The Water Thief

by Claire Hajaj

  A treacherous voice in his head had whispered: maybe she’s right. Maybe this is just fear – the coward all over again, afraid to step up when it counts. It had all happened so fast – a race from first kiss to engagement in a year, a proposal coming straight after his father’s funeral. She’d been an object of desire in his office for months before he’d dared to ask her out – an icon of self-assurance and faultless lines, deftly presenting communication strategies to senior management, her hair a dark banner sweeping down her back. You’re a natural persuader, he’d told her. You make people want to do what you tell them. It was the clumsiest pick-up line.

  She’d absorbed his compliment with a wry shrug. That’s what everyone thinks about women in PR. Other people have talent, we just talk. I should put it on my business card. Communi-Kate.

  He’d felt for her then. Compli-Kate. They’d laughed – and again later on, during a dim evening in the flush of alcohol, Nick feeling a voyeur’s thrill as she unbuttoned her professional confidence, exposing the hidden fears beneath. She could never smile at a man without wondering if he’d one day resent her for not sleeping with him. She despised herself for playing on her looks, but her face looked so awful without make-up – like a mannequin without its paint. Her mother had been a QC; Kate worried her own life was trivial by comparison. She wanted too much from people, so maybe she was doomed to be alone. They’d been so tantalising, those half glimpses of weakness, like sensing deeper currents under a lake’s still surface. And then at a spring party, in the middle of some forgotten conversation, his awareness had drifted slowly from light office jokes to the pale ridge of goose bumps pricking the flawless white of her arms, her silk camisole too thin, clinging to the stubborn swell of stomach that gym sessions couldn’t flatten. As she’d turned her face up to him, the wine was still sharp on her breath, lips pale and cool as a swan’s wing. Later she would claim he’d kissed her first – but he remembered nothing except that taste of wine and almonds, the mix of thrill and alarm.

  If his father hadn’t had a heart attack, the old man would probably have sat grudgingly at the back of Kate’s family’s Anglican church watching his only child take his wedding vows, disdain spreading in a poisonous wave over the muted Christ pinned up behind the vicar, the neat peony bouquets, their two corporate incomes and aspirational house hunting. This flight across continents would have taken the two of them on their honeymoon.

  But the telephone call had come six months ago. And when Kate found Nick frozen in their hallway, the receiver humming a flat dial tone in his hand, they’d both felt the tremble of a hidden rudder, a subtle shift of course. I know you weren’t exactly close, she’d said as he walked dry-eyed from the synagogue. Even so, you’re handling it well.

  But in the night watches he’d quietly filled in applications for volunteer work abroad, listening to Kate’s even breathing. She claimed never to remember her dreams, but he could imagine them. They’d flickered through his mind as he wrote: happy dreams – dappled sunlight on an ivory dress, kites soaring over parkland, small wellington boots outside a townhouse, family holidays in the Alps. His own dreams could not be shared with anyone: a playground filled with screams and shattered glass, his father’s half-moon spectacles staring him down, the pale wash of his mother’s landscapes on silent, sunny walls.

  ‘Well,’ J.P. said, ‘you did the training so I won’t bore you with everything again. This project will be easy for you, perfect. The north is tough and the governor is a piece of work. But Dr Ahmed is a great host. Ten years working together and never a problem. His place is just outside the Town – but you’ll see it’s better that way. Our consultant, Eric, will be your liaison. He has a team of locals, but not one who can reach the same total twice.’

  J.P.’s beer was already gone. He shouted to the bar for another. ‘I went to university too. I could have been a lawyer. But then I followed a girl, the usual story.’ The second round of beers came, one for Nick, as well. ‘The main thing I learned here is not to try too hard. Many things can’t be helped. Many people, too.’

  Nick smiled. He’d heard the same thing countless times, at farewell dinners over glasses of chilled wine.

  ‘That’s a great recruiting line,’ he teased. ‘Sign up, it’s hard and hopeless!’ A worthy life should be hard work, his father used to say. He’d been fond of quoting what he liked to call the only sensible part of the Talmud: no man should rely on shortcuts and miracles.

  J.P. shrugged. ‘Perhaps for your British charities. So Victorian. And the Americans are worse, by the way. Quakers and Evangelicals. Too many rules, too many virtues. Just be a human being, Nick, that’s my advice. Someone who can keep a spreadsheet and knows how to build a hospital.’

  Nick offered to buy their third round, peeling dollar bills out of his wallet as he headed to the bar. The waitress serving drinks had woven her hair into a maze of braids, her orange T-shirt pulled tight across a dark slash of cleavage. Her eyes were young and wary as she took his money, pulling two beers from the refrigerator and handing him change from a wad in her jeans.

  After a quick mental tally, Nick said quietly to her: ‘Twenty dollars.’

  Her face was blank in incomprehension. ‘Twenty dollars,’ he repeated. ‘I gave you twenty dollars.’

  ‘You gave me ten.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I gave you twenty, you gave me change for ten.’

  She waved her finger at him, mouth set in a stubborn pout, her head turned deliberately away.

  ‘Hey.’ Alarm turned to annoyance. ‘Please give me my money.’

  J.P. wandered over.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing. She didn’t give me enough change.’ He dumped his notes on the bar.

  J.P. poked them. ‘Give the man his money,’ he said to the girl. She looked at the floor and shook her head, wordless.

  A man in a hectic floral shirt came over. ‘Can I help you?’ His voice was a pleasant baritone. Nick saw the girl’s head come up like a fallow deer’s, fear surfacing.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ the manager said, once J.P. had explained. He turned to the girl and spoke softly. Tears came to her eyes. ‘He gave me ten.’ Her voice was very quiet. She looked sideways at Nick, in shame or appeal. Patches of sweat were visible under her arms.

  Frustration wilted in a sudden rush of doubt. He pulled out his wallet; the notes stared blankly back at him. The humidity was oppressive. Nick’s chest hitched as he breathed, panic twining around it like prickly shoots.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reached out to touch the manager’s sleeve. ‘It may have been my mistake.’

  ‘These beers are on the house,’ the big man said.

  Nick took them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told the girl. She didn’t respond, her eyes falling to the notes as J.P. scooped them off the bar top. Reluctant to leave, Nick followed J.P. towards the table.

  ‘Will she be OK?’ He was fighting the urge to run back, to halt the unknown dance of consequences.

  J.P. shrugged. ‘They’ll sort it out themselves. These things happen all the time. You did right, don’t worry.’

  They agreed to meet again the next morning, to see Nick off. When they left the table, he looked around for the waitress. The bar was deserted except for the hum of the refrigerator, his empty beer bottle still standing on the warm counter.

  That night, under the hiss of the air-conditioning, he dreamed once again of Madi. They were sitting together as they’d always done, after school on his mother’s kissing gate at the end of the garden. How did you find me here? he asked, panic rising inside him, his mouth still fizzing from swigs of Dr Pepper as the older boy looked up at him, a sad smile on his face. I’m always here. Blood brother. Then Madi jumped down, running ahead towards the hotel swimming pool, thin arms flung out like jackdaw wings. Please! Nick wanted to scream. I’m sorry! But the words flew out of his mouth in silence. And Madi was laughing as he tumbled in to the dark water, as the red flowers pulled him under and he v
anished into black.

  The long drive north began at dawn. Somewhere beyond the capital’s outskirts Nick realised they’d crossed an invisible boundary between living world and desert. Lush greens faded to gold, the rolling fields flattened into plains of yellow earth. The land became vast and encircling, cast out to a remote horizon, pathless and bright with a parched sweetness that moved him. It was like sailing alone into unchartered seas.

  Nine bone-shaking hours later, a single jacaranda tree broke the landscape’s pale palette. Red-tipped buds were pushing through dark branches, ready to burst into brilliant bloom.

  The tree marked the end of the northward ride; their car swung off the highway onto a smaller road. The village appeared over a rise, swift as a mirage. The road narrowed towards a central square where a mosque lofted its white minaret. Beyond that, the road disintegrated into a sand track leading around low houses of coloured stone. Market stalls and mud-brick houses were scattered unevenly beyond these, closer to the lowering sun.

  The car swung west, trundling over dirt. Families strolled home in the late afternoon. The men wore pants and shirts, or light robes of peach and blue. Some bore the black-checked keffiyeh he’d only seen in news reports from the Middle East. The women’s heads were wrapped in vivid scarves, dark orange and sherbet-pink. Dust rose as the car passed by, blurring them into a weary haze. One old woman sat on her porch, rolls of skin clinging to a shrinking, orange-wreathed frame. She leaned forward, baleful eyes following Nick around the final bend.

  Dr Ahmed’s clinic stood at the edge of the village, behind a low wall enclosing a garden. Yellow fronds of flowering sennas climbed over whitewashed brick. A trellised gate marked the house’s boundary. Inside, a path framed by sprouting vegetables led up to a wooden porch. Its neatness was dwarfed by the wild sweep of the desert beyond. Something about the scene struck Nick as poignant, an out-of-place sense of familiarity.

  The driver sounded his horn. Nick climbed out of the car, limbs aching. Earthy smells filled the air – soil, smoke and somewhere the deep rot of decomposition.

  A man came striding down the garden path. ‘My dear fellow!’ he called, his faded jacket swinging from an angular frame, a slight limp in his gait. His hair curled grey at the temples like an aging scarecrow’s. All his vitality had been sucked into the smile beaming from under half-moon spectacles.

  He took Nick’s hand and pumped it. Nick was taken aback; this was not the conservative village healer he’d been expecting. For him it’s not just the money, J.P. had said. He’s a good guy; he likes to have us around.

  ‘You must be Dr Ahmed,’ said Nick.

  The old man’s face creased in delight. ‘And you must be Nicholas! Come in, come in! What a long journey you’ve had, my goodness. How can we refresh you? Some tea? My wife has already put on the kettle.’

  The living room was small and dingy, dominated by a vast grandfather clock. It shone from its corner, rich walnut and gilding topped by a white-faced procession of roman numerals. Its elegance was slightly marred by a gaping side panel – exposing melancholy cogs and a still pendulum. A large wooden box lay open at its feet, filled with odd tools.

  Dr Ahmed laughed at Nick’s expression. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I’m a terrible tinkerer.’ He ducked under the low doorway as they entered the kitchen.

  A young woman stood at the sink peeling vegetables, head bent and hair knotted behind her. Light from the window framed a long neck and slender shoulders.

  ‘Margaret, my dear. Here is our guest.’

  She did not turn immediately. When she did look up, the movement was quick, almost reluctant. Her skin was lighter than Dr Ahmed’s with sharp planes and pale hollows under her eyes. Something in her expression disconcerted him, an echo of his mother’s unreachable distance.

  ‘Thank you very much for having me,’ he said, his awkwardness returning.

  ‘It is our pleasure,’ she replied, her quiet English precise but deep with the fullness of African vowels. Her hands worked continuously, pausing only to wipe themselves on an apron over the blue cotton of her dress. A circle of stillness seemed to spread from her, causing even Dr Ahmed to moderate his jovial tone.

  ‘Where are the children, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Nagodeallah sleeps,’ she said. ‘JoJo is out, I don’t know where.’

  ‘Boys,’ he said to Nick. ‘What can you do with them? But tonight at least we will give you a proper welcome. To us Muslims, a stranger is sacred. The Prophet, peace be upon him, advised even his brother-in-law to be like a stranger. I know how it is to be far from home. Margaret too, isn’t that so?’ He put his arm around his wife, dwarfing her.

  ‘That’s so,’ she said, looking into his face with an odd smile. Her throat gleamed in the dim light as she turned; her skin seemed luminous, as if lit from a source within.

  A tour of the house followed: Nick’s office and bedroom were next to Dr Ahmed’s clinic, both doors opening onto the main porch. Dr Ahmed was proud to display his surgery: a desk, examining table and small cupboard of medical supplies. On discovering that Nick was a doctor’s son, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. ‘Indeed!’ he cried. ‘A London doctor?’

  ‘Country doctor. A small village on the southwest coast. We didn’t see many outsiders. A bit like here, I suppose.’

  ‘Outsiders are the lifeblood of humanity,’ Dr Ahmed said. ‘Every man should experience another culture. I myself was lucky enough to train for two years in London, at University College Hospital. Every Saturday I would go to Portobello Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dr Ahmed sighed. ‘Now, there was a place to teach us things. A mix of old and new, East and West. The latest music and fashions, too. I was quite the dashing fellow back then!’ He chuckled, and Nick grinned back.

  ‘But also they restored such wonderful antique pieces.’ Dr Ahmed was lost in reminiscence. ‘Those grandfather clocks – they were perfection. All the little parts working together, in such a delicate balance. Too much tension here, too little there, and the whole will collapse. Even as a young man I saw the similarity with the human body and also the human spirit.’

  Nick looked around at the bare little room and found his heart strangely warmed. ‘So your clock is a souvenir?’

  Dr Ahmed smiled sadly. ‘A tribute. I bought it when they sent word my father had died. He never wanted me to leave home, you see. But he would have loved those old clocks. He was an accountant, very fond of balances. I brought it back – but it has never worked properly since. The folly of youth!’

  Nick heard himself saying, ‘My father died recently too. He would have been glad to see me here. This was the kind of service he believed in. We used to argue about my choices.’ He felt the familiar swelling in his throat, painfully harsh, and swallowed. I didn’t cry when they buried you; you won’t get tears from me now.

  Dr Ahmed put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry for your loss. But time is the best judge of our choices, more than men – more even than fathers. Like I tell my son: never decide things are broken while there is still time to fix them.’

  Margaret’s voice sounded from inside, calling them in for dinner. Guests were arriving soon; Dr Ahmed, distraught at his lapse in politeness, hurried to show Nick to his room.

  As Nick followed him through the falling dusk, something jarred, diverting his attention to the garden’s edge. It was a makeshift cross – two small pieces of wood tied together and pushed into the earth by the wall. A fading bunch of yellow blossoms lay at its base. It was unassuming, like memorials to the nameless fallen. But something about it filled Nick with disquiet; it reminded him of an English grave.

  Today I join The Boys. Everything is fixed at last, and no one can stop it – not even Baba. A man is coming to see him from the capital – some English man. So Baba will be busy all day and Mama will be with Nagode.

  We waited for one year already, Akim and me. Since Juma joined The Boys. He is sixteen and big. You could not know they a
re brothers, Akim and Juma. Akim had a sickness when he was small. Baba says this is why his arms are like dry sticks. They break so easily. He tries push-ups after school. We tried it together one day. Juma saw us, and he laughed. ‘You two look like you’re fucking the sand,’ he told us. But when we are in The Boys, no one will laugh any more.

  When we sit in the classroom for the first lesson Akim whispers: ‘After the last bell Juma will come for us. Then he will take us to Mister, and he will give us the test.’

  I ask Akim: ‘What is the test? Is it hard?’ Akim says: ‘Wait, JoJo. You will see.’ Then the teacher shouts, ‘Stop this noise.’ And I bend to my books.

  I see the nervousness in Akim’s eyes then. He pretends he is not afraid. But Akim just turned twelve last month. I will reach thirteen before the next rains. I am more nearly a man than he is.

  I told him and Juma: ‘It must be after school.’ Baba takes me there every day and watches when I go in. He says: Be a good student, Yahya. Listen well, Yahya. No one calls me Yahya except Baba.

  When the bell goes at last, I feel my heart start to beat fast. We run outside. Juma is waiting for us by the school gate. I still have my uniform shirt on.

  ‘Take it off,’ Juma tells me. The buttons catch and my arms get stuck. Akim laughs until I tear it free. I want to push him. But not with Juma here. He fixes cars and motorcycles in the shop with Mister. No one will trouble Akim because Juma is his big brother. I was a big brother once. Until Bako died. Now there is only Nagode. But she is still a baby. She only needs Mama. She doesn’t need me.

  Juma takes us to the square. They’ve finished prayers already. I see Juma’s father Mr Kamil, speaking with Imam Abdi. He looks so fat and clean. Juma pinches Akim’s arm. ‘Quick,’ he says. He does not want Mr Kamil to see him. We bend low behind the cars. I see black birds sleeping on the mosque roof.