An Ordinary Day

by Trevor Corbett

  The man smiled and the smile was warm and sincere. ‘Wine reminds us of God’s greatest gift to mankind: women.’

  ‘You are a philosopher too?’

  ‘Take this Merlot, for instance, which I could equate to you. At first, intriguing and complex. And then, after a while on your palate, rewarding and generous in its flavours.’

  ‘The same pick-up line you no doubt use on all the women you meet?’

  ‘You asked a question and I answered it honestly.’

  ‘You know nothing of me, Mr Salem, because if you did you would know that I am not rewarding or generous. And I am unlikely to be on your palate any time soon.’

  ‘And you know nothing of me,’ Salem replied. ‘Otherwise you’d know I don’t pick up women at diplomatic functions.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘They all have hidden agendas; they are either spies or desperate wives of diplomats who are away from home too much.’

  ‘So which one am I?’

  Salem glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger, so I assume you’re a spy. I must go. I never stay long at these things.’

  Elhasomi momentarily looked over her shoulder. ‘You are the most hated man in this room right now.’

  Salem smiled and nodded. ‘They can hate me, as long as they drink my wine. Most of these people I will never see again anyway. Probably you too.’

  ‘Probably,’ Elhasomi said. ‘I do not drink wine.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’re Muslim. Probably from Egypt?’

  ‘Close. Libya.’

  ‘Libya.’

  ‘Alcohol is banned in my country, so you would not want to open a branch there. I am involved in tourism.’

  ‘I didn’t know Libya was a tourist destination.’

  ‘It is an emerging tourism destination. I am marketing our country at every opportunity. Malta is a good launch pad for the campaign: relations are good, it is close and it is central. That is why I am here.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds like a hard job.’ Salem looked around as he heard the sound of a glass breaking followed by loud laughter. ‘You know, I’ve seen presidents and kings and ambassadors drinking themselves into a frenzy until four in the morning, and then going to world summits and making decisions about wars.’

  ‘Decisions on foreign policies which affect people’s lives, I know. I also thought about that. But you are providing the alcohol. You are part of the problem.’

  ‘Then we both have hard jobs. Will you excuse me, I’ve had enough of this function, and I’m calling it a night. Nice meeting you, Miss Elhasomi.’

  Elhasomi put her hand on Salem’s arm. ‘Please, you must call me Leila. You cannot leave now. Who am I going to talk to?’

  Salem smiled. ‘The Brazilian colonel seems quite harmless.’

  ‘Ben, I have enjoyed speaking to you. I do not get to have too many intelligent conversations. I miss them.’

  Salem hesitated momentarily and then looked at his watch. ‘Leave with me then. Let’s go somewhere else where we can drink coffee and talk about interesting things. I can’t promise you a memorable night, though.’

  Elhasomi closed her eyes for a second, smiled and then looked at Salem. ‘You are asking me on a date?’

  ‘You can call it a date if you want. I’m calling it an extraction.’

  Elhasomi laughed and took Salem by the arm. ‘I could have left with any ambassador, foreign secretary, military attaché or diplomat here, and I’m leaving with the guy who supplies the wine. What does that tell you?’

  ‘It tells me you want to get out of here even more than I do.’

  OCTOBER 2002

  The Tourism Indaba was in its second day and the South African Tourism Authority had welcomed hundreds of local and foreign exhibitors to the International Convention Centre in Durban to market their tourism-related products. Imaginative exhibition stands looked like the lounges of luxury private game reserves, the inside of grand railway coaches and posh bush pubs. The Robben Island Museum stand was popular; tourists could be locked up in a reconstruction of Nelson Mandela’s prison cell. At times there were queues of people waiting outside the cell to go in and be photographed. Most of them felt that thirty seconds in the claustrophobic cell was long enough, and couldn’t imagine spending twenty-seven years in one. Delegates from more than a hundred countries wandered around the stalls and networked with one another, debated over the competitiveness of the international tourism industry, and discussed, with some jealousy, South Africa’s success in capturing a large slice of the international tourism market. Colourful people in traditional outfits entertained visitors, and the food and drink on offer lent to the festive mood.

  Emile Dahdi imagined himself in the Kruger National Park as he sat in a camp chair and stared at the posters. This didn’t smell like the African bushveld, he thought. And when he looked up, he saw the steel girders and bright lights of the roof of the convention centre. He couldn’t fool himself that he was in the bushveld if he couldn’t look up and see a blue sky above. He eased himself out of the chair. He was tired. His light-pink suit was old and faded and only made his bright-yellow tie seem even more uncomplementary. A red baseball cap sat atop his bush of grey hair. Some delegates stared and others struggled to conceal their smiles as Dahdi leaned on a table, sending a wad of brochures flying over the floor. He leaned forward to pick them up and knocked over a huge wooden sculpture of a giraffe. By now a small crowd had gathered. He was either a flamboyant and clumsy old tourist, or a sideshow event designed to draw attention to the stand. And he was certainly drawing attention.

  He fumbled for a camera in his bag. Then he saw a poster of the big five on the wall and decided to take it for himself. The people gathered around stared, amused, as he pulled the poster from the wall and began rolling it up. He tried again to take his camera from its carry case. The bemused man standing closest to him quickly turned and walked away as Dahdi’s shaking hand held the camera bag out to him.

  ‘Photograph, please, you take of me?’ Dahdi’s French accent made the spectators think of Inspector Clouseau. He looked flustered for a moment, then fumbled with his camera, dropped the poster, bent down to recover it, and let the strap of his camera bag slip off his shoulder. As he twisted to stop it falling, he let go of his camera which dropped to the concrete floor and shattered into three distinct pieces, one of which was a now-exposed – and useless – roll of film. A striking woman with long black hair and smooth olive skin, who had been observing the man’s misfortunes, took a step towards him and smiled.

  ‘I am sorry, sir, but can I help you?’ Dahdi still seemed confused and was trying to gather the pieces of his camera together and reassemble it. The woman smiled and knelt down beside him, her ankle-length white-and-red floral dress highlighting her tall and slim figure. Dahdi looked at her, looked at his camera, and rose slowly to his feet, leaning on the woman’s arm for support. He looked confused for a moment and then shook his head, his thick, horn-rimmed glasses magnifying the tears in his eyes.

  ‘The camera is useless.’

  The woman let go of his arm when she was satisfied he was supporting himself and said softly, ‘I am sorry.’ She started to move off, hesitantly, when Dahdi looked up at her and put his hand on her arm. She was afraid if she pulled away he would fall over.

  ‘Excuse me, madame. Thank you for your kindness. I am Emile Dahdi. I am from Paris. I would like to take some pictures back with me – please.’ He looked at the digital camera clasped in the woman’s hand. ‘Please, it will not take a moment.’

  ‘Please understand I cannot help you any further—’

  ‘Please. A favour for an old fool. A few pictures of me here, and there.’ He pointed at the Robben Island Museum stand. The woman looked around, and felt her chest tighten as a policeman materialised and came towards Dahdi.

  ‘Is this man bothering you, madam?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

 
The woman frowned and then smiled. ‘Everything is okay. I am helping this man.’

  The policeman stood motionless for a brief moment and surveyed the scene. Then he moved away.

  Dahdi touched his cap and smiled. ‘I am unworthy of your assistance, madame, but I am equally in need of it.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card. She noted he had an address in Paris and one in Durban. ‘My e-mail address is on there. Please, if you could send the pictures to me?’

  ‘I … if …’

  ‘You are too kind. What is your name?’

  ‘Leila.’

  Dahdi smiled and shook her hand. ‘Night beauty. Did you know the meaning of your name is night beauty? And you look like a princess, you are so beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. Now I must …’

  ‘Do I look like a tourist?’ Dahdi asked quickly, before the woman walked away.

  ‘Well, sir, you do,’ the woman said, not taking her eyes off the police officer who was now standing a few metres away and watching them.

  ‘Well I am not a tourist. What am I then? Have you holidayed in Bosnia?’

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘Exactly! Exactly what I do, you see I find new places for tourists to holiday.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good.’

  ‘Who would ever think of having a holiday in North Korea or Angola or Liberia?’

  ‘A very select few,’ the woman said. ‘These countries need to market themselves properly.’

  ‘Thank you, madame.’ He tipped his cap. ‘And that is what I do. I represent a European consortium looking for investment opportunities in emerging markets.’

  Elhasomi looked at the old man’s eyes, tired and gentle eyes. ‘I guess that is why we are all here.’

  ‘Have you seen some of these stalls? I have seen some countries represented here which look like paradise, but they are poor and cannot attract tourists.’

  ‘It is a battle I have been fighting for years.’

  ‘I am eighty-five years old and have been to just about every country in the world. I advise the investors where to invest, and they listen to me. If I told them Burundi was a good emerging tourism destination, they would ask me to find a tourism company to sponsor.’

  ‘You, sir?’

  ‘Is it not incredible, madame, that they would use an old man like me to do this? I can hardly see through these glasses, yet they trust my judgement.’

  ‘And African countries further north, such as Algeria, Morocco … Libya?’

  ‘Islamic countries have lost tourists since September 11, we cannot deny it. But one must market the positive aspects of these countries, the history, the culture, the beauty, the people.’

  ‘Perhaps we should be in contact again. You may be able to increase my country’s share in the North African and Mediterranean tourism markets.’

  ‘I am leaving for Paris on Saturday. I spend six months a year in Paris and six months in Durban. I will give you my e-mail address and we can talk.’

  Dahdi took the woman’s hand and held it. ‘I have an apartment in Durban which stays empty for six months.’

  ‘I visit South Africa a few times a year. I love this country.’

  ‘Well, please, for your kindness – please – you are welcome to use my apartment as my guest if you visit South Africa again, or if you have friends or family that wish to stay in Durban.’

  ‘I would not want to impose …’

  ‘No, no, not at all. It is quiet and discreet. Please, I am offering it to you. I am so grateful.’

  The woman smiled as she posed Dahdi in front of a set of huge elephant tusks. ‘Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I will think about it, and I will contact you by e-mail.’

  Dahdi nodded and leaned against the tusk, causing it to shift dangerously out of its position on the wall. ‘Do not forget to send me the photographs. Please, may I have your card?’

  She slipped open a pouch, took out a card and handed it to Dahdi. He glanced at it quickly and then pushed it into his jacket pocket. It read:

  ‘SL Elhasomi. Political and Information Officer. People’s Bureau of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Valletta, Malta.’

  4

  It was a bad day to start with, and it was getting worse. Stephanie cried uncontrollably the day she and the baby arrived home. The surveillance unit had lost Ali in Cape Town. A waste of time, a waste of money. Durant should have been there, he would have been there had it not been for Stephanie’s hospital discharge. Now she was crying, the baby was crying and he was the one who had the real reason to cry. The surveillance team had let him down, the team leader had let him down, and he felt Stephanie had let him down. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of their lives.

  Stephanie wanted to rest. He felt he needed a rest too, but Alexis wouldn’t let him. He was happy to cuddle the baby, change nappies and listen to the cute little gurgles baby made, but breastfeed he couldn’t do. Stephanie said she tried at the hospital but it wasn’t working and had readily – too readily in his opinion – agreed to bottle-feed. The argument over this had been a non-starter. Stephanie was a little tense and he didn’t want to be the bad guy. He put Alexis in her cot and cleaned and sterilised the bottles from the last feed. He heated the expressed milk in a bowl of warm water and reached Alexis as her crying reached a point of desperation. Durant almost didn’t hear his cellphone ring.

  It was Shezi. The surveillance unit had reacquired Ali leaving the Waterfront, but he had driven his hired car to the airport and climbed onto a Durban-bound plane. It was clear he was finished with his meeting and they had no idea who he had met with. Durant asked Shezi to ensure that the Durban surveillance unit monitored his movements closely from Durban International Airport. No more blunders. Alexis threw up on Durant’s shirt.

  ‘Mike,’ he said. ‘Do a baggage check on him.’ He carried the baby to the main bedroom in the hope of catching Stephanie awake, but the crying had not woken her up at all.

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ Shezi said.

  ‘Baggage check at DIA. Do a baggage check on arrival.’

  There was a little pause and then Shezi said, ‘I’ll call you back. You’ve got problems there, I can hear.’

  Durant took his pants and shirt off and took out a conservative handful of wet wipes to clear up the source of the spill. He put Alexis back into her cot once he’d stripped off the soiled linen, and focused on cleaning himself up. He hardly heard his cellphone ringing in the kitchen, and almost missed the call.

  ‘Hello? Mike, sorry, I said check his baggage when he arrives at the airport.’

  ‘Kevin, it’s Papa Dahdi.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought … Yes?’

  ‘Contact was made with Uptown Girl. The dangle is in play.’

  Durant sat on the kitchen floor in his underpants and put his head in his hands. At least something had gone right that day.

  Amina Yusuf thought for a minute, and then decided to argue. ‘You’re unfair, Ahmed, how can you threaten me like that?’

  ‘You must choose. You carry the name Yusuf, the name I’ve given you.’

  ‘My work doesn’t go against anything I believe, Ahmed.’

  Yusuf sneered and looked away. ‘What do you believe?’

  Amina reflected for a minute before looking up. ‘I believe in good and evil, and the struggle for justice and freedom.’

  ‘Whose justice and whose freedom? Your mind’s been twisted by the people you work for. You’ve become like them.’

  There was a little pause and then Amina said, ‘They’re good people.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘Good people? They’re working against our brothers, our Muslim brothers who are trying to better their lives.’

  ‘Excuse me? Some of our brothers are criminals. I don’t discern between believer and unbeliever. I discern between right and wrong.’

  ‘Farouk Ali’s a good man, a good Muslim. He started with nothing, everything he has he’s worked hard for.’

/>   ‘Most of what he’s got he stole.’

  ‘I pray with him at jumma. He gives a lot. He gives more than he has to.’

  ‘Look, Ahmed, we’ve had this discussion before. Let’s not go there. You shouldn’t even know I’m investigating Ali.’

  ‘The Prophet says we’re like one body; we care for each other, we feel for each other, we have sympathy for each other and compassion; if one part of the body aches, the rest of the body feels the pain.’

  Amina put her head in her hands and shook her head. ‘Love, I’m asking you, no, I’m begging you – think outside of what you believe. The Prophet would never condone Ali’s criminal activities.’

  ‘Pursuing your own brothers. What about me? Am I next?’

  Amina leaned back and looked at the floor. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Sure my business is legitimate? Going through the books while I’m sleeping?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Want to take me down too? Show off to your colleagues how clever you are?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘You’ve betrayed your faith, and you’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed yourself.’

  Amina didn’t want her husband to see her cry. But it was getting harder to fight off the tears. ‘Why are you so cold? I need your love and support, not condemnation.’

  ‘I don’t condemn you. If you’re feeling condemned—’

  ‘Ahmed, my trust’s in Allah. I know I’m doing the right thing. Why do you only become a fundamentalist when we argue?’

  ‘You’re satisfying your own selfish needs. You want recognition and to feel good when you go to sleep at night. You’re neglecting your faith and you’re bringing this house into disgrace and shame. You’ve humiliated me.’

  Amina closed her eyes as if in prayer. ‘I’ll protect the innocent, even if it costs me my life.’

  ‘Dignify this house, Amina; don’t talk about giving your life for unbelievers.’

  ‘You don’t have to like what I do or even support me. Just don’t stand in my way.’

  Yusuf didn’t answer. He took his car keys off the table and left. Amina put her head in her hands and wept inconsolably.