Read Eight Months on Ghazzah Street Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
Eight Months on Ghazzah Street (28 page)
“You took this message yourself,” Andrew said.
Calmly Hasan held out his hand for it, a creased yellow palm. He rested his eyes on Andrew’s face; they seemed to express sympathy. “Now I put it in the trash,” he said. “You give it me, sir.”
Andrew glanced at it once more. Then he crumpled it up and dropped it into the clerk’s open hand.
“You were having a party last night?” Hasan suggested.
“A party of sorts.”
“Too much mineral water,” Hasan said.
At half past one Frances made herself some coffee. She sat down with her cassette tape and her phrase book. She felt she was making little progress with her Arabic; and perhaps she would not make any this morning either, but it seemed the best thing she could do was to pass the time, to pretend that nothing was wrong and this was her first morning on Ghazzah Street. She opened the book: Lesson Thirty.
Her businessman had worked through twenty-nine lessons. His passage had not been entirely smooth; at various times he had been owed money, he had fallen ill. He had experienced the usual exasperations and delays: “The driver does not know this quarter. He is holding the map the wrong way up.” But on the whole his ventures had prospered: “I have met all the representatives of all the companies. I have made an appointment with the secretary to the Minister. He will sign the contract tomorrow afternoon.”
And now it is time for him to leave; taking with him, presumably, the antique chest he bought in the souk, at the price of such linguistic turmoil. “He prepares his luggage. He closes up the house. He takes a taxi to the airport.”
So Mr. Smith is going home, she thinks. He will see his wife and children again, he will land on his native soil. It is all so simple for him. “He gives his passport to the Security Services. He receives
his stamp for exit. He gets on a bus with the other passengers. The bus takes them to the plane.”
his stamp for exit. He gets on a bus with the other passengers. The bus takes them to the plane.”
Time dripped by. Frances sipped her coffee. She bent her head over her book. She did not switch the tape on; she felt too weak for any unnecessary effort. The wind tossed the leaves on Dunroamin’s tree, turning up their pallid undersides; dust caked the windows, blown into patterns of mountain peaks, into a shifting geology that lived and died in seconds. Footsteps walked overhead.
Mr. Smith has made it then. He is getting out for good. “He has said a sorrowful goodbye to the new friends he has made. The passengers dismount the bus. His luggage has been carried to the plane. The passengers ascend the aircraft steps.”
And in a few moments he will be airborne. There is nothing to detain him. He has settled his affairs, he has honored his commitments. No one wants to keep him here; no one would have a reason to. His passport has been stamped for him: EXIT VISA ONLY.
Now: she can try to persuade Andrew to break his contract. If she could convince him—about the rifleman, about the crate, about the Visitor—if she could persuade him, they could go together, go now, go as soon as it could be arranged. I know, she will say, that I am not offering you a watertight case, a tidy plot, that there is much, almost everything really, still to learn; but let us go, Andrew, before we learn it. They cannot cut and run; they must go through the formalities, or they will not be allowed to leave. What they cannot do is go without attracting attention. You cannot slip out of the Kingdom. You go with permission, or not at all; your intentions must be advertised. Anyone who is interested can find out what you mean to do.
Or she can go alone. Pleading sickness, giving sickness as her excuse, she can apply for an exit visa, and see what happens; see if anyone cares enough to try to stop her. If she has the knowledge, she should bear the consequences of it; but the world does not work like that. Consequences are random here, no more discriminating than a burst of automatic fire; and yet they cut down the future. Consequences are what you get, not what you deserve.
And now the plane is taxiing down the runway. She enters into Mr. Smith’s feelings; he is happy and relieved. “The passengers fasten their seat belts. Their journey will last five hours.”
She heard Andrew’s key in the door. Something was wrong; he never came home so early.
She threw the book aside and went to meet him. He stood in the doorway as Fairfax had done, a few hours earlier; his face was gray. “Fairfax,” he said. “Dead. There’s been an accident.”
Hours passed. She made them some food: “Because,” she said, “we must eat something.” She was not sure which meal of the day it was supposed to be. It was almost dark; soon, perhaps, they would be calling evening prayers. Their mouths were dry; they pushed the food around their plates. Their eyes met, and she gathered the dishes toward her, and took them away into the kitchen without a word.
“What was he saying?” she asked: out loud for the third time. The conversation had a dazed, hypnotized quality, as if they were compelled to repeat the same formula again and again until it lost all meaning. “What was he trying to say?” She looked up. “Andrew, is there anything you are keeping from me?”
He shook his head slowly. He did not ask her the same question. He had not told her about the telephone message.
“Because you mustn’t have any idea that you can spare me.”
“I can’t spare you, Fran, or I would have spared you this.”
“Tell me everything again. Tell me where it happened.”
“It was on the ring road. It was between the Petrola plant and the airport. You must know it, you must remember, where you see the petrol storage tanks … the road crosses the wadi. There’s an embankment, and it falls away ten or fifteen feet. The body was down there on the sand. The car had plowed through the fence. It’s only chicken wire. People have made holes in it, anyway, cutting through to get on to the freeway, trying to save a bit of time. It’s a shocking stretch of road. Everybody says so. There’s no center divide. There aren’t any lights …”
“But he didn’t go at night, did he? Last night he was here, with us. What time was the body found?”
“I don’t know, Fran. Nobody can get the story straight. I’m only telling you what the police told Eric Parsons, and God knows that was little enough. They reckon the car came off the road at speed, he was thrown out, his skull was fractured … I don’t know. If there was another car involved they aren’t prepared to say. It was just after one o’clock that Eric got a call.”
“So they’re saying it happened sometime during the morning, in broad daylight? He lay there on the sand ten feet down from the road and died of a fractured skull and nobody helped him and nobody stopped?”
“They won’t. They won’t stop. You know that.”
“He must have been making for the airport. Mustn’t he?”
“Eric wants to know why. He was supposed to be here for another three days.”
“So what did you tell Eric? Did you tell him about last night?”
Andrew shook his head. “How could I? I can’t make sense of what happened last night.”
“I don’t know if it makes any better sense to you now. I mean I don’t know whether … I’m not sure how to say this … whether you think that there is any chance at all that it wasn’t an accident?”
For a while neither of them spoke. Then Frances said, “No one saw him. We don’t know what time he left here. I said that he was here with us last night, but he could have gone before dawn, for all we know. We don’t know if he made it back to his hotel, do we? Someone could have stopped him as he left here, before he got around the corner.”
“Someone …” Andrew said. “The elusive someone. Who are these people?”
People who lurk on the street corner with a rifle. People who walk overhead, who go up and down, veiled, armed. People who lay claim to packing cases. Who knows what people? Who presumes to inquire? It’s their country, isn’t it?
“They could have killed him,” she said, “and dumped him from
one car and run his own car off the road. It could have happened at any time. Think about it. No one saw him or heard from him after we went back to bed at four o’clock this morning.”
one car and run his own car off the road. It could have happened at any time. Think about it. No one saw him or heard from him after we went back to bed at four o’clock this morning.”
Andrew looked up at her, cornered, in pain. “Actually they did. I mean, it can’t be what you say, because he rang in to the office.”
“When? What time?”
“Sometime during the morning. Early, I think.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s not what he said. It’s just the fact that he rang.”
“Who took the message? Can’t you find out what he said?”
“Not really. It was very garbled.”
“Who did he speak to?”
“Just the tea boy.”
Frances telephoned the Sarabia Hotel. It was the same desk clerk: or another with the same voice. “What time did Mr. Fairfax check out?” she asked.
The receiver was laid aside; she heard muttering in the background. The voice came back, wearily polite: “One moment, madam.” A minute passed; he was back. “Mr. Fairfax did not check out, madam.”
“But what time did he leave?”
A pause. A muttered consultation. “Madam, you are still there? We did not see him go. If you would like to give me the name of your company, we will send you on the bill.”
They sat opposite each other, in curiously formal poses, heads bowed, hands on their knees, observing another silence. Then Frances said, “The car, you know … there’s been a problem with the steering. I suppose that might have been it.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“I don’t think I shall ever believe that this was just pure chance.”
“He was frightened. We know that. I mean he was frightened
before last night, maybe last night had nothing to do with it. He said himself, it wasn’t rational. He’d decided to get out, he was making for the airport, he was driving at a fair speed—”
before last night, maybe last night had nothing to do with it. He said himself, it wasn’t rational. He’d decided to get out, he was making for the airport, he was driving at a fair speed—”
“Yes, I know. But what was he driving away from?”
The telephone startled them. Andrew had been about to speak; he broke off. “Who will that be?” He reached for it. Her fists clenched in her lap. She tried to uncurl them. I have to be calm, she said to herself. I have to ask the right questions, very rigorous and unavoidable questions, before the answers slip away and vanish forever. Oh, hello Eric,” Andrew said. He sounded calm. “Yes, I have. Well, naturally she is.”
Eric spoke. Andrew listened. Andrew said, “We feel that we are responsible for Fairfax. As much as anyone is.”
She got up, crossed the room and huddled at his side, listening in to the call. Eric said, “ … some kind of certificate from the police, without which nothing. Unfortunately his passport seems to be missing—”
She took the phone from Andrew. “Eric, listen to me. Where are Fairfax’s things?”
Eric took a moment to understand this. It seemed, when he answered, that he had already taken on the accents of the police file, of the coroner’s court. “You mean his personal effects, Frances?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Not just his passport, but his clothes, his suitcase, his toothbrush—do you see what I’m getting at, Eric?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Were they with him in the car, or back at the hotel? The hotel says he never checked out.”
“You phoned them?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to interfere, that’s why not. Please give me Andrew.”
“No. Do listen please. We have to find out about his clothes.”
“Oh yes, I see … sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I suppose you think they ought to be returned to the widow. The Embassy has telephoned her, of course.” Eric sounded sorrowful now; he had convicted himself of insensitivity. Clearly he
thought this concentration on the clothes, the suitcase, the personal effects, it was some feminine angle on mourning, some piece of etiquette he had forgotten. “The fact is, Frances, we don’t know. I mean, we presume they were in the car with him. That would seem to make sense. I know that he appears to have departed on impulse, but surely he’d stay to pack?”
thought this concentration on the clothes, the suitcase, the personal effects, it was some feminine angle on mourning, some piece of etiquette he had forgotten. “The fact is, Frances, we don’t know. I mean, we presume they were in the car with him. That would seem to make sense. I know that he appears to have departed on impulse, but surely he’d stay to pack?”
“Then have the police recovered the stuff? From the roadside? Or from the car?”
“They haven’t said.” Eric was bemused. “They do deny all knowledge of the passport, but then they deny all knowledge of practically anything.”
“You’d better ask them.”
“But Frances, you’ve no idea, have you? You’ve no idea what I’m up against? Look, I have been dealing with these people for years. I have been dealing with these people since you were a little lamb in your school blazer. They don’t tell you anything. That is their habit. That is their policy.”
“Have the police asked questions about the car? The steering?”
“Oh, look now.” Eric had forgotten his embarrassment; he was coldly hostile. “Don’t try to lay this at my door. The car had been fixed. I have the receipt, Frances, the receipt for the repairs. It’s here in my petty-cash drawer. I have my hand on it now. I’ll keep it for you, shall I? Andrew can drive you down. You can come in right now and inspect it.”
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