One thing you can really learn from Malaika is how to work the journalists. Malaika always knows what she wants to get out of them, like a real dealer. She’s like Mojo, or better. If a journalist says they want to write about this or that, Malaika tells them they ought to write about something else, like the medicine crisis, for example. And in return she’ll put her shorts on. Or they’ll get him, Lionel, in the shot too. Now there’s a second truck for looking after newborns. And some firm is donating health-boosting supplements that get poured into the tankers carrying drinking water.
Still, it’s exhausting. Especially since the programme has been airing in other countries. Now they could be giving interviews all day long. But most astonishing is that all these dozens of journalists ask the same three questions:
How did you come up with the idea?
Where are you hoping to get to?
Will you make it?
They could look at all the old interviews to find out what Malaika and he have already said, but they don’t. Sometimes two come at the same time and realise they’re asking the same thing. Even then they don’t come up with any other questions. Nor do they mind that the answer is always the same; they just want to have it repeated, especially for them.
He can tell the story in his sleep, of how he came up with the idea at Miki’s bar. It’s a memory he’s cherished, but recently it’s felt like a well-squeezed piece of fruit that everyone keeps putting back. Malaika doesn’t appear to mind one bit. She blossoms when reporters arrive on the scene, and cheerfully regurgitates all her set phrases. Sometimes he gets the impression she thinks she’s giving the answer afresh each time, but is that possible? It feels more and more artificial. Please say that again, Lionel. Please make it shorter, Lionel. Please speak a little slower, Lionel, and as you say it could you look out over the plain and hold that expression for ten seconds?
He’s reached the point where he almost believes his name is Lionel.
His phone rings. Perhaps he should make Mahmoud newspaper admiral. But then that idiot will put on his daft captain’s hat again. Better if he does it himself. Taking a deep breath, he answers.
“Ciao! How’s my favourite hiker?”
“How’s it going with ‘Baywatch’?”
Lionel sounds as relieved as he actually is.
“Who’s gives a fuck about ‘Baywatch’, amigo? Ever seen ‘Friends’? You should take a look sometime! You’ll get a boner just watching the intro. It’s the best porn show in the world. They’re all bouncin’ around in this fountain. Jennifer Aniston, check out her ass. Her tits. She’s wearing this tight sweater which they make nice and wet for us. Aaaah. That face! An’ nobody’s fuckin’ her. Nobody! Or at least nobody who counts.”
“Maybe that’s not what the programme’s about.”
“Get the fuck outta here! There are two other broads in it, an’ they’re not gettin’ it either. A blonde horse an’ some dull brunette. Let me tell you, amigo, it’s deliberate. It’s what’s called dramatic technique! Jennifer Aniston doesn’t get fucked because she’s always hangin’ round with these dreary donkeys. The whole show is literally screaming: Mojo! Come to the U.S. an’ save Jennifer Aniston from her god-awful life.”
“Well? Are you going?”
“Too right I am! I can’t go into more detail or my pants will burst. There’s more important stuff. I’ve been hearin’ a few funny stories. Stories about you.”
“There are no funny stories here.”
“So, you goin’ to Morocco?”
“No.”
“Libya?”
“No.”
“Tunisia? Algeria?”
“Nope.”
With his silence, Mojo adds an unpleasant spice to the conversation. Lionel doesn’t quite know what’s expected of him, so he keeps quiet too. He wins.
“So it is true!”
“What’s true? I never said I wanted to go to Libya or Morocco.”
“Ah, but you never said you didn’t want to, either.”
“But it doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s good for you. You’re being paid by the day.”
“It’s not about days here! You’re an investment for the future, amigo. You’ve gotta get your ass to whoreland. Only then will the roubles start rollin’ in. I don’t get nothin’ outta you shufflin’ through the desert for years.”
“Then we’re agreed.”
“No, we ain’t. You’re gonna get yourself to Morocco or Libya an’ find yourself a boat like any normal person.”
“I can’t.”
“You tryin’ to tell me what to do?”
“I can’t say to people that they’ve wandered through the desert for months, only to drown like thousands before them.”
“They’ll get their chance, they’re not askin’ for no more.”
“But they don’t want just any old chance.”
“Morocco’s a golden opportunity, amigo!”
“No! Boats are shit!”
“Boats have been around for thousands of years. Nobody’s complained.”
“You can’t control the sea. You can’t control the quality of the boats.”
“Nor the desert neither.”
“You can’t get drier than the desert. And our strength is in our numbers. The people smugglers want lots of money, they’ll divide us up into small groups and let us drown one by one. And those that make it are just a bunch of Africans. The Europeans will just send a bunch of Africans straight back, or worse. We’ll have no T.V. crew with us, and we’re in their hands in the middle of the sea.”
“But supernigger here has a better plan.”
“At least it’s a plan that doesn’t rely on others. It just relies on ourselves. Our feet. Our money.”
Mojo listens in silence.
“That’s good news for you too. More success, more money, more vehicles, more Jennifer Aniston.”
“How far you gonna go, then? Egypt?”
“Further.”
“Further?”
“If we only walk as far as the sea, all this would be in vain. We’re not going to the sea. We’re going the whole way.”
“Through Egypt?”
“Through Egypt.”
Mojo pauses.
“That’s our—”
“Shut it. I’m thinkin’.”
Lionel keeps his mouth shut.
“Now listen up, dumbass. Listen carefully, O.K.?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m feelin’ very patient at the moment, dumbass, and I’m not usually so patient. You’ve told me a load of crap in the past, but it was true crap. You promised me moolah, and I got lots of moolah. I respect you, amigo. You’re a bro. A crazy bro, but a bro. And I like you and your crap. You listenin’? I’m even prepared to admit you’re right sometimes. Boats are shit, the sea is shit. Smugglers take your bucks an’ let you drown. It’s a smart idea of yours to pay by the day. I’d rather have your money up front, but I can see it’s better for you, amigo. You’re not so crazy, crazy bro’. But the model has its limits. I can’t go further than Egypt.”
“You’ll keep getting your percentage.”
“Damn right, but this isn’t about my percentage.”
“What then?”
“Ever looked at a map, dumbass? I’m not talkin’ ’bout Syria here, or Jordan. Sure, there might be folk there who’ll let you through, but for every one of those, there’ll be at least three who won’t. Forget it! The Turks – nobody knows what they want except respect. It’s everything. An’, hey, you’ll also get by minor obstacles like the Suez Canal. All that seems kinda possible. But there’s one thing that’s absolutely unthinkable.”
“Israel?”
“Israel.”
“Ten kilometres as the crow flies. Fourteen by road. A joke.”
“No, a joke is what it ain’t. Ten kilometres across a country that’s a bigass paranoid military power and deploys its weapons against anythin’ that seems suspicious or it don’t like the look of. The Jews shoot first an’ ask questions later. They might let one or two of you through if they’re in a good mood or wasted. But not three, no way. Let alone my trucks. So that’s the end of the food and water. Not to mention shithouse paradise.”
“What about Jordan?”
Mojo takes a deep breath, then yells, “Jordan, waddya want with Jordan? O.K., with some dough you might be able to arrange a few things. But don’t imagine you’ll ever be gettin’ into Jordan.”
“Ten kilometres as the crow flies,” Lionel says obstinately.
“A clear line of fire, you mean! The Jews will blow that pretty black head of yours clean off. An’ for sure that’s adios, amigo. From what I hear you still need a head in life. Even in whoreland.”
“We’ll find a way,” Lionel says. “And your lorries are coming with us. If we don’t make it, at least you’ll have had six more months of earnings off us. And now I have to go, I’ve got an interview.”
He presses the red button and puts his phone away. Of course he knew about Israel. He’d been hoping Mojo would come up with something. Mojo, the cornucopia of ideas. Suddenly Lionel is overcome by despondency. When it comes to Israel, Malaika is going to be about as helpful as the admiral for food and drink. Yes, he’s got time – they need to get there first – but he’s got even fewer ideas for Israel than he had for all the other borders.
His phone rings. An American number. He’s about to take the call when a text arrives. From Mojo.
“Watch your ass, crazy bro’.”