Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  ‘Somalia has been a humanitarian disaster for almost thirty years. This is just the latest manifestation of it.’

  Marika’s sense of outrage grows. ‘This morning when refugees came to the gate of your compound I watched from the cell window. Your men fired shots to keep them away. You have money, power, and therefore a responsibility to help. You could at least offer them a meal.’

  ‘You want me, Dalmar Asad, to open a soup kitchen for the wandering vermin of the world?’ He laughs, turning to the driver, who guffaws with sycophantic vigour. ‘No. Like it or not, here life is hard, and you must, if need be, fight tooth and nail for every meal. When I was a child I would fight my own brothers for food. That is the way of the land. That is how we live here. The life expectancy for a male is forty-six years, and that was before this drought and the rising sea. Women die in childbirth in staggering numbers.’ He strikes his own chest with an audible thump. ‘I am above such statistics, yet now that I have everything I could ever want there are many who seek to take it away from me. Always I am looking behind, searching the eyes of those who serve me, asking myself, can I trust this man or woman? Even when I believe I can trust him, I make it difficult for him to betray me. Make Man A believe that Man B is watching him — set up suspicions to ensure that no man feels safe.’

  Marika does not comment, continuing to stare out at the wraiths in the night. This is the result of two centuries of an industrialised West. The pursuit of labour-saving machines, of gadgets that save us from working. Give us pleasure. Entertain us. In the process we are killing ourselves, starting with the most vulnerable.

  The vehicle hits a pothole at speed, and even the Mercedes’ suspension is unable to smother the sharp jolt. Marika clutches at the seat while Asad remonstrates with the driver for his carelessness. She ignores the exchange, filled with a powerless rage at what she has seen, staring ahead at a guard post surrounded by another high cyclone fence, illuminated in the yellow glare of the headlights. Two armed men salute as the vehicle moves through.

  Ahead looms a building complex, illuminated by lights of varied colours. The sight, Marika decides, would be more at home in the city than here in the desert. The construction is set on a small hill, two or three storeys high, with marble steps leading to the first level. White pillars frame the entrance. Hues of blue and green light the walls, and the Mercedes circles a fountain with water cascading down a statue carved also of marble: a pair of elephants, massive and angry, trunks raised and tusks curling in the artificial light.

  ‘Look,’ Marika says, ‘this is all very nice but I am in a hurry. You are a civilised man and I have to remind you that I am being held against my will.’

  Dalmar Asad does not answer, but holds a hand up as if to say, ‘Stop,’ while the driver hurries around to open first Asad’s door, then hers.

  When Marika leaves the car she is both surprised and horrified. The comparison between this opulence and the dispossessed families on the road is breathtaking. She warns herself: Remember. You have a job to do. Pissing this man off will not help. She turns to Dalmar Asad. ‘You’re kidding. You live here?’

  ‘This is my home. Fifty men laboured for two years to build it for me. The finest craftsmen — stonemasons, carpenters, decorators from all over the Middle East: Syria, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, even Israel.’ He chuckles. ‘But don’t tell anyone about that.’

  ‘And who lives here? Just you?’

  ‘Not quite. My staff numbers nineteen in total, including guards. More than enough to keep me diverted. I am a busy and intensely religious man, and thus have little time for entertaining.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Except, of course, when a beautiful young woman like yourself comes my way.’

  ‘You flatter me.’ Marika forces herself to play the game, even allowing Dalmar Asad to take her hand for the gentle ascent up the stairs. She hears soft music from inside, making her wonder at the instructions he has called ahead.

  At the top of the stairs there is a courtyard similar to those she has seen in the lobbies of expensive hotels, with a long, raised garden, and intricate patterns in the paving stones. The entrance columns, she realises, are so thick that her arms would not encircle them. Another blue-tinged fountain is surrounded by a fishpond. Marika walks close and stares down into the water. Orange and black shapes flutter decorative tail fins near green water plants as if expecting her to feed them.

  ‘A unique variety of koi,’ Dalmar Asad says, ‘imported from China. They are good feng shui; the very best, I am told.’

  ‘Beautiful. But they do seem hungry.’

  ‘Ah, but does a prudent nurse give a child her breast the first time it bleats of hunger? No. My servants are instructed to feed them sparingly. That keeps the water healthy and the fish also. Wanting will not hurt them, and makes them more disposed to eat the mosquito larvae that would soon make evenings in the courtyard unpleasant.’

  Marika looks through the glass windows. There she sees pale leather lounge chairs, plush and inviting, arranged under soft lighting — a room straight from the pages of Vogue Living.

  ‘Would you like to come inside?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A dapper servant opens the glass door and admits Marika first, then Asad. The servant’s eyes are light brown, wide with hero worship, whether feigned or real, Marika cannot tell. ‘Good evening, Aaba, and madam.’

  When he moves away again, Marika asks, ‘What did he call you just then?’

  ‘Aaba. Father. All my staff call me that. I consider it a mark of respect. The men and women here are of my own subclan, so there is no question of their loyalty.’

  ‘Your own clan? You enslave your own people?’

  ‘They live a thousand times better than their less fortunate brothers and cousins, I can assure you. Not one would hesitate to lay down his life for me.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Now I expect that you would like to shower and change.’

  No, I want to find a woman called Sufia Haweeya and get the hell out of here, she wants to say. Instead she nods. ‘Sounds good.’

  Dalmar Asad places one giant hand on her shoulder. ‘Ghedi will show you to your room.’

  The second-floor bedroom has views across the moonlit desert through glass sliding doors that open onto a balcony. Ghedi, crossing the floor with a rapid flutter of his short legs, opens a wardrobe door, made, like the others, of cowhide stretched over timber frames. ‘There is clothing in here, madam, everything from bathing costumes to evening wear.’ His eyes circle her body like a shark then appraise it from shoulders to ankles. ‘I’m certain that some will be in your size.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Marika waits while he steps back out into the corridor, the door closing behind him. She goes to the bed and lifts a pillow, feeling the sheets with the palm of her hand. Soft, closely weaved with shining threads — real silk. That will be an experience in itself, she decides, as will the feather quilt that covers them. She sits on the bed and stares at the wall, trying to make sense of her current situation — whether it is any less of a prison than the filthy cell back at the compound.

  Scanning the ceiling she notes tiny, almost imperceptible holes where hidden cameras must be. Of course Dalmar Asad will have his guests under surveillance, and with the realisation comes self-consciousness. Even so, the lure of a hot shower is too strong to resist.

  Walking into the bathroom, she closes the door behind her, studying the ceiling and walls. Yes, there is a concealed camera here also. Let ’em look, she decides. The lack of privacy is fair exchange for hot water.

  Still, determined to protect as much of her modesty as possible, she steps into the shower cubicle and closes the curtain around her before she undresses. With the taps turned on hard, she opens a plastic package of soap and massages the suds over her abdomen, breasts, upper arms and neck. The water is soft and steaming hot. A pump pack of shampoo sits at the edge of the cubicle and she extracts a handful before lathering up her scalp.

  Where the hell
does he get these things?

  After rinsing herself off she opens the curtain to take a towel off the rail before drying herself and wrapping it around her body. Moving back into the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe, choosing from a stock of underwear still in the packet. After a quick study of the clothes on offer, she unfolds an East African kikoi, dyed with one bright primary colour and a patterned border. Tassels hang from the lower hem.

  Retreating into the toilet cubicle, where there are no cameras, she dresses, knotting the bright fabric around her chest. On the way through she studies herself in the mirror, tousles her hair, then turns and opens the door.

  The bar is the kind of tasteful, elegant establishment that, had it been a commercial venture, Marika would have avoided. Pubs that smell of beer and echo to arguments over the pool table are more her style. Ghedi is waiting for her, opening the door, bowing his head respectfully.

  ‘Aaba has not yet returned from his ablutions. May I bring you a drink?’

  ‘No thank you, I will wait for him, if that is OK.’

  Ghedi inclines his head and goes back to cleaning glasses at the bar, yet, she suspects, watching her movements at the same time. Walking casually she approaches a large fish tank built into the wall. This does not contain more of the gaudy carp, but a recreation of a tropical sea, with painted crayfish hiding in the coral, and fish darting in iridescent schools. A clownfish. A striped mado. A dramatic wrasse half burrowed into the gravel. Urchins and sea stars. Most of the others are unfamiliar to her, though exquisitely coloured and formed, fins thin as silk waving in the current generated by the filter return.

  The tank, beautiful though it is, holds her attention for just a few seconds before her eyes roam around the room and beyond. The windows are thick, double-glazed.

  Flicking her eyes to the door, Marika sees motion sensors on either side, and automatic locking bars recessed into the floor. Yes, she decides, this palace could become a prison, or a fortress, with the flick of a switch.

  A cowhide door opens and closes, and Dalmar Asad comes through, dressed in a white thoub shirt, buttoned at the front and an embroidered keffiyeh cap — the work of months by someone skilled in needlework.

  ‘Ah, you are admiring my pets,’ he says, ‘are they not brilliant? Most come from Koyaama off our southern coast, collected by a rather eccentric enthusiast — a great friend of mine.’

  ‘They are beautiful.’

  ‘Of course. Now come, let us drink. I hope you don’t mind my dress. It must seem unusual to you, but in my leisure time I like to return to my faith. Ghedi,’ he calls, ‘come here, please.’ The servant pads over and waits. ‘The lady would like a cocktail. Have you any suggestions?’

  The man nods, never looking at her face, voice formal and polite. ‘Madam, we have today taken delivery of fresh mangos from Marerey, on the Webi Jubba. I can prepare a most excellent mango daiquiri.’

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ she says, ‘but half the rum and vodka, please. I’m tired and the alcohol will go straight to my head.’

  ‘As you wish, madam.’

  ‘Aren’t you drinking?’ she asks her host.

  ‘No, I am Muslim.’ He pronounces the word Moos-lem. ‘I do not drink alcohol. Ghedi will prepare a mixture of fruit juices that I find refreshing.’

  The servant nods and withdraws. Marika is dismayed to find herself relaxing when there is no time for such luxuries. Dalmar Asad, while cruel and unscrupulous, is a charming companion, his deep voice and general presence somewhat intoxicating.

  As they settle back at the table Ghedi brings the drinks, along with a plate of tiny red chilli peppers dusted with coarse salt, and fried in olive oil. Marika raises her cocktail glass, hesitating at the last moment. There are many substances that might have been added to the drink. Rohypnol and GHB spring to mind. Dalmar Asad appears to notice her hesitation, raising one long forefinger like a barrister about to introduce a point of fact. ‘There is nothing in that drink but clean, fresh ingredients. You have my word on that. If I am to seduce a woman I will do so on my merits rather than with a chemical.’

  Marika shudders. Seduce her? The idea is ludicrous. She lifts the glass and takes a sip. The taste is mango rich, reminding her of Queensland summer holidays, when the Kensington Prides hang heavy and orange-yellow from among the broad green leaves, the air sweet with their scent. Having eaten little for so long, however, the alcohol has an immediate effect, clearing her head to the purity of crystal.

  Lifting one smaller chilli between thumb and forefinger she takes a cautious nibble at one end. The heat is immediate, but the piquant mingling of salt and garlic arouses the senses. A close inspection reveals that the pepper has been split and the seeds removed. She works her way through the morsel then washes much of the heat away with her drink. ‘Don’t you get bored?’ She asks the question to fill the silence, yet she is curious. She waves a hand at the bar. ‘Do you sit here by yourself every night?’

  ‘I drink my juice, then eat a fine meal. As I have said, I come from a poor background, poorer than you can imagine, and I cannot express how much pleasure I draw from my home. I look at the fine timbers and remember how my father and I gathered sticks into bundles and carried them mile after mile for a few coins. I see the marble and think of the stones richer boys would throw at me as I laboured.’

  ‘Sounds hard.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Shall we go through for dinner now?’

  ‘I’d like that, thank you.’

  It seems prudent to let him take her arm and lead her through to an adjoining room. While the centrepiece of the bar was the fish tank, here it is indoor plants, with lush foliage that freshens the air and gives the area the impression of being unenclosed.

  ‘You have surprised me again,’ Marika says, ‘this is amazing.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  The central table is large enough to seat a party of at least twenty, but Dalmar Asad leads her past that massive timber slab, so close to plants bursting from their pots that she has to turn sideways to avoid the fronds.

  ‘Tiger palms,’ he explains, ‘native to New Caledonia. Wonderful tolerance to air conditioning.’

  They sit at a table against the window that might have been set in a clearing of some tropical jungle. Ghedi appears with a magician’s timing and pulls Marika’s chair back for her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Champagne, madam?’

  ‘Why not?’

  The servant returns with a bottle of Dom Perignon, peeling the foil from around the cork. Marika recognises the famous name and clutches one hand to her chest, eyes on her host. ‘No, please, don’t open that on my account. You don’t even drink. I feel terrible.’

  ‘Oh but I insist. It is very important to me that you have — how shall I say — the time of your life.’ Dalmar Asad’s face is as impassive as the granite face of a mountain, but his eyes are alive, twinkling darkly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Drink and enjoy.’

  Marika watches Ghedi pour the effervescent liquid and smiles. ‘I’ve never tasted this stuff, so it’s all new to me.’

  ‘Why would you go through life with second best when you can have the ultimate in everything?’

  Because like most people in the world, I can’t afford it, Marika wants to say, but instead she takes a sip from the glass, the bubbles tickling her nose, almost afraid to swallow the liquid. At first she thinks she might be disappointed, but the aftertaste is as fresh as the bubbles in her nose. She realises then that this is not just a drink, but an experience.

  A moment later, however, her hand freezes on the glass stem, and she can feel herself stare out into space.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Dalmar Asad asks. ‘Is the Champagne not to your taste?’

  ‘No, it’s lovely, of course. I just feel so guilty. I’m supposed to be working. Instead I’m sitting here drinking Dom bloody Perignon like a princess …’ She wants to express her disgust at how she is being indulged while line
s of starving men, women and children trudge the roads into a drought-ravaged and bare interior. Feels guilty because the price of one stinking bottle of French Champagne would feed a hundred of those refugees for a week …

  ‘Kill two birds with one stone. Let us have dinner, and when it is over we will talk of your work. As you have seen, I am a powerful man. I can help you.’

  Marika says nothing, but is surprised to see Ghedi walk across carrying two dishes. The experience has been so much like that of a restaurant she feels she should have ordered first.

  Dalmar Asad hastens to explain: ‘I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of discussing the menu with my chef earlier — it makes things much easier for him to have prior warning.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. Smells delicious, in fact.’ The plate Ghedi places on the table contains a deliciously aromatic concoction, tinged with saffron; reminiscent of desert mountains and dust and a warm Arabian Sea.

  ‘The meat is camel — halal, of course. You will enjoy it.’

  The identification of the animal troubles Marika little — she has eaten kangaroo mince in her bolognaise since birth and her Special Forces training included field survival courses, eating everything from lizard meat to stringy desert birds.

  The taste is sensational — so many individual flavours seeming to stand alone, then blend into something far greater than the parts. For two weeks she has suffered catered food — curries and rice; mass produced and bland.

  ‘This is great,’ she says, waving her fork, ‘it really is.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  The main meal is a seafood feast — the centrepiece a spiny crayfish, cooked to deep orange and smelling of the sea. The tail has been cracked and the meat removed, cooked in a mornay sauce then replaced. On each side of the crayfish lie tiger prawns and spanner crabs with spindly legs and broad carapaces. The oysters are as large as Marika’s cupped hands, and painted with a tangy sauce. Beside them, hairy-shelled mussels sit back to back.

  ‘I hope you like seafood?’