CHAPTER
Seventeen

Before he left, Gunter looked at the photographs of Kefti and listened to what we told him with ostentatious gravitas. I hoped he would be convinced now, and promise to get something done. Instead, he reassured us that the UN in Abouti knew all about the situation, and did not consider it serious. It was nothing we couldn’t deal with in Nambula, he said, since the ship was due to arrive at any moment. I was frantic. I argued that if the ship didn’t arrive, it would be disastrous, and we needed extra supplies anyway. Gunter promised to look into it. Henry and I spent the afternoon reorganizing the reception center, and starting up a new cemetery.

At five o’clock, Sian came over to find me. She couldn’t look at me. “I think you should come to the hospital. Hazawi and Liben Alye are there.”

I cursed myself for not singling them out, and asking someone to make sure they were all right when I was away.

Hazawi was a heap of skin and bone in Liben’s arms. She had severe diarrhea, vomiting and fever. He was wiping her bottom with a piece of rag. Two lines of tears were flowing down the furrows in his face. He looked up and saw me, and for one second there was accusation in his eyes. It was enough.

Hazawi died at eight o’clock. Liben would not accept that she had died. He became impervious to everything around him. He washed the small body and dressed her in the green frock she had always worn. Then he placed her on his shoulder and walked very slowly out of the hospital, playing with her cheek as he always had done. I walked with him, but he did not know I was there. It was dark, and there were high mourning cries coming from the hospital. Liben suddenly squatted down at the side of the path and placed her in the crook of his arm like a baby, straightening her dress, smoothing what was left of her hair.

I sat down beside him and took his hand, but it was limp and cold. I sat there for a long time. Eventually I went to find the home visitor for Liben’s village, and she brought some Keftians who knew him. They lifted him to his feet and took him back to their hut. Liben would have to be made to bury Hazawi in the morning.

There was no communal comfort that night. We all got back from the camp at different times, late, grabbed what we could from pots in the kitchen, and went straight to bed. O’Rourke was still down at the hospital. Everyone else was in bed. I lay face down, unsleeping, stretched out, crucified, feeling as if a stave were being driven through my back. I had seen what was about to happen and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt as if we were surrounded by brick walls. It was the blackest night.

When, eventually, I got to sleep, I dreamed of high dark mountains all around, and Jacob Stone shining a big blond light, such as you get on movie sets, at the mountains, and a glass staircase with lights at the side, and then I woke up. I shone my torch at my watch. It was four o’clock. The mice were rattling. They were in the ceiling, but they sounded as if they were on the floor. I got up and lit the hurricane lamp, lay back on the pillow and thought about the dream. I thought about what Jacob Stone had suggested, after Patterson’s embassy party in El Daman.

I sat up all night, thinking.

As soon as it was light I drove down to the camp. The mist was still hanging around the river. A cock was crowing. People were just beginning to emerge from the huts, women in white shifts with mussed-up hair, children clinging to their legs, rubbing their eyes, bewildered.

Muhammad was lying on his bed, reading.

“So, at last we can talk.”

“I’m so sorry. I—”

“No, but do not apologize, of course.”

“Don’t get up.”

“But I must make the tea.”

He already moved well with his stick.

“You will find the tea slower than ever now,” he said, turning round with a sly grin. “But you see, you cannot complain, because I am disabled.”

The tea was even more disgusting than usual.

“I came to tell you I’m going back to London,” I said.

He didn’t react.

“I’m leaving the camp this afternoon.”

“Really?” he said casually, after a pause.

“Yes.” There was another pause.

“Might I ask why?”

I told him my plan: there was a flight from El Daman the next morning. I was going to go back, try to get the story in the press and persuade some famous people to do an appeal. I was aiming for a slot on TV. That way, I could raise enough money or find sponsorship to airlift some food out immediately.

“And do you really think this is possible in so short a space of time? Will the famous people do as you ask?”

“Oh, I dunno.” I stared glumly into my tea. “I used to know some of these people. It does happen sometimes. It’s the only way I can think of to get the food quickly. What have I got to lose?”

“Forgive my many questions. Is it wise to leave the camp now?”

I would be sacked, of course, if I did that. So, I told him, I would resign instead. If the plan worked, maybe SUSTAIN would take me back. We had, perhaps, three weeks till the big influx arrived. The camp was organized now, and I thought Henry could cope if Muhammad helped. If I could get the appeal up and running in London, then I could come back in time with the food.

Muhammad stared into the embers, thinking.

“What do you reckon?”

“This ship is not going to come in ten days,” he said.

“No.”

He thought some more. His cheeks were very drawn now. “I think you are right, you should try.”

I relaxed. “Thanks.”

But Muhammad still gazed into the fire and suddenly I remembered about his friend, Huda Letay. I should have made time to talk properly before.

“You remember asking me about Huda when you were ill?” I said.

“You did not find her.”

“No.”

He got up miserably, and took the sugar back to the shelves.

“They said there was no one from Esareb amongst the refugees. They said the locusts are not affecting the towns yet. I’m sorry.”

“No. That is good.” He turned, his face composed now. “She will be safe. And now you must press on hard with your plan.”

“Would you like me to bring something back?”

“Yes—about five hundred tons of food.”

“I mean for you.”

He thought for a while. “I would like a copy of Hamlet.”

“Are you planning to perform in this TV spectacular?”

Out came the throaty laugh. “Perhaps. I must think of my public.”

Everyone was gathered for breakfast, looking white and shattered. I told them what I was going to do.

“It’s the UN that’s got to sort it out,” said Debbie. “It’s good that you’re trying, but you’re not going to do much with a few sacks of grain and some stars hugging babies.”

“Fewer people will die if we get some food here quickly,” I said.

“We can’t have celebrities crawling all over the camp at a time like this.” Debbie pulled a face: “Just imagine it. It’ll be a bloody nightmare.”

“I think it’s worth having a go,” said Linda.

“What have I got to lose?”

“We need you here,” said Sian.

“How long would you be away?” said Linda, eagerly.

“Maybe three weeks. You can manage without me, can’t you?”

“Course we can, old sock,” said Henry. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll make sure they all die in an organized manner.”

This was unexpectedly grim from Henry. “Well, that’s what’ll happen when we run out of food and drugs,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said. “Doesn’t it make more sense at least to have a go at getting some supplies?”

“What are SUSTAIN going to say?” said Debbie. “You’ll lose your job, and then what if these celebrities won’t listen to you?”

“I’ll have to risk it.”

O’Rourke was conspicuously silent, staring into his tea.

“Well, if you pull it off, old sock, it’ll be fanbloodytastic,” said Henry. “If you don’t, well, you’ll look a bit of a Charlie.”

“Well, I think it’s a marvelous idea, Rosie dear.” Betty. “Absolutely super. When in doubt, do something rather than nothing, that’s what I always say. And, besides, I remember Marjorie Kemp in Wollo in nineteen eighty-four. They’d been screaming about the famine for six months and what help did they get? None. It was only when the BBC came out that it got moving. If the celebrities do come out here, well, I’m sure we can manage to make them welcome. I’m sure they’ll bring out a few goodies for us as well. Ask them about brussels sprouts.”

Oh, no. Betty welcoming celebrities. I almost changed my mind.

O’Rourke came into my hut as I was packing.

“I don’t think you should go,” he said.

I looked at him. “Why?”

“Look, it’s not that I think you’re irresponsible. I can see your reasoning. You’ve set everything up here very well. They can manage for a couple of weeks.”

“What, then?”

He rubbed the back of his head.

“Do you think it’s letting the UN and the donors off the hook?” I said.

“No. It’s doing the opposite, if anything. It will embarrass them.”

“So what in the name of arse is it, then?”

He smiled quickly, then looked serious again. “I don’t think media stars should be involved with this. I certainly don’t think we should have celebrities at large in Safila.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think the notion of celebrity is completely absurd. All it proves is how gullible everyone is.”

“It’s not the celebrities’ fault.”

“Quite so. It’s the whole world that’s mad. Everyone wants to imagine it’s possible to achieve wealth and power out of all proportion to what they do. So they pay to see and read about stars who’ve managed to do that. But the reason the stars managed it was because people would pay to see them and read about them doing it. It’s completely nonsensical.”

“Isn’t it good that they want to put something back?”

“Come on. Who’s helping who? Caring’s a requisite part of the image these days if you’re a celebrity.”

We were standing at opposite sides of the hut, facing each other. I’d hoped he would back me.

“Do you think I haven’t thought about this?”

“So what have you thought?”

“I think there’s a fine line,” I said. “On the one side are the celebrities who are helping the cause more than they help themselves, on the other side the celebrities who are helping themselves more than the cause.”

“You can’t make simple distinctions like that with aid. Look at the mixture of motives you get even in this place. Anyway, you’re not going to be able to pick and choose celebrities in that space of time.”

He was probably right there.

“It might not be an ideal solution, but what harm can it do if it gets us the food?”

“It’s a question of human dignity.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, and I know that the north/south divide should be lessening and it isn’t. Putting out images of celebrities wandering amongst famine fields is an obscene symbol of the divide. It’s like saying, ‘Hey! the status quo is acceptable. All we need to do is put out a helping hand here and there and we’ve done our bit.’ It’s an emollient. It’s a lie.”

“Isn’t it better than doing nothing?”

“Maybe or maybe not—if it makes people think something’s being done, when nothing much is being done.”

“It could save Liben Alye’s life.”

“But what does his life mean without Hazawi?” He saw my look. “I’m sorry. But celebrity campaigns are always, by their nature, too late. They are reactive. You know that.”

“Not every time. Maybe not this time. We’ve got three weeks. And maybe we can put that message across, about being too late.”

He shook his head, looking at me. “You are very naïve sometimes.”

“It’s you who’s naïve. This is the way of the world as it is. We can’t change it. The public will listen to celebrities.”

“Why don’t you just get an airlift sponsored? You don’t have to get involved with show biz.”

“Because it’s not just Safila that needs food. What about the other camps? If we get media attention focused here the governments will have to react.”

He shook his head.

I turned back to the bed and carried on with my packing. He was confusing me. “I’ve got to get on.”

“Fine,” he said, and let himself out.

After he’d gone I sat down and thought. I knew he had logic on his side, but it was the only way I could think of to get the food here in time, and that seemed more important. But, still, it worried me that he thought I shouldn’t go.

The door rattled. It was O’Rourke again, carrying the Kefti photographs and the notes we’d taken.

“Don’t go without these.”

“Thanks. I’ll leave a photocopy with Malcolm.”

He sat down on the chair. “If you’re determined to do this, then I’ll support you.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you need some money?”

“No.”

“Think about it—flights, clothes, taxis, London. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, but thank you.”

He looked at me. His eyes were hazel green, searching. “Are you all right?” he said.

There’s nothing like someone being nice to you to make you want to cry. Suddenly I just wanted to lean against him, and feel his arms round me. But he had given no sign, since that night, that he wanted that.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“I wanted to say—that night in the desert, that absurd conversation with Linda. Are you feeling all right? You’re not angry or unhappy?”

Don’t lay yourself open, I told myself. Don’t risk it, not now. “I’m fine.”

“I just didn’t want you to go off to London feeling—”

“Are you involved with Lin—?”

“No. We were, briefly, three years ago. But not since, except—”

“It doesn’t ma—”

“—except that since I arrived it’s been a bit like being hit over the head with a valentine. I didn’t even know she was here when I got the job.” He looked troubled. “But I—”

“Listen, it’s fine. Forget about it.” I didn’t want to hear it. I knew what he was going to say: “I don’t want to get involved with anyone else, either.” Meaning me. I felt close to tears.

I got up again. “If you don’t mind, I’ve really got to pack or I’ll never get going.”

I turned round to the bed and started folding clothes, because I didn’t want him to see my face.

He stayed where he was, and I carried on packing. After a while he said softly, “You seem very defensive.”

I didn’t reply.

“Did someone hurt you?” he said.

I wiped my eye with the back of my hand and carried on with the packing. “I’ve got to finish packing,” I said. “I’ll come and say good-bye before I go.”

He hesitated a moment and then he let himself out, lifting the corrugated iron and replacing it.