Turbulent Wake

by Paul E. Hardisty

  That morning, he’d submitted a draft report on his findings to the director. It felt strange, being there in a city that did not see its own death coming in its furious growth. The people here felt half dead to him, he thought. This thought came into his head: The time of the individual has passed. And for the best. People like you would have us all die like wild dogs, fighting for the last scrap. And as it did, he saw a flash of movement outside on the street, near the front of the café. A young man dressed in a light-coloured thaub jumped out of a car. He stood for a moment on the pavement, looking at the café. There was something in his right hand. He looked both ways and then raised his hand and threw what looked like a black baseball towards the windows of the café.

  The engineer dropped to the floor. He did it instinctively. He didn’t have time to think about it.

  The explosion ripped out the front of the café. Broken glass and debris hurtled through the room. It was like an ocean wave passing over him. After a while, the energy had passed and there was quiet, just a moment. He opened his eyes. Ismail was beside him on the floor. Dust enveloped them. His ears were ringing, and now he could hear the far-off, muffled sounds of people murmuring and then the screams.

  Ismail reached for him, grabbed his arm. ‘Are you OK?’ he mouthed. There was blood on his face.

  The engineer nodded. ‘I think so.’ What about you, he was about to say when a second detonation ripped through the air. They both hugged the ground, covered their heads with their arms. Sirens wailed outside, faint, distant. Ismail scrambled to his feet, pulled him up. The place was a wreck. Dust-covered bodies lay scattered in the glass among broken tables and overturned chairs, chunks of masonry. Red light strobed through the smoke and dust. Outside, a car was burning. Thick orange flames and black, oily smoke billowed into the sky.

  Ismail grabbed his arm. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling him towards the back door. The engineer couldn’t hear him, but could see his mouth saying the words. ‘Before the police come. Or worse.’

  A Day in Aden

  The country was everything he had always imagined a distant land would be, and some of it was beyond his imagination. There were ancient terraced hillsides and mountain villages perched high above deep, vertical canyons, and sometimes there were oases notched into the narrowest part of a valley, where the springs welled up clear and cool from thick Palaeocene limestones and dolomites. The people of the country – tribesmen of the Wadi Hadramawt, of the Tihama plains, of the northern mountains of Saba – were tough and independent, qualities he had been taught to value as a boy, and had come to appreciate of his own accord later in life. Sometimes there were bombs. And always, there was war.

  There were many wars, in fact; overlapping conflicts over water and land and qat and the ancient blood feuds between tribes. And now, too, there was the oil.

  At first, there had been excitement among the people, the promise that the wealth beneath their land might be shared. The oil companies brought technology and changes the people had never had to cope with before. For a few, there were jobs as cooks and guards and cleaners and drivers. The government negotiated with the oil companies, and soon royalties began to flow. But the president kept the money for himself and his close circle of family and advisers and friends and business associates, and the people saw none of the promised riches. Soon the government sent the army to protect the oil workers from the people. A new war was coming.

  After the work on the water in Sana’a, it was the oil that brought the engineer back to Yemen. Western oil companies had made big new discoveries in the Masila, in the south, near the Empty Quarter, the long, poorly defined border with Saudi Arabia. The engineer came to help the oil companies manage the wastes that they produced. Mostly, the waste was heavy brine that was pumped up with the oil. This had to be separated out, before the oil could be processed and exported. The more oil they pumped from the ground, the more brine they had to deal with. At first, they dumped it in pits scraped into the dry ground. Then, as production increased, there was no more room for pits, and they started releasing the brine into the dry wadis, letting it flow down the ephemeral riverbeds as far as it would go before it evaporated and what was left soaked into the ground. It was a cost-effective solution. After a year of production, some of the oil companies were pumping out five barrels of brine for every one of oil. The engineer tested the brine and found that not only was it saltier than seawater, but it contained hydrocarbons and metals and was toxic to humans and animals. The normally dry riverbeds, which might see rain once a year or, in some places, once a decade, now ran like rivers, day and night.

  He started walking the wadis, miles and hours alone under the heavy sun, tracing the flow of the brine overland, and its likely subterranean course. Wherever the brine went, the hardy natural trees and scrub that clung to the wadi slopes died. Though the oil operations were far from the nearest villages, such was the rate of pumping that he soon determined the brine would reach the villagers’ wells if something did not change. When it did, their water would be ruined forever. And with it, their lives.

  The engineer, no longer young, still believed in the fundamental good in men. He was not a cynic, as so many of his friends were by this stage in their lives. He worked hard at not being a cynic, despite what he knew of himself and what he had seen of others. It was difficult, but he did not want to be like them. It was too easy to believe only in the bad, to claim that the world was shit. It was dismissive. It was a coward’s way. Some of his friends called him naïve. Helena understood. It had been her influence that had helped him understand the need to fight against it. He wasn’t naïve. He’d seen more of life, more shit, than most of his acquaintances back home who practised their world-weary contempt from the safety of their suburban country-club bubbles. He chose to be positive. To believe. It was his version of faith.

  The engineer went to the oil company’s in-country manager and told him of the impending risks to the villagers. The manager thanked him and told him to put it in his report. It would be taken into consideration back in Europe, at headquarters. The manager shook his hand and thanked him. He was an American, a good man with a wife and kids back home. Something would be done.

  The engineer completed his report two weeks later and submitted it to the manager, reminding him again of the seriousness of the situation. The next day, he packed his things and caught the flight back to Aden. From the little Twin Otter, he sat and watched the barren desert highlands give way to the deep-cut canyons of the Hadramawt and then, later, to the dark-stained lava fields and cinder cones of the Aden plain. Sometimes there were patches of life, the green thread of a shaded valley, the spate terracing of fields in a spring-fed wadi. And, three hours in, the first flash of Indian Ocean blue. The marks of men were few here. The occasional stone and mud village perched high on a mountainside or nestled into the flank of a wadi. A road scraped from the stony plateau. Otherwise, the country was as it had been since long before the oil, or the wars or the prophets of men.

  The in-country manager was on the same flight. They were both leaving on the Air Egypt flight to Cairo the next afternoon. They ate dinner together at the company guest house in Aden, and again, the engineer reminded the manager of the findings of his report and the urgency of the situation. The manager smiled and assured him that it was at the top of his priority list. He would be back in the office in a couple of days and would talk to the VP about it personally.

  After dinner, the manager, whose name was Bill, invited him to come out for a drink. They got into the back seat of a waiting Land Cruiser. Two Yemeni men sat in the front. The driver was bearded, wore the traditional Yemeni headdress, the keffiyeh, a loose thaub and a brown tweed jacket. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a dark Western suit and white collared shirt and was clean shaven. His dark, wavy hair accentuated his hewn-sandstone jaw, his rare blue eyes. He put his arm across the seatback and nodded to Bill.

  ‘Salim,’ said Bill. ‘What do you think?’

&n
bsp; The man Bill had called Salim smiled. ‘The dens, I think, for a start.’ He spoke good English with a noticeable American accent.

  Bill nodded. ‘I was thinking the same. Show our friend here some of the famous Aden nightlife.’

  Salim said something in Arabic to the driver, and the Land Cruiser started out of the compound gate. Night air came cool through the windows. After weeks in the desert, the smell of the sea cut him open, as if he were halfway home. The lights of Aden strobed in the distance. The Crater loomed dark against the star-silvered grey of the harbour. He thought of home, of Helena, of his sons, on that beautiful little island in the Mediterranean.

  Soon they were in a part of the city he’d never seen, a neighbourhood carved into the tuffs and basalts of the volcano. The streets became too narrow for cars. The driver stopped the vehicle and they got out and walked. Salim led them deeper into the maze, past shop stalls carved into the rock of the volcano, night-lit dwellings cut into black basalt. Eyes peered out at them from every recess and shadow.

  Salim turned into an opening and disappeared. Bill leaned forwards and followed him in. It was a tunnel. Lights hung from a wire that ran along one side of the excavation, suspended from metal spikes driven into the rock. It went in a long way. Bill and Salim were already far ahead. The rock was hand-hewn. The engineer could make out the individual chisel marks. He took a deep breath, bent at the waist and followed them in.

  Arched pillars of rock divided the cavern into a series of poorly lit dens. The place was packed, the air thick with swirling blue smoke. The crowd parted for them. Salim led them through, and they fronted up to the bar. There were two big steel vats against one wall and a stack of beer kegs nearby. On the wall behind the bar was an old Playboy centrefold, the colours faded, the edges curled. Miss July had large pale breasts and pink nipples and long blonde hair. Someone had folded over the top corner, so you couldn’t see her face.

  Salim ordered three glasses of gin and three beers. He didn’t pay for the drinks. He raised his glass. As he did, his jacket opened slightly. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  They raised their glasses, drank.

  The gin was industrial, burned the engineer’s throat. After a few sips, he turned and faced the young and old men who had crowded in around them and now stood staring. As he did in the villages, the engineer picked out a face, a youngish man with a dark complexion and deep-set eyes. ‘Merhaba,’ he said to the man, using the secular greeting made common in the south during the Marxist regime.

  The man appeared not to have heard, stood unmoving, expressionless as before. The engineer smiled. ‘Merhaba. Ismee Warren,’ he said, putting his free hand over his heart.

  Salim touched his elbow. ‘Do not,’ he said.

  ‘They are looking right through us,’ said the engineer.

  ‘They are not here to talk.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ said the engineer, still staring into the young man’s eyes.

  ‘These men have been replaced.’ Salim pulled him away. ‘This is the real story of the Gulf War.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Many of these men were working in Saudi Arabia, sending money home to their families. Because Yemen supported Saddam in the war, the Saudi government revoked their work permits and sent them home. There is nothing for them here.’

  ‘And they blame us.’

  Salim nodded. ‘Before the war, Saddam was America’s friend. He was an ally. For ten years, Saddam fought a war against Iran, with America’s support. Then a deal was made. Saddam would invade Kuwait, and guarantee America a supply of cheap oil. America wanted to counteract the increasing power of the Saudis. But they didn’t anticipate the global outrage. Who would have thought that so many people would care that much about a tiny country populated by a few super-rich oil sheiks and their harems? When it all went tits up, America betrayed Saddam and retook Kuwait.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Bill. ‘Everybody knows that’s not what happened.’

  Salim smiled. ‘Who is everybody, my friend? These people, this is what they all believe. Is it really so crazy?’

  They drank in silence. Salim wandered off.

  ‘He’s carrying a gun,’ said the engineer. ‘I saw it when he raised his glass. He’s got a holster under his jacket.’

  ‘Everyone here carries,’ said Bill. ‘This is Yemen.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Bill smiled. ‘Me? Hell no. Against the rules. Back home I do, though.’

  Salim returned, ordered another round. Again, he offered no payment. After a while, the engineer again turned to face the men who continued to press in around them. The same young man was there still. The engineer smiled at him, raised his glass. He wanted to break this barrier. He wanted to see some glimmer in the man’s dark, heavily veined eyes, some acknowledgement of sameness. But there was none.

  They finished their drinks and left. The tunnel was longer than he remembered it. The first breath of night air came to him, cool on his face. He stumbled on something underfoot, righted himself, hit his head on the tunnel roof. He stopped, doubled over, held his head in his hands. He was drunk. And despite the imminence of his flight home – five hours to Cairo, a three-hour wait before his flight to Larnaca – the distance now seemed impossible, a fiction. A journey of years, lifetimes.

  Outside, the sea mist had cleared. Stars shone.

  Bill was there, waiting for him. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  The engineer nodded. They followed Salim to the car. Soon they left the old city behind and drove out past the salt flats and the swirling lights and dark water of the harbour.

  The bar of the Mövenpick hotel was plush and cool. They sat in a cushioned booth in the corner and Bill ordered whiskies.

  ‘Why do you come here?’ said Salim, scanning the room. ‘Is it for the money?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Bill.

  ‘I want to go to America,’ said Salim. ‘I like it there. Yemen is shit.’

  ‘Did you study there?’ said the young engineer.

  ‘I studied three years in Virginia. But then the war came.’

  The drinks arrived. Bill dropped some Yemeni rials on the table.

  ‘What about you?’ said Salim.

  ‘Me?’ said the engineer. ‘It’s not just for the money, no.’

  A couple came into the bar. They walked across the little hardwood dance floor and slid into a booth set against the far wall. The man wore a light-grey suit. He had grey hair and a grey moustache. The woman had thick blonde hair and wore a knee-length dress and heels. A big silver crucifix hung on a chain around her neck. She was young enough to be his daughter.

  Salim sat looking at the pair for a while, sipping his drink. ‘So, you are here to do good, then? To civilise us?’

  ‘No,’ said the engineer.

  ‘Is this not what Christians do? Civilise?’

  ‘I’m not Christian,’ said the engineer.

  Salim adjusted his jacket. ‘Nevertheless.’

  ‘I’m an engineer. I build things, fix things. If I can do some good, then why not?’

  Salim drained his glass, set it carefully on the table, twisted it a half-turn to the right. ‘And you think this is good, what you are doing here?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Bill.

  The engineer shot Bill a glance. ‘That depends.’

  Salim was staring at the couple across the bar. ‘On what?’ he said.

  ‘On what the big shots decide to do,’ said the engineer. He tried to catch Bill’s gaze, but he looked away.

  ‘Always this,’ said Salim. He flashed a smile, pushed back his chair, stood, smoothed his suit. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ he said, then turned and walked across the bar to where the man and the young woman were sitting.

  ‘Shit,’ said Bill.

  Salim shook hands with the man, and then with the woman. Her bare arm flashed pale in the dim light. A conversation ensued.

  ‘Who is he?’ said the engineer. ‘Salim.’


  ‘He’s with the government,’ said Bill. ‘Liaison.’

  The engineer was about to ask from what part of the government when the older man in the grey suit burst to his feet. Drinks spilled. A glass fell to the floor, smashed. The older man was shouting at Salim, pointing across the room, waving his hands. Spit flew from his mouth. Veins bulged in his neck and forehead. The young woman sat in silence, her head bowed. Salim stood staring back at the older man, unmoving. After a moment, he unbuttoned his jacket, stood with one hand on his hip, the other free at his side.

  ‘Shit,’ said Bill.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the engineer.

  Salim turned and walked back to the table.

  ‘Jesus, Salim,’ said Bill.

  ‘Iraqis,’ said Salim. ‘Christians. Both of them.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I asked him how much.’

  ‘For what?’

  Salim waved the waiter over. ‘For her.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Bill.

  ‘A man brings a woman into a place like this, dressed like that. What does he expect? A Muslim man would never do that.’

  ‘And so?’ said Bill.

  Salim laughed. ‘She’s his daughter. Can you fucking believe it?’

  ‘Jesus, Salim.’

  ‘A lot of them here,’ said Salim. ‘Rich Iraqi Christians who fled Saddam. They live here because it’s cheap. To them, Yemenis are dark-skinned, uneducated scum.’

  The drinks came. Bill made to pay, but Salim waved this away, nodded to the waiter. The waiter left. They finished their drinks. It was late. The place was almost empty now. When they left the bar, the older man and the woman were still there.

  The driver was waiting for them in the hotel parking lot. They got into the Land Cruiser. The driver started the engine, rolled the car towards the exit.