| |
When Aidan arrived at the address Mme. Abboud had given him, a few blocks from the Zitouna mosque, he was confused. Where was the school? The building in front of him was run-down, with stucco that hadn’t been painted since the French retreated forty years before. The blue paint on the ornamental grillwork had faded, and the stone stoop was cracked in half. The ground floor was occupied by a hair salon, and a narrow staircase at the far end.
A small sign directed him up to the second floor, where “École International” had been painted on a wooden door in a flowing, Arabic-style script. He knocked, and a woman’s voice called out in French, “Entrez!”
He opened the door to a single drab room, brightened by posters of American sights: the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Mme. Abboud was a small, dumpy lady in an American-style business suit that looked like black silk. She sat behind a dented metal desk piled haphazardly with papers. “Ah, you must be Monsieur Greene,” she said to him in English. “I am Mme. Habiba Abboud, B.A. Welcome to my office.”
They shook hands, and he sat across from her, in a spindly metal chair. “Your country is very beautiful,” he said.
“Yes, it is. How long have you lived here?”
“I arrived five days ago. I left the US right after our email correspondence.”
She looked disturbed. “You came here to teach?”
“Yes. I was looking for a job somewhere outside the US, and when you offered, I decided Tunisia was a good place.”
“So you did not receive my further emails?”
He shook his head.
“I am afraid I have some bad news. As soon as I heard from you, I applied for the proper permits so that you can work in Tunisia. My request was denied.”
Aidan was surprised. “What does that mean?”
“Every time the United States commits some act against the Arab world, the Tunisian government retaliates against those, like myself, who hire Americans.” Her accent was somewhat British, overlaid with hints of French and Arabic. “Last week, your government censured the Saudis for something foolish. That resulted in a taboo on hiring foreign teachers, for the present.” She shrugged, but smiled. “These things, they come and go. It all depends on who is in charge.”
“But what can I do?” Aidan asked.
She straightened a pile of papers on her desk. “I can try again in one month,” she said. “Unfortunately, not before.”
Aidan’s pulse raced. “But I gave up my home and flew all the way here.”
“This is the way of the Arab world,” she said. “May I suggest that you do some sightseeing while you wait? The island of Djerba is lovely this time of year.”
“I don’t have the luxury of vacationing. I need a job. Can I work without those permits? Just until you are able to receive them?” Back when Aidan had taught in Europe, there had always been ways around the rules. Surely the same had to be true in Tunisia.
“Alas, no,” Mme. Abboud said. “I have a license, you see, and to employ someone without the proper papers – well, if it were discovered that would be the end of the École International.”
She stood up. “I am so sorry for your predicament, Mr. Greene. But you know, I did email you several times to let you know about this problem.”
Aidan felt powerless to argue. He had no way of knowing whether she had emailed him or not; his account was under Blake’s name, and Blake had shut off his access. He thanked Mme. Abboud and promised to be back in touch within a month.
He trudged down the stairs to the dark vestibule, then stepped back into the glaring sunshine. He winced at the brightness, squinting his eyes shut, then stood there on the broken sidewalk, letting the world swirl around him. What could he do? Where could he go? Could he afford to wait around Tunis for a month or more until a job materialized at the École?
Standing there, he felt the weight of the chain around his neck that held the eye charm that the goldsmith’s wife had given him the day before. Well, that was something he could do, he thought, opening his eyes. He’d go back to the souk and return the charm. He couldn’t give it to Liam, because he had no idea what had happened to the bodyguard. And he certainly wasn’t heading to El Jem himself.
The sense of a mission, even a short-term one, gave him energy. He consulted his map of the city, and began walking toward the Bab El Bahr. Within a few blocks, he was sweating heavily, so he shucked his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt.
Even so, he was drenched by the time he reached the Souk des Orfevres, the goldsmith’s market. The souk bustled with tourists, with shopkeepers calling bargains out into the street. He ignored their entreaties and searched for the shop where he’d been given the amulet. It was shuttered, though all the others around it were open and busy. He went into the one next door and asked, in fractured French, for the elderly shop owner or his daughter-in-law. “Ils avaient parti,” the old man behind the counter said. “Hier soir.”
They had left the night before. But for where? Were they fleeing the police as well? What had he gotten himself into?
He noticed the shopkeeper picking up his cell phone, and decided to get out of the medina as quickly as possible. He must have bumped into a dozen men and women as he rushed back toward the Bab el Bahr, and when he couldn’t find it right away his fear began to take over. Finally he saw the arched gate, set in a stone wall, ahead of him. There were no police loitering there, so he strode forward, back into the modern city. He needed a shower, a bottle of cold water. And a plan.
As he walked back to his apartment, he realized how bad his situation was. He had used the thousand dollars Blake had given him, as well as his savings, for the flight to Tunisia, and the rent on the apartment. He had a single credit card in his name, which he’d almost never used because Blake had paid for everything. So he had a ridiculously low limit on the card, barely enough to buy himself a plane ticket back to Philadelphia.
And what would he do when he got back there? It was early August, and no schools started until September. He wouldn’t have a paycheck until the end of the month. How could he find a place to live, and support himself, until then? He’d have to find someone to stay with, then get on line and look for a few private ESL clients, students who needed a review before starting college in the fall, immigrants preparing for a citizenship exam.
Going back to Philly would be difficult. But staying in Tunis was no easier. He didn’t know a soul in Tunis beyond Liam McCullough, and the bodyguard had disappeared, perhaps into police custody. Aidan thought he should get on the first flight back to the States. But what if the police knew his name, and had alerted the immigration authorities to be on the lookout for him?
Making a decision required energy and determination, and he had none. It was all he could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and make his way back to his apartment—where the rent was paid only through the end of the week. Without a job, he’d be homeless in Tunisia.
As he walked, the tears he’d hardly shed over Blake finally came, blurring his vision so that he didn’t see the hands that grabbed him as he neared his building.
