Cleopatra's Sister Page 11

  Marsopolis was flourishing again by now. The corniche had been reconstructed, the hotels and restaurants had reopened. In the centre of town the tower blocks soared, dwarfing the statue of Cleopatra’s sister in Tahriya Square (formerly Piazza Benito Mussolini, previously Place Napoléon). In the suburbs and along the coast the villas rose again, in pink stucco and gleaming white, draped in bougainvillaea and morning glory. Yachts and power boats appeared among the fishing vessels beyond the harbour. The beaches glistened with the oiled flesh of Callimbia’s jeunesse dorée.

  When little Omar was six Doreen became pregnant again. Tragedy struck. The child (a boy, to compound the disaster) was stillborn; Doreen died of post-natal complications. Yussuf was shattered. The marriage had been a genuinely happy one and he was a devoted husband. For six months he was inconsolable, and then he succumbed to family pressure. He had previously refrained from taking the second wife to whom he was entitled under Muslim law, partly in deference to Doreen’s cultural susceptibilities and partly because he didn’t want one anyway. He now acquired in quick succession two new wives – an older lady to manage the children and the household and a younger one for other purposes. The three girls and little Omar adapted themselves as best they could to the new regime. After a few years the voice of Bexhill and the Gezira Sporting Club was almost extinguished, surviving only in the family folk memory and a few catch-phrases on the lips of the children, who were after all half English. By the time the girls were in adolescence and Omar was ten their mother was no more than some photographs in an album, a residual memory of nursery pastimes and a few battered props – toys, board games – and an occasional pinched expression upon the faces of Amina and Nadia, her successors, both of whom knew quite well that they fell short and for ever would. Yussuf retreated into a premature middle age, spending most of his time with his cronies at the army barracks. The household suppressed the memory of Doreen by becoming as Callimbian as possible.

  Callimbia itself was for the first time independent of foreign domination – assistance, protection, guidance, call it what you will. Callimbians were free to rule Callimbians – or to exploit, oppress and deceive, as the case may be – and set about doing so with gusto. An initially optimistic period under a relatively stable government with an enlightened policy of educational reform and economic expansion gave way to a decade of slithering uncertainty, as one precarious regime succeeded another and the country slid from the post-war boom into debt and insolvency. Corruption became the norm. Here and there fortunes were made and quickly salted away in Swiss banks. The average citizen grew poorer and watched in bewilderment and disillusion as rival parties slanged each other, as yet another heralded saviour fell from power, or disappeared in mysterious circumstances.

  The Americans muscled in, their eye on the strategic possibilities. The Russians and the Chinese slipped into crannies. All three competed in the provision of advisers and technological experts and the supply of various commodities from dried milk to unspecified bulk deliveries of hardware for the heavily guarded research and development sites out in the desert. The oil prospectors, who had been quietly foraging for many a year, suddenly struck lucky. The oil began to gush – albeit in a small way by Middle Eastern standards but liquid gold none the less – and the attentions of those dispassionately concerned about Callimbia’s future were redoubled, along with the furious struggles for power between those Callimbians convinced that they alone were equipped for leadership. By 1990 there had been eight changes of government within the last ten years, four political coups, with and without bloodshed, seven ministerial assassinations and a small revolution. Those Callimbians with long historical memories must have had doubts about the nature of progress.

  Young Omar had followed his father into the armed forces. There, though, the resemblance ended. Yussuf was a punctilious and conscientious officer, a touch unimaginative perhaps, and inclined to emphasize the bureaucratic and disciplinary side of army life, but then he had never been required to go into action and had signed up in the first place in search of a respectable and relatively undemanding occupation. Omar’s military career took a rather different form. He became known for insubordination, deviousness, and a capacity for violence which disturbed even his superiors, who were in the business of producing fighting men. He also appeared to have some charismatic quality. Many feared him; others gravitated towards him. His commanding officers were wary of him and tended to look the other way, in the hope no doubt that a tiresome and vaguely worrying phenomenon will disappear if ignored. A grave mistake. As time went on the intractable and hot-headed cadet became a more disturbing figure, the subversive leader of a claque, the focal point for manic and destructive elements in an already unstable society. It was impossible to identify what he offered, or stood for, to clarify his vision or his political intent. His power and his allure lay simply in furious purpose, a megalomaniac concentration of ambition which mesmerized and ignited his ever-growing cohort of supporters. Those observers who appreciated the situation were chilled.

  Why the union of a meticulously reared English woman and a decent and law-abiding Callimbian should produce a moral renegade must remain a mystery. Suffice it to say that at the age of forty-one Omar, fighting fit, utterly unscrupulous, raving of the national destiny and his own potential, came roaring from the shadows, with perfect timing. The government of the day, a creaky affair ripe for demolition, never really knew what had hit it. Within twenty-four hours Masrun Prison was full, various people were no longer available, Samara Palace, the state broadcasting centre, the airport, the barracks and indeed anywhere of any interest were occupied by friends of Omar, and Omar had declared himself President, Chief of Police and Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces.

  Part Two

  1

  ‘And when would you like to travel?’

  ‘Well, some time in the second week of September. Coming back a fortnight later,’ said Howard.

  Which would get him home nicely in time for the beginning of term. Now that the slog of raising funds was over, the grant in his pocket and the trip within his sights, he felt an almost childish thrill of excitement.

  The woman behind the Lunn Poly counter was scrutinizing her screen. ‘Tuesday the ninth? There’s a 10.30 flight. And a Nairobi–London flight on the twenty-third at midday.’

  ‘That sounds fine.’

  ‘I’ll check availability.’

  There were glossy posters lined up behind her head. Sunset in the Seychelles, Miami Beach. Autumn in Vermont. How little of the world I’ve seen, thought Howard. An assortment of strata, and that’s about it. ‘I’ve never been to Africa before,’ he confided.

  ‘Really?’ said the woman. ‘They have availability. Do you want me to confirm the bookings?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘We shall get the tickets early next week. How do you want to pay?’

  ‘Visa,’ said Howard. ‘I’ll call in for them. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Enjoy your trip.’

  ‘Off again?’ said Lucy’s friend at the travel agency. ‘Nairobi? I thought you said you’d never go near Africa again after that trip to Ibadan.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m skint, and it’s a good commission.’

  ‘And you want something around the middle of the month. Hang on a minute … The fifteenth – how’s that?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  ‘And they have availability. Right. How are you for jabs? You need the lot for there, you know. Typhoid, tetanus … You name it, they’ve got it.’

  ‘I’m probably up to date, but I’ll check.’

  ‘My mum had a typhoid for Singapore,’ said the friend, ‘and actually she needn’t have anyway, and she was ill for three days. What you should do is ask …’

  ‘Oh, God … you’ve reminded me. My mum. It’s her birthday on the eighteenth. Look … is there a flight a few days earlier? Then I could be back in time.’

  ‘Let’s see … Tuesday the ninth
, what about that? 10.30 Heathrow.’

  ‘I’ll take that,’ said Lucy.

  Howard did his packing at the weekend, rearranging everything several times in an unsuccessful attempt to manage with one bag only. The special purchase of short-sleeved cotton shirts and cotton underpants from Marks and Spencer, essential apparently for the heat, of which he had been frequently and fervently warned by his new acquaintance at the Nairobi Natural History Museum, John Olumbo. Some rough gear and his climbing boots, in case there should be a chance for a field trip. Various off-prints and books for which Olumbo had asked. The boots he wrapped in a couple of sheets of the Independent which caught his eye for a moment because of a photograph of the statue of Cleopatra’s sister in Marsopolis. He hadn’t realized Cleopatra had a sister. The accompanying article was about political instability in Callimbia, but he did not read it. He was wondering what he could take Olumbo as a personal gift and eventually settled rather lamely for a bottle of something from the Duty Free.

  Various notebooks and other essential documents went into a small haversack which he would use as a flight bag. He pushed in also a change of shirt, a sweater, and his washing and shaving things, plus a book by a colleague. He would have to pick up some lighter reading matter at Heathrow. Sun-tan lotion and a stick of insect repellent might be a good idea, too. He checked his passport and tickets again. He was looking forward tremendously to this excursion. Whatever awaited him in the Nairobi museum – and undoubtedly these were Burgess Shale animals, though it was difficult to tell at this stage of what significance – it was a chance to go somewhere completely new, to meet new people, Olumbo himself was extremely pleasant. It was the ideal break before the longueurs of the new academic year and the London winter.

  He went over the contents of his case once more, and added a compass and binoculars, with the idea of a field trip still in mind.

  Lucy was working on an article all through the Monday. She finished at about six, faxed it in, and then went to meet some friends for supper. It was after ten when she got home, but the packing took only twenty minutes. She never travelled with more than one bag, of the dimensions acceptable as hand luggage by any airline, and this remained permanently stocked with the essentials of toilet equipment, nightdress, hairdryer. After that it was just a question of adding a small basic wardrobe, adjusted to climatic requirements. Which in this case was wonderfully simple – a cotton skirt and a few tops, a dress lest some more sartorially demanding occasion should turn up, and a couple of pairs of sandals. She would travel, as always, in trousers, T-shirt, sweater and a jacket.

  At 10.30 she rang her mother.

  ‘It’s all right for some,’ said Maureen. ‘Swanning off to tropical islands.’

  ‘This is work, Mum. As usual. And it isn’t a tropical island.’

  After which they discussed other matters until Bruce, who liked to keep early hours, could be heard becoming restive in the background. ‘See you on the eighteenth,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll bring you a coconut for your birthday.’

  She rang off, and set about a final check of the bag. She added a bathing costume and a copy of Anna Karenina. Always advisable to have a long and absorbing book on hand: you never know what will arise by way of delays.

  Howard arrived at Heathrow’s Terminal Three ten minutes ahead of the recommended check-in time, somewhat fazed. The tube had been crowded and he had had to stand for much of the way, astride his two grips and with the haversack slung over his shoulder. But he was in plenty of time, and his flight was on the departure board without indications of delay or disruption. He joined the shortest British Capricorn check-in line.

  ‘Smoking or non-smoking?’

  ‘Non-smoking, please. Window seat if possible.’

  She handed him the boarding pass. ‘39k. Window. Your flight leaves from Gate 19. You’ll be called at around 9.45.’

  He headed for the Duty Free and spent ten minutes trying to decide if Olumbo would prefer whisky or brandy. He then bought a newspaper, and a couple of paperbacks. He also picked up a tube of sun-tan cream and some insect repellent. It was now twenty-five to ten, which should just about give him time for a quick cup of coffee. He dumped his possessions at the only empty table in the cafeteria and lined up at the counter, casting a wary eye from time to time on the haversack, a garish blue nylon job which he had acquired on one of his Canadian trips, the colour deliberately selected with the notion that if he fell down a rock face his corpse would at least be clearly visible to his rescuers.

  Having achieved his coffee, he took off his anorak and settled to his paper, with frequent glances at the departure board. He was an edgy traveller, a legacy perhaps of family journeys in his childhood, when normal practice was to arrive so early for trains that they caught the one before. He therefore saw that CAP 500 had rippled up to the top and signalled boarding before the call came. He rose at once and headed for the departure gates.

  ‘Smoking or non-smoking?’

  ‘Non-smoking. Window, please.’

  ‘Hmmn … Window I can’t do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Lucy. ‘Is the plane on time?’

  ‘It is. No bags to check in?’

  ‘None. Just hand luggage.’

  ‘My …’ said the girl. ‘You’ve got travelling light down to a fine art, haven’t you! Here you go – 39J. Gate 19.’

  ‘Oh … is that an aisle seat?’

  ‘No, it’s centre. Did you want aisle?’

  ‘I’d rather, if you don’t mind. Sorry … I should have said.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll do you another boarding pass. 36H. Have a good trip.’

  Just time for a coffee. She snatched up an armful of papers at the shop and made for the cafeteria. She queued up, and then, coffee in hand, looked round for somewhere to sit. The nearest table was occupied by a solitary man reading an Independent propped on a haversack. Lucy made to sit down on the chair opposite him and then she saw that a table further away was being vacated by an Indian family, so headed for that instead.

  She ignored the first flight call, still busy going through the papers. She was adept at gutting a page of newsprint, isolating what should be read and passing an eye over items that need only be noted. Into this last category came a few lines of an In brief column reporting unrest in the Callimbian capital of Marsopolis. She discarded the papers except for a couple, which she stuffed into her hand grip. They were putting out the final flight call now and she hurried for the gate, having to rush back when she realized that she had left her cherished black leather jacket in the cafeteria. Mercifully it was still there.

  Two hours into the flight they served lunch, and Howard abandoned his efforts to concentrate on his book. He had drawn the short straw so far as seating was concerned, and was landed with a couple of computer salesmen as neighbours. They were now into their third Bloody Mary and a sequence of long anecdotes with inadequate punchlines, to which he was obliged to listen. The only hope for the future seemed to be that the combination of drink and food might render them unconscious for the rest of the flight. He ate his seafood salad and beef stroganoff rather glumly, aware of a headache coming on. His mood of cheerful anticipation was somewhat dampened, but would no doubt recover upon arrival at Nairobi. As soon as the trays had been cleared he got up to stretch his legs and have a wash.

  There was a line for the toilets. He stood looking down through the window on to the carpet of quilted cloud below. Ahead of him was a young woman with short dark curly hair leaning up against a bulkhead reading, he observed, a copy of Anna Karenina. She looked up and caught his eye; Howard concentrated quickly upon the window again, embarrassed to be caught prying.

  The plane seemed pretty full. A cosmopolitan lot, too. There was a clutch of Japanese faces, an Indian enclave with many children whose small heads bobbed up and down among the seats, a lot of Africans. One whole block of seats was occupied by a party of male Americans with old-fashioned crewcuts, whom Howard identified by means of some shrewd e
avesdropping as the staff of a mission school, returning from vacation. He amused himself identifying languages: he listed English, Arabic, Japanese, German, hesitated over something Scandinavian that might be either Swedish or Norwegian, or possibly Danish, guessed at Swahili and then gave up. They were setting things up for the movie now, which with any luck would silence his companions. The Japanese were taking photographs of each other. He headed back to his seat.

  ‘Shit!’ said the girl next to Lucy. ‘It’s that stupid thing about three guys who get landed looking after a baby. I’ve seen it already. If I’d known they’d be showing that I’d have taken the Thursday flight.’

  Lucy smiled noncommittally. She knew by now all about her neighbour’s job at the United States Embassy in Nairobi, about her vacation trip to the Everglades and her boyfriend in the construction business. Anna Karenina had proved an inadequate defence.

  ‘You seen it?’

  ‘No,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘But I think I’ll get some sleep.’ The girl turned disconsolately to the flight magazine in the pouch in front of her. The blinds came down. When Lucy slid a glance sideways, she saw that her neighbour had put on her headphones and was staring at the movie screen. She wondered if she dared switch her light on and return to Anna Karenina.

  Howard dozed. His neighbours were pole-axed by alcohol and snoring, as he had hoped. The plane roared and hummed around him; voices came rooting into his sleep; he still had a headache. An outbreak of turbulence brought him swimming up into consciousness; he opened his eyes and saw the flickering movie screen, figures mouthing and gesticulating. He closed them again and dropped back into that noisy throbbing state of semi-oblivion. He dreamed that he was holding in his hands a plastic model of a Hallucigenia, constructed evidently as a toy. He thought that distant hordes were shouting some refrain, like football mobs.