by Gavin Chait
Gaw Goŋ, the Weatherman, reads the storm, no matter what its source.
Since his victory in the election, Sidiki has taken to walking on this beach and seeking Gaw Goŋ’s council.
‘Aha, we are ready,’ and hands Sidiki a battered mug filled with satiny black coffee.
The beans have been ground finely and mixed with cardamom, after the fashion of the Lebanese traders, and it is unfiltered. It forms a thick, matt syrup.
Sidiki holds the mug carefully on his fingertips, waiting for it to cool and for the grounds to settle.
‘It is good, my father,’ he says, taking a sip.
Gaw Goŋ stares deeply into the eyes of the younger man. ‘My child, who are you meeting that troubles you so?’
‘Many people, my father. The owner of the largest transport company wishes me to ban other companies ferrying goods to the border cities. The teachers’ union fears that the coming of home electricity will cause children to be exposed to free schooling over the connect. So many special interests. Each promises disaster if I do not bow to them, and personal luxuries if I see things their way.
‘Today it is the Chinese ambassador, my father. Gong Yuanxing.’
‘Aha, the grey men. What is their temptation, my child?’
Sidiki swirls his coffee, watching as the grounds coat the walls of his mug. ‘They wish access to the solar farms so that they may copy the technology. Failing that, they want to carry the collectors across the sea.’
Gaw Goŋ clucks and nods. ‘Leaving us with nothing? Yes, that is the way of the grey men.’
‘I would be failing to honour my trust with our people, and with the man who committed his life to building those fields, if I were to give them up.’
Gaw Goŋ is sitting on his haunches, prodding at his fire with the metal stave. His feet are leathery and his toes splayed wide, his hair a burst of grey on his head. He chuckles. ‘Aha, aha. You feel our people are too weak to stand against the threat of a nation so vast and powerful? We are so dependent on them?’
‘Yes, my father. That is what I worry.’
On the road, a sleek grey Chinese limousine draws alongside Sidiki’s entourage. It is slightly early, but expected, and the security men make space.
Gaw Goŋ observes as Sidiki tenses and begins to rise. ‘I would tell you a story, before you go,’ placing his hand on Sidiki’s knee. ‘Have patience, my child. Sit a while.’
‘Is it of Leuk-the-hare?’ asks Sidiki, smiling.
‘Of course,’ says Gaw Goŋ.
‘Then there is time,’ says Sidiki, sitting back once more.
Gaw Goŋ takes a handful of the sand from the beach, makes a fist of it, and casts it into the flames. The grains pop, crackle and shower into sparks.
‘After many years of wandering,’ he begins, ‘Leuk-the-hare decided he should settle down. He worried, though, that he would soon starve if he did not work.
‘“I have no interest in farming,” he thought, “but I could work with metal and make tools for those who do farm.”
‘Bouki-the-hyena, his old foe, had an old blacksmith’s anvil outside his home. Leuk approached him and asked if he could borrow it from him.
‘Bouki decided that this was an opportunity to avenge himself. “Very well, Leuk,” he said, “but you will pay me a quarter of what you make.”
‘Leuk negotiated his way down to an eighth. Now he only needed some way to keep a constant heat in his forge.
‘Sègue-the-leopard approached Leuk with an offer. “It has long been a secret in my family that we are able to produce and work flame. I will build and run your forge in exchange for a share of what you make.”
‘And like that, without any wealth of his own, Leuk was a blacksmith.
‘He worked hard, and many of the other animals came to buy his tools to work their farms. Leuk multiplied the wealth invested in him until, after a time, he had made enough to buy a better anvil from Bouki-the-hyena and ask Sègue-the-leopard to expand his forge.
‘One day Bouki came to Leuk and said, “I want the secret of the flame that is entrusted you by Sègue. If you do not give this to me, I will take away your anvil.”
‘Leuk was much afraid, for without his forge he would be unable to smelt, but without his anvil he would be unable to work his metal.’
Sidiki smiles. ‘You explain my position well, my father. What would the wise Leuk do in this situation?’
Gaw Goŋ stares long into the flames of his hearth. ‘There are others who have anvils, but only Sègue has the secret of fire.’
Sidiki breathes out in a long sigh. He nods. ‘And Sègue has always been a friend to Leuk. Thank you, my father. You are always of the wisest.’
He stands and looks out to the road where the door to the grey limousine is smoothly sliding up and open. He hesitates and turns back to Gaw Goŋ.
‘Please, my father. You will tell me? If I begin to lose the path. If I am becoming—’
‘A big man? Yes, my son. I will always be here to tell you. And I will always have faith that you will listen.’
‘Thank you, my father,’ says Sidiki, relief in his eyes and his shoulders unburdened.
Feeling lighter, he ducks his head beneath the archway and walks across the beach towards the approaching Chinese ambassador.
One of the interchangeable grey men in a grey suit who forms the collective known as Gong Yuanxing adjusts his grey sunglasses and steps delicately on to the sand.
Sidiki meets him midway from the ocean and halfway along the beach.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you once more, Mr President-elect,’ says the grey man in his quiet monotone, placing emphasis on the final ‘elect’. You are not president yet. His French translation spoken by his implant simultaneously with his clipped Mandarin.
‘Mr Ambassador, it is kind of you to meet me here,’ says Sidiki, speaking in Wolof.
The grey man speaks neither French nor Wolof, but his implant is unmoved by the abrupt change and shifts languages without hesitation.
‘You will need to let me know of your decision, Mr President-elect,’ says the grey man. It is a statement. An expectation of obeisance from a state which few dare obstruct.
Sidiki says nothing, turning slowly and ambling towards the water sloshing back and forth on the shore. The ambassador looks surprised and follows alongside.
‘What do you believe is the true role of the state, Mr Ambassador?’ asks Sidiki.
‘I am not here to enter a philosophical discussion. This is a business matter. We do not intervene in your governance and have no interest in such questions.’
‘But you do, Mr Ambassador. You would make of us a slave state. Our interests are only ours to manage when they do not conflict with yours. An investment made for the benefit of our people does not belong to me and is not mine to give away.’
‘We only ask access to the technology. Only if we are unable to develop this technology ourselves will we take the collectors.’
‘Only,’ says Sidiki. To the ambassador’s astonishment, the older man drops to his haunches, slips off his shoes and socks and rolls up his trousers.
Sidiki stands and walks until his shins are immersed in the warmth of the water. He squeezes the softness of the sand between his toes and breathes in the tang of the air.
He turns to face the ambassador, the vastness of the ocean to his back. The air shimmers, and shapes hover within as if in expectation.
‘Every day since the election, people come to me and make their demands. They are from business, or our labour unions, or even from other sovereign states.
‘Each presents me with a choice that is no choice at all.
‘Either I am to yield and accept in exchange a personal gift, or I am to watch as my country suffers some terrible calamity.
‘Not one of these demands comes with a demonstration of the benefits to my people.’
The ambassador continues to stand delicately on the dry sand beyond the water’s edge. ‘It is not our place to l
ook out for the interests of the Senegalese people,’ he says.
‘No, but it is mine,’ says Sidiki.
‘We are China,’ says the ambassador. ‘Your need is greater than ours.’
Sidiki’s eyes sparkle. ‘I feared that was true, but it occurs to me that only those who are afraid have need to offer threats. You offer violence because you have nothing of benefit to give. There are many who offer anvils, but – here on Earth – there is only one source of fire.’
For the first time, the veneer of delicate indifference sheers, and Sidiki can see the tension of the grey man.
‘Your answer is no?’
‘That is my answer. The solar farms are not mine to give.’
‘Then I cannot help you with what is to come,’ says the ambassador, pulling at his earlobe and turning abruptly to head back to his waiting limousine.
41
‘What is your government up to?’ asks Hollis, his voice carrying both apprehension and amusement.
Zhi bows low, his head disappearing beneath the edge of the viewing area in the media room. ‘It never occurred to the most honourable Standing Committee of the Central Political Bureau of the Communist Party of China that you had any further need of your property. They did not consider this expropriation, but rather a helpful sharing of ideas as between caring siblings.’
‘In English, twitface,’ says Hollis.
‘They believed Tiémoko when he told them he had no idea it was geolocked.’
Hollis gives a sigh. ‘He’s in the clear then?’
Zhi looks tired. ‘They have greater concerns. Rosneft have increased the energy price by half, and the Party are frantic that costs not be passed on to the people. They’re rounding up executives again. Minhai got dragged out of a board meeting in sodding Singapore. Singapore!’
Hollis shakes his head, rolls himself closer to the hologram.
‘How did you guys let it get this far? It’s not as if your government ever worried about building new power stations.’
Zhi sighs. ‘Cockiness. There was a time we didn’t need Rosneft. Then it became easier and easier. It stopped our citizens revolting about having to chew their air forty times before breathing.’
‘And they thought stealing our printer would solve this problem?’
‘Hollis, that machine created two hundred gigawatts out of nothing but sand inside of eighteen months. Of course they think it will solve the problem.’
‘I know, I know. Sorry,’ he sighs again. ‘This was your idea, remember. You thought it was necessary.’
‘It was necessary. Tiémoko stole us a year to get the farms established and the lines in place. If they didn’t believe they’d get the printer anyway, they would have launched their own attacks. We would have had to fight Rosneft and them.’ His face falls. ‘I did not anticipate they would make their capture of the printer so public. I believe they wanted Rosneft to understand this as a negotiating tool. The loss has humiliated them.’
‘What should we do? The other one is safely back in London, and we’re certainly not going to print any more of them. We’re flying the remaining line printers in.’
‘They’re desperate, Hollis. If this place goes up, it’ll make the arc of fire look like a boy-scout marshmallow roast.’
Hollis’s face softens. ‘How’re you doing, Zhi? We can get you out.’
‘Me?’ looking around him. ‘I’ve been stuck in this building for three months. This place is wound up tighter than the Chairman’s arsehole. There’s no way out, Hollis.’
‘And your family? Singapore doesn’t sound safe. Can I at least bring them to London?’
Zhi’s face flushes with gratitude. ‘Please, Hollis. I’d appreciate that.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Me?’ says Zhi, toying with a small carved jade pig on his desk. Through the enormous sweep of windows behind him and across the brown smear of the Huangpu River is the bizarre glass and steel skyline of Waitan. He walks to the window, looking out.
‘I have already done it, Hollis. I’ve sold Sina to Haier, and my cash is leaving the country. Maybe in a few months, once it becomes obvious I can’t single-handedly recreate Sam’s printer, they’ll let me go. Either way, strong-arming me won’t achieve anything. It’s not as if any of the other billionaires aren’t already utterly terrified.’
‘If you can only make it to Hong Kong—’
Zhi shakes his head. ‘You know there is nowhere on Earth I can go, Hollis. The Party will find me.’ He sighs and shrugs. ‘I should have gone to Mars. It probably still would have been safer than this mess.’
‘The transfer went fine, Zhi. Having the space elevator in place makes a huge difference. The shuttle left for Mars last month. There’s six months till we bring the next acclimation group to the Emulator. Plenty of time to get you out.’
‘No, not for me. My family. Mingway and Xiǎobō. Could they go?’ His eyes pleading.
‘Xiǎobō? He’s very young, Zhi. Are you sure?’
‘There are already children at the colony. Please, Hollis. Whether I make it out or not.’
There are new lines on Zhi’s face.
‘I’ll speak to Sam. I’m sure it will be fine, Zhi. We’ll make a plan.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he says in relief. ‘Farewell.’
Hollis sits quietly for a few minutes. On his desk is a piece of rubble resting on a carved wooden stand. He rolls over to it, runs his hand over it, listening.
It is from the old Berlin Wall. An innocuous piece of worn concrete with a slash of red and orange paint flaking from its one flat side.
His father gave it to him on his wedding day. Adrià tall and proud in his black frock coat. Simon acting as best man for both of them. All of them laughing and the grass that perfect green of the English summer.
‘Be careful what you build,’ he had said as he pressed the rubble into Hollis’s hands. ‘And who you build it for.’
Almost a century ago. His grandfather had been a student in London. He watched the swelling crowds on television. A group of his friends travelled by train to join the protestors. The first cracks in the wall came before they embarked. Arriving into the midst of a celebration as people traversed the wall, hacking it apart. Meeting his grandmother while sitting on the wall sharing a bottle of wine. Her impishly handing him a piece of concrete as a gift. This piece where he rests his hand.
A story passed down in his family.
‘Before they started building walls again,’ said his father.
His earlobe vibrates. ‘Tiémoko,’ from his implant.
‘Hollis,’ he says, his voice taut and strange. ‘Ag Ghaly has escaped.’
‘What? When?’
‘A few minutes ago. It is worse. He has taken Shakiso.’
42
Dakar is a syncopation of glossy buildings, skyscrapers and gridlocked traffic filled with taxis and luxury sedans, tumbled amongst derelict office blocks heaving with laundry hanging from broken windows and ramshackle settlements gripping the edge of its coastal cliffs.
Shakiso spends her morning ambling through the tangled streets of the suburb of Médina: past the brightly painted wooden fishing boats on the shore, through the clattering streets where market stalls and gleaming mobile services and console shops jostle for space with people carrying baskets of fruit and thickly tied bundles of dried fish.
An old man is peeling an immense pile of garlic into individual shiny white cloves. A child chops onion into a fine paste with a blunt and rusting knife. A young woman calls out at passers-by and waves an earbed in one hand and a console in the other. Every few metres someone is sifting sand baking in pans over charcoal braziers, little glimpses of the peanut pods roasting as the sand falls in a silken mist.
People shout and greet each other and share stories and coffee.
She watches a group of old men playing draughts, struggling to understand their variation of the rules. One gestures at her, inviting her to play.
&nb
sp; She loses terribly, trapping herself into giving away half her board after only five moves in her first game.
She shares in their peanuts and laughter.
After a few games, she takes her leave. Walking slowly, Tuft at her side, eking out the time before returning to the court.
-
‘I am glad you came,’ says Viviane, blushing back shyness. Always surprised that anyone would spend time with her and grateful accordingly.
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you are cold?’
‘It’s the armour,’ says Shakiso, pulling up her shirt to reveal the white gel-filled fabric beneath. ‘I discovered it has this inbuilt cooling function and thought I’d give it a try. See, even Tuft has her own.’
‘What is wrong, my sister?’ Viviane asks, looking concerned. ‘Why would you have need of such protection?’
‘I need to run,’ says Shakiso, her eyes vulnerable and damp. ‘I’m going down to the old industrial site near the harbour, and the armour is in case I fall.’
Viviane looks both horrified and confused.
‘It is a thing I do,’ says Shakiso gently. ‘Mostly for fun but sometimes to clear my head and make peace with myself.’
‘What is it, my sister?’
‘I’m struggling today,’ she says almost inaudibly.
Understanding softens Viviane’s concern. ‘It is well,’ and leads her down to the café below the court.
They sit at the same table as before, looking out into the sunlit courtyard. A gardener is at work, clipping errant leaves and wandering back and forth with a plastic watering can.
‘I’ve been asked to go back to Europe,’ says Shakiso. ‘There’s a new organization being set up to support the seekers there, doing the sort of thing we did with Climate here.’
‘You do not feel ready to return?’ asks Viviane.
‘No, not yet,’ she says. ‘I still feel like half of something. Unfinished.
‘The day Simon died,’ her voice soft and her heart feeling as if it must tear apart, ‘there was a terrorist attack in France.’
‘I remember it, my sister,’ says Viviane, reaching across the table to take Shakiso’s hands in her own, offering comfort.