Cleopatra's Sister

by Penelope Lively

  Twenty minutes later, attentively supervised and counted by a posse of the military, they were climbing into a coach which sat with engine running in the hotel forecourt. The windows were blacked out. As the last passenger sat down the officer came on board to carry out a final head count.

  ‘Why are the windows covered?’ Howard demanded.

  ‘Is better like that.’

  ‘How far are we going?’

  But the man had already departed. The doors were slammed to; the bus set off.

  ‘Pity,’ said Lucy. ‘I wanted another look at the statue of Cleopatra’s sister.’

  ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘Not too badly. You?’

  ‘Reasonably,’ said Howard.

  They had barely had a chance so far to talk, that morning. Lucy had come down late and, looking round for him, had experienced that thrill of emotion pitched somewhere between ecstasy and panic. She had picked at a melon and they had smiled, and she had tried to hear what he was saying to Molly Wright, further down the table. And then the officer had arrived and they were plunged into activity.

  ‘Where are we going, do you imagine?’

  ‘It’s anyone’s guess. The airport, let’s hope.’

  ‘But if we are, why not tell us?’

  Howard was silent, and she knew that he shared her doubts, but did not want to make her anxious. She could not remember when last someone had been protective towards her. You could get a taste for it, she thought.

  The coach rattled through the invisible city, pausing at traffic lights, turning this way and that. Traffic noises could be heard, a siren, and, as the coach slowed down or stopped, the sound of feet on pavements or a snatch of conversation. Out there, a few yards away, eyes must be noting their shrouded progress. Close by, and yet immeasurably far. Lucy thought of these hidden people with whom, for a few moments, she shared the same bubble of time and space.

  And then the coach turned off the street, bumped over a ramp of some kind and came to a halt. The engine was switched off and the driver jumped out. There was a racket of orders being shouted, boots ringing on tarmac. The passengers rustled in apprehension.

  ‘This is not the airport,’ said James Barrow loudly. ‘No way is this the bloody airport.’

  The coach door was flung open. The officer put his head inside and said, ‘All get out now.’

  The group filed out and found themselves being processed into an impressive stone building with wide steps running up to an entrance portico. The green and purple Callimbian flag hung limp above the entrance. There was little time in which to take stock – they were chivvied up the steps and into the building by soldiers.

  Once inside, they were hustled through a large marble-flagged entrance hall flanked with balustraded staircases and into a big carpeted room with ornate ceiling and chairs around the perimeter. At one end hung a huge glossy portrait of a man in military uniform encrusted with decorations, the camera angle such that his large bovine eyes gazed into those of the viewer with a Big Brother effect. The same picture had dominated the entrance hall.

  The door was closed on them. They stood about, or sat, and discussed the situation.

  ‘This must be a government building of some kind,’ said Molly Wright. ‘A good sign, surely.’

  ‘My hunch is we’re getting to the authorities at last,’ announced Calloway. ‘They’ve come to their senses, and not before time. Apologies all round, I hope, and I for one will be slapping in a compensation claim, let me tell you.’

  ‘Against whom?’ asked James Barrow.

  ‘Against the Callimbian government. Against the airline for being so damn cack-handed as to put us down here. My company can start working out the damage just as soon as I get to a phone.’

  The door was now opened by a soldier and a further small group was ushered into the room. Its members wore casual dress, but were instantly recognizable as the crew of CAP 500. They looked as dishevelled and uncertain as everyone else.

  ‘Well,’ said Barrow. ‘You may as well get going with your case right away. I’m sure these guys will be most sympathetic.’

  And now the interpreter came into the room. He was preceded by several military, who took up position at either side of a small gilt table beneath the glossy portrait. The interpreter seated himself behind this table, took some papers out of a briefcase and quickly glanced through them. The group watched, mesmerized.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ exploded Calloway. ‘We’ve had enough of this! Look here, my friend …’

  The interpreter rose to his feet and raised a hand. The attendant militia glared into the room.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am instructed by His Excellency Omar Latif, President of the Republic of Callimbia, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, to welcome you to the Callimbian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. You will shortly be taken from here to a secret destination, in the interests of your own security. In the meantime …’

  No one, now, was talking. They stared, in silence. One of the children began to wail, and was desperately subdued. The interpreter frowned, cleared his throat and began again.

  ‘In the meantime I am instructed to give you some information about the reasons for your continued stay in this country.’ He paused, as though to make sure he had their attention. As he continued his precise and mechanical tone took on a curious note of confidentiality allied with fussy severity. ‘There is a problem about some people who have attempted to question the recent election of His Excellency the President. These people are a potentially dangerous and disruptive element in the affairs of Callimbia. They have now fled to your country and it is of course essential that they should be repatriated immediately. Unfortunately your government is not being so co-operative. This is very foolish and unconstructive. It is therefore necessary that you should remain here until your government understands that these enemies of the Callimbian state must be returned to Marsopolis. This is an unfortunate event but you will appreciate that His Excellency has no alternative but to take this action in the interests of the security of the Callimbian state. We must all hope that the British government will soon abandon its obstinate refusal to repatriate these undesirable elements in the interests of friendship with the Callimbian nation, and of course the safety of its own citizens. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

  For several seconds there was an absolute silence. The interpreter gathered up his papers, aligning them neatly as he did so, and stowed the pile away in his briefcase. He nodded to his military escort, and moved towards the door. His words sank in and pandemonium broke out. Everyone was talking. Those nearest were trying to confront the interpreter as he made his way out.

  ‘Why is there no one from our embassy?’

  ‘There are young children …’

  ‘There’s a man here with a heart condition …’

  ‘This is criminal behaviour …’

  ‘You can’t do this. You just can’t do this.’

  The interpreter was resolute. He forged through the gathering, past the passengers of CAP 500, stained and tawdry in their tracksuits, jeans and T-shirts, their crumpled skirts, himself spruce in pinstripe suiting, emitting a waft of perfumed aftershave, patently the force of reason in a disorderly universe. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘It is not possible to make exceptions.’ ‘Information has been passed to British government representatives.’ ‘I am sorry, no further commentary is possible.’ He achieved the door and was gone. Two of the soldiers remained, observing the group without apparent interest.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said James Barrow. ‘You know, I’ve had a nasty feeling it might be something along these lines.’

  They milled about, protesting: shocked, indignant, some people verging upon hysteria. The dominant note was one of disbelief and incredulity. A voice rose vehemently above the others: ‘It’s so bloody unjust. I mean, whatever’s going on here is really nothing to do with us, is it? It’s not our problem.’

  But it is, thought Lucy,
it is. And it always has been, only we never knew it. All our lives this place has been waiting for us. This room. That ceiling, with its plaster cherubs and roses and stuff. These spindly French-Empire-looking chairs. The marble tables and the photograph of this man who is presumably His Excellency Omar Latif. Those men standing there with their guns and their shiny belts. All our lives we’ve been converging upon this -- slowly, slowly.

  Howard was saying something to her.

  Just as I’ve been moving towards Howard Beamish, she thought, and he to me.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that I think we should take this calmly. All we know is what this fellow cares to tell us. Presumably there’s a great deal going on we don’t know about. In London. Everywhere. Yes, it’s unpleasant, but …’

  ‘Howard,’ she said. ‘I’m a journalist, you know, I read newspapers rather closely. I’ve heard about things like this, often enough. Just as you have. Sometimes it works out fine, quite quickly. Other times, it doesn’t.’

  He looked at her. ‘OK. Sorry. You’re quite right. I was only trying to forestall alarm and despondency.’ He reached down and took her hand. ‘May I do this?’

  She felt his fingers twined into hers, warm and immediate. ‘You may,’ she said.

  ‘We must assume that elsewhere all hell is being let loose on our behalf. There’s not a lot we can do but wait, and try to keep a clear head.’

  Molly Wright approached. Howard relinquished Lucy’s hand.

  ‘Well, at least we know what we’re up against now. It’s almost a relief, after all this hanging around. People seem to be being moderately level-headed about it. There’s a bit of panic with some of the mums, and that lad Ted Wilmott’s rather on edge, but mostly I think people are going to cope. I suppose we’ve got to assume that it could be days rather than hours before our government sorts something out with this wretch. Ah, it looks as though we’re on the move again.’

  The door had opened and the officer reappeared. He was shouting that everyone must come this way now. As they filed out through the door and back through the entrance hall, Lucy looked intently around her. Keep a clear head, she thought, but clear eyes too. Notice things. Learn what you can. Keep notes – eventually I shall need them. She felt reasonably collected, but with a knot of nausea somewhere deep down.

  There were many military about, and a scattering of civilian underlings. She observed again that allusive range of physical types. She thought of the mysterious narrative of this place, flowing also towards this moment, towards this morning when it and they, she and Howard, Molly Wright, that soldier lounging there behind a desk, would collide here. And then she was jolted back to mechanical observation: the baroque extravagance of a staircase that looked French, a great dark Italianate oil painting on a wall, a certain dishevelment about the desks and administrative arrangements, as though functionaries had recently moved in here, or out, or both. The only sense of permanence was in the building itself; otherwise the whole atmosphere was one of haste compounded with confusion. Men came and went, carrying papers, shouting at each other.

  The coach was still parked outside. They were shepherded back into it. As soon as they had been counted on board by the officer, the engine was started and the vehicle moved off.

  ‘One can put two and two together now,’ said Howard. ‘The other groups weren’t at the hotel because, quite simply, they aren’t in Marsopolis any more. They were allowed to go because these people had no interest in them, once it was established where the political refugees had gone.’

  ‘But what about the other British there must be in Marsopolis? Are they being held here?’

  ‘That’s a point.’ Howard pondered.

  ‘There may not be so many of them. We’ve not been exactly persona grata here for some time. But there must still be a few around.’

  ‘Well, we may shortly find out.’ Howard peered at his watch. ‘10.15. Let’s see how long it takes to get to wherever it is we’re going.’ He slid his fingers between hers and glanced at her. ‘Feeling OK?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Lucy. ‘By and large and all things considered.’

  They were rattling once more through the unseen city. She could see the backs of heads above seats down the length of the coach, recognized Hugh Calloway’s balding pate, Molly Wright’s unkempt greying thatch. The familiar world, one’s reassuring personal frame of reference, was this group of comparative strangers. Beyond it was an inchoate and unreliable alternative universe, whose codes were impenetrable and intentions obscure. It was as though you stepped suddenly from firm ground into a shuddering quagmire. Today was Friday. On Monday she had been sitting in her flat in London writing an article about Turkish immigrant workers in Germany. The man had come to read the electricity meter. Her mother had phoned, and a colleague, and someone from the BBC. In the evening she had gone out to dinner with friends. Now, all that was inaccessible, out of reach, available only in the mind. Unreal. Reality was this darkened coach, and these now-familiar faces. And Howard Beamish. It occurred to her that she would like to share some of this with him.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ she said.

  Howard turned to gaze at her. A wary gaze that indicated surprise, unease, and the profound hope that she was not about to say something that would oblige him to fall out of love with her.

  ‘Of course not. Do you?’

  ‘No. But it must make things much simpler if you do.’

  ‘Simpler?’ queried Howard, savouring his relief.

  ‘Well … Divine purpose, which I suppose is some sort of consolation. And the prospect of better things in the hereafter.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Howard. ‘I don’t think our situation’s that bad.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I was thinking more of fate, or whatever you like to call it. One thing happening rather than another. Us being landed in this.’

  ‘I take your point. Personally I’ve always been more outraged by the suggestion of mysterious purpose than by random circumstance. Up to now, I admit, it has never been quite so devastatingly random.’

  ‘The nuns,’ said Lucy, ‘are praying. Quietly, but you can just hear. Back there.’

  Howard peeked behind. ‘So they are. Well, I wish they wouldn’t. It will undermine morale.’

  ‘I suppose it relieves their feelings.’

  ‘Which makes it the more self-indulgent an activity.’

  ‘They presumably don’t see it like that, since if God intervenes it will be on behalf of all of us, not just them.’

  ‘And will we then be expected to feel beholden to them, or to a benevolent deity?’ said Howard crossly.

  The praying nuns had made him genuinely indignant. He fell silent. The indignation passed, and he recognized it as a sign of good health. He was responding to circumstance in what was for him a normal way and according to character. He was under control. So far, so good. His mind now began to whirl, juggling the events of the last half-hour, the implications thereof, possible outcomes, possible parallel developments. Why had the aircrew suddenly reappeared? Held separately hitherto, presumably, for some reason. Was the interpreter’s account to be believed? What was being said and done in London? What would be the most expedient attitude to adopt towards their captors? How would they be treated?

  Lucy’s fingers were still entwined with his. It came to him with a great rush that if anyone attempted to hurt her, if anyone so much as touched her, threatened her, gestured in her direction, he would … he would … Since he was a man to whom violence did not come naturally, his flailing responses fell short at this point. He sat there in a further spasm of outrage until that too subsided and he was able once again to concentrate on the moment, on what was really happening. Lucy withdrew her hand, with a little sideways smile of apology, and took out a notebook and pen.

  The coach appeared to be moving out of the central area of the city. There were fewer pauses at traffic lights or intersections, the traffic soun
ds diminished. It thundered along some long straight road. The darkened windows were disorienting. You lost any sense of distance or direction. Which was perhaps the intention. Was the contrivance in order that they should not see, or in order that they should not be seen?

  Lucy said, ‘I feel distinctly queasy, and yet at the same time I’d kill for a cup of coffee. How can that be?’

  ‘I imagine it’s the nervous system making demands. Nothing to get worried about.’

  ‘I see. That’s why people administer tea to those suffering from shock. Well, nobody’s going to administer tea – or coffee – to us.’ She began to ferret in her handbag. ‘I’ve got some Polo mints. Would you like one?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’s this feeling of unreality. Half of me doesn’t really think this is happening, but the other half knows it damn well is.’

  ‘What most disturbs me,’ said Howard, ‘is the guessing element. Not knowing what is hard fact and what is not. What’s true and what isn’t.’

  Lucy was silent for a moment. ‘They can’t possibly hand over these people. Our government can’t, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think we should even be considering the implications yet. Not until we know more.’

  The coach now slowed and turned, evidently off the road and into some enclosed area. There were sounds of comings and goings, of orders being issued, doors slamming, boots on a gravelled surface.

  ‘We’re there,’ said Lucy. ‘Wherever there turns out to be.’

  They were told to get out of the coach. The building into which they were hustled was a large plain stone construction of two storeys, with shuttered windows and mansard roof. It might have been the residence of a prosperous lawyer or doctor in some French provincial town. It stood back from the road behind high walls screening a driveway and turning circle for vehicles. Both entrances to this were guarded by soldiers. More stood at the front door, through which the group was now ushered.

  Within was a long stone-flagged corridor with doors opening off it on both sides. The place smelled of carbolic and floor polish – a vaguely reassuring institutional smell that could not be immediately identified. The group was directed along the corridor and into a large bare room at the end. On the way Howard observed in bewilderment several framed religious texts in French, a fly-blown nineteenth-century engraving of the Virgin and Child, and a garish Crucifixion in painted wood.