There was more she wanted to know, but their food came, and for a while they talked little while they ate.
‘How are the kidneys?’ Tamara said.
‘Good.’
‘I’ve never eaten kidneys.’
‘Would you like a taste?’
‘Please.’ She passed him her fork. He speared a morsel and passed the fork back. The flavour was strong. She said: ‘Woo-hoo! Lots of mustard.’
‘That’s how I like it. How’s the tagine?’
‘Good. Would you like some?’
‘Please.’ He passed her his fork and she loaded it and gave it back. ‘Not bad,’ he said.
Tasting each other’s food was intimate, she thought. It was the kind of thing you might do on a date. But this was a meeting between colleagues. At least, that was how she saw it. How did Tab see it?
Afterwards Tamara had fresh figs for dessert and Tab had cheese.
The coffee came in tiny cups and Tamara took only a sip. They made coffee too strong here. She hankered after a big mug of weak American coffee.
She returned to the interesting topic of Tab’s family. She knew that his heritage was Algerian, and she said: ‘Did your grandmother come from Algeria?’
‘No. She was born in Thierville-sur-Meuse, where there is a major military base. You see, my great-grandfather fought in the Second World War, in the famous Third Algerian Infantry Division; in fact, he won a medal, the Croix de Guerre. He was still in the army when my grandmother was born. But it’s time I learned something about you.’
‘I can’t compete with your fascinating ancestry,’ Tamara said. ‘I was born into a Jewish family in Chicago. My father’s a history professor, and he drives a Toyota, not a Mercedes. My mother is a high-school principal.’ She pictured the two of them, Dad in a tweed suit and a wool tie, Mom writing reports with her glasses on the end of her nose. ‘I’m not religious, but they go to a liberal synagogue. My brother, Simon, lives in Rome.’
He smiled. ‘That’s it?’
She hesitated to reveal too much in the way of intimate details. She had to keep reminding herself that this was a work occasion. She was not yet ready to tell him about her two marriages. Later, perhaps.
She shook her head. ‘No aristocrats, no medals, no luxury brands. Oh, wait. One of Dad’s books was a bestseller. It was called Pioneer Wives: Women on the American Frontier. It sold a million copies. We were famous for almost a year.’
‘And yet this allegedly ordinary American family produced – you.’
That was a compliment, she saw. And it was not just idle flattery. He seemed to mean it.
Dinner was over but it was too early to go home. She surprised herself by saying: ‘Do you want to dance?’
There was a club in the basement of the hotel. It was staid by comparison with clubs in Chicago or even Boston, but it was the hottest spot in N’Djamena.
Tab said: ‘Sure. I’m a terrible dancer, but I love it.’
‘Terrible? How?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been told I look silly.’
It was hard to imagine this poised and elegant man doing something silly. Tamara looked forward to seeing it.
Tab called for the bill and they split it.
They went down in the elevator. Before the doors opened they heard the seismic thud of bass and drums, a sound that always gave Tamara itchy feet. The club was packed with affluent young Chadians in skimpy clothing. The girls’ short skirts made Tamara’s outfit look middle-aged.
Tamara led Tab straight to the dance floor, moving to the beat even before they got there.
Tab was an endearingly bad dancer. His arms and legs flailed to no particular rhythm, but he clearly enjoyed it. Tamara liked dancing with him. The casually sexy atmosphere of a club put her in a mildly amorous mood.
After an hour they got Cokes and took a break. Reclining on a couch in the chill-out room, Tab said: ‘Have you ever tried marc?’
‘Is that a drug?’
‘It’s a brandy made from the skins of the grapes after the juice has been squeezed out. It started as a cheap alternative to cognac, but it’s become a refined tipple in its own right. You can even get marc de Champagne.’
‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a bottle at home.’
‘You’re telepathic.’
‘All women are telepathic.’
‘So you know that I want to take you home for a nightcap.’
She was flattered. He had already decided that this was more than a professional relationship.
But she had not. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a great time, but I don’t want to stay up late.’
‘Okay.’
They went out. She felt a bit down, and wished she had not refused his offer of a nightcap.
He asked the doorman to fetch his car and offered her a lift. She declined and phoned the car service.
While they were waiting he said: ‘I enjoyed talking to you so much. Could we have dinner again? With or without marc de Champagne afterwards?’
‘Okay,’ she said.
‘We could go somewhere more laid-back next time. A Chadian restaurant, perhaps.’
‘Nice idea. Call me.’
‘Okay.’
Her car came and he held the door for her. She pecked his cheek. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Sleep well.’
The car took her to the embassy and she went to her room.
She liked him a lot, she realized as she got undressed; then she reminded herself that she was very bad at picking men.
She had married Stephen while still at the University of Chicago. It was not until after the ceremony that she discovered he did not feel the vows should stop him from sleeping with anyone else he fancied, and they had split after six months. She had not spoken to him since and never wanted to see him again.
After Chicago she had done a master’s degree in International Relations, specializing in the Middle East, at the Paris university called Sciences Po. There she had met and married an American called Jonathan, who was a different kind of mistake. He was kind, clever and amusing. The sex had been a bit vanilla, but they had been happy together. Eventually, they both realized that Jonathan was gay. They had a friendly divorce, and she was still fond of him. They talked on the phone three or four times a year.
Part of her trouble was that so many men were attracted to her. She was nice-looking and vivacious and sexy, she knew, and it was easy for her to catch a man’s eye. Her difficulty was figuring out which were the good ones.
She got into bed and turned out the light, still thinking about Tab. He certainly looked good. She closed her eyes and pictured him. He was tall and slim, his hair was made to be stroked, and he had deep brown eyes that she wanted to stare into. His clothes seemed to cling to him lovingly, whether he was dressed in a suit, as tonight, or casually. Tamara had wondered how he could afford such well-cut clothes, but he had explained it: his family was wealthy.
Tamara mistrusted handsome men. Stephen had been handsome. They could be vain and self-absorbed. She had once gone to bed with an actor who had said afterwards: ‘How was I?’ Tab could be like that, although she did not really think so.
Was Tab as good as he seemed, or would he turn out to be another one of her ghastly errors? She had agreed to see him again, and she could not pretend that the second date was purely business. So I guess I’ll find out, she thought; and with that she went to sleep.
CHAPTER 5
Tamara swam in the embassy pool first thing in the morning, when the sun was low and the air was still cool and free of dust. She was normally alone. For half an hour she could think over everything that was on her mind: Abdul’s courage, Dexter’s hostility, Karim’s fondness, and Tab’s unconcealed interest in her. She had her second date with Tab tomorrow: drinks at his apartment and dinner at his favourite Arab restaurant.
When she got out of the water she found that Dexter was sitting on a poolside lounger, watching her. She felt irritated, especially when he stared at her wet swimsuit.
She wrapped a towel around herself and felt less vulnerable.
‘Something I want you to check out,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
‘You know the N’Gueli Bridge.’