Cleopatra's Sister Page 15

  ‘Are you married … or anything?’

  ‘No. Neither married nor anything.’ She paused. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me neither.’

  She kept her eyes sternly upon the turbulent room and, imperceptibly, sighed. Molly Wright was busily talking to people, and seemed to be making a list. The nuns had emerged from their isolation and were improvising entertainment for the children. I am in a place I never wanted to come to, Lucy thought, apparently imprisoned and thoroughly uncomfortable, and yet I feel … happy.

  Howard also sighed, an involuntary release of stress which he turned into a discreet cough. The husbands, lovers, partners and attachments for whom he had already devised physical attributes and lifestyles evaporated in a trice. How amazing, he thought. How incredible.

  ‘It’s my mum’s birthday at the end of the week,’ said Lucy. ‘I hope we’ll be back by then.’

  ‘I’m sure we will. God knows what these people think they’re at, but I imagine the wires are humming out there and sooner or later they’ll come to their senses and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘And you’ll be able to get down to your fossils in Nairobi at last.’

  ‘I suppose I will,’ said Howard.

  ‘As though none of this had happened.’

  ‘On the contrary. It will inform subsequent events. Everything does.’

  ‘You mean you’ll always notice what’s going on in Callimbia, and you’ll make a point of never taking a holiday in Marsopolis?’

  ‘That. And I’ll never feel the same about military brass bands. And I shall get a new anorak in case I ever again need to lend one out as a blanket. And …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And if this hadn’t happened I wouldn’t have met you.’

  ‘Nor you would,’ said Lucy breezily. ‘Actually, I very nearly took a flight last week. I was just booking it and then I remembered about Mum’s birthday, and needing to be back in time.’

  ‘Thank goodness for your mother, then.’

  They looked, now, at each other, and at once had to look away again.

  ‘My mum got married recently, she …’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m being …’

  ‘Medical conditions and dietary requirements?’ said Molly Wright, looming suddenly over them. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but it seemed a good idea to get together a dossier and a list of demands. We’ve got a diabetic and a chap with a heart condition plus a pregnant lass and a three-year-old with diarrhoea. The mothers are running out of disposable nappies and if either of you happen to have any antihistamine on you one of the children has a bee-sting. Both of you in good nick yourselves, are you? Jolly good. Would you like to try your charms on our friend at the door, my dear, and see if he’ll turn this blasted racket down some more. It’s driving people crazy.’

  There was a different soldier now on guard duty, a pale, thin man with a face like a Byzantine icon, in utter contrast to the ebony-skinned broad-featured person who had preceded him. You could get interested in this, Lucy thought, this jumble of people, which means something, which is a code, which tells a whole story that you cannot understand. She gestured towards the amplifier, and made damping down motions with her hands. ‘Please … Music too much. Too loud. Too much noise.’

  The icon stared at her, impassive.

  She decided to change tack. ‘I want to go to the toilet.’

  The icon ushered her through the door and shouted for a colleague. The washroom was by now disgusting, the floor soaking wet, and the lavatory pan encrusted with faeces. When Lucy had finished she peered out of the small window, which offered a different view of the compound. Beyond the fence was a field with a crop of scraggy beans. A donkey trotted along a track, followed by a man who flicked idly at its legs with a switch. Somewhere out there ordinary life was going on; there were people for whom this view was quotidian, unexceptional, who were thinking about the day’s work or the housekeeping bills.

  The soldier waiting outside the door had aquiline features, a copious moustache and mild brown eyes. Lucy said, ‘How many people live in Marsopolis?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Never mind.’ She pointed into the washroom. ‘Very nasty in there. Dirty. Ugh! It should be cleaned.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said the soldier.

  Returning to the room, she saw it suddenly with astonishment – the figures heaped about the floor, the fretting children, the glazed expressions on faces. How could she have been pitched into this place? What was she doing here? What were any of them doing here? In the mind’s eye she saw these same people the day before, unwrapping their airline meals, switching on headphones, flicking through magazines. How could a single day be so treacherous? She felt unsteady and stood still for a moment, gathering herself. The music continued to trumpet forth and the noise made her suddenly furious. She eyed the instrument, identified the volume control, stepped up to it and turned the sound down to an endurable low thump.

  The sentry instantly leapt towards her, shouting. He shouldered her aside, adjusted the volume to the previous pitch, wagged a finger angrily at Lucy and returned to his post.

  ‘Well tried, dear,’ said Molly Wright. ‘Orders is orders, clearly. Now I’m going to have a go at him about the disposable nappies. And some cold drinks before we get dehydrated.’

  The day inched onward. At noon a meal of sorts appeared – bread sticks filled with dry and curling slabs of cheese, hardboiled eggs and bottles of fizzy soft drink. The sun was by now beating on the windows; some of the blankets were made into improvised blinds. From time to time there were outbursts of activity beyond the room; vehicles came and went, boots clattered in the corridor, instructions were shouted. On several occasions there was another sound, much more distant and hard to identify through the crashing from the amplifier.

  ‘That is gunfire, isn’t it?’ said Lucy.

  ‘I think so,’ said Howard.

  Successive sentries were subjected to a barrage of requests, mostly to no avail. A supply of nappies appeared, but pleas for permission to exercise in the compound in small escorted parties were repeatedly refused. By late afternoon despondency began to set in as the prospect loomed of a second night in the barrack-like room.

  It became dusk. The sodium lights were turned on around the perimeter fence. And then the door opened and an officer snapped out an order to the soldier on duty, who sprang to attention, rushed over to the amplifier and switched it off. The silence was startling.

  Everyone watched the door, which had been left open. A man came in. He wore civilian dress – an immaculate and exquisitely fitting grey suit, white shirt with gold cufflinks and silk tie with fleur-de-lis motif. A perfect triangle of white silk handkerchief jutted from his breast pocket. The passengers of CAP 500, dirty, dishevelled and red-eyed with exhaustion, stared at him sullenly.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am instructed by the government of Callimbia to welcome you to Marsopolis. It will be necessary to delay your departure a little longer owing to continuing disturbances in the country which have affected communications. However, I can assure you that everything possible is being done to make your stay in Callimbia as pleasant as possible. You will shortly be taken from this hospitality centre to alternative accommodation which I am sure you will find agreeable. Thank you.’

  There was a momentary silence, and then a barrage of query and objection. James Barrow pushed to the front and confronted the visitor.

  ‘That isn’t good enough. Why haven’t we been allowed access to our embassy? We have been locked up in this dump for twenty-four hours with inadequate facilities and no information whatsoever. Why have our passports been removed? Why were we searched?’

  Calloway broke in. ‘What is your status? Do you represent the Callimbian government?’

  ‘I am an interpreter.’

  ‘Then we demand to speak to a government representative, in the presence of an official from our embassy.’

  ‘That will not be necess
ary,’ said the interpreter. ‘The arrangements have been made. Please take your luggage and proceed to the transport which is waiting.’ He left the room.

  People began to gather up their possessions. There was a babble of speculation, but also an atmosphere of weary relief.

  ‘At least we’re getting out of this dump.’

  ‘This bloke does seem as though he knows what’s going on, anyway.’

  ‘So long as we get a decent bed tonight …’

  The group straggled out of the building and on to the tarmac, where they were processed into three minibuses. The interpreter stood at the entrance to the building, supervising the departure. He listened gravely to each query and returned the same reply: ‘Unfortunately I am not in a position to give that information.’

  Howard and Lucy were among the last to leave. They got into the front seat of the third minibus. The interpreter had gone back into the building. Soldiers stood around; each minibus was equipped with a driver and an armed companion in the passenger seat.

  The interpreter re-emerged. He inspected the minibuses and then climbed in alongside Howard and Lucy, placing himself at the far end of their seat and issuing a brisk order to the driver.

  They drove out of the compound, followed by the other two buses.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Howard.

  ‘Unfortunately I am not in a position to give that information.’

  ‘Are we going somewhere else in Marsopolis?’

  ‘Marsopolis is a very ancient and beautiful city. There are a number of Greek and Roman remains and the harbour is most interesting. The coastal scenery is extremely pleasant.’

  They were now passing through an industrial development – shabby factory buildings and warehouses interspersed with smallholdings.

  ‘Callimbia has today an important industry of light engineering. You see there the state battery component factory. There is also considerable export of dates, oranges and olive oil.’

  ‘What is the average per capita income?’ said Lucy. ‘What proportion of children are in secondary education? Is there an agricultural co-operative system?’

  The interpreter shot her a startled glance. ‘These questions are difficult to answer.’

  The industrial hinterland gave way to a suburban sector with apartment blocks and small villas and then to a densely built-up area with narrow streets, shops and offices. The minibus rounded a corner and came to an abrupt halt. An army truck was slewed across the street. Beyond could be seen a car with soldiers clustered around it, intent in some way upon those within.

  The driver of the minibus hesitated, his hand on the gear lever. Howard and Lucy, staring over his shoulder, saw that a pair of trousered legs hung from one of the open doors of the car. And now the soldiers were hauling a man from the passenger seat. His face was momentarily visible between them, bright with blood. And they were bundling him, doubled up, towards the truck.

  The minibus driver began simultaneously to reverse and to signal to his colleagues behind to do the same. The convoy backed from the street.

  ‘The driver has taken a bad route,’ explained the interpreter. ‘We go another way.’

  Howard, craning over his shoulder, saw that the soldiers had now pulled a limp body from the car and dumped it in the gutter.

  ‘These disturbances you’ve been having here – are there many people killed or injured?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said the interpreter. ‘I am sure that is not likely.’

  They turned into a wide boulevard lined with trees and shady pavements. Most of the shops had shutters pulled down. The cafés had chairs stacked upon the tables; from the only one apparently doing business a solitary man drinking coffee stared with interest at the minibuses. The traffic was sparse; military vehicles were conspicuous. A posse of soldiers was shovelling rubble from the façade of a damaged building.

  ‘What was the cause of the disturbances?’ said Lucy.

  The interpreter paused. He seemed about to give his routine reply, and then apparently changed his mind. He spoke almost confidentially. ‘Unfortunately there were people in this country who were opposed to change. It has been necessary to remove some personnel. And as a result there were those who made difficulties. It is a local problem and has been satisfactorily handled by the authorities. The people making difficulties are not doing so any more. Ah!’ His tone became brisker. ‘Now we are entering the central square of Marsopolis. You will see that there are many fine buildings. And in the centre you see the statue of Cleopatra’s sister, Queen Berenice. It is the work of a very famous French sculptor. Please look. Berenice was the most beautiful woman of her day and had many lovers, among them Alexander the Great.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Lucy. ‘They didn’t live at the same time.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the interpreter. ‘I do not know so much about historical things. I studied engineering at Cambridge University. Do you perhaps know Professor Wilcox?’

  ‘No.’

  The interpreter was looking intently at Howard now. ‘I think you are a university professor, yes? Mr Bealish?’

  ‘My name’s Howard Beamish. I work at Tavistock College in London.’

  How does he know who is who? thought Howard. Oh … the passports, of course. There’s been some careful scrutiny going on.

  ‘London also has very distinguished universities. I was for four years in Cambridge and then for two years in London. I know your country very well.’

  The bus was now circling the square, in the centre of which Cleopatra’s sister was enthroned upon a plinth, a sumptuous figure, one bare breast jutting from marble drapery, one hand languidly trailing a fan of palm leaves.

  ‘I am very familiar with the British way of life,’ continued the interpreter. ‘I think British people are very nice. Most friendly. I am sending still a card every year to my landlady in Cambridge.’

  ‘If you have such a high opinion of us,’ said Howard, ‘you could demonstrate it by giving us some more straightforward information and a telephone line to our embassy.’

  ‘Ah …’ The interpreter shrugged delicately. ‘I am obliged to carry out instructions, you understand. I can assure you that the situation is entirely under control. There is no cause for concern. Soon there will be full information, I am sure.’ He straightened his tie, brushed a fleck from a sleeve, and stared ahead. ‘In a minute we reach our destination. Please look down this street and at the end you see the flag flying upon Samara Palace, the residence of the head of state of the Callimbian nation.’ He spoke in tones of deep respect.

  The minibuses were now proceeding up a wide boulevard flanked with shops, banks and cafés. Parallel lines of tamarisk trees converged upon some distant edifice. And then they swung suddenly off the street and into the awning-covered forecourt of a substantial building. There was a waiting group of military, who leapt forward to open the doors of the buses. The passengers of CAP 500 clambered out, staring round them with expressions of mounting relief as they recognized the reassuring furnishings of a luxury hotel – the dripping foliage of carefully tended pot plants, the revolving doors with carpeted approach, the brass, the marble, the curtained windows.

  ‘The Excelsior Hotel,’ said the interpreter, ‘has been temporarily requisitioned to provide accommodation for passengers from CAP 500.’

  The group, however, was already advancing eagerly up the steps, and few heard him.

  4

  They rapidly established that the Excelsior Hotel was equipped with a swimming-pool (empty), a sauna (inoperative), a bar (closed) and a skeleton staff of uncommunicative attendants. But there were rooms, there was food, and there was space. These benefits were seized upon with positive gratitude. As though, Lucy thought, it were generous of the Callimbians to provide them.

  All floors of the hotel but one were empty and barred off. They were allocated rooms on the one surviving functional floor and told that a meal would be provided shortly. Lucy bathed and washed her hair. It was q
uite dark now. She looked out of the window, saw street lights and the occasional passing car, but sensed as on the drive to the hotel a city which breathed softly, in which many people were silent and careful behind closed doors. She felt suddenly leaden with tiredness, and looked with longing at the bed.

  When she returned to the ground floor she found everyone else already assembled in the dining-room, where a single long table had been laid and dinner was in the process of being served. Lucy joined Howard, James Barrow, Calloway and Molly Wright at one end of the table and found them taking stock. The interpreter had apparently vanished; none of the staff knew where he was or when he might return. The hotel was guarded by soldiers on every side. Every telephone was out of use. Anyone attempting to leave the building was firmly turned back by the military.

  ‘And where the hell are the other groups?’ said Barrow. ‘Where are the Yanks? The rest of the plane, for that matter?’

  ‘In different hotels?’

  ‘Why, in that case? This one is empty except for us.’

  ‘Not in Marsopolis any more?’ suggested Howard thoughtfully. ‘Gone home. Or on to Nairobi.’

  ‘At this precise moment,’ said Molly Wright. ‘I don’t care. All I want is to crash out. That bathroom is pure paradise. And this is the best prawn cocktail I’ve ever tasted.’

  Around the table, the prevailing mood was one of weary acceptance. Most people disappeared to their rooms as soon as the meal was over. James Barrow engaged in a long and ultimately fruitless negotiation with the head waiter in pursuit of a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Not even for $50! Either these people are genuinely incorruptible or they’re scared stiff.’

  ‘The latter, I imagine,’ said Calloway.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing for it but bed, in that case, I suppose. And to think I walked around the bloody Duty Free at Heathrow and thought, no – I don’t need to lumber myself … God!’

  Howard and Lucy travelled up together in the lift. When they got out he turned to her. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got a bottle of whisky in my haversack. I felt unspeakably mean but … well, the last thing I need right now is an all-night drinking session. But if you’d like …’