Tuareg. Alberto Vazquez-Figueroa
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or a grenade under his bed
‘What do you need?’ he said without turning round, trying to make his voice sound completely uninterested.
‘A lorry, a jeep and five men. I’ll take Mubarrak-ben-Sad as well, the Targui guide and I’ll need camels.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Four months. But we’ll be in radio contact every week.’
This time he turned to look at him.
‘You cannot force anyone to go with you. If you don’t come back they’ll have my head.’
‘I know who’ll come with me willingly and who won’t blabber. It’s best that the ones that stay behind don’t know anything.’
The captain got slowly out of the water, slipped into some short, wide-legged trousers, put on his nails and let the hot air dry his body, shaking his head sceptically:
‘I think you’re as mad as that Targui,’ he said. ‘But maybe it’s preferable to sticking around here and waiting to die.’
He paused then said: ‘We’ll have to come up with a reasonable argument for such a long trip,’ he said smiling, then added: ‘In case you don’t come back.’
Malik grinned triumphantly, although he had always known that he would win him over. Ever since the Targui had disappeared from view, very early that morning amongst the dunes, he had been working out how best he could present his plan and the more he had thought about it, the more convinced he had become that he would get permission to do it.
They walked off together towards the orderly room, then with a slight smile, he said:
‘I’d already thought about that.’ The other man stopped to look at him.
‘Slaves.’
‘Slaves?’
‘The Targui that left this morning might easily have brought us news of the slave trade and a caravan heading our way and in to our territory. Slave trafficking is increasing at an alarming rate again.’
‘I know, but they are mainly headed for the Red Sea or to countries where they are still allowed in.’
‘That’s true,’ Malik replied. ‘But what’s to stop us from trying to verify a report that we can later claim was just a false alarm?’ his said, breaking into an ironic smile. ‘Surely they’d just commend us for our conscientious nature and spirit of sacrifice.’
They walked over to the office, which was just a wide room with two tables in it and already stiflingly hot, even though it was still early. The captain went straight over to a large-scale map of the area that covered the entire back wall.
‘I always wondered how you got yourself sent to this hole in the first place, you being as smart as you are. Where will you start the search?’
Malik pointed straight to a huge yellow patch with a white space in the middle of it that was devoid of any paths, camel tracks, wells, or settlements.
‘Here, right in the middle of Tikdabra. The caravan should logically have avoided Tikdabra by going north and bypassing it. But if they took a wrong turn, and went into the dunes they would have found themselves in this bit of the “lost lands,” and it would already have been too late by then to turn back. They would have had no choice other than to try and reach the Muley-el-Akbar wells, but they never made it.’
‘That’s just one theory. It could have been there as much as anywhere else.’
‘Maybe. But they aren’t in any other part,’ he pointed out. ‘The whole of the Tikdabra area has been thoroughly searched. To the east and west of it. But no one has ever dared to search Tikdabra itself. Or at least those who’ve tried, never came back.’
The captain estimated the size in a glance:
“Over fifteen hundred square kilometres of dunes and stony ground. You’d have as much chance of finding a white flea in a herd of meharis.’
His reply was concise:
‘I’ve got eleven years to look for it.’
The captain sat down on an old chair made out of gazelle leather, rummaged around for a cigarette and then lit it slowly, concentrating his attention on the map that had been hanging there since he had first arrived at Adoras and that he knew like the back of his hand. He knew the desert well and what it meant to go into an erg like Tikdabra, which consisted of an uninterrupted line of very high dunes that went on and on like a sea of giant waves. It was a lethal trap full of quick sand where men and camels could suddenly find themselves buried chest deep. The dunes were like towers that appeared to surround, by way of protection, an immense plain without horizons. This terrain was as flat as the flattest of tables, onto which the sun beat down relentlessly, making it difficult to see or breathe and boiling the blood of men and animals alike.
‘Not even a lizard could survive there,’ he said eventually. ‘Whoever decides to go with you is already restless enough, so you’ll be doing me a favour by getting them off my back.’ He opened the small safe that was fixed to the floor, hidden under some floorboards under the table. He counted the money in there and shook his head. ‘You’ll have to requisition some camels from the Bedouin people,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got enough money to buy any more and you can’t take ours with you.’
‘Mubarrak will help me get hold of some.’ He walked towards the door. ‘With your permission, I’ll go and talk to my men.’
He nodded in response to his salute, closed the box up again and sat there very still, his feet on the table, contemplating the map. He smiled, pleased that he had decided to accept the proposal. If it all went to worms, he would lose six men, a Targui guide and two vehicles. But nobody was going to give him a hard time for something that in those latitudes was, up to a point, fairly normal behaviour. There were a lot of patrols that just disappeared, maybe due to a guide’s mistake, a vehicle breaking down or an axle snapping, which turned routine journeys into unavoidable tragedies. This fact was actually taken into account when the dregs of the country’s prisons and camps were sent over to Adoras, the truth being that these men were not expected to return to civilization, because Society itself did not want them in its midst any longer. Once they were out there, nobody really cared if they stabbed each other to death, died of fevers, or got lost on routine patrols, or indeed, disappeared in search of a mythical treasure.
“The great caravan” was out there somewhere towards the south, everyone was agreed on that and it could not have just disappeared completely. The most valuable part of the merchandise was also sure to be intact still, despite the years gone by, or centuries even. With just a tiny piece of that cargo, Captain Kaleb-el-Fasi could leave Adoras for good and move back to France, to Cannes and to the ‘Hotel Majestic’ where he had spent some of the best times of his life. A place where he had enjoyed the company of a beautiful shop assistant who worked in a boutique on Rue Antibes and who he had promised to return to one day, although that was many years ago now.
In the afternoons they would open up the huge windows that overlooked the swimming pool at La Croisette and the beach and make love facing the sea until it got dark. Then they would amble down to have supper at Le Moulin de Mougens, El Oasis, or Chez Félix, ending up in the casino to risk everything they had on a number eight.
He was paying a high price now for those days, too high, he thought. It was not the desert that really got to him, or the heat and the monotony, but the memories that haunted him and the painful knowledge that if one day he did get out of Adoras, he would be too old to enjoy all those things again - the hotels, the restaurants or the girls in Cannes.
He stayed there for a while lost in his memories, letting the sweat run off his body as the intense heat turned the camp into a raging inferno. He was waiting for his batman to arrive with the tray of greasy and repulsive couscous that he ate every day without ever feeling hungry. This was his daily diet, along with a few gulps of warm, slightly salty, cloudy water that still gave him diarrhoea, despite the fact he had been drinking