Cause Celeb

by Helen Fielding

  “No. Bloody odd, actually. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of ’em. Muhammad reckons it’s because as soon as they started trying to cross the plains, the Aboutians started bombing them. So they’ve bedded down in the highlands. Have you got Security with you, by the way?”

  “We’ve got a couple of minders. Why?” I was trying to make sense of what he had told me. It didn’t add up. I’d seen those people. There were too many of them just to bed down. Maybe some foreign aid had reached them through Abouti. But how, if the Aboutians were attacking them?

  Henry was still talking about Security. “Their plane landed near the village a while ago. I thought they’d come to meet you.”

  “What did we get from the EEC?” I said.

  “Dried milk powder, oil, soya mix and the drugs.”

  “How much?”

  “We should be able to hold on till the ship comes.”

  “How come they didn’t tell us it was there before?”

  “They didn’t know. Stocktaking error or something.”

  Corinna laughed incredulously. “Well,” she said. “Shall we turn round and go home now?”

  Kamal was walking towards us beaming. “You are welcome,” he was saying. “Your tiffin is ready and waiting.”

  Corinna took off her sunglasses and looked at me hard. “Is this man,” she hissed, “your servant?”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  Ipulled up at the top of the hill overlooking the camp. Some children were running along a path towards the river. Goats were sprawling over a hummock, tugging at a bush. Figures moved lazily across the plain. It all looked much the same as before the crisis. I was glad that they were safe—but I didn’t half feel a prat.

  I had left Henry trying to find somewhere for Kate to plug in her hair dryer, with strict instructions for him to keep the Charitable Acts contingent busy in the compound when they arrived and not to let any of them come down to the camp yet. I put the truck in gear and started down the steep track, skidding slightly in the sand. As I got to the bottom the kids started running towards the truck, cheering and waving.

  I parked and walked towards the hospital surrounded by boisterous kids. They weren’t back to normal yet, still too thin. But Henry was right, they were much better. Once everyone was eating properly, and drugged up, and the organization was back on course, you could bring things back under control pretty quickly. Henry had done a good job. Maybe they didn’t need me anymore.

  Betty appeared fussily at the entrance to the hospital. She was wearing her best pink souk-tailored pajama outfit. “Hello, dear. Did you have a wonderful time? Do you know, I can’t tell you how dreadful it’s been for us here. Quite dreadful. We’ve been working right round the clock, hardly stopping for meals. You look marvelous. Did you have a good rest?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I said.

  “You’ve timed it beautifully. We’ve just got ourselves sorted out, so we can take it a bit more easy. Did Henry tell you about the EEC food? He’s been wonderful. He organized the most marvelous feeding program as soon as we got delivery. He’s been working his fingers to the bone, that boy. O’Rourke’s been wonderful too. What a strong, capable man he is. Have you brought your celebrity friends to see us?”

  “Yes. And forty tons of food.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll all come in useful,” she said, without much conviction. “It’ll be super to meet our famous chums anyway. We’re going to make them ever so welcome—give them a taste of bush life! Kamal’s going to make us a picnic to take to the river, just like old times.”

  I forcibly removed from my mind a vision of Corinna participating in this event. “How’s the hospital?” I said, walking towards the entrance.

  “Oh, much better now,” she said.

  Debbie and Sian came rushing out and we hugged each other. “Have you heard about all this food appearing out of thin air?” said Debbie.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Have you brought . . .?”

  “I’ve brought the celebrities. And a planeload of food.”

  “Sod’s law,” said Debbie. “Well . . . you know . . . if the EEC food hadn’t come, or if the refugees had, then we would have been desperate for it.”

  “But it has, and they didn’t, so it looks like we’re not,” I said, ruefully.

  “Well . . . it was still a nice thing to do.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to sound grateful.

  “That food’ll be gone in two weeks. You’ve done the right thing,” said Debbie.

  The three of us went round the beds. The crisis may have passed but people were still in a bad way: there were cases of diarrhea, pneumonia, malaria, meningitis, three marasmic babies, and some malnutrition which had gone beyond help. “At least they can do their film in here,” said Debbie. We exchanged a wry look.

  “It’s worse in the cholera hospital,” said Sian helpfully.

  “I’ll go and have a look,” I said.

  I could see the rush shelter of the cholera unit, standing on its own away from the huts on a slight rise. I was walking along a hard earth track and then I saw O’Rourke. My heart did a great heave and sigh. I wanted to break into a run towards him.

  I kept walking along the path. He was lighting a cigarette, thoughtful and absorbed, looking out towards the river, round over the camp, towards me. He saw me and started, stubbed the cigarette out under his foot, raised both hands in the air. I saw him smile and gesture towards the river. He started walking down the slope where he was pointing, with the slight limp. A track led off to the right ahead of me in that direction. I hurried along it. He was hidden by huts now. A big earth mound rose ahead to the left, the track following its base, the big red rocks and the river ahead. I turned the corner. He was standing there. We both rushed towards each other then stopped, embarrassed.

  “So you’ve really done it—you’ve brought celebrities out?”

  We were walking back up towards the main bit of the camp.

  “Yes. Funnily enough, just when you no longer need it, I’ve brought four celebs, forty tons of food, a journalist, a photographer, a full television team including at least two certifiable maniacs and a satellite earth station.”

  “Well—well done. Good on you.” That was nice of him, considering he’d been so against this. “Where are they? Not down here yet, I hope.”

  “No. Henry’s entertaining them in the compound.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re very committed, and they’ve been very well briefed. I don’t think they’ll give us too much trouble,” I said, “but I don’t know what we’re going to do with them now we don’t have a problem anymore.”

  “Well, we need some new latrines digging,” he said with the quick smile, then added, “But, of course, there is still a problem.”

  “Well, I must admit, I found it hard to—” I began.

  “You and I both saw that exodus in Tessalay,” he said. “Where have they gone? They can’t just have disappeared into thin air. I’m deeply uneasy about what’s happening up there.”

  Just then we heard raised voices a little way ahead.

  “They’re not starving, Mikey. You say to me ‘Nadia, your people are starving,’ and I come out to be with my people, and see my people starving and my people are not starving.”

  “The people are thin, Nadia. The people are very thin.”

  “You say to me the people are thin. I’m looking at myself and I’m thinking, ‘Nadia, you are thin. You are very thin. You are not starving.’The people are not starving, Mikey.”

  “Now don’t get upset, hon.”

  “I am upset, Mikey. I am upset. My people are not starving. I am upset.”

  We came out into a clearing, surrounded by huts. Nadia Simpson’s feet were encased in soft leather sandals, laced up her calves. Her long brown legs were bare. She was wearing a very short uneven sarong made from animal skins. Her hair was piled high on the top of her head, held in
place with a large bone.

  “Is this one of your celebrities?” said O’Rourke, staring at me aghast.

  “The people are hungry, hon,” Mike was saying, encouragingly. “They are very hungry.”

  “You say to me the people are hungry. I am hungry, Mikey. I am very hungry. I have not had anything decent to eat since we left the office. I am hungry, Mikey.”

  Nadia and Mike were standing with their backs turned to the clearing. At the other side of the clearing a group of Keftians were staring at Nadia. A plump white woman with big gold-flecked glasses and a wet-look khaki boiler suit was crouched in front of a child taking a photograph. Beside her was Abdul Gerbil from Security in Sidra. They must have brought Nadia to Sidra in the plane. He was wearing his dark-green uniform instead of a djellaba but he still sported the Blues Brothers sunglasses and Coco the Clown hairdo. He was jabbing at the crowd angrily with the handle of his pistol, pushing them back. A bored-looking white girl wearing leggings and a tight white T-shirt, which revealed her midriff, was sitting beside an open toolbox full of makeup.

  The woman in the wet-look boiler suit straightened up, and peered over at Nadia and Mike with a coy smile.

  “Nadia?” she said. “Nadia?”

  Nadia turned sulkily.

  “You feel something special for the children, don’t you, Nadia?” she said. “Would you like to hold one of the children for me, Nadia? Would you? Would you like to give the children their Care Bears?”

  Mike de Sykes took out a small aerosol and began to spray Nadia in preparation.

  A deep laugh gurgled out. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a familiar, white-djellabaed, vertical-haired figure watching the proceedings and grinning from ear to ear.

  “Where are we going now, Mikey?”

  “The hospital, hon.”

  “The hospital. That should be gross, huh?”

  The whole group, Nadia, Mike, Abdul Gerbil, the makeup girl, the woman photographer from Hey! magazine, and Keftian onlookers, were trooping along the path. O’Rourke, Muhammad and I were bringing up the rear.

  “I need a hospital. I do not feel good, Mikey. I really think I’m gonna get sick.”

  “You won’t get sick, hon. You are not going to get sick. I am not going to let you get sick.”

  “You say I’m not going to get sick. I am sick, Mikey. But wait a minute, wait a minute.” Nadia brightened suddenly. “If I get sick it means a whole lot more people will get to hear about Nambula.”

  “That’s right, hon. They’ll get to hear about Nambula. You’re getting into it now, hon. I can feel you getting into it.”

  “This feels real to me, Mikey, you know? It feels a lot more real than London, Mikey. It feels real to me.”

  “That’s good, hon, that’s very good.”

  Nadia’s sarong was riding up so that the firm crescents of her bottom were just visible as she walked. Muhammad was walking behind, watching. He had not bothered with an artificial limb, and was hauling himself along efficiently on his stick.

  “I am not having that woman in the hospital,” said O’Rourke as we followed along.

  “But, Doctor, you yourself have said that it benefits the patients to be distracted and entertained.” Muhammad chuckled.

  “Not like this,” said O’Rourke, staring straight ahead. “It is an insult to the dignity of the refugees.”

  “But I am a refugee, and I have felt my recovery gallop apace ever since I caught sight of that woman, and particularly that bone in her hair,” said Muhammad. “I am a new man.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got any choice anyway,” I said. “If Security say she can wander round the camp, she can wander round the camp.”

  “You might be right there,” said O’Rourke grimly.

  “I am firmly behind her,” said Muhammad, staring delightedly at the bottom.

  “You are a filthy lech,” I said. “I’m going to give you your copy of Hamlet. That will keep your mind on higher things.”

  “You remembered,” he said, taking my hand. “You remembered. Such kindness.”

  I had the book in my bag. It was a leather-bound version of the complete works, but I wasn’t going to give it to him here. A Keftian woman caught hold of my arm. She thrust a fold of fabric into my hands and pointed towards Nadia, patting her thighs, and putting her hand to her mouth to indicate hunger and poverty. I opened the fabric up. It was a dress. The woman pointed towards Nadia again with a concerned expression, and said something in Keftian which I couldn’t understand. Muhammad exploded into laughter again.

  “She is thinking that Nadia is very poor that she must wear animal skins which do not cover her body. She is wanting to give Nadia this dress. It is her best dress and she says that if she will visit their homes, they have food for her.”

  He said something to the woman. She listened, then started to laugh too, hooting at the joke, banging her forehead, bending double, regaling the women around her so that they all started laughing too.

  “I told her that Nadia was rich and that rich women in the West like to dress like refugee woman, and that this is how she think refugee woman dress,” said Muhammad.

  “Very amusing,” said O’Rourke, “but I am still not having that woman in the hospital.”

  He hurried ahead and caught up with Abdul Gerbil. I could hear them conversing angrily as the party marched forward.

  “Birra belly bra. Wibbit.”

  “Dongola fnirra.”

  “Sinabat. Fnarraboot. Wop.”

  The lady from Hey! magazine was getting anxious about the light. There was no sunset because of the clouds, but it would be dark in an hour. As we approached the hospital I saw that another of the Land Cruisers from the Charitable Acts convoy was parked next to mine. I hoped it was Henry. I hoped the others had not escaped from the compound. O’Rourke and Abdul Gerbil were still arguing in Nambulan, outside the entrance to the hospital.

  “Guys, I can’t hang around here. I’m losing my light,” said the photographer, bustling ahead. “Sharee, come on, sweetie. Matte her down, sweetie. Matte her down.”

  Nadia, Mike, the photographer and the makeup girl were heading for the hospital entrance now. O’Rourke and Abdul Gerbil, still arguing, hadn’t seen them. I rushed ahead to try to stop them.

  “Mikey. What’s she doin’ ’ere?” Nadia’s mid-Atlantic drawl had slipped at the sight of Kate Fortune.

  Kate was sitting on a low wooden bed just inside the entrance, with her hair wrapped in a peach-colored turban. Cradled in the crook of each arm were two of the marasmic babies. The News photographer was lying on the floor in front of them, looking through his camera. The mother of the third marasmic baby was holding the child out at an awkward angle, just above Kate’s lap.

  “Can you just cheat it up for me, love?” the photographer said to the mother. “Up a bit. No, that’s too far. Split the difference.”

  “GET OUT.”

  There was not a sound. The population of the hospital, Jane, Linda, Sian, Kate Fortune, Nadia Simpson, both photographers, Sharee the makeup girl stared at O’Rourke open-mouthed.

  “GET OUT. ALL OF YOU. NOW.”

  “Hey, listen, mate, we’ve got an exclusive—” began the News photographer, trying to get up from the floor.

  O’Rourke bent down, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved him towards the entrance. He turned back to the assembled group.

  “You heard,” he said. “Leave.”

  “But—” began the Hey! photographer.

  “Mikey—” began Nadia.

  “I WILL NOT,” O’Rourke roared again, “HAVE MY PATIENTS USED AS FASHION ACCESSORIES. Now get out. All of you.”

  As the invaders filed out huffily, Kate Fortune handed back the babies to their anxious mothers and hurried out after the others, adjusting her turban.

  *

  Ruffled feathers had been smoothed to some extent. Abdul Gerbil had been persuaded that things were much worse at Wad Denazen, and Nadia, cheered by the notion th
at her people were more starving elsewhere, had agreed to depart. Kate and her photographer had returned to the compound. It was dark now. The frogs in the river had begun to make their astonishingly loud belching noises. There were still a few lamps lit, but the refugees were turning in.

  “I’d better go back up to the compound,” I said to O’Rourke. It was almost seven.

  “You’re very tired,” said O’Rourke. “Why don’t you stay down here for a while? Sit with Muhammad. Unwind.”

  “Because I’ve got to get everything organized. They’ve all got to find places to sleep and be sorted out.”

  “Henry can deal with the sleeping arrangements. There’s plenty of beds.”

  “But we have to organize the food and the showers and everything.”

  “Save your energies for keeping that broadcast within the boundaries of taste. I’ll go up there and tell them you have things to do down here.”

  So I sat with Muhammad. It was tranquil in his shelter. He had a pot boiling on the embers, incense burning and lamps flickering all around. I gave him his Shakespeare. He was very pleased. People I knew dropped in to sit with us for a while.

  Liben Alye came. He smiled and nodded and took my hand but his eyes were dead and he seemed finished. I had brought him a pair of trainers. He seemed pleased. All the refugees wanted trainers. But I felt shabby giving him these, when the only thing which gave his life meaning had been taken away.

  We sat in silence for some time, as was the way. I asked Muhammad to explain to Liben about the broadcast and to say that it was to remind people in the West that famine should not be allowed to happen again. His eyes came to life for a moment but then he seemed to sink back in despair.

  When Liben had gone, Muhammad said something to a boy outside then came back in, and said, “No more. Rest now.”

  But he didn’t give me a rest. He limped over to where he had pinned a map of Kefti to the rush mats which made the wall.

  “These of my fellow countrymen, for whom I sacrificed my leg—” he began melodramatically, then turned to see if he was having the desired effect.

  “Ye-es . . .” I said.

  “Where have they gone?” he whispered. He looked very dark in the lamplight. One side of his face had a line of light down it, highlighting his cheekbone. “The Security forces tell us that they have dispersed because of the evil bombing of the Marxist autocrats.”