Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

by Paul Torday

  Yes, that’s why I have to write about Mary. When they pushed me into working for the sheikh, they pushed me out of the far side of my marriage. She saw an opportunity in Geneva and, with characteristic ruthlessness, she took it. Or perhaps that had been the plan all along, and she decided that the moment had come to do something about it.

  And I could like it, or lump it.

  And yet I write as if I did not love her. I must have loved her, because when she went I felt so empty.

  Our marriage is not over, it has just become an email marriage. We communicate regularly. She has not asked for a divorce, or suggested we sell the flat or anything like that. There she is in Geneva, and here I am in London, and we have no plans to meet in the near future. I feel as I write this that my life has no meaning now. And if it has no meaning then perhaps everything over the last forty-odd years has been a waste of time. As I write this entry in my diary, I myself feel like a diary which has been left out in the rain, from which the moisture has washed away the cramped inky writing, the record of thousands of days and nights, leaving only a blank and sodden page.

  14

  Interview with Dr Alfred Jones: his meeting with Mr Peter Maxwell and Sheikh Muhammad

  Interrogator:

  Describe the circumstances of Mr Peter Maxwell’s interview with Sheikh Muhammad.

  Dr Alfred Jones:

  It wasn’t so much an interview. This is what I’d call an interview, with all these endless questions you chaps want to ask. I don’t know what good it will all do.

  Interrogator:

  Of course we’d like to conduct these interviews in a friendly and cooperative way, Dr Jones. But we can do this all quite differently, you know.

  Alfred Jones:

  Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t cooperate, but let me tell you about it in my own way. It was quite a long time ago now, you know. I can’t always remember every little detail.

  Interrogator:

  You tell it any way you want to. But miss nothing out.

  Alfred Jones:

  I’ll do my best. As far as I remember, after the sheikh arrived he and Peter Maxwell had a private conversation. I wasn’t included. This was political stuff, I imagine, and I was simply a humble fisheries scientist. I was left to myself for an hour or two. As far as I remember, I went up to my room and wrote up my diary, which you have already helped yourself to. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote but I know I was feeling fairly depressed. It was a gloomy day and I was feeling wretched. My wife hadn’t exactly walked out on me, but it felt as if she had.

  Even Harriet wasn’t considered important enough to be included in that part of the proceedings, although she was around. She was up at Glen Tulloch before Maxwell and I got there.

  Interrogator:

  Harriet? You are referring to Ms Chetwode-Talbot?

  Alfred Jones:

  Of course. Then we were called into the sheikh’s office and I was given to understand that I was expected to make a formal report to the sheikh on the progress of the Yemen salmon project to date. I wasn’t looking forward to it. A few days before, I’d received some email correspondence from my boss David Sugden which indicated a fundamental obstacle. David had told me he would manage the supply side of the project, that is, the supply of live Atlantic salmon. Of course, as usual, he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He had no idea where we were going to get the salmon from at all.

  Interrogator:

  So you went into the sheikh’s office? Who was present at this meeting?’

  Alfred Jones:

  Yes, we went into the sheikh’s office and sat down around a long mahogany table. It was more like a dining-room table than an office table, and the only thing at all office-like in the room was a large desk with a plasma screen on it in one corner of the room. Malcolm the butler served us all with tea in china cups and then withdrew, and the sheikh gestured to me to start talking. So I did my best to bring him up to date. Peter Maxwell told us he was there as an ‘observer’. He had apparently already told the sheikh of the prime minister’s support and enthusiasm for the project, but he repeated this for the benefit of Harriet and me, and the sheikh murmured some word of thanks. Then Maxwell sat back in his chair looking bored and impatient while I made my report.

  ‘The pods for the transport of the salmon have been designed and tested. We are using Husskinnen, a Finnish environmental engineering specialist, to do the feasibility and test work. Broadly speaking, we are comfortable with our estimates on cost and we believe the salmon will survive the journey without undue stress from vibration or noise, as the design insulates the pod from the aircraft itself.’

  I ticked an item on my list and looked around for questions. Apart from the sheikh, Harriet Chetwode-Talbot and Peter Maxwell were the only other people in the room, as Malcolm had left by then. Nobody said anything.

  ‘We have analysed the water samples sent to us from the Wadi Aleyn and from the aquifers. Of course I need to take a team out there on a field trip to get a proper idea of conditions and the challenges we will face, but the initial samples suggest no factors, other than extreme heat and lack of dissolved oxygen, which might pose a threat to salmon.’

  Peter Maxwell took out his Blackberry and started scrolling through his emails.

  ‘The design of the holding pens is now in its fifth revision, Sheikh, and I regret to say that our original estimates on cost look a bit optimistic. There is a probable overrun of 20 per cent on our original budget for this phase. The engineering firm Arup is in charge of this part of the project.

  ‘Broadly speaking, we envisage a series of concrete basins adjacent to the wadi. These will fill from rainwater, and the water levels will be maintained by additional water pumped from the aquifer. The basins will be partly covered by an aluminium mesh canopy, which will allow some sunlight through but reflect most of the heat, and this should help keep the water temperature within a manageable range. In addition, we will have heat exchangers along the walls of the basin to help take out excess heat. We have to ensure a balance between keeping the salmon comfortable and ensuring the temperature gradient when they finally enter the wadi is not too steep. We will have bubblers around the walls of the basin to ensure there is enough dissolved oxygen in the water to keep the fish alive. Interestingly, both Air Products and BOC have bid for the oxygenation equipment on a below-cost basis, as they want the publicity. We will need planning permission to install these basins and I presume we will also need an environmental impact assessment carried out.’

  With a slight gesture of his hand, the sheikh indicated the absurdity and irrelevance of an environmental impact assessment. Then I reached the part of the project that concerned me most. It was a real snag. We couldn’t get hold of any salmon. I think I already told you that David’s confidence he could deliver on this part of the project had been misplaced.

  Interrogator:

  We have seen the relevant email correspondence.

  Alfred Jones:

  Then you’ll know how David managed to upset in a very short time most of the people who could have helped us. We had been in talks with the Environment Agency and the Scottish Environment Protection Agency, and we couldn’t find a single river in England, Wales or Scotland prepared to allow us to take away any of their salmon. I remember Tom Price-Williams, the man I spoke to at the Environment Agency, turning pale when I suggested it at one of the meetings David sent me to…to try and smooth things over after he’d already made a complete hash of things.

  ‘Take salmon out of their rivers and send them to Saudi Arabia?’ said Tom. ‘You don’t know the fishing community. They’d sooner sell their children into slavery.’

  ‘It’s the Yemen, actually,’ I told him.

  ‘They’d be up in arms,’ he said. ‘They care more about those fish than anything. I wouldn’t rule out guerrilla warfare if we attempted any such thing.’

  I described all this to the sheikh. Peter Maxwell looked up from his Blackberry and the sh
eikh frowned. Harriet already knew, as I had told her about it on the plane. There was more bad news. Even if the Environment Agency or the Scottish Environment Protection Agency let us take some salmon parr from some of the more abundant rivers, there was another fundamental snag.

  Those salmon parr will have never been out to sea, and if we grow them to smolts, their instincts will urge them to head for saltwater, where all salmon spend two to three winters before returning to their home river to spawn. So we might spend millions on rearing salmon from juvenile fish and sending them out to the Yemen, and find that when we release them into the wadi, instead of turning upstream they might, as it were, turn left for the Indian Ocean and vanish for ever. This would ruin the whole project.

  I said, ‘So the next thing was, we discussed with the environment agencies the prospect of trapping returning salmon which have grown up in the Tyne or the Tweed or the Spey, have matured and have come back to their rivers to spawn. The agencies absolutely refused to contemplate this. Firstly, to trap mature salmon and then export them to the Middle East would be in breach of the agencies’ statutory duty to protect their fisheries. It would require an act of Parliament to amend their mandates in order for them to do this. And, as Tom told me, there would probably be a popular uprising.’

  ‘Let’s not go there,’ said Peter Maxwell. He was now following the discussion, and the words ‘act of Parliament’ had him sitting bolt upright, his ears twitching like a hare’s. ‘That’s not an option.’

  ‘I’m sure not,’ I agreed, ‘and in any case, the agencies wouldn’t apply for one. The other problem the agencies would encounter if this course of action was suggested is open warfare from the angling community. Not a fisherman in the country would allow a single returning salmon he is hoping to fish for to be extracted from the river before he has had a chance to try for it, and then be shipped to the Yemen. It simply couldn’t happen.’

  ‘And,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘the whole point of this project, as far as the government is concerned, is to win goodwill in the Middle East. I’ll be perfectly frank about that, Sheikh Muhammad. And that only works if, while we are doing that, we don’t create a corresponding or greater amount of ill will at home. Ill will among voters. So, the bottom line is, we need another solution or else we need to scrap the project.’

  There was a silence around the table. Harriet looked at the papers on her desk and said nothing. Peter Maxwell looked from face to face as if daring anyone to challenge him.

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ said the sheikh mildly, ‘of course this project will continue, and of course it will succeed. I have great confidence in Dr Alfred. If he comes to me with a problem, I know that he will already have found the solution to that problem. Is that not so, Dr Alfred?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have a solution. But I’m not sure if you will like it.’

  Interrogator:

  And what was that solution?

  Alfred Jones:

  I’ll get to it. After the meeting we went upstairs and bathed and changed, and then came down for dinner.

  Interrogator:

  Did Peter Maxwell say anything further that you can recall over dinner?

  Alfred Jones:

  I don’t think anybody spoke a great deal that evening. Dinner was a formal, silent occasion. Malcolm waited on us, treading soft-footed behind our chairs and serving us with what I remembered from my last visit to Glen Tulloch: the most delicious food accompanied by the best wines. For me, it might have been ashes on my plate, vinegar in my glass. I pushed the food around and sipped at my wine without tasting it. Even Peter Maxwell didn’t have much to say, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to draw the sheikh on the subject of his feelings of friendship towards the UK.

  I saw Harriet glance at me once or twice, and I realised my expression must be giving away something about how miserable I felt. I have never been very good at hiding my feelings. For a while there was no sound except the clink of cutlery. The sheikh never minded whether one spoke or not; he did not feel the need to entertain, or to be entertained. The sort of social conversation we need, like we need air to breathe, was foreign to him. There were things to be discussed or there were not. There were stories to be told or there were not.

  Peter Maxwell couldn’t stand it. I could see he liked being the centre of attention, and one or two further conversational gambits, this time mostly directed at Harriet, had gone nowhere.

  Finally he said, ‘Sheikh, as you know, the prime minister is a passionate fisherman. That is to say, he would be, if he ever got the free time.’

  The sheikh smiled and said, ‘I am sorry he has not the time. It must be very sad to love something so much and never do it.’

  ‘Well, the prime minister is a very busy man. I’m sure you understand. But, if you get the salmon project to work, he’d really love the chance to come and see it in action.’

  ‘Your prime minister is most welcome, if he ever finds some free time,’ said the sheikh.

  ‘What I really mean is,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘that an official invitation from you some time nearer the launch date would be looked on very favourably by Number 10.’

  ‘Who is this Number 10?’ asked the sheikh, pretending to look puzzled.

  ‘I mean by the prime minister’s office.’

  ‘Of course, the prime minister is most welcome then or at any time. He has only to say, and we will receive him in our modest home and he can join with us and enjoy his passion for fishing for as much time as his busy life will permit him to stay. You, too, are most welcome, Mr Maxwell. Are you also a passionate fisherman?’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ said Mr Maxwell. ‘Never had the time to try. I’d like to come, though. May I take it that we have your invitation to attend the opening of the Yemen salmon project, whenever that might be?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the sheikh. ‘We would be greatly honoured.’

  ‘And, Sheikh,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘of course I don’t know how long Jay can stay until we can look at dates with you, but I presume if I give you some dates he currently has free, we could work the project launch timetable around that?’

  ‘Dr Alfred and Ms Harriet Chetwode-Talbot are the guardians of the project, Mr Maxwell, and you must speak with them about dates and arrangements of that kind.’

  Peter Maxwell looked at me and said, ‘You’ll keep me in the loop, Fred.’ It was an order, not a question. Then he turned back to the sheikh and said, ‘One last thing, Sheikh. Jay-the prime minister, I mean-thinks it would be a great idea for the project if he could be photographed beside you with a rod in his hand. Maybe we could organise for him to catch a salmon, or something, while he’s there. We sort of imagine that if he can fly into Sana’a, catch a helicopter down to the site, maybe spend twenty minutes meeting the project team and getting a few handshake photos, maybe present some sort of award, then twenty minutes with you guys-I mean you, Sheikh, and some of those people we saw out on the lawn earlier today-all with fishing rods. We could get some more group photos. It would be great if everyone was wearing full tribal dress with those dagger things. Maybe Jay could do a quick change into some sort of kit, you know, like he was an honorary tribesman…’

  I felt myself blushing on behalf of Peter Maxwell but the sheikh only smiled and nodded. ‘And will the prime minister be able to spare twenty minutes to catch a salmon with me?’

  ‘We’ll have to work up a schedule but, yes, we need a good photo of Jay catching a salmon. Maybe the first salmon ever caught in the Arabian peninsula. That would be great publicity for the project. Of course, we’d let you use the photos in all your marketing literature.’

  ‘Sometimes it takes a little longer to catch a fish,’ said the sheikh. ‘Even here, in Glen Tulloch, where we have many salmon, it may take hours or days before one is caught.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to Fred,’ said Peter Maxwell. ‘He’s the salmon expert. But, Fred, the prime minister is going to expect to hook a fish. I don’t much care ho
w you do it, but you need to make sure that happens.’

  I just stared at him, but the sheikh spoke before I could say what I felt like telling Peter Maxwell to go and do. ‘I am sure Dr Alfred will find a way of keeping your prime minister happy. If he is a passionate fisherman, as you say, then he will be happy whatever happens, and it will give me great pleasure to greet him in the Wadi Aleyn and to welcome him as our guest, and to fish with him on our new river. Perhaps Dr Alfred can find him a fish. It will be as God wills.’

  ‘Great,’ said Peter Maxwell. ‘We think this project is an excellent idea, Sheikh, very imaginative and innovative, and the prime minister is delighted you are using British engineers and scientists to achieve your goals. We very much want to be a part of it, so that the Yemen nation can understand that we British are a sympathetic ally, pro-democracy and pro-fishing, ready to share our technology to help aspiring Yemeni anglers fulfil their dreams.’

  He looked around the table as if he had made a speech, to see what effect it had had on us. I suppose it was a sort of speech. The sheikh nodded and said, ‘I am not a political man, Mr Maxwell, just someone who wants to share the joy of salmon fishing with a few of my tribe, and show them what can be done if there is faith enough.’

  ‘With your faith and our technology, we will have salmon leaping all over the place,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘and you can expect a lot of high-rolling, big-spending tourists coming in to benefit from the Yemen salmon experience, I am sure. It will repay your investment many times. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few emails I need to deal with before I go to bed.’ And he picked up his Blackberry and went upstairs.