by Lesley Lokko
‘I’ll have a whisky,’ Maddy said, hopping on to the stool as elegantly as she could.
‘Ah, a whisky drinker. Single malt, without ice. Am I right? You look like you know a lot about whisky.’
He wasn’t. Maddy knew less about whisky than she did about wine, and she knew nothing about wine – but he wasn’t to know that. She cast about quickly inside her head for a character on whom she could base herself for the duration of the date … someone fun and feisty, someone who would know about whisky and wine and all of that sophisticated stuff. Ah … she had it! Nora in The Thin Man. Within seconds, she knew exactly what to do, right down to her hands. She aimed just the right teasing note of banter at him and watched as he responded. It was an old trick of hers – and it worked. Every single time.
‘Cheers,’ he said as the bartender slid two glasses across the counter top. ‘I’m deeply grateful. You’ve saved me from another interminably dull evening with my colleagues. And from sitting alone in my hotel room, watching CNN.’
‘How did it go?’ Maddy asked, taking a sip of her whisky. It was warm and smooth. Note to self: single malts. She hurriedly swallowed her smile.
‘The conference? Oh, fine. Managed to get my words out in the right order and answer a couple of questions. No one pays much attention really.’
‘What was it about?’
He looked at her. ‘You don’t really want to know, do you?’
‘I do,’ Maddy protested with a smile.
‘New surgical advances in the removal of pilocytic astrocytomas.’
‘Oh.’
‘Told you so.’ He was smiling back at her. ‘But enough about me. Did you get the part?’
Maddy shook her head ruefully. ‘My agent hasn’t called. I guess that means no.’
‘That must be hard. Constantly auditioning, I mean.’
‘No harder than removing poly-whatever-you-call-thems. So, you’re a surgeon?’
He nodded. ‘Neurosurgeon. The brain,’ he added helpfully.
‘I know what neurosurgery means,’ Maddy said tartly.
‘Sorry. Habit.’
They smiled at each other. Somehow a kind of ease had been established between them. His humour was light and teasing and he offered her the facts of his life easily, generously. Within half an hour, she’d found out that his father was a brain surgeon, like him, and his mother a well-known lawyer. He had a younger brother, Aaron, who was a lawyer, like his mother. The following March he was about to spend three months in Switzerland under the guidance of one of the most famous neurosurgeons in the world. He’d wanted to be a brain surgeon as long as he could remember. ‘My mother took us to see Dad operate when I was about thirteen,’ he said. ‘Aaron fainted as soon as he made the first incision.’
‘I hate blood.’ Two whiskies had Maddy bold.
‘It’s funny. It’s not about blood. At least, I don’t remember seeing any blood. I just remember seeing Dad in his robes and his mask. He looked like a god to me.’
‘Is that why you chose it?’ Maddy asked, a teasing note in her voice. ‘All-powerful?’
He had the grace to laugh. ‘Dunno. Maybe. I just thought it would be more interesting than being a GP or a gynaecologist or whatever. The brain’s an amazing organ … you can’t imagine.’ He stopped and gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘There I go again. Patronising you.’
‘You’re not,’ Maddy protested. ‘It’s interesting. I’ve never met a neurosurgeon before.’
‘And I’ve never met an actress. Enough about me. Tell me about you.’
Maddy shrugged. ‘Not much to tell,’ she said, trying to match the lightness of his tone. ‘I’m from Iowa. I grew up on a farm. I came to New York five years ago to study drama at Tisch. I started working at Sunshine’s when I was a sophomore and I sometimes think I’ll be there for ever,’ she said, smiling a little to take the sting out of the words.
‘No you won’t.’
‘How do you know?’ Maddy asked. There was something wonderfully invigorating about his deep, confident English baritone. He sounded so much more … she searched for the right word … sincere. Yes, that was it. His confidence was sincere. He was talking about her immediate future but he seemed to be giving another, deeper kind of reassurance.
‘It’s written all over your face,’ he said matter-of-factly, and there was no trace of flattery in his voice. ‘You’ll make it. You just have to have more faith in yourself.’
Maddy flinched, as though he’d touched her. He could not have known it – how could he? Those were the very words her father had said to her before he disappeared. Have more faith in yourself, Maddy. She no longer remembered the exact conversation – was it before or after dinner the night before? Or was it at breakfast the day he left? – but she remembered the words as if he’d spoken them yesterday. And now here was someone else come to voice the same opinion. Have more faith in yourself. She looked at him out of the depths of childhood, her own private darkness. It was all there. The flattened landscape around the farm where she and her father walked in spring and fall, marking out the boundaries of their land; the clump of trees at the edge where he taught her which mushrooms to pick and which to avoid; the soft, rubbery feel of a cow’s teat in her palm for the first time as he showed her how to milk. The sensations, memories came flooding at her as she looked across the polished surface of the table at Rafe, watching the expression on his face change as it mirrored her own. They were smiling at each other. He laughed suddenly, rubbing his palm against the taut contour of his thigh. She reached out and touched his arm. She felt the thrilling tension that had taken hold of her since that morning suddenly begin to burn its way up her body. He must have felt it too. He grasped her hand, covering it entirely with his broad, capable fingers. He turned her hand over in his. His touch was light but firm; Maddy felt as though her whole body was on fire. ‘Come on,’ he said, his voice very close to her ear. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He touched her hesitantly at first, as if seeking permission. He pulled the white shirt over her head, burying his hands in the fiery cloud of her hair. Out of the corner of her eye and the tiny portion of her brain that wasn’t totally consumed with desire, she noticed that the door to his hotel room wasn’t even properly closed. He followed her gaze and in a single, fluid gesture that barely disrupted his exploration of her body, he kicked it violently shut. Maddy giggled. His fingers traced a light, teasing pattern across her skin, pausing here and there, his touch generating responses she’d forgotten she was capable of, skin hardening and contracting. He entered her slowly, at last, making both of them gasp. It really was so out of character, she thought to herself wildly in the last moments before a final, sharp surge of pleasure rose, engulfing her completely. But she was glad she’d agreed to meet him for a drink, however surprised she’d been by her own response. She wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
30
NIELA
London, November 1996
The Tube rumbled its way across town, each bend accompanied by a deafening roar of scraping metal and brakes. Niela held on to the strap above her head with one hand, fighting to keep hold of her newspaper in the other and read it at the same time. At Liverpool Street the doors opened and she fought her way out with everyone else. There weren’t many things she disliked about her job, but not being on time was certainly one of them. She walked up the escalators and emerged at the top with a sigh of relief. It was November, but whilst the weather above ground was damp and cold, the Underground was a hot, humid place that smelled principally of sweat. She’d been in London nearly five years, and although there were days when it felt as though she’d only just arrived, there were also days – like today – when she caught sight of herself in some shop window or on the side of a passing bus and had to stop for a moment to take it all in. So much had changed – she had changed. Beyond recognition. No longer the desperate, naïve refugee who’d arrived with nothing more than the clothes on her back. With Anna’s help, she’d fo
und herself a permanent job, a place to live, somewhere to call her own. It had taken a while, but slowly, month by month, she’d begun to create a world that was entirely of her own making, no one else’s. Whilst she still missed her family with an ache that was often unbearable, she followed Anna’s lead and buried that part of her so deeply that it was almost as if that Niela no longer existed. Somehow she knew that those things had happened – she’d been married off by her parents; she’d gone to Munich with a man she barely knew and whom she hated; she’d run away from him and from everything familiar – but at another, deeper level, the life she’d fashioned for herself since her arrival in London was hers in a way that her previous, other life could never have been, and it comforted her in ways she could never have imagined. Six months after she’d found a permanent job as the PA to the financial director of one of Sarafin’s rival companies, she’d followed Anna’s suggestion and enrolled in night classes in French and Arabic. Six months later, she’d signed up to do a part-time degree at Birkbeck College. She was astounded at the levels of support that existed for people like her. Not only were there government grants that she could apply for, the college itself had literally hundreds of small-scale schemes that made it possible for someone in her position to get ahead. Anna was a fount of information – this one would help pay her fees; that one would take care of part of her rent. This bursary could be used for books; that one for travel expenses. The studies that the war in Somalia had so cruelly cut short were begun again. It had taken her almost four years, but she’d done it. Slowly, sometimes painfully, but the important thing was she’d managed to secure herself a future. Three months after graduating, she’d had another lucky break. One of her tutors at Birkbeck had told her of a position going at the International Council for Refugees. They were looking for an Arabic/French translator … would Niela perhaps think of applying? She did and she got the job. Now the two halves of her life were beginning to merge.
She stopped at the coffee kiosk outside the station and bought herself a cappuccino. She hurried down Bishopsgate, crossed over at Commercial Road and then walked up Shoreditch High Street until she hit Rivington Road. The Council, as it was affectionately known to those who worked there, was housed at number 4. She’d been there almost nine months, and it was safe to say she loved every minute of her job. Although it was largely deskbound and the bulk of her time was spent translating government documents into French and Arabic and, on the odd occasion, into Somali, she liked the atmosphere, and the large, open-plan offices on the fourth floor gave her a view directly on to the gleaming buildings of the City. Her colleagues, too, were pleasant, easy-going people – Duncan, a tall, sandy-haired Scot who, somewhat improbably, spoke English, Spanish and Swahili on account of his diplomatic parents; Shaheeda, a delicate-faced Indian girl from Durban who took care of Hindi and Bengali; Azmi, from Turkey, and Ludmilla, half-Russian, half-Polish, who seemed to cover every language east of the Danube. For almost the entire time Niela had been at the Council, Duncan had been trying, unsuccessfully, to take her out … it had now become something of a joke between the five of them. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him – on the contrary, she enjoyed his dry sense of humour and his considerable intelligence – but the truth was, she couldn’t even think about taking that kind of step towards intimacy with anyone, least of all someone she worked with. Her feelings towards men were a mass of contradictions – there was the terror and revulsion she felt at the thought of Hamid, and the guilt and regret she felt whenever she thought of Christian … just the memory of opening that envelope to find the extra notes was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She’d returned the money to him, just as she’d promised herself she would, but she hadn’t included a contact address. Like everything else from that part of her life, she had to leave him behind.
‘Oh, hi, Niela.’ Jenny, the receptionist, looked up as she walked in. ‘I’ve been trying to get you. Richard Francis came looking for you. He asked if you’d pop your head round his door as soon as you get in. Said it was urgent.’
Niela nodded, wondering why on earth Richard Francis would need to see her urgently. He was one of the Council’s founders. ‘I’ll just put my stuff away,’ she said, pushing the lift button. ‘Did he say what it was about?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘No idea. He’s been down twice. See you later. Oh, it’s Caroline’s leaving drinks on Friday, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’ The lift arrived and she disappeared inside. She got out on the fourth floor, tossed her empty coffee cup in the bin and headed for her desk. Duncan looked up from his computer screen as she passed. ‘Nice jacket you have on, Niela.’ He winked at her. Not for the first time, Niela was grateful that a blush wouldn’t show up on her dark skin. She smiled her thanks and quickly hid behind her own computer screen. She stowed her bag under her chair, fished a notebook and pen from her drawer and beat a hasty retreat back to the lift. Richard Francis’s office was a floor or two above them, with an even better view.
Fifteen minutes later, it was hard to concentrate on the view. She sat opposite Richard, almost too surprised to speak. ‘I know you’re trained as a translator, not an interpreter,’ he said, putting up his hands as if to ward off her protests. ‘But we don’t have anyone who speaks Arabic, French and Somali. I initially said no, but someone mentioned you. You’d be based in Djibouti, although the camp is just outside the city, half an hour’s drive or so up in the hills. It’s very beautiful, or so I’m told. I’ve got to get back to them this afternoon – they’re under pressure to get things moving. We’ve got a hundred or so refugees arriving each day, about half of them from Somalia – you’d be perfect for the job.’
Niela stared at him. Djibouti? Her heart was racing. It was almost six years since the Adens had fled Somalia and she hadn’t been back to Africa since. ‘When would I leave?’ she asked simply, and her question was an answer in itself.
‘Good girl.’ Richard’s eyebrows shot up appreciatively. ‘In about a fortnight, assuming we can get the paperwork sorted out in time. You’ll be working for someone called Josh Keeler. He’s the Red Cross architect in charge of the camp. You might need to brush up a bit on building terms, nothing too technical though, don’t worry. They’re turning the old Foreign Legion camp into long-term shelter.’
‘And how long would I be there?’ Niela asked, her excitement mounting fast.
‘About a month. Maybe five weeks. Depends on how fast construction goes. You’ll be there over Christmas, that’s the only drawback. Sue Partridge told me you’re doing a part-time degree at Birkbeck … that might work out quite well with the holidays and whatnot. Keeler’s been there for a month already, but his Arabic’s pretty rudimentary and the local workers don’t understand much English.’ Richard let out a deep sigh of relief. ‘Good on you, Niela. I like someone who appreciates a challenge. I’ll get Sophie to send you down the paperwork this afternoon. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the experience … who knows, you might find you prefer working with people rather than paper. I’m always looking for good interpreters.’ His expression seemed to imply he’d found one.
Niela thanked him and backed out of the room. She walked down the corridor to the lift, her mind racing ahead. Djibouti! A month in Djibouti! What would Anna say?
She soon found out. ‘Djibouti? Where the hell’s Djibouti?’
‘Africa. Look … I’ll show you.’ Niela got up from the table and tugged out the atlas that sat on the second shelf of Anna’s bookcase. She opened it up to the section on Africa.
‘Where’s Djibouti, Auntie Niela?’ Boris, as ever, was quick to pick up on everything that passed between his mother and his favourite aunt.
‘Here … d’you see?’ Niela held the atlas on her knees so he could look. She traced over the page with her fingertip. ‘That’s Mogadishu. That’s where I grew up. And see that town there? That’s Dire Dawa. And that’s Hargeisa. That’s where we went when the war started. Look, that’s Addis Ababa. That’s the capital of Ethiopia. See?
’
‘The names are so pretty,’ Anna said, coming over to take a look. ‘Dire Dawa. Addis Ababa. It sounds like a fairy tale.’
Niela gave a snort. ‘It was anything but, believe me. Look, there’s Djibouti … see, Boris?’
‘Is it far away? Is it further than Margate?’
Both Anna and Niela laughed. They’d been on holiday to Margate at Easter and it was the furthest away from home Boris had ever been. ‘Much further,’ Niela confirmed.
‘Will you come back?’ Boris asked, sounding momentarily anxious.
‘Of course I’ll come back. It’s only for a month.’
‘You’d better,’ Anna said grimly. ‘Don’t go and fall in love with some goat-herder and trade yourself in for a couple of camels.’
Niela had to laugh. ‘There aren’t any camels in Djibouti,’ she said. ‘And I can’t imagine there’ll be any goatherds in a Foreign Legion camp, either.’
‘Well, I’m just saying. You’d better come back. Or we’ll come out there and get you. Won’t we, Boris?’
Boris nodded solemnly and placed a possessive hand on Niela’s arm. ‘Me and Batman,’ he said firmly. ‘We’re gonna come and get you.’
Niela looked at him but couldn’t speak. There were times when she was reminded that although she’d lost almost everything when she’d made the decision to flee, in the time that she’d been in London, she’d found more than she’d ever dared hope.
PART FOUR
31
JOSH
Djibouti, November 1996
Josh Keeler gave the plank of wood one last thwack with the hammer and jumped down from the scaffolding with ease. He squinted up at his handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. ‘Yeah, it’ll hold,’ he said to the two young men who were standing beside him, waiting for instructions. ‘For now, at least. Finish up that line, will you? We’ll get on to the roof later.’ They nodded and crouched down, lining up the planks.