@egyptismtahrir
Freedom loaded … 100%.
@bigbeartahrir
Raise your head up U R an Egyptian!
@mohammedktahrir
Liberated lands – Tunisia, Egypt. Next – Libya, Syria, Bahrain and maybe even Saudi!
@JohnBrandonBBC
Heading home! One of the toughest gigs in a long time, but a job well done by all accounts.
40 Wishes
DATELINE: Stockwell Road, London SW9, February 14 2011
The delivery guy had taken to calling Carver by his first name and making small talk. William had done nothing to encourage this but still Axlam persisted. He was Somali and he was saving up for a moped; when Carver explained that he had no English money left to tip him, Axlam said he’d take whatever he had. The kid’s uncle changed the money for him and Axlam enjoyed reporting back on the value of the various notes and coins Carver gave him.
‘Yesterday lunchtime you tipped me five pence in Liberian coins.’
Carver shrugged.
‘But in the evening, when I brought you the Chinese?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Those Brazilian notes were worth twenty-five pounds!’ Carver had considered asking for some of the Brazilian cash back but rejected the idea in favour of finding some more Liberian coins. He’d handed these over in exchange for the pizza but when he flipped the top open he saw that Axlam had delivered the wrong pizza. He went after him and handed it back.
‘This thing’s got pineapple on it – and ham.’
Axlam had a look. ‘I’m very sorry, William. I will swap it for the right one.’ He shoved the unwanted pizza into his boxy backpack. ‘Fifteen minutes I promise or I give the tip back.’
‘Fine.’
Carver watched some news while he was waiting. Egypt wasn’t the lead any more but it was still pretty high up the order. The President had gone, handing power to the military, who were promising an orderly handover and elections. The protesters were leaving Tahrir Square and there were pictures of tents being cleared.
Axlam was back in ten, ringing on the bell but when Carver opened the door, instead of pepperoni pizza he found Patrick, standing alongside a large suitcase.
‘Hello, William.’
‘Hello.’
‘I’ve been calling.’
‘I know. I’m on leave, I don’t want to talk about work.’
‘I wasn’t going to talk about—’
‘I don’t want to talk about anything. If I did, I would’ve called you back, wouldn’t I? What’s with the suitcase?’ He vaguely recognised it.
‘It’s er … Jean’s. It’s all her stuff. Zahra gave it to me, to give to you.’
‘Right.’ Carver stepped into the hall and rolled the case back into his flat.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not really, just … I’m sorry, William. I’m really sorry.’ There was a catch in his throat. ‘I wish it had been me – me and not her.’
Carver stared at Patrick. ‘I wish that too. But it wasn’t.’ He closed the door.
He tried her medicines first, taking various combinations of Jean’s impressive collection washed down with wine. Some of these pills seemed to help, others not. He slept a lot. He thought about having all her clothes dry-cleaned then decided against; he thought about giving everything to the local hospice shop, but he couldn’t do that either. Eventually he returned everything to the suitcase and pushed it to the back of his cupboard. The only things he kept out were Jean’s notebook, her painkillers and Nawal’s gas canister. He started work.
The phone numbers that Jean had copied from Father Rumbek’s mobile were written in the back of her notebook. She’d scribbled some words next to a few of the numbers: Balit office. Balit mobile? Asmara code. Thuraya sat phone. London mobile. There were ticks and double ticks next to some numbers, crosses next to others and it became clear to Carver that this was an indication of which numbers she’d called and which she hadn’t. Jean had avoided calling any of the numbers that might belong to one of the key players. She didn’t want to tip their hand. She had been working the margins and Carver knew he had to be similarly careful.
His eye kept going back to one number and words she’d scribbled next to it. It was a long mobile number and next to it Jean had written: East African mobile. Link?
He phoned it that evening. He had a form of words in his head and was ready to close the call down if he felt he was giving away more than he was learning. The phone rang for a long time without switching to a messaging service. For some reason William was sure that there was someone on the other end of the line. They were just taking a long time to decide whether or not to answer. The phone picked up.
‘Si?’ It was a young man’s voice, wary.
‘Hello, I found your number in a book belonging to Jean Fitzgerald. I think she called you, I think you spoke to her.’
‘Si.’
‘She left me your number. She wanted me to call you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s dead.’
The young man sighed. ‘Where are you calling me from?’
‘From London.’
‘Is that where the lady was from?’
‘No, but she lived here – for a long time. She was born in New Zealand but she left when she was seventeen. Where are you?’
There was a long pause. ‘Roma.’
Epilogue
DATELINE: The Borghese Gardens, Rome, Italy, May 3 2011
‘So this is hell.’ He heard the anguished English voice coming from the front of the bus and walked in that direction. He felt sorry for the tourists, sitting on top of a double-decker in the noonday sun, but their discomfort was his business opportunity. It still mystified him why anyone would pay so much money to ride an old bus around Rome on a hot day like this, but they did and so here he was, standing at the Borghese Gardens bus stop shouting up at the tourists in a mix of English, French and Italian. He wore a stack of twenty hats on his head, a range of different styles and sizes for men and women. Every seller had hats, but he had bucket hats for kids with Disney characters on them and for the teenagers, blue sun visors with the Italian flag which didn’t offer much protection but looked cool and sold well. All the vendors sold sun cream, but he sold sunblock – the brand that tourists knew; he had the bottled water they recognised too.
When he wasn’t selling, he watched. He studied his customers carefully, put himself in their place then found the things he thought they would need or like – he thought his grandfather would be proud of him. They cherished their mobile phones so he sold portable chargers with a full phone’s worth of charge on them. They worried about their children – he had the sunblock and the hats but also colouring books and crayons. They fiddled with the cheap earphones the bus driver gave them so he sold them better ones. His most recent innovation was a paper hat made from the tourist maps that hotels handed out for free. He’d learned how to fold the maps into several different shapes: a Napoleonesque was the most popular; he did this while they watched and they paid three euros for something that cost him nothing.
He sold the English voice some water and a paper hat, catching the five-euro note she threw down deftly and tucking it away in his money belt. He was about to work the other side of the bus when a short Italian woman appeared and started shouting.
‘Aooo. Hey you, shoo! Leave these people alone, my driver has warned you about this.’ Her voice sounded stern but the woman was smiling broadly as she yelled and he grinned back. Carlotta was only doing this to keep her miserable boss happy. ‘Guarda che te faccio beve! I’ll call the police …’
He held up his hands and backed away. He loved the way Carlotta spoke her language, he could have listened to her shout at him all day. The way she spoke Italian made it sound more like singing than speaking.
‘I am sorry.’
She tutted loudly and turned on her heel, skirt swishing. He loved that too. The only thing he didn’t like about her was the long tat
too of an Italian boy’s name written in extravagant, calligraphic script up on the inside of her right arm. Lorenzo was the name of his rival and although he knew the tattoo was a bad sign, he also knew Lorenzo was away studying in America, whereas he was here in Rome and saw her every day. What’s more, Carlotta had told him that he looked a lot like one of her favourite football players, a man who played for Roma and was even blacker than he was. He was trying to encourage the comparison by wearing his hair shaved short at the side and long on top, the way this footballer and Carlotta seemed to prefer it.
He checked his digital watch. He’d been working since six this morning; it was nearly one now and he was hungry but he didn’t want to eat any of the snacks he carried with him to sell to tourists. He could wait; he was meeting the English journalist at the Marinella restaurant in just over an hour. William Carver would surely want to eat?
There was a large ceiling fan inside the Marinella restaurant but the room was too tall and the fan too slow for it to do much good; the old wooden contraption simply stirred the warm air. Carver was early but that was fine; he needed to check his recording equipment and maybe have a bite to eat while he did that. He’d just have a starter and the kid could catch up when he arrived. Carver picked up the menu and ran an eye down it; none of the starters appealed. He’d have the vongole – that was usually more starter-size anyway.
He looked around for the waiter – there only seemed to be one, despite a black and white photograph behind the till showing a dozen waiting staff and half that again in chef’s hats and aprons. In time the man arrived; he had a grey toothbrush moustache and a short temper.
‘Cosa vuoi?’
Carver’s Italian was not great but he managed to make the man understand that he wanted a large glass of red wine with his vongole and some bread and olive oil. The vongole arrived – a mountain of spaghetti big enough to feed a family, rich in garlic and expertly cooked. Carver showered the lower slopes with Parmesan before attacking the summit in search of clams. It soon became clear that the generous helping of pasta was there to compensate for the marked absence of clam.
Carver had only unearthed six when he heard the brass bell on a spring on the back of the restaurant door ring softly. Glancing up from his meal, he saw a young African man looking in his direction. The kid walked nervously towards Carver’s table; he was wearing a checked shirt and jeans and pulling a beaten-up, black canvas roll-along suitcase behind him. He was getting ready to speak when the waiter marched from the kitchen and started berating him in angry Italian. Carver didn’t need to understand the language to catch the absolute contempt. He stood and put himself in between the waiter and his guest.
‘It is okay. Thank you, I asked this young man to meet me here.’
The waiter shook his head. If this stupid Englishman wanted to be robbed or ripped off then so be it. He took the precaution of removing the silverware from the tables closest to Carver’s unwelcome guest and returned to the kitchen.
William gave the kid an apologetic smile and offered his hand. ‘Hello, I’m William Carver.’
The kid shook hands, a good hold. ‘Hello. I am Solomon Hassen.’
‘Good to meet you at last.’
While Carver set up his microphone and MiniDisc recorder, using the bread basket as a makeshift mic stand, Solomon looked at the menu.
Carver told him to order anything he wanted and he chose calamari alla griglia, risotto alla pescatora, a glass of orangeade and the tiramisu; all ordered in a polite and perfectly fluent Italian. As soon as the first plate arrived on the table Solomon began to eat and he ate hungrily. Carver watched.
‘You’ve got a taste for Italian food already then?’
Solomon nodded. ‘We have Italian food in Asmara but not like this; the chef here is very good. They throw a lot of food away. But this man’ – he jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the waiter – ‘this man is not so good. He pours bleach on the old food so it cannot be eaten.’
While Solomon spoke, Carver checked the levels, shuffling the microphone around and adjusting the dial until the green lights on the front of his machine were doing the right thing.
Solomon was watching. ‘You want to do the interview while I am eating?’
William nodded. ‘I want you to tell me what you told me before, about some of the things that you and your brother saw on the journey.’
Solomon nodded.
‘I’ll ask you to repeat some of that later – to clarify stuff. But for now, we just talk …’ Carver leaned back in his seat. ‘How about we start in Asmara? I’ve always wanted to see that place; tell me about it.’
So Solomon told him – from the beginning to the end.
The Way of Sorrows (xvii)
Twenty-six nautical miles south of Lampedusa
Solomon was woken by the sound of shouting. An Italian fisherman had managed to attach a grappling hook to the dinghy’s engine and was pulling the boat closer to his. Solomon pulled himself into a sitting position and tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Looking down, he saw Gebre’s hand in his – he squeezed it now, to wake his brother.
Gebre had waited until Solomon was sleeping before shuffling over and lifting his heavy arm from around the near empty bottle. He opened it and poured the last inch of fresh water slowly into his brother’s mouth. This done he lay back down, exhausted, and stared up into the night sky … so many stars. He reached out, took Solomon’s hand and held it. He knew that he would see his brother again. He was certain of it – just not in this world.
DATELINE: The Marinella Restaurant, Rome, Italy, May 3 2011
When he finished his story, Solomon’s eyes shone. He looked up from the microphone and stared straight at Carver. ‘I have tried to remember the names of the people who died in our boat. Can I read these names into your recording machine?’
Carver nodded. ‘Of course.’
Solomon listed the names of the dead, ending with Gebre’s name. ‘I can show you his photograph?’
‘Please.’
Solomon got out his mobile phone and moved a thumb across the screen until he found the photos he was looking for. Two pictures of Gebre, standing on a jetty in the dark, smiling sheepishly.
‘Your brother looks like a good man.’
Solomon nodded. ‘Yes.’
Carver enlarged the picture. ‘This is the night you left Libya?’
‘That’s right. I wanted to remember it.’
‘Behind Gebre – on those boxes – what is that?’ Carver felt his stomach shift. He passed the phone to Solomon.
‘Pictures … of bugs. Bugs with horns. They were stamped on the boxes.’ He handed the phone back but it slipped from Carver’s sweating hand.
He retrieved it, enlarged the photograph some more and stared. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What?’
‘This picture.’ He pointed at Solomon’s phone. ‘It’s part of a puzzle. Something I’ve been working on.’
Carver stared up at the ceiling fan, turning slowly, stirring the air. With Solomon he had an eyewitness – someone who’d seen the weapons arrive and how they made their way south. From McCluskey and from Mariscal he had an idea of what these weapons were and where they were headed. He had Nawal’s gas canister and the list of numbers that Jean had found on Father Rumbek’s phone. And now – now he had a photograph: physical, dated evidence.
‘It’s enough.’
‘What?’
‘What you have given me, Solomon – you and Gebre – it’s enough. Will you excuse me? I need to make a telephone call.’
Carver stepped out on to the street and dialled Zahra’s number. She answered on the second ring and William told her everything. He was speaking too quickly, he was babbling but Zahra understood what it meant.
‘You have what you need then?’
‘I think so.’ He was smiling. ‘I can go after them for you now, Zahra.’
‘For me?’
‘For you. For Nawal.’<
br />
‘For Jean.’
Carver paused. His throat ached with unshed tears. ‘Yes, for Jean. I’m going to go after every fucking one of them.’
Acknowledgements
The following books were particularly helpful while researching A Single Source: Ahdaf Soueif’s Cairo, My City, Our Revolution, Denison, Yu Ren and Gebremedhin’s Asmara: Africa’s Secret Modernist City, Rachel Aspden’s Generation Revolution, Tom Chesshyre’s A Tourist in the Arab Spring, Nadia Idle and Alex Nunns’ Tweets from Tahrir, Charlotte McDonald-Gibson’s Cast Away, Patrick Kingsley’s The New Odyssey, Isobel Coleman’s Paradise Beneath Her Feet, How Women are Transforming the Middle East, Migreurop’s Atlas of Migration in Europe and Seb Emina and Malcolm Eggs’ The Breakfast Bible.
I would also like to acknowledge the journalism of Kevin Connolly, Mary Harper and Lyse Doucet as well as the work Forensic Architecture have done in investigating the story of ‘The Left to Die Boat’. Thank you to Richard Knight for pointing me in that direction and his support throughout. I am grateful to Matilda Harrison for the early reading and to Steve Ali, Mohamad Aljasem, and Deborah Dolce for help with the Arabic and Italian translations. I’m indebted to too many BBC radio people to thank them individually but I would like to acknowledge the support given by the Radio 4 World Tonight and World Service Newshour teams.
Lisa Highton and John Saddler have both been patient editorial guides as this ‘difficult second book’ slowly took shape. Finally, thank you to my family and most of all to Vic who read, re-read and re-re-read. Words are insufficient but they’ll have to do in the absence of an appropriate emoticon. Thank you.
About the Author
Peter Hanington is the author of A Dying Breed. He has worked as a journalist for over twenty-five years, including fourteen years at the Today Programme and more recently The World Tonight and Newshour on the BBC World Service. He lives in London with his wife and has two grown-up children.
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