Samira and I and little Ghada went to the clinic this morning, and despite the disapproving looks of the stern woman at reception, were taken through to see the doctor who is attending Eleana. He was a nice man, mid-sixties or so, with grey hair and a fatherly demeanour. His Arabic was beautiful, and he complimented me on mine.
Eleana is out of danger and should make a complete recovery. Allah be praised. She will need at least two more days in hospital, he said, before taking us in to see her. She was sleeping when we arrived. She is still very weak and is fighting the infection. After a moment, she opened her eyes. And then she smiled. Samira wept at her bedside.
After our visit, I paid for two more days of care, and the doctor agreed that we could come to see Eleana every morning. If after two days she is still weak, she may have to stay longer. I told the doctor this would not be a problem. As we left I could see the receptionist whispering with another matronly attendant. It will not be long before the story of a couple of destitute street women, haggard and dirty, paying hard currency for treatment at one of the best clinics in the district, spreads across the city. It is the type of thing people love to gossip about.
I attached my veil and left Samira and Ghada to find their way home. Then I went to the telephone office and called the Kemetic.
He was very excited. He said that he had been worried when I did not keep our appointment yesterday evening. Worried that perhaps the Consortium had taken me. You must be very careful, he said. Do not draw attention to yourself. I did not tell him, of course, about Samira and her daughter and the clinic, that I had violated every rule I had been taught about how to disappear.
Did you think about what we talked about, last time? he asked. His voice was deeper than usual, thickened. I am a good man, he said, almost in a whisper. A lonely man. And you are a beautiful woman. Very beautiful. Your image has burned inside me since we first met.
I let the line run quiet for a long time, my heart beating hard in my chest. I am not an innocent. I know the ways of men, the lust that can consume them. But the thought of that man touching me sends shivers of disgust running through me even now.
Before I could answer, though, he came to the point. I have something you need, he said. We can help each other.
How can you ask such a thing? I asked. Have you no shame?
Please, Madame Veronique. It is not such a great thing that I ask. I will help you. I will tell you what you need to know about your husband and son, about Yusuf. Grant me this one beautiful thing.
I cannot reproduce here the rest of his pitiful pleading. It continued for some time. I resisted. And then:
If you come to me this evening, I will assume that you have agreed to my terms.
And if I do not?
Then I will be unable to help you.
I can be very persuasive.
That is what I am hoping, dear lady. Persuade me, please.
I cannot do what you ask.
Perhaps you will change your mind. I have had a telephone call. Someone asking for you.
I gasped. I know he heard me. I could almost hear his face stretching into a leer.
Who was it?
Tonight, dear lady. Six o’clock. He disconnected.
I gave the Kemetic’s number to only one person. If the wretch is not lying to lead me on, it could only have been you, Claymore. You are alive.
Allah, please have it be so.
I know what I must do. I am prepared. Forgive me, my love. And God forgive my soul.