by Phil Rowan
I’m nodding. I really want to be supportive. Mohammed is after all Sharif’s birth name. He only changed it to Mike so he might fit in more easily with the mainly white Anglo Saxon Protestant guys and girls on our politics course at Berkeley in the late nineties.
‘We’re going through difficult times,’ I say with as much conviction as I can manage. I’m sure it’s just a blip that will pass. ‘Believe me, honey …we all have our mad moments. But we usually come through even the worst scenarios. So, with a bit of luck, maybe next year, or sometime in the future, Islam and the West will make peace. It will happen, I hope … then everyone can chill out and we’ll all get together again.’
‘Oh, Rudi … what must you think of me?’ she asks when she’s wiped away the remains of a tear and flicked her thick dark hair from one shoulder of her elegant Fendi jacket to the other. ‘I promise not to get maudlin again while you’re here, and Mike is really looking forward to seeing you. I must warn you though that I’ll be in London again in a week or so. I’ll be relying on you to take me out and introduce me to people with a sense of humour … that’s what I really need!’
I’m willing up positive thoughts on what we could do together in my adopted city. There are some great shows playing in the West End and Fiona would love Sulima. Carla Hirsch is still there in the background though with Earl Connors, Rashid and Khalad and they’re not going to disappear.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment,’ Sulima says when her phone rings. ‘I’ll be right back … and I will have a glass of wine with you.’
She doesn’t normally touch alcohol, but I’m already pouring her a glass of Sancerre, and as my foot moves under the table I knock over her unfastened Gucci bag. Several items fall out, including a photograph. I don’t want to pry because Sulima is a friend. So I put the small mirror, a comb and a tube of face cream back in her bag and I’m about to replace the photograph when I hesitate, hooked by the determined face of a mid-thirties Asian guy.
He is handsomely bald and there is a lot of fervour in the eyes. It worries me just looking at him. I feel he’s got me in the frame and that every move I make will be tracked. I’m sensing intense commitment followed by explosions in Western cities. I’ve got the miniature camera Carla Hirsch gave me. I’m trying to be discreet, but I’m not sure if I’m pressing the right button. There’s also a waiter grinning expectantly from the other side of the terrace. ‘Is sir, OK … does madam need anything? No – we’re fine, thanks … and please, just stay where you are.’
I should return the photograph to Sulima’s bag, but I’m turning it over. There’s a neat inscription on the back. It’s in green ink and says, ‘I’ll always love you …Pele’.
Chapter 5
‘Mike’s at the Foundation, and I’m going to drop you off there,’ Sulima says when she returns.
‘Ah – ’
‘Something’s happened at our office in Paris and I need to make some calls.’
I was hoping she might be around when I saw her brother. It’s not a reunion I’m looking forward to. For now though, I’m making out like it’s not a problem.
‘Why don’t we pass on the coffee,’ I suggest.
‘All right … if you don’t mind. I’ll come down to join you as soon as I can,’ she promises.
When we get back to the Porsche, we head towards a bridge that crosses the lake. There are mountains everywhere, and Julie Andrews keeps dancing back with the good guy’s kids. But I’m preoccupied with the photograph that fell out of Sulima’s bag. Mohammad Atta had the same menacing stare as her guy, Pele, and they probably shared a message. ‘OK … so listen up, you decadent Western scumbags. We may not have achieved a great deal over the last thousand years or whatever, but we’ll settle for having you all shaking in your boots, you Christian reprobates! Do you hear what we’re saying? Take heed, infidels … because the next big bang’s going to be nuclear!’
‘There must be a lot of interesting people here,’ I say lightly.
‘You mean men?’
‘Well – ’
‘I’ve switched off on guys Rudi … I can’t cope with what happens when it all goes wrong.’
I’m homing in on people I might introduce her to in London. I’m not sure if any of my acquaintances would be suitable. They’re all a bit cynical or jaded. But Fiona Adler would know what to do. She’s got a book full of eligible contacts and she sees every bruised heart as a matchmaking challenge.
‘Mike has changed,’ Sulima says without warning. We’ve crossed the lake and she’s turned into a tree-lined avenue on the outskirts of Geneva’s Old Town. ‘He’s lost a lot of his sparkle, and he’s at odds with the West, which is difficult for me to live with.’
Could I pass on the Sharif Foundation experience, I’m wondering? Would someone call me, please? Or maybe I could dial a number to nowhere. ‘Hey …are you my mythical guy at the UN – the one I’m meant to be interviewing on poverty in Africa? Right – OK …ah, so you want to reschedule …like now? No problem … I’m close to the Old Town, so I’ll be right over.’
This is what I need, but it’s not happening. Sulima’s pulling up outside an impressive building. There’s ivy and wisteria on the walls, and through the gates I can see an enchanting garden with what must be at least a hectare of lush lawns.
‘It belonged to an African politician,’ Sulima says. ‘But something happened in his country. He had to leave quickly, so Mike bought the house.’
There are two Swiss gendarmes outside the gates. Sulima gives them a wave and then a smile. They’re both grinning and saluting. Her ID card is a mere formality between a welcoming ‘bonjour, madame’ from one and a spontaneous ‘comment ca va?’ from the other.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ she says when I get out of the car. Her lips are pursed discreetly into what I think could be a small kiss. It floats towards me like it’s coming from heaven.
I respond with a wink as she turns. I then straighten up respectfully when one of the cops sticks out his chin and rolls a finger over the trigger guard on his Uzi sub-machine gun. They want to check my ID, and when they’re done, a great oak front door opens at the house.
I’ve been admitted to the Sharif Foundation and I’m greeted by a smiling Arab servant. Inside, a spacious reception area leads down to what must once have been a ballroom. It’s furnished now with portable seating in front of a raised podium, while all around the sides there are tables with hors d’oeuvre snacks, canapés and soft drinks.
‘Mr Sharif is expecting you, sir,’ the servant says. ‘If you would like to come with me, I will take you to him.’
We are on the steps of an impressive staircase that curves up to the next floor. I’m clutching at the banisters and thinking of the African politician who had previously lived here. It would have been a great place for entertaining. But from what Sulima said, I guess the previous occupant has either been shot, or is in jail.
* * * * *
‘Oui – entrez,’ a familiar voice says when the servant knocks on the door of a first floor room at the front of the house.
It’s been a few years since we last met. I’m apprehensive, but Sulima’s still quite handsome older brother hasn’t changed much. There are a few flecks of grey in his thick black hair. The shadows under his eyes are slightly more pronounced, but he still has a winning smile and a commanding presence.
‘Rudi!’ he exclaims, getting up from behind a vast mahogany desk and coming towards me with outstretched arms.
‘Ah – Mike … or should I say Mohammed?’
He laughs at this and when we’ve embraced, he shakes his head. ‘You haven’t changed, Flynn … I bet you’re still the same disreputable fucking bastard we all loved at Berkeley and in New York!’
Absolutely! I’ll run with this and anything else that says we’re still buddies. My Syrian has a mischievous grin. He’s always been a dark charmer and it’s difficult to see him as an enemy of my President: A calculating jihadist who, according to Carla Hirsch, could b
e preparing to eliminate everyone who disagrees with his warped ideas.
‘It’s been a while,’ I say, ‘and I like your place here – I mean, it’s almost rural compared with New York. I can’t see you getting up to anything out of hand with the locals.’
I’m testing the water. When we had known each other in the States, it had frequently been pre-party drinks in the evening on the Lower East Side with maybe tennis and beach barbecues over weekends at the Sharifs’ place in the Hamptons.
‘This is very different,’ he says. There is still, however, a smile in his dark eyes and he steers me to a comfortable sofa when his servant returns with glasses of mint tea. ‘I guess I have changed, Rudi … well, as you can see, I’m into tea now rather than beer!’
Carla Hirsch and Earl Connors are hovering like spirits in the corner and I’ve got a huge radiation sign hanging on the door behind Sharif. ‘If we nuke you, Rudi, you won’t ever recover. Can you imagine what it would be like if we irradiated London? Where would everyone go? The economy would be ruined …you’d be like primitives scrabbling for water in an arid desert …’ I’m already in role though, and there’s no way I’m giving the impression that we’re anything other than soul mates from the past.
‘We’re all evolving,’ I say with a shrug. ‘The world’s changing around us.’
He seems to like what I’m offering, although he does pause before coming back.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve reverted to my birth name?’
‘Not at all … I think I understand.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure – you’re unhappy with the way it’s going between Islam and the West … but you know where you are.’
You’re on one side and I’m on the other. We’re at war, Mike, or should I say Mohammed. I’m thinking of respectable Brits and Germans who could have been firm friends before 1914. Then, suddenly, instead of going off to the theatre or the opera together they found themselves fighting and killing each other in France and Belgium.
‘I don’t know how we got to where we are now,’ Sharif says. He’s looking out over the gardens, ‘but the differences between us are very real … and I’m not alone in the way I feel.’
The mint tea is a welcome distraction, but I’m batting covertly for my President and Her Majesty now. I’ve got to go for it, so I embrace Sharif with my eyes. ‘Iraq was a mistake,’ I tell him. ‘And Afghanistan … crazy, misguided adventures that have totally isolated us.’
I’m up against a solid block of Islamic conviction. But there are distant memories of good times we once shared together: Carefree days and nights when we drank too much and partied through the night with a whole swathe of fun friends.
‘It goes back a lot further than what’s happened recently, Rudi,’ Sharif says eventually. And I believe it’s going to get worse before we have any sort of resolution.’
Does he mean like Nagasaki or Hiroshima multiplied by 10 or 100? I feel this is what he has in mind. I’m praying for the mint tea to quickly change into whisky. I desperately need something to block out the implications of what I’m hearing.
‘How do you think it’ll go?’ I ask. I’m trying to pretend that we might still be knocking up before a weekend tennis match at the Hamptons. It’s getting heavy though and I’m trapped.
‘We’re a proud people,’ Sharif says. ‘We have a great sense of community, but now we feel we have been humiliated … and it’s not acceptable. You’ll agree, I’m sure.’
I’m nodding desperately. Is there a way of turning this around? Could we shake hands and make up before we get to Armageddon? There are already dark clouds over Iran and Pakistan. The Middle East’s in turmoil, but now the threat’s closer to home. ‘We think your friend is funding a group that wants to hit London or New York, Rudi,’ Carla Hirsch had suggested. ‘And it could be nuclear …’
‘Faria was a beautiful woman,’ Sharif says unexpectedly. Is this fucker playing hard ball with my emotions? I can feel the perspiration around my torso and on the palms of my hands. ‘I’m sure you must think about her a lot.’
Every day, you bastard, and frequently in my dreams. I take tranquillisers, cocaine and alcohol, but it doesn’t make any difference. I still want to go out and strangle Mohammad Atta and his friends in the Syrian, Iranian, Pakistani Afghan and North African wastelands. I sometimes think of stoning activists to a slow and painful death. Then I wake up and accept that Faria was a Muslim. She wasn’t particularly devout. But she had a copy of the Koran and her mother still prays to Allah.
‘So how do we get a resolution?’ I ask.
‘And live together peacefully?’
‘Yes – ’
‘Maybe first we need a serious contest, Rudi.’
With bombs and bodies and the lingering consequences of radiation.
‘I see all of this,’ I say. ‘But how far does it have to go before we get around a table and try to sort out our differences?’
There had to be a way that would allow Muslims and the rest of us to live together in peace. I’m doing my best, but Sharif is switching off – politely and with a charming smile.
‘How did you find Sulima?’ he asks.
Great, fantastic, a star – but not too happy.
‘It’s difficult for her at the moment,’ he concedes. ‘She is keeping our business going however, and for that I am grateful. I don’t have the commitment any more, Rudi. What we’re doing here at the Foundation is taking up most of my time.’
According to reports in the financial press, the Sharifs could get several hundred million dollars from the sale of their oil importing business. For now though I see the Foundation as a possible way through to my former friend.
‘So it’s a big day,’ he says, pointing down to the tree-lined street, where people are gathering to file past the Swiss gendarmes on the gates. They are mostly young men with beards, flowing Muslim robes and embroidered white skullcaps. There are a few older people in suits and a handful of women, modestly covered up with burqas, jilbabs or hijabs.
* * * * *
‘We have a proud history,’ Sharif says when we join the scholarship students, their family members and guests. The Foundation’s reception area is full and people are starting to take their seats in what had been the African politician’s ballroom. ‘I think we have to do something to express how we feel, Rudi,’ the host adds. ‘I see myself merely as a facilitator in this process. I am privileged to assist my brothers and sisters, and what we’re celebrating here today are their academic achievements.’
He’s impressively understated in a pale blue denim shirt, chinos and deck shoes, but people stand aside and lower their heads respectfully as he approaches. I feel like I’m under the protection of the caliph; a favoured guest from another planet, which means that whenever Sharif stops, I’m included in the handshakes and deferential bows.
‘I am Ahmed,’ a member of one group says as the benefactor moves on and I’m surrounded by half a dozen of the Foundation’s scholarship students from Palestine. ‘I have just completed my Master’s in Business Administration at Princeton, and I feel I owe everything that I have achieved to Mr Sharif … he made it possible.’
He has an untrimmed beard and intense dark eyes. For the moment he’s showing me respect as I’m the main man’s honoured guest. I do feel vulnerable however. It’s my Lower East Side New York accent that has me in the frame. ‘9/11 was just the start, my man – a taster for what’s to come …we’re preparing now for a big push …it’s pay-back time for the Crusades!’
‘How have you found the experience of studying in Western countries?’ I ask the group generally, but it’s Ahmed who answers.
‘There’s no question but that you have the best universities,’ he concedes. ‘There is nothing comparable, not even in Russia. So we must come to you … we have no alternative.’
‘And when you complete your studies?’
I’m probing cautiously here between potentially lethal shards of g
lass, but Ahmed counters with a smile. It’s sugary and all embracing, but there’s a chance it might be deflecting me from a dagger beneath the flowing folds of the guy’s Arabic jellaba.
‘We need your tools,’ he explains as others in the group nod and frown resignedly. ‘But that doesn’t mean we want to replicate either your institutions or your society.’
‘So we’re talking here about getting your qualifications from the West and then going back home to build Islamic states?’
‘Yes, of course … that is how it must be.’
Up to now the group has politely deferred to the fact that I’m a guest of their benefactor. They’ve stood around and listened to my small talk. But they’re being summoned for group photographs before they get allocated their seats in the hall. We bow towards each other and I tell each of them to ‘take care’ until I’m left with Ahmed.
‘Do you think there’s any place for democracy in Islamic countries?’ I ask impulsively. I’m edging in towards a little provocation and I get a jaw-jutting response.
‘These so called freedoms are frequently an illusion,’ he says, and there’s a harsh edge in his voice. ‘You people are at liberty to indulge yourselves materially, but your sense of morality frequently descends to a level that decent Muslims find abhorrent.’
And that’s it. Ahmed gives a curt bow before moving off to get his picture taken for the Sharif Foundation’s graduation records. I feel like I’ve been cast in the role of a pariah: An untrustworthy interloper from a despised world that would soon be dealt with by Allah’s army. I’m annoyed at first. I wanted to speak with Ahmed about Sharia Law and to debate the implications for economic growth and prosperity in the Muslim world if they lock their women away and forbid them to engage in business. It would be like trying to run a show on half power, surely. Only no one seems interested. So I accept an orange juice, and I’m on the point of probing some more amongst the other guests when Sharif leads an ageing Ayatollah up onto the stage.