Borderlines

by Michela Wrong

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘“The girls are doing well. The eldest has married now and is expecting her first child. With the second, we shall see, she is still young. I see you got the promotion you were after. As for me, my ambition to work on the coast has finally been satisfied. I am being posted to the village of Sebrahtu. You know how I love the coastal heat. It dries out my ageing bones. The job starts in March. I will send you my new address. In the meantime, please pass on my best wishes to the family.”’

  ‘And please read out the most important detail, just here, alongside your signature.’

  ‘The thirteenth of December 2000.’ His voice was dull and flat; the interpreter did his best to mimic the pitch.

  Winston gazed around the room in insincere wonder.

  ‘The thirteenth of December 2000. So this key witness, by his own admission, was nowhere near Sanasa when the conflict blew up six months later. Let me tell you exactly where Sebrahtu is, Mr Chairman.’

  Yohannes’s next image was a detailed map of the coast.

  ‘Sebrahtu lies thirty-seven kilometres east of Sanasa, in the Federal Republic of Darrar,’ said Winston. ‘It shares many characteristics with Sanasa. It lies on the sea, it has a little pier, a mosque, a few old Ottoman buildings, and most of the residents are fishermen. I don’t doubt that you were a mayor, Mr Suleiman, who played the vital roles you described, kept chickens and grew vegetables, but could you clarify whether you did these things in Sanasa, or in Sebrahtu?’

  All eyes shifted to Suleiman Jama. The pause seemed to last a long time, but could only have been a few seconds. He stared at Winston for a moment, his lips working, then looked at Alexander and Watts. What was he seeking? Absolution? Sympathy? I held my breath. Running through my head were the explanations I’d invent in his shoes, none of them convincing. He gave a low curse, tore off his headset and stalked out of the Small Hall of Justice. From the heave of his shoulders, it was clear he tried to slam the giant door in a final fuck-you gesture to us all, but its heft defeated him.

  ‘The witness … has left the room,’ commented the interpreter. His voice was uneven; there came the sound of a suppressed squeak. Turning in my seat, I caught a flurry of movement in one of the booths. The interpreter had either succumbed to a fit of the giggles or fallen off his chair.

  Judge Mautner finally broke the silence. He turned to Alexander and his deputy, who bore the stunned expressions of the recently bereaved. ‘Does counsel have anything further or shall we break?’

  Alexander shook his head

  ‘Then,’ said Judge Mautner, ‘I think we are done for the day.’ He brought the gavel down.

  ‘Do you think they knew?’ I whispered to Winston, as we collected our papers.

  He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t have. You would never open yourself up to that kind of potential damage. No, as I said, witnesses are like landmines. They can win a war for you or blow up in your face.’

  ‘And Suleiman Jama? Why invent it all?’

  ‘Who knows? A craving for the limelight? I suspect he started with a small lie, and it spiralled out of control. But much of human behaviour is a mystery to me.’

  The dogs knew before I did. Laurel and Hardy always served as the friendliest of doorbells, bouncing excitedly around any vehicle that drew up on the grass outside, thrusting snouts into crotches and licking palms. Not this time. Their ruffs rose along their backs and they barked at the car with its unfamiliar markings, keeping their distance, warning me to watch my step.

  It turns out that police officers really do come to your home in twos and, yes, you do briefly consider not opening the door as you register that, once you do, nothing will ever be the same again. And one of them – the woman, if there is one – really will lead you gently into the kitchen and set about making you a nice cup of instant coffee as her colleague, having respectfully removed his cap, does the hard bit – just as they agreed on the way over.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am. You are Paula Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘And this is the residence of Jake Wentworth?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You live here with Mr Wentworth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Both of them looked at me for a moment, waiting for me to fill in a near-visible blank. When I failed to oblige, the male cop shot a brief I-told-you-so glance at the woman.

  ‘Are you a … close friend of Mr Wentworth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘We’re very sorry to inform you, ma’am, that Mr and Mrs Wentworth died yesterday evening in a motor-vehicle incident. It was raining heavily, as you know. We believe there was an issue with visibility. Mr Wentworth appears to have lost control of his BMW and it went off the side of Bear Mountain Bridge. The bodies have been recovered by a team of divers and are at the county morgue.’

  I suppose mine was an unconventional reaction. I snorted with incredulous laughter. ‘Oh, this is just ridiculous.’ The timing of our make-or-break conversation followed, with such ruthless immediacy, by death? No, it was simply too much.

  Another silence. I felt the two officers were struggling, as a point of professionalism, not to exchange glances again.

  The woman took over. ‘Ma’am. Is there anyone you would like us to contact to be with you at this time? A friend? A relative? It’s good to have company.’

  ‘No, there’s no one.’

  They gazed through the kitchen window. Then at the floor. The male officer fidgeted fitfully with his belt. The woman officer shot him a disapproving look, then looked pointedly at the cup of coffee, which I had not touched. She clearly wanted to get on. ‘Do you have any questions, ma’am? Is there anything you want to know?’

  Oh, so many, many things.

  ‘Do you know if they had their seatbelts on?’ Why ask that?

  ‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid,’ said the male officer. ‘My understanding, though, is that it wouldn’t have made much difference. The vehicle flipped after it hit the guardrail.’ And he made a gesture with one hand, demonstrating how a car somersaults and lands upside down, that would stay with me for a long time, the most obscene gesture a man had ever made to me.

  ‘Will there be a post-mortem? An inquest?’ I suppressed a hysterical giggle as I heard the words from a million cop shows coming out of my mouth.

  ‘Inquest?’ The female police officer cocked her head to one side. ‘Is that what they do in your country, ma’am? There’s no suspicion of foul play, so, no. Cause of death just goes on the death certificate.’

  ‘And …’ I found my voice was finally quavering ‘… you’re absolutely sure Mrs Wentworth was in the car?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. The eldest daughter identified both of them.’

  So Charlotte, Eric and Sophie already knew. But of course.

  After a few minutes of looking at their feet, staring out at the lake and commenting on the weather – during which I stood silently, trying to absorb the news – they put their caps back on and walked to the door. At that moment, one last question burst out of me. ‘I’m not next of kin.’ Didn’t I know it. ‘Why did you come here today?’

  The male officer nodded in the vague direction of Griffin House. ‘Julia Wentworth is an upstanding member of this community. She’s got a lot of friends in the police department. When she asks a favour, we’re only too happy to oblige.’

  So this was Julia’s work, a delegated, arm’s-length errand designed to save her picking up the phone and sharing a moment of unbearable intimacy with me: the loss of the man we both loved.

  ‘Well, that’s one tough cookie,’ I heard the male officer exclaim, as they walked out to their patrol car. There was relief in his voice and he gave his head and shoulders a little shake, like a setter after a rainstorm. ‘Not a tear.’

  25

  I wandered the hotel room, stacking dirty plates, as Winston and Yohannes formed a huddle in one corner. Kennedy drew up a chair, straddled it cowboy-style, and
forced Winston to make eye contact.

  ‘I have just one thing to ask, Mr Peabody, before I leave you and your colleagues to your work. Tomorrow is a big day so I know you will want to focus. Are you or are you not intending to put our side of the argument over the original outbreak of hostilities?’

  ‘My position is unchanged. I will certainly remind the commission that their jurisdiction does not extend that far, but anything more would constitute an insult to their intelligence.’

  Kennedy gazed down at the crumb-strewn carpet, muttered something that sounded too long and complex to be a swearword, then looked at Winston. ‘So be it. I will tell Him.’ He disentangled himself from the chair and showed himself out.

  Catching my reproachful glance, Winston held up his hands to Heaven. ‘Look, he’s known as Kennedy for a reason, and it’s not because he declared himself a Berliner. That man enjoys the sound of his own rhetoric. Now please, Paula, Yohannes and I have a lot to do. Your Rome document is going to be the star of tomorrow’s presentation, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  Rebuttal day had arrived. The morning would be ours – our last chance to discredit their arguments and trumpet our own – the afternoon, theirs. There was an uneasy pause as we waited for Winston, who was sitting motionless at the table, staring at his hands, girding his intellectual loins. Then he rose with the grace of an opera diva about to deliver her last aria to a packed house.

  ‘Mr Chairman, we are gathering here on this final day to examine, discuss and in many cases refute the arguments and evidence that my honourable colleagues on the other side of the room have presented.

  ‘The other side has taken what I can only describe as a generous approach, and the result, if I can use a metaphor from the world of cuisine, has been an over-rich bouillabaisse of a case. Their casserole has included many juicy morsels, but also a great many ingredients’ – he shot a meaningful look at opposing counsel – ‘that should have been saved for another meal. I am referring, of course, to the constant attempts to persuade this tribunal that it is here not only to decide the course of the border but also to allot responsibility for the conflict. We were tempted at times to respond in kind. But to do so would be to show a profound disrespect not only for the agreement reached in Tunis by the two governments, but for this commission, which is well aware of the limits of its jurisdiction. I have refrained from entering into the argument over the origins of the war because I am confident that international legal professionals of the integrity, experience and sophistication we see here need no guidance when it comes to resisting pressure, however bullying.’

  This shameless bit of ego-stroking prompted a few smug smiles among the commissioners. Judge Mautner, however, was impassive.

  Then Winston launched himself into the void. ‘I have only a few points to make. You will see that much of my rebuttal shares a common characteristic. In many instances, we were supplied with the evidence required to expose the flaws in our respected colleagues’ version of events by … our respected colleagues themselves. Buried in the vast volume of paperwork they submitted – a quantity so huge I did wonder if their own team had found time to read it – was evidence that proves our case and undermines their own. I would therefore like to thank my esteemed colleagues for being so obliging.’ He executed a little bow.

  The other side stared at him. Alexander, I could see, believed this was all just bravado. Chin out, his body posture signalled ‘Wanna fight? Any time.’ Below his sandy hairline, however, Watts had gone a mottled pink. Perhaps he was the one responsible for vetting the cache of supporting documents and was now trying to work out what he had missed.

  Winston’s voice hardened. ‘I am grateful to them for their unfailing generosity, but am also concerned as to some of the methodology this evidence appears to expose. This is not a court case, as we all keep reminding ourselves, and that is a mercy, in its way. For there have been times when the methods adopted by our esteemed counterparts, had they been attempted in a court of law, would have led to a harsh rebuke from a presiding magistrate and permanent damage to professional reputations. I can only assume that we are dealing with a series of accidental oversights for surely no lawyer, before a commission of this standing, would ever attempt deliberately to mislead.’

  He had their attention now. François Rainier was frowning; Eddie Connors was furiously scribbling a note to himself.

  ‘These are serious and troubling allegations, Mr Peabody,’ said Judge Mautner.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Chairman. I believe the other side’s strategy has been both serious and troubling.’

  ‘Well, let us be the judge of that. Please proceed.’

  First Winston tackled subsequent conduct. Reminding the commission of the débâcle of Suleiman Jama’s testimony, he suggested that every item of evidence associated with the would-be mayor – from Darrar election records to tax receipts – was equally tainted. Suleiman Jama’s boasts about the extent of his administrative duties ensured the damage was satisfyingly wide. The same went for the witnesses he had helpfully identified as personal friends, and the evidence connected to them. It was like watching a Serbian sniper on his off-day, lazily shooting targets at a funfair. Through it all, Alexander and Watts sat staring straight ahead.

  Then Winston addressed opposing counsel’s mother-of-all-maps.

  ‘First, allow me to turn to the 1899 letter and attached map sent to Rome on the Negus’s behalf by secretary Heriu Tekle. This, if you will remember, formed the basis of the other side’s contention that our hundred and twenty maps are mistaken and misleading, due to an alleged confusion over the rivers whose junctions serve as cartographical points. Hence, we supposedly ended up with a forty-degree double black instead of a gentler fifteen-degree green run.

  ‘Yohannes, please show us the letter as submitted to the commission.’

  A page appeared on the screen. Winston could have used his laser pointer but instead, squeezing every drop of drama from the situation, he rose from his seat and approached the screen brandishing a Mont Blanc. ‘You will notice, if you look closely, that there is something a little peculiar about this document.’

  ‘Is there, Mr Peabody?’ asked Judge Mautner.

  ‘You will notice how pristine it is, how suspiciously clean. No smudges, no notation marks, no marginalia. The only visible marking – very easy to miss the first time around – is a row of little ink dots on the letter’s margin. I hope you can see them running down the right-hand side of the page? We have provided a helpful close-up.’

  ‘We can, Mr Peabody,’ said Judge Mautner. ‘But they do not seem particularly significant.’

  ‘Ah, but they are, Mr Chairman. I gazed at these ink dots for a long time wondering what they could be. It was only thanks to the efforts of my deputy, Paula Shackleton, and Francesca de Mello, researching on our behalf in the Italian Foreign Ministry archives, that we worked it out. They located this letter’s original, which made everything clear. We have prepared a little video. Yohannes, if you please.’

  Yohannes tapped on his keyboard and an enlarged version of the letter appeared on the left side of the screen, a human hand – Winston’s – holding a piece of white card, its edges outlined in red, over the letter’s right-hand margin. ‘Here are the ink dots. If we pull the card a centimetre to the right we finally understand what they are. The dots are the tips of handwritten letters, gentlemen.’ On the screen, Winston’s hand moved the card a few centimetres more. ‘Letters that once made up phrases. And this, this’ – Winston’s voice was quivering with excitement now – ‘is what the original looked like before it was doctored. Compare and contrast!’ The pristine version now lay next to the document we had discovered in Rome. The copperplate text on both was identical, but our document’s right-hand margin was scrawled with comments and exclamation marks.

  ‘So let us look closely at these marginalia. First, who made them? We can see here the initials “GF”. Giuseppe Franco was permanent secretary at Italy’s Ministry of the Colonies
at the time of this correspondence. Here are his initials and signature, on a letter sent the same year, concerning events in Cyrenaica. The calligraphy is identical.

  ‘When confronted by the suggestion that the Italians don’t know their Shishay from their Daro, Franco writes, “Uno scherzo” – “What a joke!” – “Il Negus si prende gioco di noi” – “The Negus is making fun of us!!” Note the exclamation marks. And then this coda: “Risposta immediata richiesta.” – “Immediate reply required.” Here is the date, which Mr Franco, being a good civil servant, helpfully provided, and here, too, the words “Risposta mandata” – “Reply sent.” So it is clear that the Italians never accepted the Negus’s version of events and wrote to him to say exactly that. I wonder why,’ Winston said archly, ‘my respected colleagues chose to submit the letter in this dramatically truncated form.’

  Judge Mautner looked at the team pointedly, but they said nothing. Watts’s blush had deepened, and his mouth was slightly open. Alexander was studiously ignoring Judge Mautner. Lips pursed, he was using one thumbnail to extract a white rind from below the other.

  Winston powered ahead: ‘The commission may be wondering how it was that these key annotations could be eliminated from the version it was shown. Yohannes?’ Up on the screen appeared the original letter. Then a pair of scissors materialised and, accompanied by an audible snipping noise, methodically trimmed the letter of its marginalia. It was another pizza-box moment: a melodramatic flourish designed to sear itself into the commission’s collective memory.

  Yohannes sat back with an audible sigh of satisfaction. The PowerPoint mini-drama might have been directed by Winston, but he was the one who had made it possible. The foreign minister turned to him and bestowed a quiet nod of approval, Yohannes bowed his head in sudden pleased embarrassment. On such moments, it suddenly occurred to me, civil-service careers were built.