She walked past a group of Nasserite Arab nationalists and some Azhari preachers in their turbans and cloaks sitting on a carpet of cardboard boxes and also eating breakfast. She was heading for the younger and more anarchic side of Tahrir. In the distance she saw a boy in a red football shirt, who’d climbed halfway up a lamp post and had a white sheet clamped between his teeth. The to-do list she’d made on her phone was a long one and her first job was to help set up the Tahrir Square Cinema. They’d made a screen from stitched-together bed sheets and by the looks of it that was almost in place. The plan was to run the projector on electricity stolen from a nearby streetlight and Nawal had asked her followers to suggest films. Now she had to source the most popular movies and organise a programme.
Once that was done, the plan was to establish a University of Tahrir next to the cinema, with an open mic some of the time and invited lecturers as well. Nawal read through the rest of her to-do list. She smiled when she remembered that Zahra was coming down later, together with William Carver so he could record an interview with her. Nawal had meant to try and write down an English translation of everything she’d seen on the day she found the gas canisters but there hadn’t been time. It wouldn’t be a problem, Zahra would help. She’d also planned to go and retrieve her collection of other canisters, bullets and batons from the old lady’s flat but there had been no time for that either – at least not during daylight and while she had almost convinced herself that the attack had had no effect on her, the truth was Nawal didn’t want to walk the back streets at night. Perhaps Zahra and she could go and do that together too? Her hand went to her neck; she was wearing a green silk scarf, which hid the knife wound, and she hoped might also appear a little elegant.
The boy at the top of the lamp post was shouting down at her. ‘How does it look?’
Nawal tilted her head. ‘Not bad.’
‘Cool. Have you got that copy of Titanic yet?’
Nawal laughed. ‘No! And I’m not going to, Tarek. So you may as well stop voting for it.’
Carver was looking for Jean. He wanted to thank her, to apologise for being so much trouble. He also wanted to find out what she’d done with the tear gas canister. Her phone was off and she wasn’t in her room. He searched the hotel with Patrick’s sunglasses perched on top of his own regular spectacles. This hid the most obvious bruising but he wasn’t sure it made him look much less conspicuous; certainly it seemed like he was getting more than his fair share of strange looks as he checked the bar and lobby. There was no sign of Jean in either place and so he decided to try the garden, via the dining room.
At first he mistook the skinny black man waving at him from the other side of the dining room for a waiter. As he moved closer, he realised it was the Good Samaritan who’d come to his rescue at the mosque.
‘Mr Carver! I had a feeling we would meet again. A wish, I should say.’
The man’s accent intrigued him: East African, he was certain, but with an interesting Italian twang to it.
‘Hello, it’s good to see you again.’
‘And you, and you. Have you time to drink a coffee with me?’
Carver looked around; there was no sign of Jean. ‘Of course.’ He sat down at the table. ‘I looked for you after I finished that interview with the Muslim Brotherhood man.’
‘Mr Shalaby.’
‘Mr Shalaby, yes. I wanted to thank you.’
‘No thanks necessary. I planned to wait and introduce myself properly as well but it became clear that I had outstayed my welcome.’ He smiled. ‘I suspect that both of us are used to the cold coming as the poet said? Doing the work that we do?’
Carver was doubly confused. Unsure both of the poet in question and also why this man’s work would make him less than welcome. ‘What is it you do?’
‘You cannot guess?’
Carver looked at the man’s suit, his briefcase and shoes: the usual clues, and took a guess. ‘A diplomat?’
‘Diplomat?’ The man laughed, put a finger to his collar then looked down at his shirt and laughed again, louder. ‘Ah, I forget – I am not wearing my uniform!’ He grinned at Carver who remained confused. ‘I am a priest, I am Father Rumbek.’
‘Father Rumbek, of course. Then you’re here to see Jean?’
‘Yes, we are making an interview. She has gone to get some more batteries for her little tape recorder.’ He offered his hand, which William shook; the priest had a good hold. ‘I did not mean to be mysterious, I assumed you would guess from my collarino ecclesiastico but it is not there to be guessed at.’
Carver nodded. ‘Dog collar.’
‘Yes. I like your English word better than my Italian. Although’ – the priest reached for his briefcase – ‘we Italians have another word too, a better one I think.’ He opened the briefcase, and buried beneath a sheath of papers he found a folded black shirt and stiff white collar; he removed the plastic collar and held it up for Carver to see. ‘We also call it strozzapreti – like the pasta?’ He twisted the strip of plastic and smiled. ‘You name them after dogs, we name them after pasta – both things our countrymen love. It is encouraging I think.’
Carver suspected that Father Rumbek found encouragement easier to come by than most.
Jean returned with her old Dictaphone in one hand and a pack of batteries in the other. ‘How lucky am I? I’ve got two fellas at my table now.’
On seeing Jean, Carver’s hand went to his swollen face.
‘It’s looking better already, Billy.’ She turned to Father Rumbek. ‘William had an altercation with a colleague – no big deal.’
The priest nodded. ‘Sometimes it is better to turn the other cheek.’
Jean laughed. ‘Yeah, I think that’s what he did. Anyway, I’m glad you two met, I was going to introduce you anyway. You remember I mentioned Father Rumbek?’
Carver nodded. ‘I remember very well. Jean compared you to Mother Teresa, Father. Mother Teresa with’ – he glanced at Jean – ‘a similar moral compass.’
Rumbek shook his head. ‘That is much too much. I am God’s servant, like St Teresa of Calcutta, but I think that is all we have in common.’
Jean put her hand over the priest’s. ‘You’re being modest.’
Jean explained that Father Rumbek was in Cairo at the behest of Rome, to check in with the Catholic congregation, with Coptic Christians and others and find out what the Arab uprising might mean for them.
Carver nodded. ‘You’re worried about sectarianism?’
‘Rome is worried, I am more hopeful. I like to think of what is happening here now as a shaking of the kaleidoscope; if we are lucky then perhaps we can make the various pieces fit together better afterwards than they did before. I have already had meetings with my fellow Christians and with senior imams and I was encouraged.’
Carver nodded.
‘I have even been asked to hold a small mass in Tahrir Square – a great honour.’
‘Encouraging.’
‘Exactly.’
Jean chipped in. ‘It’s important work.’
The priest waved a modest hand.
‘But I also want to talk to you about the migrant stuff, Father. The work you do with refugees?’
It transpired that Father Rumbek had become a point of contact for his fellow Sudanese and other refugees trying to make their way up through Africa and across the Mediterranean.
‘Of course, we can talk about this, but others do much more than me.’
At that moment, the priest’s mobile phone began to ring. Carver recognised the ringtone: it was the singsong sound his first mobile phone had made. Father Rumbek answered, first in Arabic then English and French and at least two or three other languages that Carver did not recognise. Then the priest waited, the phone pressed hard against his ear. After a few more multilingual hellos and invitations to speak he put the phone back in his pocket.
‘This happens more and more. People call me from somewhere, from only God knows where. The phone connects, but I canno
t hear them and I have no idea if they hear me.’
Carver nodded. ‘Where might they be calling from?’
‘That call? The desert, I think. Once they reach the sea they have satellite phones and those work better. I think these calls come from somewhere in the Sahara and my writ does not run there. Who knows the horrors they endure? Even if they reach me, there is no coastguard I can call. I fear that as many people are dying in the sand as are dying in the sea. It breaks my heart.’
‘Wait, wait …’ Jean held up a hand. ‘I need to be getting some of this on tape.’ She started fiddling with her machine, removing the old batteries with her painted fingernails and inserting new ones. ‘What’s your plan, Billy? Do you want to stay and listen?’
Carver shook his head. ‘I’d like to but I can’t. The hotel manager wants a chat and then I’m heading down to the square with Zahra.’
Jean glanced at Carver’s swollen face. ‘You’re feeling up to that?’
‘I need to get her friend Nawal on tape. Soon as possible.’ He looked over at Father Rumbek who was busy on his phone. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘Do not worry, I have plenty to occupy me.’
Carver turned to Jean, his voice lowered. ‘I wanted to ask you ’bout some other stuff.’ He hesitated. ‘And to thank you. For … you know, looking after me.’
Jean put a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s catch up later.’ Jean glanced at the priest. ‘Father. William has to make a move.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Carver, good to see you again. I wish that you could stay. I am concerned that Miss Fitzgerald might exaggerate my modest contribution.’
Carver nodded, but thought the priest didn’t look too concerned.
Jean switched her machine on. ‘Father, by the time I’m done you’ll be in the running for Humanitarian of the Year and I’ll have won a Pulitzer.’
The Way of Sorrows (vii)
Near El ’Atrun, Sudan
Objects that Gebre knew to be fixed in place, moved in the heat. The minaret, the dozen clay-built homes, the truck that had carried them hundreds of miles already and would carry them hundreds more – all wavered in the haze. They had been stuck in the small desert town for half a day already, waiting for a delivery of fuel. It was too hot for anyone to stay in the truck and so they found what comfort they could, moving from one shaded spot to the next as the sun moved across the sky.
Growing up in Asmara, Solomon and Gebre were used to the heat, but they had never experienced a sandstorm. The first indication of its approach came in the form of a welcome breeze, sweeping through the town, south to north. Gebre noticed that an old castellated fort that they’d driven past on their way into the town had suddenly disappeared from view.
The brothers were unaware of what was coming, but others were not. The Sudanese driver and his men climbed back into the cab of the truck and wound the windows up. A woman called Salim who the other women in their group seemed to respect and defer to, encouraged those around her to gather their children close and pull their scarves down over their faces. Before either brother could do much in the way of preparation, cloud after cloud of sand came sweeping towards them. The small clay houses that had been visible just moments ago were gone; it was as though a sand-coloured shawl had been thrown over the town. Gebre and Solomon pulled their shirts over their heads and screwed their eyes shut; the rush and roar of the sand was like nothing they’d heard before.
The dust storm travelled through the place in minutes, unroofing several of the small huts and leaving piles of sand banked high against every building, vehicle and unmoving object – including the huddles of people. After the storm had gone, Solomon stood and shook himself clean. The movement reminded Gebre of watching a wet dog shake itself dry – he grinned at his brother and climbed to his feet, fine sand cascading from his clothes.
The petrol tanker they’d been waiting for arrived soon after the dust storm left – as though it had been chasing the storm north. The traffickers filled the tank and another half-dozen plastic jerry cans and ordered their passengers back on board. The brothers now found themselves sitting close to a group of women and their children and Solomon did his best to tuck his legs and elbows close to his body and move as little as possible.
It was an uncomfortable situation and so he was grateful when, at around dusk, the truck rolled to a halt and the driver and his men climbed from the cab to relieve themselves. Solomon stood and stretched and was about to jump down from the back of the truck when one of the light-skinned Sudanese, the uglier of the two, climbed up on to the riser and stared in. His eyes settled on a young girl, sitting just a couple of places down from where the brothers were. It was Salim’s daughter he was staring at. Her mother was sitting close by and as Gebre watched, she leaned forward in an attempt to block the smuggler’s view of the girl. It should have worked, since from where he stood he could only have been able to see her trainers and trouser-covered legs. Gebre guessed that the girl must have caught the man’s eye earlier in the journey; he pointed a finger.
‘Auntie, I need your girl to help me with something; send her down.’
Salim did not look at the man; she stayed silent, slowly shaking her head.
He lifted himself on to tiptoes. ‘It will not take very long, I will bring her back.’
Gebre felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder pushing himself up. Solomon stood, moving the truck with his weight.
‘I can help you.’
The man laughed. ‘Not you, big man. You are not what I need for this job.’ He pointed again. ‘Woman, do you hear me? If you make me wait, it will be worse.’ He took his gun from between belt and trousers and waved it at Solomon. ‘Get that little one down for me.’
‘No. Leave her alone.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said—’
Gebre got to his feet and placed himself in between the man’s gun and his brother.
‘Sir, look at the girl.’
The man looked, he had a clearer view now.
‘She is very young, just a child. Perhaps she is your daughter’s age or younger?’ Gebre studied the smuggler’s face.
He shook his head, shaking any shame or second thoughts that Gebre had planted in his mind away. He raised the gun again but before he could make his next move, Salim was on her feet, picking her way past the other women and heading in the smuggler’s direction. As she moved, she pulled her blue headscarf down, freeing her hair. She stopped next to Gebre and addressed the man in a low voice.
‘I can you help with this. Not my daughter – me.’
The smuggler gave a grudging nod and jumped down with Salim following.
She returned twenty minutes later, walking slowly from behind a line of sand dunes, brushing dirt from her trousers and smoothing her long shirt down. Halfway back to the truck she seemed to stumble, then stood straight, reached into her pocket and found her headscarf. Gebre watched her tie the hijab and carefully tuck every strand of hair back beneath it. The hands of several fellow passengers helped her into the truck and back to her place, next to her daughter who was watching her keenly. As she drew closer, Salim’s daughter opened her arms and her mother lowered herself into the embrace and buried her face in her daughter’s neck, breathing deeply. The girl held her mother’s hand, stroking it with her own and whispering words of comfort. The daughter mothered the mother and the two women cried and Gebre and the other passengers looked away; out of respect and shame and despair.
22 Appetite
DATELINE: The Garden Suite, Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 31 2011
Mr Akar had requisitioned the best suite in the Seti for his meeting with Carver: an over-decorated room on the fourth floor with a terrace facing the swimming pool and gardens. Glancing around, it seemed to Carver that the room contained too many of everything. Three sofas, four small occasional tables, the same number of gold-framed mirrors and an entirely unnecessary white marble fireplace with a pair of highly polished golden sphinxes in the plac
e where an Englishman of a certain generation might expect to see two china dogs. There was even a walnut wood grandfather clock standing against one wall, though the hands on the clock face appeared to be stuck somewhere around half past eleven. Mr Akar handed Carver the whisky and water he’d asked for and encouraged him to pick a sofa. Carver sat and took a sip of his drink; Akar smiled and gestured at his guest’s face.
‘The whisky will help the pain.’
Carver nodded.
‘Do you enjoy this room?’
He looked around. ‘Not particularly.’
‘It is bigger than your room.’
Perhaps that was what this meeting was about. Akar was going to try and sell him an upgrade. If so, he was out of luck. ‘I prefer mine.’
Akar looked around. ‘Yes, this room is too big for you. It has too many excellent things; you like simple things. A good drink, good food …’
Carver gave a non-committal shrug. He wanted to get this unwelcome meeting over and done with as swiftly as possible.
‘But there is one thing about this room which I think you will enjoy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come, please.’
Carver studied his host: the hair an unconvincing shade of black, shiny grey suit and colourful tie – he looked like an old-fashioned spiv.
Akar strode over to the French windows and pulled them wide. ‘The balcony …’ The yellow curtains billowed and he ushered his guest through. ‘The balcony is very good.’
The wide, paved balcony was dappled with afternoon sun. At the front, next to the stone balustrade, was a set of cast-iron garden furniture, painted a glossy white – a round table and two chairs with plump cushions in the same bright yellow material as the curtains. ‘I sit here very much, it is the best place for my hobby.’
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