‘Paula! Look!’ exclaimed Winston, holding out his arms. ‘I’ve brought the Three Wise Men. These gentlemen come from the village of Shanti in the central sector. They popped into the office today to say hello. I thought we should include them in our Christmas party.’
The oldest of the trio staggered across the lintel, clawing at my forearm with such vigour that I knew I would have bruises the following day. He was a head and a half shorter than me. His face had shrunk down to cheekbone, forehead and teeth, but the eyes, despite their white-rimmed irises, were full of mischief.
‘Let me introduce you to Paula and Sharmila, my colleagues,’ said Winston. The three old men made a great show of surveying us, looking from us to Winston, exchanged a few comments among themselves and started to giggle. The smallest of them laughed so hard that the others had to hold him up.
‘Those are three very naughty old men,’ said Ribqa, who had emerged from the kitchen, hand on hips. ‘I will not translate what they just said.’
Then, his face suddenly serious, the group leader raised his cane to command silence. As the group gathered round, he clicked his fingers at Yohannes, commanding him to translate.
‘He apologises for joking,’ said Yohannes. ‘He says, “We are old men, we will die soon, we laugh while we can. But we came to Lira for something serious. We heard about the work you are doing and want to say: ‘Keep going.’” He says …’ Yohannes slowed here, careful to get the words right ‘… that Shanti’s residents know who they are. He is ninety-two now, and since the day he was a baby on his mother’s knee, he has known that the people across the river, cattle raiders and thieves, are foreigners,’ the old man was making brushing motions with one hand, ‘and this place,’ the old man struck his cane’s metal tip repeatedly on the ground, ‘was home! “We need a proper border,” he says. “A border means respect. You white folk must win that respect in that court across the sea in Holland, say what we cannot say because we are only simple peasants.”’
Winston gave a little bow, graciously accepting his rough-and-ready categorisation. He was beaming with pleasure. ‘Please thank all of them on our behalf, Yohannes. Tell him their fight is our fight. We will not let them down.’
The villa and back yard filled quickly after that, and when a full moon emerged, we discovered there was something to be said for an open-air barbecue, however illegal. As I stood warming my hands over the coals, clutching my shawl around me and shivering, Abraham strolled over. ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said, holding up my beer bottle.
‘Merry Christmas.’ He clinked his against mine, judiciously eyeing our ridiculous plastic tree and tinsel decorations. ‘Of course, for us, Christmas is in January, not December.’
I choked, spilling beer down my front. ‘What? We did all this on the wrong day? This evening is becoming a magnificent tribute to cultural misunderstanding.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Paula. You may not know our customs but we know yours. But for Orthodox Christians, this is not the day, and for Muslims on the coast, of course, it’s irrelevant. If you’re in the Movement it’s all superstitious nonsense anyway. The only God it recognises is Marx.’
The evening wore on. At midnight, Winston, slightly flushed and unsteady, clambered onto a plastic chair with the help of the three elders. He raised his beer bottle to the moon, a small, custard-suited Statue of Liberty outlined against the stars, and declaimed: ‘To the finest international presidential legal team in the country!’ and we cheered ironically, toasting what was, after all, an indisputable assertion.
I gazed across the faces. A few neighbours had strolled across to join us. Amanuel the night-watchman had been persuaded to put down his AK-47 and was wolfing some lamb chops. Barnabas was cradling the sleeping body of his youngest daughter, while Riqba gossiped with the intern. Suddenly my eyes were watering. On this remote plateau, among strangers, I had found some sort of haven. Numbed to the point of arrogance, I had come to believe I could never be touched again. But these were my people now, my team. I felt the warmth of a forgotten sensation and put one hand cautiously to my face to check. I was smiling. It almost hurt.
‘I can’t get married,’ Jake said quietly. ‘It would be bigamy.’
Demonstrating an entirely uncharacteristic level of self-control, I had managed to hold off the conversation about my immigration status until the weekend. We were lying naked in bed, my head on his chest, Jake stroking my hair, one lazy Sunday morning. After the scratching at the door became unbearable, we had let Laurel and Hardy into the room, but fended off their attempts to clamber onto the bed. Jake’s tone was soft and wondering. I laughed, but I could tell from how still the bedroom had become that we both knew the importance of this conversation. I sat up and looked him in the eyes.
‘I’ve never wanted to get married. You believe that, right? I’ve never nursed some fantasy about wedding dresses and bouquets. The thought of being addressed as “Mrs” gives me the chills, and “my husband” would sound, well, weird. But I have to ask you now, for all sorts of horrible practical reasons, whether you see the current arrangement as permanent.’
He stroked my upper arms, gazing into the near distance with a frown. ‘This is going to sound pathetic, but …’
‘What?’
‘I just don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. I hate saying that, because it makes me sound like some sixteen-year-old who’s just got laid for the first time. But it’s true. Being with you has been so amazing that getting married simply never occurred to me. Living together seemed enough. Fate giving me a second chance I didn’t deserve.’
‘I understand that. And I hate, I really, really hate, having this conversation. But there’s more and more gossip circulating at Hitchens. If this merger goes ahead, if our New York office gets amalgamated, I might have to return to the UK. The immigration lawyer is going to apply for an H1B, but my qualifications may not be enough to do the trick. It would help if I knew whether the whole marriage thing was ever going to become a possibility.’
He shut his eyes and sighed. ‘It’s difficult,’ he said finally.
Suddenly I felt nauseous. I looked around for my clothes, lying in clumps around the bed, trying to locate knickers, shirt, jeans. I needed to get out of that bedroom, away from Lake Cottage, and be on my own. I started prising his fingers from my arms, working my way out of his grip. ‘OK, fair enough.’
‘Paula, no. Listen, Paula, this is important.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ I said, detaching one hand and pulling at his other wrist. He would not let go.
‘Stop. You have to listen.’ He gave me a light shake, forced me to make eye contact. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I really love you. I can’t believe I’ve gotten so lucky, after having fucked up in so many ways. But Olivia is the mother of my children. She’s Catholic. No one in her family has ever been divorced. Her parents just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Social appearances matter enormously to her. The golf club, the church, the home-made cookies – even if Juanita actually bakes them – the family’s occasional mentions in the newspaper, the lighting of the Christmas tree, the clan. Her obsession with what the neighbours might say is one of the reasons we drifted apart in the first place.’
‘God, that’s so banal. You have to stay married to save face? Isn’t that the definition of bourgeois hypocrisy?’
‘Maybe, but it’s the way she is. And I have to respect those values. I owe at least that to my oldest friend. The last few years haven’t been easy for her – they’ve challenged everything she thought important. I need to give her time to adjust to the new status quo. The kids seem to be taking it incredibly well, but their social standing, their entire self-image, isn’t at stake. Hers are.’
‘They’re adults and I’d expect them to react as such. They knew your marriage was on the rocks and they want you to be happy.’
‘So far it’s gone better than I expected, but Olivia has a capacity for the melodramatic gesture that
has taken me by surprise in the past. Look,’ he ran his hand through his hair, ‘there was one weekend, which I prefer not to remember, when she took all her pills, drank a bottle of whisky, and I spent the night in hospital while she had her stomach pumped. I’m secretly hoping Ted will step in and stake a claim. Then her focus will shift away from me, and all the terrible things I’ve done, to him and their future together.’
‘So you’re a husband praying to be cuckolded.’
‘Pretty much. The point is that our lives have been entangled for two decades, Paula. They can’t be untangled overnight, not without a bloodletting that I desperately hope to avoid. So I’m begging you, please give me a bit more time. Let me ease us into this. I promise you, we’ll get there in the end.’
I got slowly out of bed – this time he let me – and started to get dressed. I was no longer angry. To understand all is to forgive all, but the resulting knowledge also serves to paralyse and atrophy. The conversation should never have taken place. It had shifted things between us, nudged the pattern of our relationship out of its groove. Before, our jigsaw pieces had slotted neatly and miraculously into one another, forming a tight seal. But now jagged white gaps had opened between them. Our age of innocence was over and there was nothing I could do to retrieve it.
‘OK, Jake. You win. But you should be aware that “easing into this”, if you leave it too long, could end up with me being eased onto a plane by the US Immigration Service.’
19
Winston left Lira in mid-January. An oil company he’d advised in the past had heard that its Indian subsidiary might have been violating US anti-bribery law – his speciality – and had asked him to investigate. ‘Frustrating,’ he said, ‘but this legal porridge is what makes my time in Lira possible, so it has to be done.’ At the airport, I dutifully filled in his immigration cards and currency declaration forms as he fussed over his hand luggage.
‘So when will we see each other next, Winston?’
‘I’ll try to come back in April, but I’ll need to assess the mood back at base. It’s important the partners at Melville & Bart feel I’m bringing in my share of revenue. If I can’t make it, we’ll meet in The Hague in May for the hearing. But you’ll hardly notice I’ve gone. We’ll be in constant contact. An email or phone call from you twice a day, Paula.’ Then he handed me a list of duties so detailed it might have mortally offended a more ambitious deputy.
‘Ever heard of micromanagement?’ I said. ‘It’s not usually meant as a compliment.’
He laughed, squeezed my shoulder and said, ‘We make a pretty good team,’ then walked through the scanner to reclaim his suit jacket.
Once he was gone, I must admit that I felt a certain loosening, a sudden headiness. Teacher had left the classroom. And, it may be coincidence, but it was at about this time that things began to go ever so slightly wrong.
A phone call to Sammy in Transit Camp, Eastern, No. 3. Some of the IDPs from the camp were on our list of possible witnesses for the hearing, and I needed to discuss paperwork and travel arrangements. We ran through practicalities and then, as I was about to ring off, Sammy cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Paula, there is something you should know. That doctor you and Abraham spoke to when you were here …’
An image of George’s handsome, bearded face. ‘George?’
‘Yes, George. I think you liked him.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Well … He was arrested. They took him away last night.’
‘“They”?’
‘The soldiers took him. A military arrest. The army can do that. It is because of the fuss he made about IDP conscription. We tried to argue with them but they would not listen.’
‘What are they charging him with?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, what legal charge? They should specify when they’re arresting someone.’
There was a thoughtful pause. ‘That’s not what happens here.’
‘Do you know where he has been taken?’
‘Ah …’ Sammy sounded tired and a bit bored. ‘That kind of thing can take a long time to find out.’
‘Well, could you ask, Sammy, make a formal request? Habeas corpus – “Show me the body” – is the most basic human right.’
His voice dropped very low. ‘So he is dead, then? There is a body?’
‘No, no!’ I almost shrieked, flustered by the misunderstanding. ‘It’s Latin. “Habeas corpus” means the authorities are obliged to show us where they’re holding someone. If we know where George is being held, this office can make representations. That might make a difference to how he’s treated. We have a little bit of influence here so let’s use it. And he’s a British citizen, isn’t he? The embassy should be told.’
Sammy sounded puzzled. ‘But George was not part of your case, no? You were not going to call him as a witness?’
‘No, but I like him. And he’s right. They shouldn’t be drafting the IDPs.’
‘Well, OK. I will find out what I can. But that young man …’ I knew he was shrugging his shoulders. ‘He was just too outspoken. You can always tell the ones who have been educated abroad. Here our youngsters learn not to blurt out whatever is in their mind. George should have understood that. He was not stupid.’
It was chilling, I thought, as I put the receiver down, how quickly Sammy had started using the past tense in relation to George.
‘Well, your young doctor has my sympathies,’ Winston, in Washington, said on the phone, ‘but, as Sammy said, these are really culture clashes. We may have a more pertinent problem, though, in regard to Transit Camp Number Three.’
‘What would that be?’
‘You may be aware that this government doesn’t make it particularly easy for its citizens to leave the country. Buster tells me they’re tightening the rules and it’s about to be announced as official policy. No one leaves North Darrar in future without an exit permit.’
‘Isn’t that a bit weird? Most governments want to stop people arriving – they don’t usually give a fig if they leave. One less headache.’
‘Yes, but few governments are quite such control freaks as this one.’
‘What’s the rationale?’
‘National solidarity. This is no time to abandon ship. In the post-war era, every citizen is needed to build the roads, bridges and dams. Which is all well and good, but it may cause us problems when it comes to presenting IDP testimony. I know what hoops I have to go through to get witnesses Dutch entry visas. Whether North Darrar will issue me with exit visas is less clear.’
‘But we’re arguing the government’s case, for goodness’ sake!’
‘I’m putting pressure on Buster. But flexibility isn’t a quality highly prized by these guys.’
‘And how much damage will it do us, if we can’t call witnesses in The Hague?’
‘Well, an articulate witness can be an absolute bombshell. Human empathy triumphs, and commissioners forget hours of logical argument and remember one emotive detail. But witnesses can also be unpredictable. They lie, you can never be sure what they’ll say on the stand. They suddenly choose to reveal something never mentioned during weeks of preparation. And increasingly, for us, there’s the danger they might seize the opportunity of a trip to Europe to take off. So it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.’
I put down the phone and turned my attention to Ismael, who had been hovering uncertainly in front of my desk for the last ten minutes.
‘What is it?’
He looked shyly at his feet, scuffing the tip of his trainer on the floor. ‘Mr Peabody, when he came to speak to us at the university, he said always to keep the eyes open, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even small things?’
‘Yup, absolutely. Law can be about very tiny things.’
He had been photocopying the counter-Memorial on Winston’s instructions, Ismael explained, when he had noticed a detail that intrigued him. ‘Look, I show you.’
It was an 1899 letter between Heriu Tekle, the Negus’s secretary, and the Italian Foreign Ministry; it came with a map. This was a key part of Darrar’s evidence, I knew: Winston had often referred to it as ‘the other side’s mother-of-all-maps’.
‘See, here, when I was photocopying I noticed these spots.’ Ismael was pointing at a row of tiny dots running alongside the right-hand margin.
‘Gosh, you’ve got good eyesight. I completely missed those. I see what you mean. Three, no, four dots. Just specks, really, but all in a neat vertical row.’ I held the sheet of paper close to my face, then at arm’s length. It didn’t help. ‘Now what might those be?’
‘A watermark?’
‘Too dark. They look like ink. What I wouldn’t do for a microscope right now. OK, thanks, Ismael, it may be nothing, it may be something. I’ll certainly draw it to Winston’s attention.’
When I next met up with Dawit at Sumbi’s, his head was buried in a newspaper.
‘Hey, Paula, have you read about this sex scandal?’ Dawit was looking unusually neat, I thought. His hair was short and had definitely been combed – no sign of incipient dreadlocks today – and he was wearing a white cotton shirt, for once, rather than one of his swirling Jim Morrison specials. The collar made him look like a choirboy, uncharacteristically innocent.
‘“UN FORCE IN SEX RING SCANDAL”,’ I read aloud.
‘Looks like our pure local girls are being despoiled’ – he pronounced the word with sibilant, lip-curling relish – ‘by our UN guests, who have been behaving like piggish swine. No orifice has been spared, Paula. Not one!’ He smacked his knee in delight. ‘Oh, boy, I love stories like this.’
I swivelled the newspaper round. It was a tabloid scoop of a sort I’d never seen in Lira, with pictures and quotes from the four under-age girls who had, according to a government official, been accosted in a pizzeria by a group of UN officers, cajoled with promises of duty-free perfume and designer jeans, and later, drunk or drugged, video-taped taking part in a three-day orgy at one of the officers’ villas. As is the way with all good secrets, the footage had been passed from laptop to laptop, email to memory stick, viewed in so many departments and offices that the UN had been forced to launch an internal inquiry to discover exactly which of its personnel had committed the original crime. The local journalist had pulled off the difficult feat of being both elliptical and salacious when it came to speculating on the exact nature of the sex performed.
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