The Water Thief

by Claire Hajaj

  ‘No!’ Nick tried to stifle his own cry as the young man fell to the ground. Jalloh stepped forward, then back, undecided as the mob closed in around the fallen boy.

  Stop. The word formed silently in Nick’s head. But this was no time for heroics. It’s not your fight, he told himself.

  And yet the protester with the megaphone had turned towards him. It was Imam Abdi’s Man Friday, Nick realised, who prepared the mosque and cooked the imam’s meals, whose cataract-clouded eye regularly required Dr Ahmed’s antibiotic ointments.

  He advanced, brandishing a burn on his forearm, pale and slick as a knife. ‘From the fire,’ he yelled. ‘You help the governor. You give him money!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Nick started to back away; he felt the loom of the mosque wall behind him. Adrenalin surged as he looked towards his only escape route to Dr Ahmed’s house, blocked by a wall of menace. ‘I’m trying to help!’

  The mosque-keeper was in front of him now; his clouded eye filling Nick’s view like God’s judgment, his breath stale from old food and tobacco. He raised his arms to the parched and empty sky. ‘What help?’ he screamed upwards – and then to Nick’s face. ‘What help?’

  ‘Leave him be.’

  Nick turned in shock; Margaret stood behind him, head covered with a dark scarf. How did she get here? She pushed in front of him, arms unexpectedly strong. The wounded man coughed at her feet in the dust, blood trickling from a cut over his eye.

  ‘For shame.’ Margaret pointed at the mosque-keeper, her voice loud enough to carry with it only a hint of a tremor beneath. ‘Another one for my husband’s care.’

  The mosque-keeper rocked back and forth, one dark eye flicking manically between the bloodied dust and Margaret’s outstretched hand. The very sight of it seemed to be another affront to him. He slapped his chest with his palm, despair ringing out with the sound. Stepping forward, he pushed at the air between them, arms waving with frantic energy.

  Nick instinctively retreated, but Margaret remained immovable. She pointed at the mosque, reciting a verse in a language he recognised as Arabic, its syllables heavy with warning. He saw confusion on the mosque-keeper’s face, the signs of anger derailed. But rage was still thick in the air; Nick had a sudden fear she might over-reach herself. A Christian quoting Muhammad could set the place alight. The thought released him from his paralysis.

  ‘Margaret.’ The mosque-keeper had turned away, distracted by the faint sound of a police siren. ‘We have to go.’ She turned and nodded. ‘Follow me,’ she whispered.

  Then she was moving, her scarf arcing behind her like a bird’s wing, away from Dr Ahmed’s house towards the low line of walled homes on the road’s opposite side. Hurrying to keep up, Nick saw a small gap in the white stone wall between two of the largest houses – one of them Mr Kamil and Aisha’s. Behind him the loudspeaker was blasting again, over the screech of car tyres.

  ‘No one uses this way,’ Margaret whispered as they squeezed through the small opening, dust coating their clothes. ‘But you must keep low or they will see you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Nick reached out and grabbed her wrist. She stopped, facing him reluctantly. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘JoJo returned early from prayers.’ Her breath was still laboured, sweat further darkening her already sombre headscarf. ‘His father found out what was planned here and sent him home. Ahmed has gone to the authorities.’

  ‘You were mad to come out. They could have hurt you.’

  ‘They could have hurt you.’ The rejoinder was like a slap, quick and harsh; her eyes met his, suddenly furious. Then the moment passed. She took a deep breath, her face softening. ‘Anyway. Now we are both well.’ She turned towards the alley’s end. ‘This way.’

  The path ended in a heap of rocks; a nimble person could climb these to reach a large hole in Kamil’s garden wall. Margaret cautiously peered through it. ‘All clear.’ She looked back at Nick, a sly sideways glance. ‘Is that how James Bond says it?’

  Hoisting her abaya up to her knees, she clambered through into the garden. Amazed, he followed, landing behind a dying tree. Margaret had moved over quickly to the wall opposite, which was low enough to climb over. Her lean arms reached up, took her weight and she scrambled over to the other side.

  Then he froze, hearing Aisha’s voice close by – a scolding tone that grew louder. ‘Quickly!’ Margaret whispered. He could hear her but not see her. Between the lattice of branches he spied the brilliant green trail of Aisha’s abaya, her back to them as she gesticulated at Hanan, dour in brown.

  Nick reached for the wall in panic. He knocked a loose stone as he pulled himself clumsily over it, tumbling down into another alley two metres below.

  The voices stopped; Margaret pushed him into the shelter of a small overhang, placing her body in front of his. He felt the warm pulse of her breathing, heard Hanan’s complaining grumble as she approached, a scuffing sound as she peered over the garden wall into the alley. Margaret looked up to meet Hanan’s eyes, raising her finger to her lips. Nick held his breath, transfixed by the swell of her lips around her knuckle, his nerves electric as he waited for the older woman to call out.

  A long pause stretched out, broken only by faint tinny cries from the loudspeaker. Thoughts raced. Would Hanan set the crowd on them? Did they stone people here? But we’ve done nothing wrong.

  Then another scuffle of feet and a heavy thud as Hanan retreated to the foot of the wall, calling out a negative to Aisha. Nick breathed out as the women’s voices receded. Margaret giggled with relief, her shoulders shaking. He realised his shirt was filthy, a ripped patch at his elbow. The sweat in his mouth tasted sharp and heady as whisky; he’d rarely felt so completely alive.

  ‘It’s been years since I did anything so crazy,’ he said, when he got his breath back.

  ‘Me and Sarah, we climbed walls when we were girls,’ Margaret said, wiping her eyes. ‘We stole guavas from our neighbour’s garden. JoJo does it now – he thinks I do not know.’

  He smiled at her, relieved. ‘Thank you. For coming to my rescue. A real Sir Galahad.’

  She snorted. ‘There are no knights in this village.’

  ‘Except for Dr Ahmed.’ He meant it, but the words stoppered the thrill of the moment, tamping down his joy.

  ‘He’s a healer, not a warrior.’ Margaret pushed back her headscarf, retying it behind the long curve of her neck. ‘He’s devoted only to his work.’

  ‘And to you.’ The words felt falsely dutiful.

  ‘He cares for me,’ she said, the smile gone from her face. ‘It’s not the same as love.’

  He caught her glance before she looked away. The sudden silence was awkward; it stretched out until Nick felt something disturbing insinuate itself into the pause. Then she was gone, moving swiftly through the warren-like paths between the houses.

  Finally they stepped into the freedom of open space. Dr Ahmed’s house lay ahead under a heavy glaze of light.

  He knew that once she crossed that threshold, a door would close in her. ‘Margaret – did I do something to offend you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That day by the lake – what you said . . .’

  ‘Let’s not speak of it.’ They’d reached the garden gate. Her eyes stayed resolutely away from him, directed towards the house.

  Joy plummeted. Their conversations were like stepping-stones across a flooding river, full of unexpected missteps into cold water. He put his hand on the gate to stop her opening it. ‘Tell me we’re still friends at least.’

  She looked at him. Sunlight scoured her face, irises opaque as an eclipse. ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ she answered. ‘We are friends.’

  He released the gate; she went inside. Nick’s hands were filthy from the wall. A bucket of soapy water stood near the kitchen sink. As he was rinsing them, he noticed a piece of paper crumpled in the waste-bucket, the pale yellow of Margaret’s notepad.

  Lifting it out, he smoothed over its creases. Margaret had
drawn herself looking away towards the edge of the paper, her tall body curved in a dance. One arm was lifted skywards, the other stretched towards an unseen figure – an anonymous hand, pale and open-palmed, reaching towards hers from a world outside the page.

  The protest forced Dr Ahmed’s hand; at last he bowed to the inevitable. Nick helped him into the car on the morning of their appointment with the governor, subdued in the stained brown suit he wore to see his patients. Nick read this as a quiet act of defiance.

  Speeding up the northern highway, the doctor’s eyes looked vacant in the rear-view mirror – lined with moisture, their dark irises tinged with a mottled blue circle.

  ‘When was the last time you came to the Town?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Oh, not for a while now.’ The doctor seemed to be speaking a beat slower than usual, fixated by the sight of the cars slipping southwards. ‘My sister is there. You remember?’ Goggo had come for Friday meals twice since Nick’s arrival, a gummy old woman sheathed in black.

  ‘Eric said there was some trouble once, between your family and the governor.’

  ‘My father thought he could bring many changes here.’ Dr Ahmed turned away from the window. ‘He and Danjuma’s father were political allies. They spent money and made enemies. There were elections. My father refused to withdraw. In the end there was a riot. People died.’ He sighed, studying his open palms.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Impatience spurred Nick onwards, thinking of the aquifer and its boundless possibilities. ‘But don’t they have a point? The protesters – even Mr Kamil and Danjuma? Why should Adeya lose her crops or children get sick because water is too expensive? Bad leadership kills more people than riots – you must see that in your work, surely.’

  ‘I see many things,’ Dr Ahmed told him. ‘Mostly what I see is that people do not learn from their mistakes. I told Miss Amina thirty years ago she would develop diabetes unless she stopped drinking sweet colas. But she cannot. I tell men that unless they restrain their sexual habits, they will become diseased and infertile. But they continue. This is human nature.’

  Nick swallowed. His father had yelled the same thing during his last visit – barely able to stand but radiating contempt as Nick described some cut-throat business deals among his firm’s partners. ‘The law of the jungle means everyone gets eaten in the end,’ he’d said, fixing Nick with his failing eyes. ‘You people never learn.’ When Nick protested that he’d nothing to do with his bosses, his father had snorted. ‘There’s no such thing as an innocent bystander, Nicholas.’ The old man’s scorn had been a scourge for so long, outliving even the bitter relief of his funeral. That day was still fresh in Nick’s memory – his mother shunted aside by a host of barely known relatives, the sad drone of Tahara prayers as Nick washed the withered body in slow strokes – from balding crown to cracked toenails, all that gigantic authority shrivelled into ruin. Later, when they laid his father in the casket and Nick placed the long-rejected yarmulke on the lank hair, he’d felt a vindictive pleasure that the old man could no longer argue about it.

  Now Dr Ahmed had his father’s eyes, the light turning them grey as stone. ‘Human nature is part of God’s law,’ he said, a touch of sadness in his tone. ‘Where there are errors, there will also be consequences. If we have a bad leader, isn’t it because we ourselves have not learned to be good?’

  The governor was hosting their meeting over lunch. Food was already on the table at his mansion – an international spread of pasta and leafy salads. A vast fish, its flesh brown with smoke, stared up at them from a bed of yellow rice. ‘Shipped from the coast,’ Eric said in a low voice. ‘Too fancy for the likes of us, eh, Dr Ahmed?’

  The old man’s lips moved to reply, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. Nick noticed that Eric’s language improved around Dr Ahmed. He was not a man to be easily sworn at.

  Eventually the governor entered on a wave of activity – thrusting papers back to his scurrying assistant.

  ‘Well.’ He encompassed them all with his vast smile. ‘I am so pleased you could accept my invitation. And thank you for bringing this most welcome guest. It has been far too long, Dr Ahmed.’

  He extended his hand; the doctor shook it limply. ‘It has.’ His voice had climbed in register. The governor’s presence seemed to diminish him, shrinking him into old age.

  ‘Sit, please.’ The governor pulled up a seat and started spooning food onto his plate. The fish flaked easily under Nick’s fork, but its smoky warmth summoned Adeya’s millet fields to mind. He wondered how much of her monthly income he’d swallowed in that single bite.

  ‘So.’ The governor turned to him. ‘I like your structural changes to our new wing. A much more efficient approach.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Nick cast an eye towards Dr Ahmed, eating in silence. ‘We’re on schedule to finish before the rains.’

  ‘And how do you like the team? I know the company owner well. Not brilliant, but reliable. Personally, I prefer reliable.’

  ‘They’re doing fine.’ Nick willed Dr Ahmed’s eyes upwards – but the older man kept his glance fixed on his plate.

  After a pause, Nick continued. ‘Actually, I wanted to put a suggestion to you.’ Now Dr Ahmed’s eyes turned up in a warning glance. ‘About health issues here in general. How we could put the money we’re saving on the construction project to better use.’

  The governor had stopped eating, large hands clasped before him in polite interest. The man’s presence radiated outwards like a force field; Nick could almost feel it pushing him back in his seat.

  He looked around for support. ‘Dr Ahmed, you know more than anyone what’s happening in your village.’

  The governor’s eyes turned to him. ‘This man’s family and mine go back many years. Some of those were difficult but mutual respect has always been there. If you have something to ask of me, Dr Ahmed, please do not hesitate.’

  He held the governor’s gaze. ‘I have nothing to ask for myself,’ he said. ‘What I ask is for our village. I come on behalf of the council.’

  ‘Yes. My friend Danjuma was present at your meeting, I hear.’ The governor helped himself to another large forkful of fish. ‘I was sorry to learn of the fire. Most unfortunate.’

  ‘It will not be the only one.’ Dr Ahmed’s back was straight as a prisoner’s in the dock. ‘The rains have failed. The poorest cannot afford to pay the trucks. Now there is no water for their fields. Soon there will be none to wash and then none to drink. And where hunger goes, anger follows. Already there have been protests. Therefore I ask you, in Allah’s name: give us a lower price, for this season.’

  The governor sat back in his chair, considering Dr Ahmed. The silence between them swelled, filling the room.

  Nick’s impatience mounted. We shouldn’t have to beg. It was humiliating to watch Dr Ahmed belittle himself – not an envoy but a sinner dragged to the stocks.

  Nick pulled the aquifer survey out of his jacket pocket, and laid it on the table between them.

  ‘There’s another option,’ he said.

  The governor’s gaze rested on the survey, like a fly on an abandoned meal. Nick noticed a slight twitch of the arm that bore the gleaming watch.

  ‘Look.’ He pointed to the flow of survey lines. ‘There’s an underground water reservoir here. Enough for a permanent supply to the whole village. We just need to drill a well.’

  ‘A well?’ the governor repeated, the word resonating in his chest.

  ‘We can afford to dig for water,’ Nick told him, ‘with what was saved on the hospital project.’

  ‘You are an expert in digging wells?’

  ‘No,’ Nick admitted. ‘But I’m an engineer – I can get it done.’

  ‘How?’ The governor leaned forward, turning the survey for a better view. His tone was interested. ‘How do such things get done?’

  Nick had not come prepared with specifics. ‘Well . . . there are different kinds – pump-action, storage, irrigation. I’d have to consult on the best model for this
area. But it’s quick – a matter of weeks. Months at most. And it’s not expensive, not compared to something like this.’ He gestured towards the hospital site. ‘And the point is – it lasts. We’re not talking about a solution to just this drought. It could change things.’ He looked at the doctor. ‘It could change everything.’

  A pause enveloped the table. Even Eric was silent. Only Dr Ahmed stirred. He laid his hand on the survey, fingers spread as if to hide it, the lines on his skin blending with the faded cartography.

  Now the governor sat back in his chair, pushing his plate away. Slick flakes tumbled onto the tablecloth, staining it with oily residue.

  ‘So whose proposal am I considering?’ The governor turned to Dr Ahmed. ‘The doctor says I must reduce the price of water for his village and let others bear his costs. You,’ he turned back to Nick, ‘have an even bolder plan. A vision. We divert our resources, we make rivers flow in the desert. Like the prophets. Is that the way of it?’

  Nick sensed something building in the room – a gathering storm.

  ‘It’s a good means to a good end,’ he said, doggedly. ‘You said you wanted a modern society. In a modern society, people’s lives don’t depend on nature’s whims.’

  The governor raised his massive arm towards Nick and tapped the gold watchstrap. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of this watch?’ he asked. ‘It came from my uncle. A graduation present. Originally he wanted to give me a manual watch that some Swiss craftsman worked ten years to make. My uncle was a romantic. In his day we did not have systematic arrangements, like water trucking. We had more of a manual system, you might say. My father was governor then, and my uncle urged him to keep tuning his system to fit everyone’s desires. But Dr Ahmed knows what happened next. The adjustments were never sufficient for men like Mr Danjuma. They only created the appetite for more adjustments. In the end the whole mechanism became broken. They tried to take the life of my father. Isn’t that correct, sir?’