound of running water and feel the bed give as someone sits on it. I hear a yawn and the next minute that someone is in the bed with me. I slowly burrow up from sleep.

  ‘Gabriella?’ It is Sergei’s voice. ‘It is all right, it is only me, Sergei.’

  I try to focus and he whispers, ‘Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning, it is very late.’

  His voice is husky with exhaustion. A moment later I can hear that he is asleep. I float for a while in the warmth of his back, unsure if I am really awake or dreaming.

  When I wake light is creeping into the room and Sergei is indeed in the bed with me, asleep on his side. His laboured breathing sounds like someone deprived of sleep. I move carefully so I do not wake him. This should feel weird but it doesn’t.

  I lie on my back listening to the stirrings in the house. Eventually, I need the bathroom so I slide out and shower. When I go back to the bedroom Sergei is awake. He grins at me.

  ‘Gabriella. I am very delighted to see you again.’

  I grin back, self-conscious in my pyjamas. He lifts the duvet.

  ‘Climb back into bed for a moment. We will discuss our coming day for five minutes. You are quite safe in those pyjamas.’

  I grin and get back into the bed. We lie watching each other in silence. Sergei’s eyes are amused but he looks deadly tired. I have such an overpowering sense of a good man that tears come to my eyes.

  Sergei reaches for me and we hold each other for a moment in silence. Somewhere in the house people call to each other and there is the smell of coffee and the sound of running water.

  Sergei says, ‘Are you up to a trip in a helicopter today?’

  I pull away to look at him. ‘I must have slept for about twenty hours. Of course I am.’

  Sergei lets me go and rolls out of bed. ‘You smell delicious. I do not. I’m going to shower. Put on trousers, closed shoes, kurta or a long-sleeved top and bring a large dupatta to cover your head.’

  I nod. ‘Okay.’

  Sergei turns as he makes for the bathroom. ‘I was lying, by the way. Be warned, those pyjamas do not put me off in the least …’

  He disappears. I stand in a strange room in a house in Karachi wearing pale blue pyjamas. I’m about to enter a completely unknown phase in my life with a mad Russian aid worker. I laugh out loud because I’ve never felt so sure about anything in my whole life.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Suhkar, North Pakistan, August 2010

  Water everywhere; an ocean has swallowed the land. Towns, villages, hospitals, schools and supermarkets have been swept away. Bridges and roads that once linked communities and provided vital services have disappeared, leaving pathetic little islands of broken houses and walls. Strips of desolate mud and stone poke out of the muddy waters. Men, women and children sit or stand in huddled clumps looking skywards as we fly over them.

  The Pakistan air force pilot turns and dips lower over the swirling waters. What I first thought were tiny islands are trucks top-heavy with people sitting on top of their possessions, stranded, immobile and captured by floodwater.

  What strikes me is the biblical beauty of the scenes enacted below me. The women and girls are dressed in vivid blues, yellows, reds and gold shalwar kameez; their heads are covered in bright colours that contrast heartbreakingly with the muddy floodwaters and the skies holding yet more rain.

  Apart from the pilot, winch man and rescue coordinator, there are three of us in the helicopter: Sergei, Malik and me. The Pakistan air force are about to do a food drop, if they can find enough land to drop the sacks.

  We have hitched a lift to Suhkar with them but we are taking up precious room needed for food. Sergei wants to check if the medicines, blankets and food that IDARA sent yesterday to the Dera Allah Yar region of Sindh have arrived safely. There is no guarantee. This is bandit country and we must be back in Karachi by nightfall.

  As we near Suhkar I can see the floodwater has dispersed enough for people to walk ankle-deep. The helicopter finds a firm place to land and we run under the blades. The pilot takes off immediately to do his food drop further up river. The ground is slippery and wet underfoot. A group of men from the hospital we are trying to reach are waiting for Sergei in an ancient truck.

  The whole town looks as if an earthquake has struck. There is barely any infrastructure left. Buildings have collapsed and caved inwards. There is splintered wood and the pungent smell of mud fills our nostrils. Men are bent salvaging possessions from ruined buildings, carrying pipes and sacks and strips of polythene. They move wearily without expression.

  The sun is intense. It burns through my clothes as if I am alight. I wind my dupatta closer round my head and clutch my water bottle. Sergei helps me up into the truck and introduces me to a Dr Qasim from the hospital. The aid has arrived safely and Sergei is relieved. Malik looks as shaken by what he is seeing as I am.

  All around us is desolation. A child sits alone in a doorway in a bright blue dress, immobile, staring out. An old man carries a bed resting on a red cushion to protect his head, but his legs buckle under the weight of it.

  There is a line of trucks to our right, their wheels stuck in the muddy waters. They are packed with household goods. Chair legs, fans, bedding and pots and pans are piled perilously high. Women and children sit on the top of striped blankets watching our truck pass them on higher ground. They seem resigned, waiting for the
waters to recede further so they can be pulled back onto the track.

  As we pass the children bend their arms down to us, their fingers stretched out and wavering like thin twigs on the branches of a tree. Their beseeching cries are like the haunting sound of seabirds. Distress rises in my throat, choking me. It is weeks since the Indus burst its banks and these people are still stranded in these conditions waiting for help and food.

  Helplessly, I turn to Sergei. He leans towards me.

  ‘We have not been able to get aid out here by truck. We have been forced to wait until the water begins to recede. In some areas they are using donkeys, doing eight-hour trips to get food here. The aid trucks should start to arrive now that the water level is dropping but distribution is slow and it’s logistically impossible to reach some areas where people are still trapped.’

  When we reach the hospital a Dr Abida Baruni, a midwife, is waiting for us. I am pleased to see a woman. She greets Sergei warmly. ‘The medical supplies have arrived. Blest be to God. Thank you, Dr Orlov. Thank you …’

  Sergei introduces me and Dr Baruni turns to me.

  ‘Come, Gabriella, you will need the washroom and then a cold drink.’

  As we walk together through the barren corridors of the hospital, men and women are crouched wiping floors and scrubbing and disinfecting empty shelves. Dr Baruni shows me how high the waters rose up the walls of the old building. The river swirled like a violent snake through the hospital washing away every single thing there. What was not swept away was ruined. The pungent smell of damp and mud is everywhere. There are a few hard chairs in the corridors but most people are sitting on the floor, patiently waiting for the doctors.

  The washroom is bleak but I’m grateful to see a lavatory. Dr Baruni brings me a bowl of water and a thin towel to dry my hands. There is no clean water from the taps. I have a small bottle of hand sterilizer in my backpack. I use it and then offer it to the doctor. ‘I’ve got more at home, please keep it.’

  She nods in thanks and puts it in her pocket.