Cause Celeb (29 page)

I
f we crash, can I eat you?” asked Oliver.

It was Saturday and the Nambulan Airways jet had heaved itself into the air only five and a half hours after the scheduled takeoff time. A range of unnatural engine sounds was making the cabin shudder, and a high tinnitus whine, which the stewardess had announced would cease after takeoff, was surprising no one by failing to cease.

A shot of our plane appeared on the video screens now, only to plunge to the bottom of the screen with the rest of the shot, followed by a flickering white line and a new shot of a glamorous waterskiing man, dark hair blowing back in the wind, taking one hand off the rope to wave and smile at the camera. The shot widened to reveal the water skier skimming past the mudflats of the river in central El Daman. He was balancing on one leg now, with the tiny figures of basking crocodiles just recognizable in the background. For a moment I was mesmerized by this vision of Nambula as a playboy's hot spot, until the water skier suffered the same fate as the plane, to be replaced by the flickering white line, and, this time, a desert sunset, Arabic music, a nomad silhouetted on a camel, and the mountains of Sidra behind. I felt a great rush of joy at the sight. I glanced across at Kate Fortune, wondering if she was sharing my joy.

Possibly not. Kate was wearing the same pale, shocked expression she had been wearing since she entered the plane to find herself
seated beside a wizened man in a very dirty djellaba, who was holding a newspaper parcel full of eggs. She was playing a complicated psychological game with him over the armrest. She took hold of the peach gabardine of her sleeve, moved it away from the once-white cotton of his sleeve, and lifted her eyes to his face, pointedly. The man looked at her, looked down at his sleeve and back at her with puzzlement. Then still looking at her, he reached into the fold of his djellaba, took out a handful of leaves and put them into his mouth.

“Excuse me.”

Julian was sandwiched between two Nambulan women who were even larger than him. They were swathed in the colorful, musk-infused robes of newlyweds.

“Excuse me.” Julian was trying to get the attention of the stewardess, who looked at him with a bored expression and stayed where she was.

The djellabaed old man was reaching into his mouth now, which was stained red, with bits of leaf protruding from his lips. He stuck his thumb and forefinger inside, took out a gobbet of chewed-up leaf, smiled endearingly, and offered the gobbet to Kate. For a moment I saw the Fortune face break into the first natural smile I had ever seen on it.

“Excuse me.”

Julian was attempting to squeeze his enormous body past one of the brides. Through a combination of climbing and squashing he managed to extract himself and made his way up to the stewardess, who, along with everyone else in the cabin, was watching him suspiciously.

“Excuse me? Is it possible to move up to first class now?” said Julian discreetly.

“No first class,” said the stewardess loudly.

“Shhh. Yes, there is, I can see it through the curtain,” said Julian, looking nervously around the cabin.

“No first class.”

“The lady we spoke to at the check-in desk, Mrs. Karar, said we could move up to first class after takeoff,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

“You sit down.”

“We're with the television.” Julian did an incomprehensible mime. “Me very large. First class?”

“Where is your ticket?”

Julian fumbled in his pocket. “Blast.”

A roll of twenty-dollar bills fell onto the floor. A thin man in a brown polyester jacket with a hole in the elbow bent down and gave them back to him.

“Thanks. Blast.”

Eventually he produced the ticket, and handed it to the stewardess.

“Television. We raise money for refugees,” he said, rubbing his stomach hungrily. “First class?”

The stewardess was staring at the ticket.

“Mrs. Karar . . .” Julian began again.

“This free ticket,” said the stewardess.

“Yes. That's right. You see Nambulan Airways gave me a free ticket because we're doing a broadcast to help Nambula, which is why Mrs. Karar said I could go into first class,” he said, bright red now.

“You are not having paid for this ticket. You sit down now.”

There was a ripple of laughter from the cabin, as Julian struggled back to his seat, looking mortified.

“Excuse me.”

The stewardess lifted her chin at Oliver.

“Could you bring me a Scotch and soda?”

“No alcohol.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Nambula is Moslem country. Alcohol is not allowed.”

Oliver looked at me with a gleam of pure panic in his eye.

“Have we got any Scotch with us?”

“No.”

“WHAT?”

There was a pause.

“I've forgotten my sunglasses,” he said.

“Oh dear,” I replied.

Another pause.

“Damn,” he said.

I sighed. “What is it now?”

“Sunblock. Forgotten it,” said Oliver.

“Just wear a hat.”

A docile calm had settled over the cabin, as happens in the mysterious rhythm of airline journeys. Corinna Borghese was sleeping under an eye mask which was smeared with pale-green gel. Vernon was dozing, with a half bottle of whisky openly resting on his paunch. I had seen him paying off the stewardess. Oliver was beside himself with mixed emotions, wanting some of the whisky but not wanting to admit that Vernon had been smarter than him, still going on about his sunglasses.

It was a curious bridge between the two worlds—this apparently modern jet where nothing worked anymore, odors of goat and musk wafting around Marks and Spencer's business suits, and unfathomable objects wrapped in newspaper and string tumbling from the overhead lockers onto the heads of the passengers below. It was around this point when every item in your bag became precious and irreplaceable; when you remembered that total availability of all things at all times was not a universal state, and started to panic slightly. It was the beginning of the slippery slide away from bursting schedules, clockwatching and rush, as well as order, efficiency and logic.

I settled back, enjoying a hiccup of freedom. No phone call could reach us here. Ten hours in which to rest. The day before had been a bloody nightmare, every minute bursting with too many tasks. At five-thirty, stuck in a traffic jam in a taxi with a list of eighteen things to buy before six, I had torn a hole in my tights with my own hand.

Just as everyone had got off to sleep, the stewardess appeared with an evil-smelling trolley. Oliver lowered his table and drummed his fingers on it expectantly. As the stewardess reached us, she handed me my food and banged Oliver's down on the table.

“Excuse me,” he said to her retreating back, removing the lid without looking. “Excuse me.”

I saw it happening too late. The table was not level. The tray was just leaving the edge. I made a lunge towards Oliver's lap and my hand was covered in what I can only describe as loose brown stools.

Our Nambulan fellow travelers were enjoying the entertainment very much. Oliver was standing in the aisle, dabbing angrily at a brown stain which extended from halfway down his crisp white shirt to the crotch of his fine dark navy trousers.

“Where is the senior steward?” he was saying to the stewardess, who was holding out a grubby napkin impassively. “Where is the airline representative? This is completely absurd! I can't travel like this! I need a change of clothes!”

“First class.” Julian was standing behind him supportively. “You must move him to first class.”

“Come on, get your kegs off, lad, give us all a laugh,” Vernon beamed. “Get one of them Nambulan nighties on.”

At that moment Corinna appeared behind the stewardess looking alarmed.

“The lavatory's blocked,” she said. “The stench is intolerable.”

“First class?” said Julian, hopefully.

The next morning I awoke in the El Daman Hilton, three weeks to the day since I had left Nambula. It was a Sunday. The broadcast was scheduled for four o'clock the following Wednesday. The performances had all been recorded. And Dinsdale and Barry were going to present the show live from London, with inserts beamed live by satellite from Safila, all being well.

It was a worry. Too much was hanging on it. The refugee column should be arriving any time now and rations would be more or less on naught. With the food we had brought we could save the situation for, maybe, a week. After that everything depended on us—unless the long-promised ship managed to turn up. Circle Line had another plane standing by in London. Food was ready to be loaded. All we needed was enough credit-card donations on Wednesday night and then regular airlifts could run till the danger was over. If the broadcast went smoothly, everything should be fine.

The El Daman Hilton had given us rooms at a discount, which was a treat for me. The foyer was the epicenter of the better-off ex-pat community in El Daman. Airline crews, diplomats, UN and EEC aid officials met in this little haven of the West to play tennis, swim, drink fruit punch and swap gossip. Among the nongovernmental aid workers, spending time at the Hilton was considered a sinful sellout. It was deemed much more appropriate to hang out in the dubious and stenchful restaurant of the Hotel El Souk. But given a respectable excuse, like a foreign journalist to meet, we'd all be straight in the Hilton pool like a shot.

I came down to the foyer at eight o'clock, having made full use of all toiletry items including the bubble bath and shower cap, asked the chambermaid for extras, and secreted them in my bag for the Safila showers. The celebs were asleep in their rooms. I was looking for the camera crew, a cameraman, a soundman and an assistant, and the
News
photographer. They, together with Edwina Roper, our minder from SUSTAIN, had drawn the short straw and ended up having to travel in the cargo plane. They should have landed yesterday afternoon, but none of them had checked in. I asked for any messages at reception. There were two. The first was from Malcolm.

GREETINGS TO YOU AND THE FLYING CIRCUS
.
SORRY HAVE HAD TO DEPART
,
URGENT
,
PORT NAMBULA
.
NO TIME TO ARRANGE PERMISSIONS
.
BEST OF LUCK
.
MALCOLM
.

Great. The second was from Patterson, the British consul.

YOUR CAMERA CREW AND SENIOR PERSONNEL OFFICER HAVE BEEN DETAINED AT THE AIRPORT
.
SORRY
,
UNABLE TO ASSIST TODAY AS MY WIFE IS UNWELL
.
HAVE ARRANGED FOR YOU TO SEE GENERAL FAROUK
,
HEAD OF SECURITY AT THE CENTRAL SECURITY OFFICE AT 9
:
00 A
.
M
.

I looked at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Better move, I thought, but we hadn't organized any vehicles yet. Just then, André from the UNHCR appeared through the revolving door.