Zanzibar

by Giles Foden

  ‘So that’s the deal, Queller chasing a lost asset?’

  Altenburg shook his head. ‘It’s more personal than that. They had some kind of shoot-out on a mountain. That’s how Queller lost the arm. Some Army guys gave him blood. Saved his life.’

  ‘You know, that rings a bell. I remember hearing something about that.’

  ‘Then his wife got cancer and that just about did for him. He’s always been a bit strange. But now it’s bin Laden till kingdom come. If he had his way, we’d put all our resources in that particular pot.’

  ‘So you pulled the plug?’

  Altenburg pressed his remote key. His car gave a little whoop and flashed its indicators.

  ‘With some difficulty. He fought back. It went right to the NSC. He has powerful friends.’

  ‘What swung it?’

  Altenburg folded up his Brooks Brothers raincoat and put it in the back of his car.

  ‘I told them he reads too much Arab poetry.’

  6

  About a month after he arrived in Zanzibar, Nick Karolides was sitting in a bar in Stone Town. He had just been into a chandler’s and bought a new starting cord for da Souza’s outboard. It had been more difficult to patch up the damaged USAID boat than he’d expected, and eventually he’d paid a boatman to come from the docks in Stone Town and do it – a highly pessimistic guy who seemed to doubt that the whole process of repair was possible at all.

  The only subject on which the boatman expressed any enthusiasm was Allah: he inshallah-ed everything – the hammer, the spatula, the fibreglass, the blowtorch – as if all were entirely dependent on God for their material operation. When there was nothing left in the repair for him to inshallah, he even inshallah-ed Nick, saying that the boat would carry him safely now, but only if the Almighty wished it.

  Nick lit a cigarette, watching the calm sea from an old wooden table by the window, as he waited for his lunch. A dhow was creaking by in the bay, moving drowsily through the haze of heat above the water. He could see his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall. He quite liked the look of himself these days: his hair had grown lighter and his Florida tan had deepened under the African sun. With so much swimming the tone of his muscles, too, had improved. Strengthening and suppling, the sea had worked on his long limbs like a masseur.

  He was getting into the swing of things at work. If truth be told, he was enjoying himself enormously. A chance discovery had soothed his dismay at the damage the dynamite had done to the reef. Continuing his mollusc survey, he’d found, by chance, while digging, some turtle nests on the Macpherson beach. Several turtles, perhaps four or five, must have come ashore in the night and laid their eggs. At least that meant there were some still around, that they hadn’t been hunted out of existence. Their shells were sold for ornaments – buttons, jewellery– and the eggs were a popular delicacy in Asia. The meat was either eaten by the hunters, or rendered to make oil, for which there was also a good market. It had an extremely high viscosity and was used for skin-softening cream and various industrial processes.

  He signalled for another beer. Horrible as it was, the turtle trade somehow fitted into the experience of Zanzibar, along with its magnificent, glittering bays and sweeping lines of palm – all that fuel for wistful fancy which, for a century at least, had made the place attractive to romantic wanderers. There had to be a flip side, something dark and cruel beneath.

  He was perfectly aware of how he himself fell prey to such dreams, but allowed it to continue all the same. Sometimes, he wondered if it was those stories his father used to read him as a child – simple tales, full of heroes to admire and devils to despise – combined with a tendency, which he could not escape, to want to escape, which had brought him here.

  To a bar in Zanzibar! He sipped the new beer, and looked across the dazzling water, contemplating the idea of a new self – the old one shed, like the delicate, translucent snake skin found on the beach that very morning, near the turtle nests.

  There were still some connections to the old world that Nick was happy to maintain. He had his laptop with him. Electricity and phone line permitting, he had been able to log on to a number of websites full of useful information about Zanzibar. One represented Stone Town’s fabulous carved Arab doors in its iconography: you had to ‘open’ them to move from one part of the site to another. He had also looked at specialist turtle sites, particularly on leatherbacks, of which Zanzibar boasted one of the highest populations in the world – although if things went on the way they were, it wouldn’t for much longer.

  The green Florida turtle, which he knew more about, faced different threats. There the danger came not from hunters but from sewage and chemicals: lead and cadmium from vehicle emissions and the deterioration of brakes and tyres. The particles collected on sidewalks and ran into Sarasota Bay when it rained. It wasn’t all bad news, though: one of the things that had lifted his spirits before he left was a report of an increase of sea-grass coverage in Longboat Pass. Oddly enough, this was caused by dredging, which had opened up new shoals. The new grass was of a different type because of this. Thalassia, turtle grass, was being replaced by Halodule and Ruppia, or shoal grass and widgeon grass.

  He didn’t see that there could be any supplementary benefit to Zanzibar’s ecological problems, the dynamite fishing and the breaking of coral by the keels of boats. There was dredging here, too, though on nothing like the same scale as at home: what had happened to the Florida coastline was, to his mind, a form of terrorism. Something the turtles in particular suffered from was floating plastic bags, which they tried to eat and choked on, thinking they were jellyfish.

  A lot of Florida turtles had tumours: nasty looking grey-white lumps, like two or three small, uneven apples, stuck to the side of the neck. These fibropapillomas, as they were called, often excited attention from fish, which tried to graze on them, mistaking them for coral. No one knew what caused the cancer but its incidence had a clear relation to levels of pollution.

  It struck him that a comparative treatment of the dangers to turtles in the two places might make a useful topic for his next talk at Matembwe School, where he was fulfilling the educational outreach part of his job. He quite enjoyed the weekly sessions, and had already given talks on the shaping of shore lines through the ages, how the moon causes tides on the earth, and the secrets of the deeps of the sea. The friendliness of the children was heartening. There was something genial and life-affirming about their eagerness to learn.

  Teaching also gave him something to do while waiting for his heavier diving equipment to arrive from the US, care of the embassy in Dar. He’d had long discussions with Dino about exactly what apparatus he should bring, at first thinking not too much. But the wise old Greek had persuaded him he was crazy not to have whatever he might need. They had come to an arrangement about the cost, one which involved the selling of his motorbike. Dino had kindly agreed to take care of the shipping. Nick missed the bike, though. He couldn’t afford to buy one, still less a car, at Zanzibar prices.

  Which reminded him. What he did need to buy, and could afford, was a twelve-volt car battery and an inverter, so that he could use his laptop when the power went out at the Macpherson.

  His lunch arrived. Grilled snapper and coconut rice. He began to eat, glancing round the bar as he chewed on the succulent fish and sticky, perfumed grains. There were three African youths sprawled on the parapet looking out to sea, and a couple of whites inside. One of them was a chunky, pasty-faced man in a blue short-sleeved shirt and chinos. He was seated on a bar stool drinking a bottle of Bell lager. The other, smoking a pipe, was across the room, half hidden behind a copy of the airmail edition of the London Times.

  Getting up to pay, Nick was greeted by the beer drinker.

  ‘Hello. What brings you to the land of Zinj?’

  The guy held out his hand and Nick shook it. His name, he said in a strong British accent, was Tim Catmull.

  ‘Let me get you another,’ he added, leaning on the bar
with his elbows. ‘Freeman, another beer for …?’

  Raising a finger, Catmull turned his compact body to Nick.

  ‘Nick. Nick Karolides.’

  ‘Get Nick another Bell.’

  He turned again, spinning on the stool so that he faced Nick.

  ‘That a Greek name then?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nick. ‘But I’m American.’

  ‘Young American …’ crooned the Englishman in his strange voice.

  Nick couldn’t help grinning, more at the accent, which he couldn’t place, than at the supposedly comic gambit.

  ‘Catmull’s not such a common name itself,’ he countered, not wanting to be left on the touchline. ‘Least, not in my country.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Catmull said, ‘I hate it. But what can you do?’

  He held up his hands in a gesture of helpless resignation that was, it seemed to Nick, only half genuine.

  ‘So … what did you mean by – Zinj?’ Nick asked, climbing on to one of the bar stools.

  ‘It’s what the Arabs called this place. That’s how you get Zanzibar. Zinj is from zang, the Persian word for black, barr is the Arab for coast. Or – land.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘So what dropped you on the island then?’

  ‘I’m here on a reef protection scheme.’

  ‘The USAID thing?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He took a swig from the bottle Catmull had bought him.

  ‘Didn’t something happen to the bloke before you?’

  Nick nodded. ‘Boating accident.’

  He didn’t elaborate. His predecessor’s death still seemed something of a mystery, and he had tried to find out more about George Darvil. Short of confronting Chikambwa on the matter again, which he suspected wouldn’t bring him much joy, there didn’t seem much he could do. After a while, when he hadn’t been able to discover anything more, he’d tried to put Darvil out of his mind. He felt that he had a special affinity with the sea, and nothing like that could ever happen to him. Yet sometimes, on sleepless nights, he would be haunted by a ghastly image of a drowned man. He saw it now, where he gripped the bottle: Darvil’s hand reaching through weed-scum, its skin white as leprosy.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  Catmull gave a hollow laugh. ‘Me? I’m an expert in – Sudden Death.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a disease of cloves. I’m with DFID. British international development.’

  ‘Produce a lot of cloves here, don’t they?’

  ‘It used to be about 90 per cent of the world supply. Once the slave trade stopped, the island got most of its wealth from them. But this fungus keeps cropping up, killing the trees. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘How do you find it?’

  Catmull inclined his cropped head. ‘Tricky. After the revolution they nationalised nearly all the farms. They’ve let a few small blokes start up again … but mostly I have to deal with officials from the Clove Board. Lot of corruption. You run into that?’

  Nick shook his head.

  ‘Hey, you don’t play football do you?’

  Nick paused. ‘Soccer? No … I’d give it a shot though.’

  ‘Great. I’ll sign you up. As a defender, mind, not a striker. We’ve got a little league going, see. Sponsored by the drop people.’

  ‘The what people?’

  ‘The drop people. The water company.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them.’

  Catmull looked surprised. ‘Zanzibar Drop. The mineral water. How long you been here? Hey, Freeman! Toss us a bottle of Drop, will you?’

  The barman put down the glass he was cleaning and, leaning down into the refrigerator, took out a small bottle of mineral water. Glistening with icebox dew, under the lighting fixtures it looked – ever so briefly – like a prized, secret object: something of great presence.

  ‘Get a move on, Freeman,’ Catmull shouted down the bar. Nick winced. He disliked the sneer of cold command with which many expatriates treated the Zanzibaris.

  The barman wiped off the condensation with a cloth and, placing the bottle on a battered silver tray, began to walk – very slowly – towards them.

  ‘This is it.’

  ‘Yes, bwana.’

  ‘I’m talking to the other bwana … This is the water I referred to.’

  Catmull handed Nick the bottle. There was a blue-tinted photograph of a soccer player on the label. Zanzibar Drop. Cold and delicious!

  ‘That’s George Weah,’ said Catmull. ‘Liberian. He’s in the European leagues now. Big hero in Africa. It’s a good sign. Times have changed. I think we’re moving into a period when most of football’s heroes will come from here.’

  Catmull talked on, but Nick was easing into a nether world of his own. It was an old habit, to slip like this into a world peopled by another sort of hero, as in his father’s stories: Hercules, Theseus, Jason … Or the defenders of the Achaean League – islanders and coastlanders of ancient Greece, those people of the sea who beached at Troy with Achilles and won the long siege. Then destroyed their own civilisation through accumulation of power.

  ‘Another?’

  Nick realised they had been sitting side by side in silence for a few seconds. ‘I believe it’s my round. What’ll you have?’

  ‘No, mate. Got to get off. Just thought I’d offer, seeing as you were looking so thoughtful.’

  ‘Sure?’ Nick asked, embarrassed.

  Catmull shook his head. ‘Can’t. Off up north this afternoon. Got to see someone from the Board. But give us your number for the football.’

  Nick took out a pen and wrote the number of the Macpherson Ruins on a beer mat.

  ‘Cheers. I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘Good luck with the sudden death,’ Nick said, as Catmull slid off his bar stool. ‘Say, you don’t know a guy called Leggatt, do you? I think he’s a clove farmer. Also a yachtsman. People keep mentioning his name.’

  ‘Ralph Leggatt? That’s him over there.’ Catmull pointed at the man with the newspaper, then leaned over and whispered in Nick’s ear. ‘Watch out, though. He’s a bit of a grouch in my experience – right. Must go.’

  He fanned himself with the beermat. ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot. Hasn’t rained all week.’

  Having said goodbye to Catmull, Nick went over to the man behind the newspaper. The brown, liver-spotted hands lowered slightly as he approached. The face that appeared – sun-dried, scowling, furrowed – was draped with dirty blond hair of a length one wouldn’t normally associate with someone of his age, which must have been mid-sixties.

  ‘Mr Leggatt? My name’s Nick Karolides. I’m the new guy on the USAID reef scheme. I keep seeing your boat go by the Macpherson and I thought –’

  The newspaper folded. A pair of eyes – deeply recessed and as yellow as the hair above them – regarded him balefully. The man’s skin was so darkly tanned it might have been dipped in tea.

  ‘American?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nick. ‘USAID.’

  ‘Useless-aid more like. I haven’t a word to say to you, young man.’

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘What have you done? Nothing. Your predecessor, on the other hand, drove his boat into the reef.’

  ‘I thought he was chasing poachers.’

  ‘He was, and a damn silly idea that was, too. But it was he who smashed the reef – this time.’

  Nick was taken aback. ‘He’s dead, for chrissake. Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?’

  Leggatt drained his beer. ‘You lot, you greens, NGOs, development people … You always think you’re so right. Up there on the moral high ground. You can’t see what’s in front of you.’

  ‘He drowned trying to stop poachers. If that was misguided, fine. But there’s no need to blacken his name.’

  ‘Friend of yours was he?’

  Nick stuttered. ‘No, but …’

  Leggatt stood up, folding his newspaper. ‘You’re right. He did drown. He fell out
of the boat when it hit the reef. I pulled him out and he died in my arms. Coral had cracked his head open.’

  He fixed Nick with his mustard-coloured eyes. ‘Mind, it would have been a lot worse if the poachers had got him. They’d have cut him to pieces.’

  With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ said Nick, going after him and catching his sleeve. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  Leggatt shook himself free and went outside. Nick followed a moment or so later but the Englishman had already disappeared in the maze of narrow streets.

  * * *

  The river was like silk. Some kid had a remote-control boat. Miranda Powers sat on the bank under a tree and watched it for a while. Her last day in America. She was glad to be leaving Washington, but she wanted to fix the city in her head before she did, so she’d decided to take a long walk around it.

  Kirsteen had gone over to see Frank. Miranda felt strange, not having any more coursework to do, and not having a boyfriend of her own. She was packed and ready to go. Without activity, without something to aim at, she felt compressed in her own narrow being. And it was that feeling which had brought her, first, to the Potomac.

  After a while, tiring of the noise of the boy’s buzzing boat, she stood up and made her way to the Museum of American History. She did not stop there long, as it was very busy, checking out only the toy hall, where there were some fun automata, and the music section, where there was a life-size replica of David Byrne in his white suit.

  She walked north then, skirting the edge of Federal Triangle, past the Justice Department and the Old Post Office. Finding herself by the studio of Matthew Brady, the Civil War photographer, she went inside. It was a fascinating old building, cool and dark. She looked at Ulysses Grant and his staff; some destroyed gun carriages from the siege of Fort Fisher; some Union soldiers chowing down; Pinkerton of the Secret Service on horseback at Antietam.

  Coming out of the Brady studio, she went back on herself, crossing Federal Triangle and entering the National Aquarium. There were seventy or so tanks, but only two caught her interest. One was a touch tank, where you could handle turtles and docile crabs; the other was the shark tank. She’d happened to come at feeding time, and it was thrilling to watch the sharks gape and swallow the bucketfuls of mackerel as the assistants tipped them in.