by K J Griffin
“But surely you must approve of that?” interrupted Stein. ‘Didn’t we all read in this morning’s papers that your own mission here is to build a Ramli financial powerhouse big enough to compete with the major market movers?’
Al-Ajnabi looked sharply at the barrister then smiled acerbically, ‘Feeding the markets is what the game is all about, Mr Stein, is it not? If my plans are successful, I hope to give the markets something they can really get there teeth stuck into.’
‘Or just stuck in!’ Sophie heard Ockenden chuckle, but she had made the remark largely to herself and only Al-Ajnabi seemed to have picked up on it, for he returned her laughter with a sly grin of his own.
‘Your pragmatism is commendable, Prince,’ laughed the Warden, attempting to divert the course of a conversation of which he was evidently not the master. But Stein and Whitaker wanted to hear more from the European-looking Arab who iterated unorthodox views in faultless English, scarred by a mesmerizing accent.
‘But would you not agree, Prince Omar,’ Whitaker continued, ‘that it is precisely the emergence of the global free market and the accompanying worldwide drive towards democratic government, free trade and transparency that offers the best hope for billions to escape from the clutches of poverty.’
Al-Ajnabi nodded his head.
‘In a way, you are right, Mr Whitaker. I think that when historians look back at our times they will note above all else an era of exponential population growth, which, coupled with a dramatic shift towards globalisation and liberalisation of trade, produced an age of strong economic growth that led to a period of astounding consumption of goods and resources.’
‘And is this not to everyone’s benefit?’ snorted Stein.
‘It is to the benefit of those who support dynamic economic growth and increased consumption,’ replied Al-Ajnabi quietly.
‘But you do not?’ asked Ockenden, less ferociously than the others.
Again, Al-Ajnabi smiled with some good humour at her tutor. Sophie was aware of a closet alliance springing up between the two but could not pinpoint its origin.
‘I do not,’ Al-Ajnabi replied, placing a wineglass emphatically on the table. ‘To my thinking, the free-market, global capitalism you have thrust on the world has many flaws. Most importantly, given the limitation of resources, it is quite certainly unsustainable. It is a monster machine that will consume itself. Those same historians will one day, all too late, alas, point to the fallacies that lay unnoticed at the heart of the world system until they had all but killed the poor creature off. Simply in order to survive, you see, this economic behemoth needed to increase economic growth every year. Appealing in principle, lethally cancerous in practice. For such economic growth needed population growth to fuel its continuous boom. And the world economic system found a potent and willing ally in the primitive religious beliefs that still enslaved the world, belief systems that allowed their adherents to take one pill to prevent themselves falling sick and dying while discouraging the faithful to swallow the other pill which would control their breeding; for children, they argued, were a gift from God. So under the command of these two henchmen, free market capitalism and traditional religion, the world’s population soon rose at an increase of two people per second, growing to such catastrophic levels that food and water supplies were exhausted and before long the pollution produced by ten billion humans had fatally poisoned the entire global ecosystem.’
‘If this is what you really think, Prince Omar, why have you come to pump so much money into our system?” asked Stein, as if he had just listened to a personal insult.
Al-Ajnabi shrugged,
‘Haven’t your own bankers just shown the whole world how much damage they could do with a fistful of dollars?’
Which brought a communal guffaw from Sophie’s end of the table.
‘So you Ramlis see yourselves as bringing down the system from within?’ laughed the Superintendent.
‘It is important to realize that my views are gained from my own experience and reflections. They do not necessarily represent the thinking of my government,’ Al-Ajnabi conceded.
‘There’s some good news for us,’ laughed the Warden. ‘Anyway, you’ll find the financial markets won’t care what your motives are, Prince Omar, as long as you bring them plenty of cash to play with.’
At his second attempt, the Warden had successfully trivialized conversation. Rich desserts and cheeses washed down by sweeter wines accompanied the lighter conversations that sprang up between neighbours.
Sophie felt Al-Ajnabi watching her from the corner of his eye while Stein started an earnest conversation with her about career plans, so she kept an ear in as the Warden started to tell the Ramli prince about certain quaint college customs and rituals just in case there were any further shocks or revelations. Ockenden looked less than thrilled with the dour superintendent, glancing across at Al-Ajnabi from time to time in the hope of luring the Ramli prince into a repeat conversation. And when the guests started to leave the table for coffee and liqueurs in the undercroft, Ockenden seized the opportunity to pounce on Al-Ajnabi and dismiss the policeman.
Sophie looked on in bewilderment when she saw her ultra-feminist tutor captivated by the charming and unconventional foreigner, and not for the first time caught herself wondering about what common bond could possibly unite such disparate souls. For what would Ockenden make of Al-Ajnabi if she ever found out about the demeaning offer he had made her at the interview? Would she still feel so warm towards the Ramli prince if she knew he tried to buy women into his bed?
Intriguing a question though that was, right now Sophie had more imminent problems, for she was starting to feel drunk, having swigged too much wine too quickly in the confusion Al-Ajnabi’s arrival had thrown her into at the start of the meal. Now the Warden was plying her with Armagnac and Cointreau, and had lined up a Bailey’s in reserve, just in case neither of those appealed.
Between them, the Warden, Stein, and a first-year undergraduate called Paul, were growing wine-wearily tedious. And to cap it all, Sophie couldn’t help feeling a little slighted seeing Al-Ajnabi so engrossed with Ockenden on a couch in the corner. The reference he had made at dinner to the huge donation had hurt badly. She knew what that meant. It was her money, and she felt its loss as keenly as if it had actually been taken from her bank account and scattered like litter from a bank holiday fun fair all around the college grounds.
So, with the Warden drooling in one ear, Stein growing louder and closer in the other, and the pretty young boy Paul throwing her some meaningful glances, Sophie came to a sudden decision. Lurching unsteadily to her feet, she walked across to the deep leather sofa where Al-Ajnabi and Ockenden were talking all hushed and serious in some secret pow-wow and slumped into a chair just to the right of the pair, her dress unintentionally snagged to reveal a length of black-stockinged leg.
‘Come and join us, Sophie,’ Ockenden smiled at her favourite student. ‘You can carry on entertaining our Arabian guest in my absence.’
With that the tutor straightened her own cream dress and took to her feet with austere sobriety. ‘I’ve really got to go, Prince Omar,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s been a pleasure listening to your most unusual views.’
Al-Ajnabi rose himself from the sofa and smiled at Ockenden, but the frostiness returned to his voice when he sat down again and they were left alone.
‘How nice it has been to see you again, Miss Palmer,’ he said, sounding as if it was anything but.
Ignoring the hint of menace that seemed to underlie everything Al-Ajnabi said, Sophie came straight to the point.
‘Is your offer still open?’ she blurted out, feeling prostrate and vulnerable.
In the delay that ensued, Sophie sensed the impending slap of rejection. That would be too much! Al-Ajnabi looked pensive, eyeing her with the ghost of a smirk, before taking a large swill and draining the last of his balloon of Armagnac.
‘You wish to accept?’
‘Yes, I do,
’ and she looked down shame-faced at the vermillion carpet. How was it that he always made her feel as if she were waiting to hear a verdict read against her in court?
‘Then it will be as we agreed,’ he sighed, with a devastating insouciance, putting down his glass on the coffee table and rising to his feet. His fingers fumbled about in a concealed pocket inside his robes and eventually he produced a business card. ‘Call Hasan in the morning. He will help you to move your belongings.’
Oxford: October 14
Sophie woke to face Joanna’s questions, her head cocooned in a poisonous haze. For a couple of yawns and groans she couldn’t remember anything about agreeing to move into Al-Ajnabi’s mansion, let alone having told Joanna of the arrangement when she’d got back home to Iffley Road the night before, late and very drunk. But now, feeling as if her stomach was about to be sick into her head, she found herself persuading Joanna of the wisdom of a decision she already regretted taking. And amid all the fuss the doorbell rang, followed by Lucy running upstairs shouting, ‘Anyone know a guy called Hasan?—he won’t say anything but he’s got a Roller.’
‘Oh shit, I thought it was up to me to get in touch with him. I had no idea he would just turn up,’ Sophie moaned as she dashed downstairs wearing only a T-shirt to bundle a wide-eyed Hasan away from her stupefied housemates.
But the dark-skinned smart-dresser had already aroused an excessive curiosity in the house, forcing Sophie to face a barrage of where-did-you-meet-him’s? and isn’t-he-too-old-for-you’s? And to make things worse, Sophie knew that every evasive answer would be flashed over Joanna’s hotline straight to Marcus and Darren.
Hasan waited stoically in the car for nearly two hours, refusing every invitation to come inside from every housemate, until Sophie appeared in the doorway, wobbling under the weight of the first box.
But seeing Sophie’s predicament, Hasan rushed inside the house to help, ruthlessly efficient but obstinately taciturn. Joanna and Lucy could only look on like helpless sisters from a Victorian romance while the heroine was whisked away by a dark and handsome stranger to the secret rendezvous.
Sophie fidgeted all the way to Folly Bridge. Fragments of the previous night’s conversations echoed in her ears—all the curious views Al-Ajnabi had expressed at the dinner table, the sound of his soft, sardonic voice and the tacit approval that Ockenden, of all people, had given him. The ravages of her hangover, combined with a growing sense of nervousness made her want to curl up on the backseat.
Past Folly Bridge, Hasan swung into the drive, crunching the tyres over the gravel. He pulled up by the colonnades in front of the house, under the watchful eye of two security guards.
The tall black one walked snappily across from a fountain, opening the car door for Sophie with the sort of flamboyance he might have accorded a movie star arriving for her gala première night. But Sophie felt so sick that she didn’t respond to the VIP treatment, or notice the splendour of the mansion now that it had been decked out according to its proprietor’s taste.
She followed Hasan underneath the billowing folds of bright cloth that swelled from the ceiling of the hall, turning left into a lateral corridor and then right through a magnificent dining room and out onto a terrace overlooking the Isis and the towpath. Al-Ajnabi was lounging there on top of an elaborate creation of oriental rugs and cushions. Opposite him sat a European man in his early forties, all pink cheeks, cheeky smiles, and albino-blond hair. Each man sat low on the ground, reclining on Arabic lounging cushions, a conglomeration of rugs cushioning them against the freshness of the October morning. Seeing Sophie, Al-Ajnabi craned his neck in her direction. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast sky.
‘Welcome, Miss Palmer,’ he smiled coldly, sounding unnecessarily formal. ‘Hasan, tell Mousa to make another place, please. Miss Palmer, may I introduce you to Mr Hennessy; Mr Hennessy, my personal assistant, Miss Palmer.’
The blond man grinned impishly her way.
‘And what a delight to behold you are, my dear!’ he said in thick brogue.
Mousa promptly appeared carrying more bright cushions and another couple of props, which he banked up between the two men, at a half turn between the house and the river. Sophie flopped down where he indicated, shivering in a thin sweatshirt and jeans. Al-Ajnabi noticed her discomfort and sent Mousa back for more rugs, coffee and croissants.
When she was more comfortably settled, Al-Ajnabi asked her a few questions about the move, but was evidently uninterested in the answers she gave. Hennessy winked at Sophie, and she stared back at him suspiciously. Had Al-Ajnabi told the Irishman of the ‘little arrangement’ he had struck with her? The thought of such indiscretion made her feel even more nauseous than her hangover demanded. But suddenly, at a nod from the Ramli prince, Hennessy got to his feet.
‘Well, I hope I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Miss Sophie. Will you be joining our meeting this evening?’ he asked, glancing at Al-Ajnabi with a glint in his eye for confirmation. But the host seemed absorbed with the bridge and the ducks on the river.
‘Meeting?’ Sophie asked.
Al-Ajnabi snapped out of his daydream.
‘It’s nothing special. I am entertaining some foreign guests tonight. We have private business to discuss until nine o’ clock. After that, however, I would be delighted to introduce you to the party, if you so wish.’
‘Yes, I’m sure…’
Hennessy chuckled at this, winked again at Sophie, and said his goodbyes. Sophie watched the back of his Aran sweater disappear into the living room and waited for a few seconds.
‘Does he know?’ she hissed, pointing indignantly at the Irishman’s back.
‘Know?’
‘About our ‘arrangement’?’
‘Of course not, Miss Palmer. That is my private business and we have much more important business to discuss. And you, too, should think no more of the matter. It is a simple and uneventful duty. Now please have some croissants. You are suffering this morning, I think. The sugar will do you good.’
He was right. The strong coffee and sticky croissants were lifesavers.
They sat in silence, watching the river and the odd walker, most replete with errant dog, ambling along the towpath. Now and then Sophie sneaked a glance at her curious host. His relaxed manner seemed contrived; she was sure he was trying too hard to appear casual.
Only Mousa’s arrival eventually broke the stalemate. He was carrying a hookah pipe in one arm, and the long coils that connected mouthpiece to water filter were draped over his arm like a brightly-coloured snake. Lighting the thing was a complex ritual. On top, he placed a glowing charcoal cube, sucked heartily till the smoke started to come, then handed the mouthpiece to his master.
Al-Ajnabi leaned over towards Sophie, offering her the stem.
‘You smoke mu’assil, Miss Palmer?’
She shook her head and sighed.
‘I don’t smoke at all, actually. But I suppose if I’m really going to have to go ahead with this sleeping thing, you’d better call me Sophie. And what should I call you, Prince Al-Ajnabi? ‘Prince’ or ‘Your Excellency’ might be a little long in bed!’
She watched him laugh with that rare streak of genuine humour that made him so much more attractive.
‘You are quite right, Sophie. You can call me Omar.’
‘OK, then—Omar it is,’ she chuckled nervously, then stopped abruptly, looking at him inquisitively.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but has ‘Omar’ always been your name? You said at dinner last night that your parents were not Arabs.’
Al-Ajnabi was surprised enough to remove his narrow sunglasses.
‘I mean, it’s your accent—it doesn’t sound Arabic at all. Almost South African, but not quite,’ Sophie explained.
The Ramli puffed on the pipe, lost in thought. Clouds of fruity smelling smoke wafted towards her.
‘You are on the right track with the accent,’ he conceded. ‘I have spent a lot of time in southern Africa.�
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‘So are you saying you are of South African descent?’
‘Not necessarily. And my time in South Africa was a long time ago,’ he sighed with a noncommittal shrug, looking piercingly at her again. ‘Before I rose to my present rank, yaani.’
‘And were they very hard times—before, in South Africa or elsewhere, I mean?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
At least the surprise had made his voice sound more normal. Sophie was encouraged.
‘Because you sound very bitter. Did something happen to you in South Africa or somewhere else in your past that made you that way?’
Al-Ajnabi sucked hard, making the water gurgle in the pipe. Taking time to exhale, he studied the river carefully, as if the conversation bored him or had taken a turn he did not like.
‘Why do we talk only of me? Miss…er,…Sophie. Why don’t you tell me a little about your own background?’
‘Oh, that’s far more simple,’ she said, gaining in confidence. ‘My own story is far too dull, I’m afraid. Typical London suburban upbringing—only Mum had to bring me up alone. Dad died in a car crash when I was still a baby.’
‘Can you remember him?
‘No, I was too young. Not even born.’
‘And your mother never remarried?’
‘Actually my mum and dad were never married. But no, I don’t have a stepfather, if that’s what you mean?’
‘So Palmer is your mother’s name?’
Sophie nodded, opening her mouth to say more. But she stopped abruptly before the words came out, turning away from Al-Ajnabi to look down at her shoes.
‘Look…um…Omar. About this sleeping thing—I think I should tell you that I’ve got a steady boyfriend here in Oxford.’
She watched the suggestion of a frown flutter across his forehead.