Sheikhs swept past, engrossed in their iPhones and trailing whole families of women in their wake, like sets of babushka dolls in burkas. Bellhops strained under stratified layers of LV luggage, and western businessmen compared sweat rates while adjusting their belts. The entire lobby looked to be finished in gold-plated gold.
Shanti collected their room key and beckoned for Gavin to follow. The glass bubble of an elevator swept them skywards at a dizzying pace.
‘She seemed nice. Not what I was expecting,’ said Shanti as the gridlocked streets of Dubai fell away beneath them, becoming smaller, engulfed by the surrounding desert.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know. Something a little more…’
‘Slutty?’
‘Okay, yes, I was.’
‘That’s not very charitable of you, Shanti.’
‘It was more a judgement of him. Older white European man in the Middle East, marries a Filipina lounge singer he barely knows and then spends his time in warzones a thousand miles away,’ she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. ‘But it seems like they really were in love. Or at least she was.’
The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened.
‘He was a decent guy. She seems genuinely sad that he’s gone,’ said Gavin as they searched the parade of doors for their room number. ‘She wanted to know everything about that last day.’
‘I think she’s grateful, Gavin. Not just for the money, but the fact that you came to see her yourself,’ Shanti paused in front of their room door. ‘You did a good thing. I’m proud of you.’
***
The package fell from the sky and landed with a thud. The tiny helicopter arced away with a high-pitched snarl and a small scrum of children hoisted the parcel aloft like a football team with a trophy. They brought it to the front of a small tin building and placed it on a dusty plastic table. The noise of the rotor blades faded and the tin roof cracked occasionally, expanding in the mid-morning heat. An old man in a chair poked the package with his walking stick. A woman emerged from the doorway and took the package inside, where half a dozen hospital gurneys, jammed side-by-side, consumed almost all of the space.
Each bed was occupied, some by more than one patient, and the concrete floor was littered with cardboard boxes, battered suitcases and small piles of clothes. The woman opened the package carefully while a nurse typed on a battered laptop and fiddled with a cell phone. She initiated the video conference and a couple of male faces, one white and one dark, appeared on the screen. Each time the nurses held up a small box or bottle, the young doctor on the screen spoke quietly to the local boy, who translated for the two nurses. Package by package, the doctor and the local boy described the contents, listed the symptoms they were to treat and explained their application. One of the nurses took notes in a small notebook.
Ping watched from over the shoulder of the local boy as the two nurses on screen smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign. Another local boy tugged her sleeve and led her out through the open doors of the warehouse, where an ancient lorry had juddered to standstill, bringing with it a cloud of red dust.
‘Wait. Don’t unload anything,’ Ping yelled as the young men swarmed from the cabin of the lorry to loosen the spiderweb of ropes securing the tarpaulins. ‘First we check the manifest. Then you unload the medicine. Same as last time.’ She muttered under her breath. ‘And the time before that.’
***
The flap of the tent snapped in the breeze. Trent looked up from his textbook, but the high sun had whited out the landscape beyond the open doorway. He underlined a section of the text and closed the book, tossing it amongst a pile on the floor next to his low camp bed. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes, watching the patterns momentarily swirl and melt into the roof of the tent.
‘No wonder I dropped out the first time,’ he said to the empty tent. ‘Too many big words.’
The tent was a boxy canvas affair in a drab camouflage, a cast-off from one of the dozens of conflicts that had scarred the landscape and haunted the population over the last decade or so. A small card table sat in one corner heaped with books. Two stylish leather duffels struggled to contain a small mountain of clothes. A set of shelves, made from planks and cinderblocks, held a modest collection of liquor and glassware, watched over by a framed photograph of Trent, Shanti and Gavin, beaming, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, indifferent to the crush of revellers at a beachside nightclub somewhere in Bali. Trent smiled, pushed himself up off the bed and checked his watch. He’d almost forgotten the time.
Flipping open the laptop, Trent pivoted on the corner of the bed to lock onto a stronger signal. He hit the call button on the video conference software.
‘I thought you’d forgotten about us,’ said a pixelated Shanti. She was dressed in a bathrobe, a white towel making her head appear twice its regular size.
‘Holy shit, where are you guys?’ said Trent, peering intently at the screen.
‘Marriott Dubai. It’s pretty killer,’ said an equally pixelated Gavin, bouncing into frame and landing beside Shanti on the bed.
‘Who the fuck is picking up the tab?’
‘She is,’ said Gavin, arranging a forest of pillows behind his head. ‘I tried to warn her that she won’t have much left after she pays off her uncle. But the lady wants a little luxury before we go back to a life of ramen profitable and I’m not one to argue.’
‘Bullshit, Gav. You love arguing,’ Trent smiled into his webcam. ‘How did it go with Peter’s widow?’
‘It went okay,’ said Gavin, rubbing his upper arms. ‘Wasn’t easy man, but I’m glad I did it.’
‘He did great,’ said Shanti, also rubbing Gavin’s arm. ‘Good to see some of our payout going to a good cause. Unlike mine.’
‘But you’ll never have to waitress again,’ said Gavin. ‘At least not for your uncle.’
‘Hey, did you see the Belarussians dropped the charges against Jensen?’ said Trent. ‘They’ve invited him back to consult on economic policy, for real this time.’
‘See. We really can help people change their lives,’ said Shanti. ‘What about your charges? Is your mother still pressing ahead?’
‘I guess so, but she’s got bigger issues now.’
‘I honestly didn’t think it would go that far, Trent. I’m really sorry.’
‘God, don’t be. Belarus is blaming Singapore for meddling in internal affairs, Jensen is blaming ShelfLife for sending him take the fall for Slizhevsky, Singapore is blaming Charles for criminal mismanagement of ShelfLife. Now Charles is claiming Susan Carlisle owns the majority of ShelfLife and should be held liable for any damages caused by Jensen’s life rental. It’s like a merry-go-round for assholes.’
‘Why doesn’t you mother just cut and run?’ said Gavin.
‘She’s trying, but her legal action against me was already in train. The Singapore Government has the opportunity to make a listed US firm the fall-guy for the whole mess. They’re also dragging Vandten into a series of competing claims from hosting providers, data security firms and a certain mid-level official at the Vietnamese Ministry of Home Affairs. It’ll keep lawyers fed for years.’
‘Sounds like a complete trainwreck,’ said Shanti, shaking her head.
‘My dad maintains the whole thing has been orchestrated by Singapore to distract from their secret role in destabilising the regime in Vitebsk. I thought that was just a wacko conspiracy theory, but now it’s running as a serial investigation in The Guardian, so you never know.’
‘Didn’t you make friends with someone there on one of your press tours?’ asked Gavin.
‘Like I said, you just never know,’ said Trent, grinning. ‘Anyway, what’s the plan for you two?’
‘We’re going to use those tickets to SouthBy you bought months ago. It’s coming up in a couple of weeks,’ said Shanti, rearranging her bathrobe. ‘We’ve had some offers from startups and investors so we’re going to Texas to meet them, see if there�
�s anything we want to be a part of.’
‘I had a cool idea for an app that helps people find their doppelgangers,’ said Gavin. ‘But we don’t really have any money anymore, so I have to put my own startup dreams on hold again.’
‘Would you believe he also wanted to build a nerf gun that shoots tiny little facepalms made of latex?’ said Shanti, rolling her eyes.
‘I would believe that, yes,’ said Trent. ‘You’ve gotta back yourself, Gav. No matter what she says, OK?’
‘I dunno, man. Things have been going a lot better for me since I started listening to her,’ said Gavin as Shanti punched him in the shoulder. ‘I might just keep doing that for a while. I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘You do that. I have to go. Miss you guys,’ said Trent.
‘Are you getting emotional, Trent? I can’t tell if it’s the student poverty or the desert that’s affecting you most,’ said Shanti, smirking. ‘Let us know if you need us to send in a chopper.’
‘Shut up,’ said Trent, smiling as he closed the laptop.
Trent’s gaze drifted back to the stack of textbooks by his camp bed, appearing like a mountain seen from the savannah.
‘At least someone believes I’m going to finish all this,’ said Trent to himself, rubbing his hand across the stubble of his chin.
‘Stop whining, you big baby.’
He looked up to see Ping standing at the tent’s opening, cradling a package on one hip.
‘Was that the delivery truck I heard before?’
Ping let out a long sigh. ‘Every time they make a delivery, they unpack it before I can check the manifest. This time, I made them wait while I counted all the packages. There’s like a dozen items missing. I tell the driver there was supposed to be a hundred packages and you know what he says to me?’
Trent shook his head.
‘He says that’s normal. If I want a hundred boxes delivered, I should order a hundred and ten. Then he laughs at me!’
‘I guess everybody’s looking to get paid.’
‘For doing what?’
‘For not stealing all of it? I don’t know. It’s human nature. Everybody’s looking for a shortcut.’
‘Haven’t you heard? Shortcuts don’t work anymore,’ Ping laughed gently and tossed the package on to Trent’s lap.
‘Ooof,’ Trent buckled a little under the heft. He spun the package around to find the shipper’s address label and let out a groan. ‘Why didn’t you let the driver steal this one?’
‘Baby, you need these. Your exams are coming up, right?’
‘You’re right. I might have to go into the village and use the connection at the hospital. The online exam is timed and I can’t have the signal drop out halfway through. I only got to talk to Gav and Shanti for a few minutes before the connection went spotty.’
‘Well, I’ve got a crazy idea. I have to go to Paris at the end of the month and present our progress to the investor panel. Why don’t you come with me, sit your exams from there, then go and hang out with your friends?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ Trent reached under his pillow, retrieved a small black Moleskine and leafed through the pages. ‘Yep, I’m supposed to run clinic that week, so I really can’t go.’
‘Oh, come on. You’re behaving like a doctor already,’ said Ping, taking a seat beside him. ‘You’ve got years more study before you get to act all self-important, call yourself Dr Carlisle and flirt with young nurses. You sure you don’t want to come to Paris with me?’
Trent put his hand in hers.
‘Of course I do. But I can help these people. They actually need me. Besides, I’m behind on my coursework as it is.’
‘Plenty of people need you, Trent. Just don’t forget that maybe you need people, too.’ She stood up and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’ll ask Herve to run clinic that week. Now quit your moaning and start your studying. Work hard, get it done and come with me to Paris.’
Trent smiled as she pushed her way out of the tent. He made a few notes in his Moleskine and returned it to the spot under his pillow.
‘She’s right, again,’ Trent said to himself as he opened the new delivery of textbooks, ‘Shortcuts are for suckers.’
About Barrie Seppings
Barrie Seppings spent his early career in advertising, moving between Australia and South East Asia. He now lives in Sydney with his family.
First published by Rubber/Road in 2017
This edition published in 2017 by Rubber/Road
Copyright © Barrie Seppings 2017
https://twitter.com/BarrieSeppings
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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