Cause Celeb (32 page)

“I think we should get everyone together and have a talk before we get to Safila,” I said. “It will be easier for everyone if we explain a few things.”

“Well, don't look at me,” he said. “I want to go home. Now.”

I decided to try Vernon instead. He was eating meat stew from a metal tray with a piece of bread. Gravy was dribbling down his chin and a piece of gristle had lodged itself in the cunt tickler.

“I think we should get everyone together and tell them what to expect before we get to Safila.”

“Bloody right,” he said pushing the plate away. “Bloody right. Look at 'em. Bloody shower. Look at that bloody Oxbridge wanker lying on the Land Cruiser. Let's kick some sense into 'em. Basic rule with Johnny African—show 'im who's boss, don't converse except
to give orders, don't give 'im a bloody penny. Don't you worry, my love. I'll give 'em a good talking to.”

“On second thoughts,” I said looking at my watch, “maybe we'd better get moving and do it when we get there. Yes, I'm sure that's best. Jolly good. Excellent. I'll get everyone going.”

I put myself in the cab of the first lorry. When Safila village came into view on the horizon I stopped the convoy, got everyone out and started my speech before Vernon knew what was happening.

“So, to recap,” I was explaining to a resentful-looking team, “we are going into a very extreme situation and we should be prepared to see some very upsetting things. There could be five, ten thousand people starving in the camp. They have no food other than what we have brought, so you might see some fights over the distribution, but try to understand why that happens. They are utterly dependent on the success of our broadcast. But we must remember that they are human beings and individuals who deserve to maintain their dignity. They will expect you to treat them with the same respect which the SUSTAIN personnel have been showing them for many years. The SUSTAIN team are extremely sensitive and absolutely exhausted—so please try to treat them delicately too. Thank you.”

“I look forward to meeting your team of sensitive, exhausted neocolonialists,” murmured Corinna, with a smile as everyone dispersed. “Maybe they'll make me alter my view.”

“Rosie, old girl!” Henry was bellowing, charging across the compound with a grin stretching from ear to ear. Kate, Corinna and I had speeded on ahead of the rest of the convoy.

“Bloody marvelous to see you,” he went on. “Bloody goddess-free zone without you. All gone to rack and ruin down the old black hole of Calcutta. Hello!” he said, seeing Kate and Corinna. “Ding dong! More goddesses. Welcome to Safila.”

Corinna had stopped in her tracks and was staring disbelievingly at Henry. “Kamal!” he bellowed towards the cabana, where our Kamal was crouched over the stove. “Dish up some tiffin, old boy, will you?”

Kamal beamed and waved. “Very good,” he shouted. “I am making tiffin for you. Welcome, welcome.”

Corinna removed her sunglasses, looked at me, looked at Kamal and then back at me.

“Henry,” I said hurriedly. “This is Corinna Borghese and Kate Fortune. Kate, Corinna, Henry is our assistant administrator. Henry is running the camp,” I said, remembering I had no job now.

“Absolutely charming, delighted, delighted,” Henry said, putting out his hand to Kate, who seemed not to notice. She was staring distractedly at the huts, her hands fluttering everywhere, like moths. I wanted to go straight down to the camp. I didn't want to mess around. I could hardly bear to ask Henry how bad things were. He was trying to put his old brave, flip face on things but I could tell he was struggling. There were bags under his eyes and he was pale and drawn.

“How is it down there?” I said quietly.

“Pretty damn good, actually,” he said, brightening. “Bloody lot better than when you left, in fact. You heard we got some food from the EEC?”

I stared at him, speechless.

“We got a big delivery five days ago. Just when we were running out. They'd found it in a grain store in El Fayed. So we've put everyone on supplement.”

“Why didn't you let us know? Why didn't they know in El Daman?”

“Because it came from somewhere in the north. The radio's still down. I sent a message in the pouch but—”

“Haven't the new refugees arrived?”

“No. Bloody odd, actually. Haven't seen hide nor hair of 'em. Muhammad reckons it's because as soon as they started trying to cross the plains, the Aboutians started bombing them. So they've bedded down in the highlands. Have you got Security with you, by the way?”

“We've got a couple of minders. Why?” I was trying to make sense of what he had told me. It didn't add up. I'd seen those people. There were too many of them just to bed down. Maybe some
foreign aid had reached them through Abouti. But
how
, if the Aboutians were attacking them?

Henry was still talking about Security. “Their plane landed near the village a while ago. I thought they'd come to meet you.”

“What did we get from the EEC?” I said.

“Dried milk powder, oil, soya mix and the drugs.”

“How much?”

“We should be able to hold on till the ship comes.”

“How come they didn't tell us it was there before?”

“They didn't know. Stocktaking error or something.”

Corinna laughed incredulously. “Well,” she said. “Shall we turn round and go home now?”

Kamal was walking towards us beaming. “You are welcome,” he was saying. “Your tiffin is ready and waiting.”

Corinna took off her sunglasses and looked at me hard. “Is this man,” she hissed, “your servant?”

I
pulled up at the top of the hill overlooking the camp. Some children were running along a path towards the river. Goats were sprawling over a hummock, tugging at a bush. Figures moved lazily across the plain. It all looked much the same as before the crisis. I was glad that they were safe—but I didn't half feel a prat.

I had left Henry trying to find somewhere for Kate to plug in her hair dryer, with strict instructions for him to keep the Charitable Acts contingent busy in the compound when they arrived and not to let any of them come down to the camp yet. I put the truck in gear and started down the steep track, skidding slightly in the sand. As I got to the bottom the kids started running towards the truck, cheering and waving.

I parked and walked towards the hospital surrounded by boisterous kids. They weren't back to normal yet, still too thin. But Henry was right, they were much better. Once everyone was eating properly, and drugged up, and the organization was back on course, you could bring things back under control pretty quickly. Henry had done a good job. Maybe they didn't need me anymore.

Betty appeared fussily at the entrance to the hospital. She was wearing her best pink souk-tailored pajama outfit. “Hello, dear. Did you have a wonderful time? Do you know, I can't tell you how dreadful it's been for us here. Quite dreadful. We've been working
right round the clock,
hardly
stopping for meals. You look marvelous. Did you have a good rest?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said.

“You've timed it beautifully. We've just got ourselves sorted out, so we can take it a bit more easy. Did Henry tell you about the EEC food? He's been wonderful. He organized the most marvelous feeding program as soon as we got delivery. He's been working his fingers to the bone, that boy. O'Rourke's been wonderful too. What a strong, capable man he is. Have you brought your celebrity friends to see us?”

“Yes. And forty tons of food.”

“Well, I'm sure it'll all come in useful,” she said, without much conviction. “It'll be super to meet our famous chums anyway. We're going to make them ever so welcome—give them a taste of bush life! Kamal's going to make us a picnic to take to the river, just like old times.”

I forcibly removed from my mind a vision of Corinna participating in this event. “How's the hospital?” I said, walking towards the entrance.

“Oh,
much
better now,” she said.

Debbie and Sian came rushing out and we hugged each other. “Have you heard about all this food appearing out of thin air?” said Debbie.

“Yes, I heard.”

“Have you brought . . .?”

“I've brought the celebrities. And a planeload of food.”

“Sod's law,” said Debbie. “Well . . . you know . . . if the EEC food hadn't come, or if the refugees had, then we would have been desperate for it.”

“But it has, and they didn't, so it looks like we're not,” I said, ruefully.

“Well . . . it was still a nice thing to do.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound grateful.

“That food'll be gone in two weeks. You've done the right thing,” said Debbie.

The three of us went round the beds. The crisis may have passed
but people were still in a bad way: there were cases of diarrhea, pneumonia, malaria, meningitis, three marasmic babies, and some malnutrition which had gone beyond help. “At least they can do their film in here,” said Debbie. We exchanged a wry look.

“It's worse in the cholera hospital,” said Sian helpfully.

“I'll go and have a look,” I said.

I could see the rush shelter of the cholera unit, standing on its own away from the huts on a slight rise. I was walking along a hard earth track and then I saw O'Rourke. My heart did a great heave and sigh. I wanted to break into a run towards him.

I kept walking along the path. He was lighting a cigarette, thoughtful and absorbed, looking out towards the river, round over the camp, towards me. He saw me and started, stubbed the cigarette out under his foot, raised both hands in the air. I saw him smile and gesture towards the river. He started walking down the slope where he was pointing, with the slight limp. A track led off to the right ahead of me in that direction. I hurried along it. He was hidden by huts now. A big earth mound rose ahead to the left, the track following its base, the big red rocks and the river ahead. I turned the corner. He was standing there. We both rushed towards each other then stopped, embarrassed.

“So you've really done it—you've brought celebrities out?”

We were walking back up towards the main bit of the camp.

“Yes. Funnily enough, just when you no longer need it, I've brought four celebs, forty tons of food, a journalist, a photographer, a full television team including at least two certifiable maniacs and a satellite earth station.”

“Well—well done. Good on you.” That was nice of him, considering he'd been so against this. “Where are they? Not down here yet, I hope.”

“No. Henry's entertaining them in the compound.”

“Good. That's good.”

“Don't worry. They're very committed, and they've been very well briefed. I don't think they'll give us too much trouble,” I said, “but I don't know what we're going to do with them now we don't have a problem anymore.”

“Well, we need some new latrines digging,” he said with the quick smile, then added, “But, of course, there is still a problem.”

“Well, I must admit, I found it hard to—” I began.

“You and I both saw that exodus in Tessalay,” he said. “Where have they gone? They can't just have disappeared into thin air. I'm deeply uneasy about what's happening up there.”

Just then we heard raised voices a little way ahead.

“They're not starving, Mikey. You say to me ‘Nadia, your people are starving,' and I come out to be with my people, and see my people starving and my people are not starving.”

“The people are thin, Nadia. The people are very thin.”

“You say to me the people are thin. I'm looking at myself and I'm thinking, ‘Nadia, you are thin. You are very thin. You are not starving.'The people are not starving, Mikey.”

“Now don't get upset, hon.”

“I am upset, Mikey. I am upset. My people are not starving. I am upset.”

We came out into a clearing, surrounded by huts. Nadia Simpson's feet were encased in soft leather sandals, laced up her calves. Her long brown legs were bare. She was wearing a very short uneven sarong made from animal skins. Her hair was piled high on the top of her head, held in place with a large bone.

“Is
this
one of your celebrities?” said O'Rourke, staring at me aghast.

“The people are hungry, hon,” Mike was saying, encouragingly. “They are very hungry.”

“You say to me the people are hungry. I am hungry, Mikey. I am very hungry. I have not had anything decent to eat since we left the office. I am hungry, Mikey.”

Nadia and Mike were standing with their backs turned to the clearing. At the other side of the clearing a group of Keftians were staring at Nadia. A plump white woman with big gold-flecked glasses and a wet-look khaki boiler suit was crouched in front of a child taking a photograph. Beside her was Abdul Gerbil from Security in Sidra. They must have brought Nadia to Sidra in the plane. He was wearing his dark-green uniform instead of a djellaba
but he still sported the Blues Brothers sunglasses and Coco the Clown hairdo. He was jabbing at the crowd angrily with the handle of his pistol, pushing them back. A bored-looking white girl wearing leggings and a tight white T-shirt, which revealed her midriff, was sitting beside an open toolbox full of makeup.

The woman in the wet-look boiler suit straightened up, and peered over at Nadia and Mike with a coy smile.

“Nadia?” she said. “Nadia?”

Nadia turned sulkily.

“You feel something special for the children, don't you, Nadia?” she said. “Would you like to hold one of the children for me, Nadia? Would you? Would you like to give the children their Care Bears?”

Mike de Sykes took out a small aerosol and began to spray Nadia in preparation.

A deep laugh gurgled out. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a familiar, white-djellabaed, vertical-haired figure watching the proceedings and grinning from ear to ear.

“Where are we going now, Mikey?”

“The hospital, hon.”

“The hospital. That should be gross, huh?”

The whole group, Nadia, Mike, Abdul Gerbil, the makeup girl, the woman photographer from
Hey!
magazine, and Keftian onlookers, were trooping along the path. O'Rourke, Muhammad and I were bringing up the rear.

“I need a hospital. I do not feel good, Mikey. I really think I'm gonna get sick.”

“You won't get sick, hon. You are not going to get sick. I am not going to let you get sick.”

“You say I'm not going to get sick. I am sick, Mikey. But wait a minute, wait a minute.” Nadia brightened suddenly. “If I get sick it means a whole lot more people will get to hear about Nambula.”

“That's right, hon. They'll get to hear about Nambula. You're getting into it now, hon. I can feel you getting into it.”

“This feels real to me, Mikey, you know? It feels a lot more real than London, Mikey. It feels real to me.”

“That's good, hon, that's very good.”

Nadia's sarong was riding up so that the firm crescents of her bottom were just visible as she walked. Muhammad was walking behind, watching. He had not bothered with an artificial limb, and was hauling himself along efficiently on his stick.

“I am not having that woman in the hospital,” said O'Rourke as we followed along.

“But, Doctor, you yourself have said that it benefits the patients to be distracted and entertained.” Muhammad chuckled.

“Not like this,” said O'Rourke, staring straight ahead. “It is an insult to the dignity of the refugees.”

“But I am a refugee, and I have felt my recovery gallop apace ever since I caught sight of that woman, and particularly that bone in her hair,” said Muhammad. “I am a new man.”

“I don't think we've got any choice anyway,” I said. “If Security say she can wander round the camp, she can wander round the camp.”

“You might be right there,” said O'Rourke grimly.

“I am firmly behind her,” said Muhammad, staring delightedly at the bottom.

“You are a filthy lech,” I said. “I'm going to give you your copy of
Hamlet
. That will keep your mind on higher things.”

“You remembered,” he said, taking my hand. “You remembered. Such kindness.”

I had the book in my bag. It was a leather-bound version of the complete works, but I wasn't going to give it to him here. A Keftian woman caught hold of my arm. She thrust a fold of fabric into my hands and pointed towards Nadia, patting her thighs, and putting her hand to her mouth to indicate hunger and poverty. I opened the fabric up. It was a dress. The woman pointed towards Nadia again with a concerned expression, and said something in Keftian which I couldn't understand. Muhammad exploded into laughter again.

“She is thinking that Nadia is very poor that she must wear animal skins which do not cover her body. She is wanting to give Nadia this dress. It is her best dress and she says that if she will visit their homes, they have food for her.”

He said something to the woman. She listened, then started to laugh too, hooting at the joke, banging her forehead, bending double, regaling the women around her so that they all started laughing too.

“I told her that Nadia was rich and that rich women in the West like to dress like refugee woman, and that this is how she think refugee woman dress,” said Muhammad.

“Very amusing,” said O'Rourke, “but I am still not having that woman in the hospital.”

He hurried ahead and caught up with Abdul Gerbil. I could hear them conversing angrily as the party marched forward.

“Birra belly bra. Wibbit.”

“Dongola fnirra.”

“Sinabat. Fnarraboot. Wop.”

The lady from
Hey!
magazine was getting anxious about the light. There was no sunset because of the clouds, but it would be dark in an hour. As we approached the hospital I saw that another of the Land Cruisers from the Charitable Acts convoy was parked next to mine. I hoped it was Henry. I hoped the others had not escaped from the compound. O'Rourke and Abdul Gerbil were still arguing in Nambulan, outside the entrance to the hospital.

“Guys, I can't hang around here. I'm losing my light,” said the photographer, bustling ahead. “Sharee, come on, sweetie. Matte her down, sweetie. Matte her down.”

Nadia, Mike, the photographer and the makeup girl were heading for the hospital entrance now. O'Rourke and Abdul Gerbil, still arguing, hadn't seen them. I rushed ahead to try to stop them.