Читать книгу Far From My Father’s House - Jill McGivering - Страница 12

Chapter 9

Ellen gathered with the international staff at the entrance to the camp. It was early evening. The sunlight was rich and deep. A breeze was blowing unimpeded across the desolate mudflats, fingering the canvas tents and making the edges of plastic sheets flutter. It carried the smell of wood smoke and boiled rice. Families of refugees gathered around low fires and pots, taking their last chance to eat before night plunged the camp into darkness. Outside the entrance, a long desolate trail of families was still in the open, huddled together around bags and belongings, waiting for permission to enter the camp.

A convoy of jeeps arrived, trailing clouds of dust, and the workers piled inside. There was no sign of Frank. Ellen found herself squashed in the back with two Belgians and a Norwegian who spent the journey to the hotel arguing about where to dine that evening. The Chinese restaurant was not good, the Norwegian said; the soup was salty and the noodles were greasy. One of the Belgians had tried the Italian restaurant. He wouldn’t go there again. Pizza, he said, how can anyone go wrong with pizza? What do you need? Dough, tomatoes, a bit of cheese. What’s so difficult? Show him the kitchen, he’d make it himself. The others laughed.

Ellen let the conversation swirl around her. She was thinking about Ibrahim. He had a blanket now and a space inside a communal shelter, just until he found his family. A young aid worker had treated his hands with antiseptic cream and said the burns weren’t severe, they should soon heal.

The driver blasted the horn as he swerved past slower, lower cars and forced young men, perched on motorbikes, to bounce off the dirt track completely and loop out into the scrub.

If she managed to track down Ibrahim’s family, it might make a good piece. It was a human interest angle, a way of getting into the broader refugee crisis. She thought of his wire spectacles and sad eyes. His family could be anywhere. She gripped the roof strap as the car swung off the road.

They’d reached the entrance to The Swan. She’d stayed there before but not for years. Now it was so heavily fortified, she barely recognized it. She peered out at the rows of concrete blast blocks in front of the gates. A reminder of the threat of suicide bombers, she thought. A constant danger now. An armed guard in a badly fitting uniform rapped on the driver’s window, forced him to lower it, then peered round the inside of the jeep. The Belgian next to her stiffened. He muttered something to the Norwegian under his breath.

She looked ahead down the sweeping drive to the hotel itself, a faux French chateau. It was shabbier than she remembered. The stone fountain had run dry, its statues speckled with patches of black and green.

A younger guard, his cap pitched down over his eyes, walked round the jeep with a mirror attached to the bottom of a pole, angling it to check underneath the vehicle’s bodywork for bombs. She wondered how much training they’d had and if they’d recognize a bomb if they saw one. They looked like village boys.

When she finally managed to check in and find her room, she stood under a hot shower for a long time. The cascade of water streamed through her hair and splashed down her body. The tiny bar of hotel soap, the shape of a shell, worked up a good lather. The shampoo was fragrant with jasmine. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about Ibrahim and the others in the camp. The foaming water circled her feet in swirls, then ran off between her toes. She stepped out and groped through the steam for a towel. It was thick and warm.

Afterwards she took a piece of fruit from the complimentary bowl on the coffee table and boiled the kettle for tea. The guilt was familiar. I’m not here to be a refugee, she told herself as she rubbed herself dry and put on a hotel bathrobe. I’m here to report.

She lay on her stomach on one of the twin beds, reached for the television remote and started flicking through the channels. She wondered where Frank was and what time he’d be back. She wanted to talk to him about Ibrahim, to ask his help.

The first three channels were in Urdu: a news broadcast with film of the United Nations; a cartoon; a badly acted soap opera. She could invite Frank to dinner. Her treat. One of the hotel restaurants. Easier and safer than venturing outside.

She found CNN. A panel discussion about the war on drugs. She listened for a minute or two, trying to identify the speakers. Frank must be busy. He’d said they were overwhelmed. She hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived at the camp. She clicked through several sports channels and found HBO. A teen film. Preppy American girls leaning against their lockers in a high-school corridor, giggling together. Maybe Frank wouldn’t feel like meeting up. She’d better leave it. She switched off the set and went to type notes into her laptop about Ibrahim and the never-ending human exodus.

By eight o’clock, she was hungry. She rang down to reception and asked them to put her through to Frank’s room. No answer. She powered down her laptop, realizing she felt disappointed, she’d been looking forward to seeing him.

She headed downstairs. It had once been an imposing lobby but now the fake marble floor was scuffed and cracked. A long reception desk ran down one wall. A glamorous young Pakistani woman was lolling with her elbows on the counter, reading a magazine. Above her, a row of brass-rimmed clocks showed the time in Beijing, Paris, London and New York. Nearby there was a faded marble water feature. A polished ball slowly turned, veiled by a constant curtain of water.

Ellen headed towards the far side of the lobby. An informal dining area had been set out there, carpeted and bordered by a low artificial fence which was threaded with plastic creepers. She chose a table which gave her a good view of the main entrance and ordered a club sandwich and an orange juice.

Most of the tables were empty and the atmosphere was hushed. A compilation of bastardized Western pop was playing, just loud enough to take the edge off the silence. An orchestral version of ‘Yesterday’ flowed over her as she opened her notebook and looked at her rough diagram of the camp.

A few minutes later, Britta came striding in through the main entrance. Her face was strained as she headed for the lifts.

‘Britta!’ Ellen waved her over. She closed her notebook and set it on the table. ‘Come and join me.’

Britta flopped into a chair, dropping her bag, laptop and keys onto the table with a clatter. Her face was flecked with dust. Without her scarf, her hair fell in springy curls round her face, sticking in damp clumps to her forehead and temples. She pulled open the top button of her kameez, loosening the collar. A gold cross on a chain swung at her neck.

Britta was breathing hard. Ellen sat quietly, waiting for her to recover. Had she come straight from the camp? It looked like it. Not very safe, surely, to be there so long after dark.

The glass of orange juice arrived. Ellen peeled the paper wrapping off a straw, put it in the juice and pushed the glass towards Britta. Britta drank it off in one. Ellen ordered two more. Gradually Britta’s breaths became more even. The hard line of her shoulders softened.

The two Belgians walked through the lobby, laughing and talking together. They were heading back to the lifts from the direction of the Italian restaurant. The young woman on reception lifted her head at the noise and watched as they stepped into a lift and disappeared.

‘Another one.’ Britta’s voice shook. ‘The girl you saw. Typhoid fever.’

There was a short silence. So that was why she was so late.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen said. She thought of the small hand with its bitten-down nails. She should have held it.

‘I thought I’d caught her. She had high fever and severe diarrhoea but I put her straight onto antibiotics.’ Britta paused, remembering. ‘She started to fit. Some intestinal haemorrhage, maybe. Then she died.’

Without her scarf and in the artificial light, Britta looked younger, perhaps still in her twenties. She probably hadn’t lost many patients. She hadn’t been a doctor long enough.

‘Two others are very ill. One teenage girl. One old woman. Both have high fever. Fatima is with them. She stays late too often.’ Britta raked her hands through her hair, shook her head. ‘It progresses quickly.’

The waiter came with the sandwich and two more glasses of orange juice.

‘You should be careful.’ Britta mimed washing her hands. ‘Lots of soap, lots of scrub.’

‘Do you think they’re ill before they arrive?’

‘I think so. There must be carriers.’ Britta shrugged. ‘And in these conditions . . .’

Ellen picked up a quarter of the club sandwich, a high stack of chicken, bacon, egg and salad. Enough to feed a family. She bit into it, oozing mayonnaise.

Britta was staring into middle distance, her green eyes glassy with exhaustion. ‘She just didn’t respond.’

Ellen nodded. She chewed slowly, thinking. ‘By the time they reach you, these women are exhausted,’ she said. ‘As well as traumatized. And you don’t know how long they’ve been ill.’

Britta tutted. ‘Fatima says they’re afraid of the hospital. You know how rumours spread.’ She sighed. ‘Some woman saw the body being taken out this afternoon and caused a panic.’

Ellen pointed to the sandwich. ‘You’re going to have to help me out,’ she said. ‘There’s far too much.’

Britta looked at the sandwich, then at her hands. The creases in her palms were black with dirt. ‘Thank you, but I should go and wash.’ She didn’t move.

‘Is Frank still there?’

‘In the camp?’ She sighed. ‘I think so.’ She leant forward, bracing herself to get up, then seemed to lose heart and sank back into her seat.

The lobby rang with a sudden burst of music, a brassy jazz rendition of ‘New York, New York’. The handful of diners looked around as the head waiter rushed to lower the volume and the music slid again under the low hum of conversation.

‘I spoke to my boss in Geneva,’ Britta said. ‘You know what he said? If many more people die, don’t tell about it.’

‘People need to know, Britta.’

‘Do they?’ She looked startled as if she’d only just realized that she was confiding in a journalist. ‘That big potato is coming. What’s his name? The British guy.’

‘Quentin Khan?’

‘Yes, Mr Khan. He’s very careful about his image. Too many deaths, he’ll be scared away. That’s what my boss says.’ Britta’s hand had risen to her cross and she was clasping it in her fist, tugging at it. ‘We need the money. Medicine International isn’t big. Frankly speaking, we had problems before this typhoid. As it is, I hardly have the money to pay for Fatima.’

‘You’re worn out.’ Ellen looked at the tension in Britta’s face. ‘Go and have a hot bath. Eat something. Sleep. You’ve done all you can for today.’

Britta pointed to the laptop. ‘I can’t.’ She looked close to tears. ‘I have so much paperwork. Accounts. Orders.’

She pulled herself to her feet, picked up her things and murmured goodnight. Her steps to the lifts were slow and heavy.

At ten, Ellen paid the bill and went back upstairs. She was just getting ready for bed when the phone rang. The voice at the other end was playful.

‘Hey, Ellie. What’s up?’

She smiled at her own fuzzy reflection in the television set, a woman on the brink of middle age looking back at her with bright, amused eyes. ‘I’m going to bed. It’s late. How’re you doing?’

He snorted. ‘Just great.’

There was a pause. The phone line seemed to magnify the sound of his breathing. She thought of all the hours they used to spend on the phone together, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. A long time ago.

‘Am I coming up then? Just for a drink. No fooling around.’

‘Dead right no fooling around.’ She laughed. It was fun, hearing him again. ‘Give me one good reason why I should say yes?’

He slowed his voice to a stagey drawl. ‘I got Scotch.’

She drew back the curtains and switched off the hotel lights and they sat, side by side, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows across suburban Peshawar. The road alongside the hotel was a necklace of streetlights, studded with moving cars. House lights blinked randomly in the darkness. In the distance, a blue neon sign spluttered on and off. I should tape the window, she thought, in case there’s a blast. That’s a lot of flying glass.

The whisky was smooth and mellow. She let it roll over her tongue. It stung slightly, then slipped down her throat. The lights outside began to blur.

‘So what happened?’ she said.

He exhaled heavily as if he’d been punctured. ‘It’s a mess.’ He paused. She sensed his tiredness as he let himself start to unwind. ‘There’s lots more people on the way. And not enough food for the ones we already got.’

‘Any idea how many people?’

He shrugged. ‘All we’ve seen is the first wave. The army’s barely in the foothills.’ He slipped off his sandals and crossed his legs, laying an ankle on the opposite knee and pointing the bare sole of his foot towards her. The black hairs above his ankles showed beneath the baggy bottoms of his jeans. He smelt clean, tinged with the perfume of hotel soap.

‘I saw a lot of boxes arriving.’

He raised his glass to his lips, sipped. ‘Not as many as there should be.’

‘Well, there’s always a time lag. Once news of the appeal—’

‘I didn’t mean that.’ He was staring out into the darkness, preoccupied. She sipped at her whisky, giving him time. It burnt its way down her throat and into her stomach and spread there, warming and numbing. It wasn’t easy to get alcohol here. It was a treat. ‘Seems like there’s a ton of stuff missing,’ he said slowly. ‘Tents. Sugar. Rice. You name it.’