Olives

by Alexander McNabb

  I looked down at her.

  Jericho. A checkpoint. Rashid Arafi running, little clouds of dust kicking up under his heels. Shouts. Shots. A fat, greasy-faced Ambassador wearing his napkin tucked into his collar, cutting into Yorkshire pudding and red beef, gulping down claret as the slight, neat Englishman with the blue-striped shirt sitting across from him laughed at his own joke. The cell, cracking paint in my fingers. Aisha smiling at me, playing with her lighter and her lips soft on my cheek, the coolness of a gold earring tapping my lips as I smelled her hair.

  ‘Yes,’ I said with someone else’s voice. ‘I suppose it is.’

  I drove Anne to the Grand Hyatt in silence, getting out to help the concierge take her bags from the car. We stood by the open boot. I took a step towards her, but she shook her head. ‘No. Don’t come near me. Goodbye, Paul.’

  The revolving door glittered with the lights from the street, spinning to release a party of young revellers in coats and scarves, their breath showing in little puffs as they chattered and laughed. Anne watched them with a thin smile. She turned to me as I reached up to close the boot.

  ‘I hope she makes you happier than I did.’

  I wrenched at the lid of the boot, bringing it smashing down.

  ‘Who? Who’s she? What she are you talking about, Anne? Does there have to be a she for you to rationalise it’s over?’

  Anne stepped back, clutching her bag to her chest. ‘Forget it, Paul. You do what you think is right.’

  ‘What I think is right? Who the fuck do you think you are? You fly in here expecting the world to be ordered just as it suits you, you swan around the place sniffing at every fucking thing you see, you bitch at me for days on end until every waking fucking moment is nothing but a space for you to fill with your disapproval then you justify it all by inventing someone else to carry the can for your own shallowness and intolerance. Get real, Anne. Smell the coffee. You fucked this up by yourself, it didn’t take another woman.’

  She stared back at me, her tearful blue eyes wide and her fingers pressed into the soft brown bag. Her shoulders slumped as I looked around to see the cars piling up behind us.

  The valet touched my arm. ‘Khalas, sidi’ – ‘Enough, stop, sir.’ I rounded on him but there was nothing more than an expression of gentle, genuine concern on his face. I saw several hotel staff standing around us, stilled by the commotion. I turned to Anne.

  ‘Goodbye, Anne.’

  She said nothing, looking at me blankly before she turned and strode into the hotel, the bellboy with her bag following. He glanced at me over his shoulder, his expression as they went through the door, making it clear he thought I was a shit.

  He had a point.

  I drove home and drank whisky, wandering around the house and missing Anne terribly, the misunderstood tyrant mourning his loneliness. Ibrahim called and told me the court date had been brought forward and my hearing would take place next week. More good news, except Lynch had beaten him to it and Lynch knew more than Ibrahim.

  I dutifully pretended it was, indeed, news to me and thanked him, hung up and poured more whisky into my glass, walking through the house into the garden, where I stood looking over the lights of the city. I went back and poured more until eventually, quite drunk, I held the heavy-based tumbler between my two fingers above the flagstone floor in the kitchen and let it fall, bright and scintillating in the halogen spots as it twisted through the air, shattering on the stone. A thousand reflective shards skittered across the floor. I went, unsteady on my feet, to bed where I lay in the darkness, trying to stop the room from spinning.

  TWELVE

  I cleaned up the glass in the morning before going outside to gaze out over the city and get some fresh air. The leaves in the garden were glistening wet under the soft drizzle, the rolling clouds a patchwork of grey highlights and shadowed depths. I stood by the kitchen door and felt the freshness of the moisture, shivering in the cold and letting the water fall onto my face. My mind wandered over Paul Stokes and where he found himself.

  The cold finally drove me inside and I took a warm shower before driving to the Ministry, feeling sick and wretched. I tried to call Anne but the hotel operator said she wasn’t taking calls. I left a message for her to ring back.

  I’d come to a decision standing in the rain, accepting I couldn’t fight Lynch anymore, or perhaps just deciding it had all got so bad it didn’t matter how much further I went down the path of deceit and self-loathing. I scanned my email over a coffee and went upstairs to the Secretary General’s office suite with the vague notion of seeing if there were any papers of value lying around. It was early and there was nobody in as I strode through the small reception area where his PA sat, past Aisha’s office into the larger office beyond. I hurriedly riffled through the papers on the big teak desk but found nothing exceptional or interesting.

  I left in a cold sweat, closing the door quietly behind me and crept out through into the main corridor, my hand clammy against the cold metal handle. I pulled the outer door shut behind me with a sigh of relief, turning to find Aisha walking towards me with a colleague, chatting and laughing and carrying their Starbucks paper cups. She was as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

  ‘Paul. Hi. What are you doing here?’

  I managed a laugh, but my heart rate was stratospheric. ‘Looking for you, actually.’

  She turned to her friend. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a second, Maha.’

  Maha walked past me into the office suite with an amused glance as Aisha smiled at me and said, ‘I meant what are you doing at work?’

  I tried to mask my relief. ‘That’s a very long story. Are you doing anything tonight?

  ‘Nothing arranged.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you later on. Right now I’m looking for some help on the content for issue two.’

  ‘Let me get settled in first and I’ll come down to you.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  I left her and my heart rate started to slow. I took the lift down to my floor and hurriedly put together a contents list for the second issue of the magazine ready for when Aisha came down. She arrived fifteen minutes later, still wearing her coat and scarf.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and chided me. ‘It’s cold, Paul. How can you sit there in your shirtsleeves?’

  I took her hand in mine and, sure enough, hers felt warmer. She put her other hand on mine.

  ‘You need warming up, ya cold Brit.’

  I felt myself blushing like a teenager as I looked at her, bathing in the warmth of her gaze. We sat with our hands together, neither of us daring to move, until someone called across the office and we both remembered where we were. I snatched up the contents list and noticed Aisha doing the same. We agreed on the editorial plan and she left, touching my shoulder fleetingly as she went. I couldn’t move from my desk for twenty minutes in case someone noticed the consequence of her touch.

  A box of advance copies of the magazine’s first issue arrived from the printing press. I scanned a copy. It looked good. It smelled good too – there’s nothing quite like the smell of fresh print in all the world. I picked up a handful of them and made my way up to Abdullah Zahlan’s office. I sat down with Zahlan and waited for him to go through the magazine. He flicked through the pages, nodding appreciatively.

  I had come to realise Zahlan put on personalities, not just clothes and I had consequently begun to look forward to each change in his wardrobe. If I’d been back at home, I’d have started an office sweepstake on the next outfit. A little voice in my head was making a catwalk announcement as I waited for his verdict: Today, Abdullah Zahlan wears tight, dark denim designer jeans and a white collarless shirt and is sporting this year’s advertising agency executive look.

  Zahlan beamed. ‘It looks very good, Paul. When does it go to distribution?’

  ‘Saturday. These are just the advance copies. I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘I do. And I really appreciate the way you came through o
n the Web stuff. It’s not just me being difficult – our communities are using the Internet more and depend on print less each day. I can see why Shukri would have signed up to a print only project, but it’s not part of the vision we have for a modern, accessible and transparent Ministry. I’m glad you understood that. You are working on the second one now?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve brought you the draft contents, I’ve just been going through them with Aisha. I thought we’d focus on the water issue: the Minister seemed keen on that and there’s apparently a big event, a conference about water resources, coming up in a few weeks’ time, so we could use this to highlight some of the issues.’

  He smiled at me as I got up to leave. ‘A good idea. Let’s do it. By the way, I thought you were off this week?’

  I didn’t miss a beat. I had already given the explanation to Aisha and it came more easily a second time. ‘Well, my girlfriend was visiting from the UK but she had to go back early, a crisis at her office, so I thought I’d use the time to get ahead with the magazine.’

  Zahlan beamed, walking around his desk to pump my hand. ‘That’s dedication, eh? Great job on the magazine, Paul. I’m glad we’re working with TMG on this. I confess I was worried at first, but it’s worked out really well. This will be good for Jordan.’

  He had made life pretty difficult for me in the early days, querying every decision and making huge changes to the magazine at every step, let alone the great Internet content issue. I was delighted at the way he’d come round.

  ‘I honestly couldn’t have done it without your help and Aisha’s. She’s been fantastic.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, if there’s anything else you need, you just have to ask.’

  ‘Thanks, Abdullah. It’s appreciated. I might need a hand convincing the Minister to have some photographs taken looking out over an aquifer or something. I know how valuable his time is right now, especially with the new cabinet and the whole water privatisation issue to deal with.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been really tied up, but the new cabinet’s confirmed now. They’ll announce it in the papers next week. He’s free to get on with the privatisation. You’ve heard about it, then?’

  Is espionage this easy? ‘Yes, it seems to be the talk of the town right now. In the UK it’d be top secret stuff.’

  Zahlan laughed. ‘Nothing’s secret in Amman, my good friend. Nothing. There’s usually lots of guesswork going on and you’ll find a hundred people who know someone who knows someone who heard it from someone else and has the answer. We’re the opposite to your people: the reality gets shrouded in speculation here, not secrecy.’

  I shrugged. ‘So what is the reality?’

  ‘Between us? The privatisation will be fought by two qualifying bidders who came through the first round. One’s the British-led Petra-Jordanian Consortium and one’s Jordanian, headed by Jerusalem Holdings. You know Aisha’s brother, Daoud Dajani, yes? From what we’ve seen of his consortium’s bid, it’s highly innovative, uses some leading edge technology and research and has every chance of supplying Jordan with the water it needs through exploration and discovery of new resources and better access to old ones. The Brits are a little stronger on conservation and management experience, but the Jordanian consortium’s work has really set people afire here. They’re going to get our water back for us.’

  Zahlan rose, his hand on a thick buff file on his desk. ‘The fact is, Paul, water’s something of a political hot potato around here. We’ve already been getting expressions of concern from our friends next door who are snooping around trying to find out what we’re up to. They’d prefer we remained dependent on their handouts and we’d prefer not to trust them after the way they’ve handled reducing our water allocations under the 1994 peace treaty. So I’d appreciate you treating this as highly confidential, not even for your bosses in London. We’re expecting to announce the winning bidders during the Dead Sea Water Conference, but it’s pretty much a done deal already. And our friends next door are not going to like it one bit.’

  ‘Our friends? The Israelis?’

  Zahlan nodded, his fingers intertwined and his face serious. ‘Yes, Paul. Who else? They took our water. Now we’re going to get it back.’

  ‘So we focus on water in issue two?’

  ‘Yes, Paul, focus on water. And give the Brits plenty of coverage, would you? Make them look like favourites. I’ll arrange some time with Harb for you so he can tell you how inspirational we find their approach is, no?’

  I managed to hide my awe. The old fox had just confirmed the whole bid was as good as awarded and the Brits were going to get some lip service as the consolation prize. I grinned at him and Reynard grinned right back.

  ‘Sure, Abdullah. Consider it done.’

  I managed not to jump and click my heels mid-air as I said goodbye to Zahlan, but it was a close thing. Bond pulls it off, walking insouciantly away, the Ministry building in flames behind him.

  I met Aisha at Grappa, the funky bar we’d last gone to with her friends when they had helped me move into the house. We shared a bottle of red wine sitting inside, all warmth and noise, the glowing interior fuggy with smoke. The sky had been dark all day, roiling black clouds deadened the light in the city, brooding over us all as we scurried about our business, dulling the afternoon and ushering in the cold night.

  Aisha was fiddling with her lighter again. ‘How did it go with Anne?’

  ‘I told you a lie this morning, Aish. She hasn’t gone home. She’s still in Amman. We argued and she went to stay at the Hyatt.’

  ‘All over? Just like that?’

  I put my hand on hers to stop her twisting the lighter and left it there because I wanted to.

  ‘It was pretty messy, to tell you the truth. Anne didn’t like Jordan at all and we both found we had grown apart since I came out here. It was a disaster from beginning to end.’

  ‘Were you sad?’

  ‘No, not really. I drove her to the Hyatt and she said some stuff that made me mad so I ended up shouting at her in front of everyone.’ I caught Aisha’s troubled expression. ‘I’m not particularly proud of that bit, incidentally.’

  ‘So what did you do afterwards?’

  ‘I drank some whisky and went to bed. I broke a tumbler in the kitchen.’

  ‘Because you were drunk?’

  ‘Yes, but not by accident. I just dropped it.’

  ‘How metaphorical of you, Paul. You have a talent for drama.’

  ‘Not intended metaphorically.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She poured us both more wine from the bottle on the table. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Aish. She’s due to leave tomorrow. I tried calling, but she hasn’t returned any of my calls. She’s probably got an earlier flight in any case. Anyway, I don’t know what I’d say to her.’

  ‘How about starting with, “Sorry?”’

  I sat back. ‘Well, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Because I am and I’m not. I didn’t want the scene outside the Hyatt to happen and I didn’t want to take my anger out on her. But if I’m truthful, I’m actually glad she’s gone and I can’t pretend to her or anyone else I’m not. We have nothing whatsoever in common anymore and she made it really unpleasant for us both.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I did. I tried very hard. But the harder I tried, the more she seemed to reject everything around her.’

  Aisha lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air. Her gaze was cool. ‘And you couldn’t have helped her to try and understand it, to make allowances for this little country of ours? To at least give her some time to become used to the fact you have changed?’ Aisha waggled her lighter at me. ‘And you have changed, Paul.’

  ‘I did try. I think she’d set her heart against here from the first second which just meant she hated it and was against all of the things I’ve come to love here.’

  ‘So it’s over.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Simple a
s that. Shout at her, throw her out and Paul’s off the hook.’

  I was surprised to find Aisha taking Anne’s side in this. I’d somehow expected her to be pleased rather than mad at me.

  ‘No, Aish, not that simple. I’ve changed and she hasn’t. I found myself trying to work out what we ever did have in common. I’ve come to realise I don’t like her friends, I don’t share her values. And now I can’t for the life of me work out how we ever came to believe it could last. It’s as if we had never shared anything more than…’

  Anything more than what? A bed? Hotel room weekends with champagne and room service and so much boisterous, noisy lovemaking that on one occasion the staff had audibly tutted when we checked out? Paphos and nights of Retsina-fuelled passion? The movies, the laughter, the walks together?

  Aisha was combative. ‘Than what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Just anything.’

  ‘You’re very eloquent except when you’re talking about your own feelings, aren’t you?’ She wasn’t smiling. ‘You can be a very cold Brit, Paul.’

  I had nothing to say to her, just sat looking at my hands joined on the rough table top as her long, steady regard burned into the top of my head. I looked up but found it hard to hold her gaze and dropped my eyes first. I fiddled with my wine glass, looking at the orange glow of the lights shimmering on the surface of the liquid.

  ‘Paul.’ Aisha paused until I met her glare. ‘Paul, if you ever do that to me I will find you, wherever you are, and I will fuck you up.’

  Her eyes were rock steady on mine and I felt like a rabbit in headlights until she smiled and was beautiful, raising her drink to me. I clinked mine against it, sealing the past and ringing in the future with the clean, bright sound of glass on glass.

  We walked arm in arm from the bar. I was still in shock as we headed downhill back to my place, my mind whirling with possibilities and Aisha’s intimate proximity. I breathed in the heavy richness of her perfume, her hair brushing my cheek. Her skin was warm and soft in the cold air. I stopped and she turned to me, her face raised. The first drops of rain fell, plucking up little explosions of dust in the gutter.