Far From My Father’s House. Jill McGivering
Читать онлайн книгу.
Women and children also.’ He gestured around at the camp. His face was sorrowful. ‘But my daughters? My wives? They have not left the valley once in their lives. It is not our custom.’
Ellen calculated. ‘Where do you think they are?’
‘I don’t know.’ He gave a shrug of despair. ‘I heard about these new camps for affectees. Now I am searching, walking one to another. Searching everywhere in case they come.’
Ellen reached towards him, and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Maybe I can help, Ibrahim. There must be registers at the camps. We’ll find your family.’
He opened his mouth to speak but his lips trembled and he clamped it shut and sat, his mouth in a rigid line, his hand clutching her arm with the grip of a falling man.
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.