One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Thanks.’ She turned her head to look out of the window again. The landscape was almost lunar. Nothing around them but blackened volcanic rock, bleak sweeps of mountainsides, not a single tree. Far below in the bay, the choppy blue sea was puckered with rippling white waves, visible even at that distance. Cocooned in the air-conditioned interior, it was hard to fathom the heat outside. ‘What d’you need to buy?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘Building supplies. Some nails and screws, a bit of rope. We’re almost finished with the septic tanks but I want to put in an extra water tank before we start on the huts.’

  ‘How long is it all going to take? The whole camp?’

  ‘Depends. If I get the labour I need, another couple of months. There’s Ramadan next week, though, and that always slows things down. I’ll be glad when it’s over. Fasting in this heat is hard.’

  ‘You fast?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I haven’t fasted for years,’ she said after a moment. ‘I don’t know why. I … I forget, I guess.’

  ‘Easier to forget about Ramadan in London. Can’t do that here.’

  ‘You were in Morocco before this, right? You have the accent. I can hear it when you speak Arabic.’

  He turned his head to look at her briefly. ‘That’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you say,’ he said, smiling faintly.

  ‘Well, you hardly talk much either,’ she said mildly. ‘Whereabouts in Morocco were you?’

  ‘Smara. Close to the border with Western Sahara.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Bosnia.’

  ‘Why?’ She drew her legs up under her.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why those places? You’re an architect, aren’t you? Why go there?’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Architects aren’t supposed to work in places like that?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t met any architects who do.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ he said drily. ‘Camps are human settlements. That’s what we’re trained to provide. You can’t leave it to bureaucrats. Like our friend Nancy, for example.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, I suppose. We’re so used to thinking about camps as temporary measures, you forget that some of them have been around longer than many towns.’

  She felt his gaze shift towards her. ‘Exactly. Where’s home for you?’

  ‘London. I’ve been there four years now.’

  ‘And your family? I asked you before but you didn’t really answer.’

  She was quiet for a moment. ‘They live in Vienna. I had an uncle living there. We went when the war broke out.’

  ‘Why did you go to London?’

  She didn’t answer but turned her head towards the window again. The figure of a woman appeared slowly in the distance, distinguishable by her brightly coloured garb, but Niela’s measure of distance was warped and they came upon her too suddenly. She herded a small flock of goats and raised her stick as they passed, in greeting or protest, Niela couldn’t tell. She turned back to Josh. He didn’t press her at all. She liked that about him. She took a deep breath. There was only one person she’d ever spoken to about Hamid, and that was Anna. She had no idea why she felt she could tell this man, a complete stranger and someone whom she would never see again once her job here was ended. But she could. At least part of it. ‘A marriage,’ she said finally. ‘An arranged marriage.’

  ‘Ah. You escaped it?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘The usual story. You know how it goes.’

  ‘No, I don’t. What happened?’ he asked, and his voice was gentle.

  To her horror, she found her eyes flooded with tears. She struggled to contain the wave of sadness that surged inside her. Just as before, he was patient, giving her the time and space to respond – or not, if she chose. She took another deep breath, hoping her voice was steady. ‘I wasn’t prepared for it. It wasn’t the way I’d been brought up. My father is …’ she stumbled over the words, ‘was modern. We … I went to an international school, I was going to go to university, normal stuff. But the war changed everything. We left with nothing.’ She paused for a second, remembering her mother’s words. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want Josh to think badly of them. ‘I think they thought it was the best they could do for me.’

  ‘But presumably you didn’t think so?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He … he was much older than me. A distant relative.’

  ‘So you ran away instead?’

  ‘Yes. To London.’

  ‘That takes some nerve. And now here you are, rolling around Djibouti in a Land Cruiser with a complete stranger.’

  ‘You’re not a stranger. A bit distant, perhaps.’ The words slipped out without her thinking. She was surprised. She was responding to something in his tone that she couldn’t place; the tenor of their conversation kept shifting. Flirtation? He hardly seemed the type. No, it wasn’t flirtation. It was stronger than that, yet less. She was suddenly unsure of herself.

  He laughed. ‘Distant. Well, you’re not the first to accuse me of it, you know.’

  ‘It’s not an accusation,’ she said sharply, partly to cover her confusion. ‘It doesn’t bother me. I don’t care how … no, not that, I just meant …’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ he said quietly.

  Niela looked at him uncertainly. She was moved by his quiet assertion, but before she could say anything further, the vehicle began to slow down. They were approaching a roadblock, the first of several before the city began. ‘Salaam alaikum.’ Josh kept a hand on the gear stick as he passed their documentation through the window to the bored-looking soldier. The officer peered at them curiously through the window.

  ‘Your wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Aiwa.’ Yes. It was simpler that way.

  ‘OK.’ He handed back their passports and slapped the roof of the car. They drove on in cautious silence.

  The town was busy. It was the last Saturday before Ramadan and the shops were full of people. Josh wound his way through the narrow, pot-holed streets and finally pulled up in front of a long row of arcades, outside a shop with a bright green banner. Ali Hassan & Sons, Purveyors of Building Supplies. He glanced at Niela. She was sitting upright, looking around her with interest. She was wearing a light pink dirac that was tucked up around her knees. Her feet were still up on the dashboard; dark red toenails, he noticed. Sexy. Her bare leg was smooth and dark without a single blemish. He stopped himself quickly. ‘Coming?’ he asked. She nodded and opened the door.

  ‘Ahlan,’ he called out as he walked through the arcade and stepped through the doorway of Ali’s shop.

  ‘Joshua! Al-Hamdulillah!’ Ali came through from the back of the shop, wiping his hands. They exchanged the traditional greeting and sat down. Josh saw from Niela’s expression that she noticed and approved of the way he put his left hand on his lower right arm when they shook hands and the way he adopted the correct position on the floor. He couldn’t have said why it pleased him. What did he care? In a fortnight she’d be gone.

  Ali’s wife interrupted them, bringing tea. She served Josh first as was their custom – he was the male guest in their home. He avoided looking at her – she was another man’s wife, after all – and drained the glass in two gulps so that she could rinse it and serve the others. He liked the rituals of the culture here; slower-paced, more gracious than the back-slapping intimacy of Westerners that usually petered into nothingness. Niela chatted to Ali’s wife in their language in a low tone, her face partially turned from his. He saw from Ali’s expression that he was confused by her presence. But there was no time to dwell on it or explain. He had supplies to collect and he wanted to get back to the base well before nightfall.

  It took them almost an hour to find what he needed and load the vehicle. There was one last handshake, a flurry of goodbyes and salaams, and then they were finally off. There were a few American soldiers in town, he noticed, conspicuous in their bulky camouflage u
niforms and mirrored Ray-Bans. There were others, too, in khaki shorts and starched shirts.

  ‘Who’re they?’ Niela asked him, pointing to a group standing by the side of the road.

  ‘Légion Étrangère. The French Foreign Legion. They’ve been here since the sixties.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about Djibouti.’

  ‘Might as well know what you’re getting into.’ He swung out into the flow of cars. It was almost 4 p.m. and the traffic was already starting to thicken. ‘I just need to stop by one more place,’ he said, turning the vehicle down one of the side roads. ‘Ali didn’t have any steel wire. I won’t be a minute.’

  The road was narrow and even more potholed than the one they’d just left. The vehicle swayed alarmingly from side to side; Niela was thrown against him as he swerved to avoid plunging into a man-sized crater. There was a tiny frisson of electricity as their bodies touched; she jerked backwards as though she’d been hit. ‘Sorry, shit road,’ he murmured. She said nothing but he noticed that her fingers went to the spot on her arm where they’d touched, almost as if she’d been hurt. Up ahead of them the traffic had come to a halt. He slowed the vehicle and rolled the window down, sticking his head and shoulders out to get a better look. A low, rumbling sound could be heard behind them, growing louder by the second.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He pulled himself back into the car. ‘Can’t really tell. There’s some sort of roadblock up ahead.’ A solid wall of cars had piled up quickly behind them. ‘It should pass soon enough. If I don’t get the wire today I’ll—’ His voice was cut off abruptly by an earth-shattering boom that ricocheted off the walls around them. They looked at each other warily. There was a deafening silence, then a sudden change in the fabric of sound, a distant shuddering, the sound of air being sucked up and thrown out in waves. They stared at each other, too surprised to speak. Ahead of them, all the way down the slight incline, people were beginning to get out of their cars. Some were pointing to the sky. A thick plume of black smoke drifted slowly upwards; the source was some distance away. ‘What the … ?’ Josh muttered, killing the engine and opening the door. A second, equally ear-splitting ‘whumpf’ hit the air. People started to run back up the street, streaming towards them. The shuddering noise grew closer, up in the sky. A high-pitched, deafening, thudding vibration in their ears. It roared overhead. ‘It’s a helicopter,’ he shouted above the noise, pointing towards the sky. ‘I think there’s been some sort of attack.’ Another boom split the air, followed immediately by another. People were screaming now, shoving and jostling one another, streaming past in all directions. Josh didn’t hesitate. He yanked open the passenger door and grabbed Niela by the arm. The scudding, whirling noise was almost directly above them. Within seconds, the street had turned to bedlam.

  She felt herself being pushed this way and that, her body shoved up against the tide of people trying to run from whatever it was that lay ahead. They were buffeted on all sides; Josh ran counter to the crowd, forcing his way through shoulders, arms, backsides, pushing against the great wave of fear streaming towards them. His grip was unwavering. A racket of blows shook the sky; screams of terror rose into the air. Niela’s heart was pumping furiously, all sensation in her body concentrated on the spot where Josh’s fingers gripped her arm. She followed him blindly. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the unmistakable rattat-tat of machine-gun fire, a sound she remembered well. A woman rushed past, shrieking, a child pressed to her breast, disappearing into the folds of her dirac. They came to a crossroads. There was a narrow alleyway between the shops. ‘Follow me,’ Josh barked. She plunged after him. He ducked; she followed. He turned once, twice. He seemed to know where he was going. Down, down a flight of stairs, running, her lungs almost exploding. His grip held her fast, almost pulling her arm out of its socket. They jumped across a ditch – there was the tangy, acrid smell of urine and spilled beer – and then he turned down yet another alleyway. He stopped for a second, looked left and right again, his hand still on her arm; she could feel his heartbeat thudding in his palm.

  Suddenly the rising shriek of a police car sounded behind them, left or right, impossible to tell. With a single, wordless impulse they both scrambled up over the nearest wall and dropped down into a yard where a thin brown dog tethered to a post snarled hysterically at them. Niela only just managed to suppress a muffled shriek before Josh kicked open the nearest door and dragged her inside. He slammed it shut behind them and they collapsed against it, panting, too exhausted to speak. It was dark inside; a fanlight high above their heads let in a shaft of light that came to rest on a mound of sacks. Rice, she noted dully against the rapid-fire beat of her heart. They were in some sort of storeroom. Her arm was squeezed bloodless where Josh had held it. He released her; her fingers went automatically to the place where his had been. There was no sound in the small room other than their own jagged, raspy breath. Even the whirring helicopters had fallen silent. They stood there amongst the rice sacks and crates of bottled drinks, panting, too out of breath to speak.

  ‘What d’you think happened?’ Her whisper was unnaturally loud in the gloom. He looked at her, then at his watch. It was almost five. They’d been hiding for thirty minutes. It was hot and airless and he longed for a cigarette. Outside the door, the dog barked intermittently.

  ‘I don’t know. A demonstration of some sort that went wrong. Those were US helicopters.’

  ‘Firing into the crowd?’ Her voice was disbelieving.

  ‘It won’t be the first time it’s happened,’ he said humourlessly. ‘Or the last.’

  She sat down heavily on one of the sacks and hugged her knees to her chest. ‘Yes, it happened in Mogadishu too. But the demonstrators brought the helicopters down. They shot—’ She stopped, unwilling or unable to go on. There was fear in her voice now.

  He looked down at her. She held her eyes wide open, as if she were afraid to cry. He felt something inside him give way suddenly, a quick surge of emotion he couldn’t contain. He knelt down and put a hand out, touching her arm where he’d grabbed her earlier. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Did I hurt you?’ She shook her head but her fingers closed over his. He moved closer, bringing his face level with hers. His hand went up around her head, bringing it down into the space between his chin and his shoulder. He could feel the surrender in her body as she sank against him. He made some perfunctory sound of comfort, of the kind he’d used countless times before, though never in circumstances like these. She was shaking. Her teeth were chattering, despite the heat. He pressed his lips against her hair. ‘Hey,’ he murmured. ‘It’s OK. We’re safe here.’ She nodded but said nothing, pressing her face further into his shoulder. He breathed in the smell of her hair – its cloudy perfumed mass filled his nostrils – and his fingers sank into it of their own accord. In disbelief at himself he felt the stirrings of desire in him. His hand slid from her hair, coming to rest on the side of her neck. He put a hand under her chin and turned her face towards him. She made no protest at all. Astonished at his own boldness and the absurdity of their situation, he drew her towards him and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and sweet, tasting faintly of the tea they’d drunk at Ali’s. He broke the kiss to look at her; her face was a concentration of eyes and teeth in the last remnants of light, and he was suddenly overtaken by the sort of desire he hadn’t felt in years. In his mind’s eye he saw again the smooth, chocolate-coloured skin of her legs, the painted toenails, the tiny hollow at the base of her neck and the faint beads of sweat on her upper lip that must taste salty on the tongue – countless details he’d taken in without even noticing in the fortnight she’d been around. She’d been on his mind, he realised, ever since she’d stepped away from him and walked into the airport building that first day, the day of their arrival.

  His hand slid down her arm and stopped at the hem of the pink dirac. He touched it – a question? She nodded, and he placed his hand on her knee, sliding round to feel the soft, warm skin underneath. He
shifted his weight so that they faced each other. He pushed the dirac up around her thighs – another question? She answered by allowing him to pull it away from her and slip it over her head. It was too dark inside the storeroom to see her, but his hands told him all he needed to know. She was all smooth, damp skin, firm to the touch. Her breasts were soft and full; touching them brought a sharp gasp of pleasure from her that ran through him like fire. He was gentle with her, sensing a shyness that had as much to do with her as it did with the culture from which she came. The same quiet stillness that he’d come to depend on as she worked beside him turned him on more powerfully than anything he’d ever encountered. He felt his way slowly into her body, remembering to ask her if it was all right – stupid question! She didn’t answer but he felt her whole body arch, taut as a bow, just before he was properly inside her. He gave a muffled groan, sinking deeper into her, burying his face in her hair as his body began to race away from him. He brought a small cry of pleasure from her, again and again. Nothing he had ever heard had been sweeter, or so it seemed.

  She heard the soft strike of a match as he leaned away from her and lit a cigarette. The tip glowed red in the darkness. The silence around them was a thick, dark blanket. He stood up suddenly and produced a small torch from somewhere. He flashed the beam around the storeroom, seeking something. He was naked; she averted her eyes. She needn’t have bothered. Without a trace of self-consciousness he walked towards the door, dragging several large rice sacks behind him. ‘Thought I saw these,’ he said, shoving them against the door, one next to the other. ‘Good. No one’ll get in.’ He walked back towards her and finished his cigarette before squatting down beside her. ‘We’ll stay until daybreak. I’ll go out and see if I can find the car as soon as it’s light.’ He ran a finger lightly down her stomach. ‘Think you can manage to sleep?’ She nodded, too embarrassed to speak. She tried to cover herself with her dirac, but it was too hot. She was unsure of herself – should she move away from him, turn to one side? He seemed to have no such doubts. His hand lay where he’d left it on her lower abdomen, loosely connected to her body. Through her lashes she caught glimpses of him – the strong, swollen curve of biceps, the sheen of tanned skin across his shoulders, even the dark tufts of hair under his arms. Her body ached; a deep ache that brought a hot, sweet rush of tears to her eyes whenever she thought about what they had just done.