Kiah nodded. ‘Of course. There wouldn’t be many.’
Fatima looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to Noor. ‘I would never hire a girl without her mother’s permission. I am a mother myself, and a grandmother too.’
Noor looked less hostile.
Kiah asked another question. ‘What’s the pay?’
‘The girls get all their meals and a uniform, and a place to sleep. They can make up to fifty American dollars per week in tips.’
Noor said: ‘Fifty dollars!’ It was three times the normal wage. Tips could vary, everyone knew, but even half of that would be a lot for a week of carrying plates and glasses.
Kiah said: ‘But no wages?’
Fatima looked irritated. ‘Correct.’
Kiah wondered whether Fatima could be trusted. She was a woman, which was a point in her favour, though not decisive. She was undoubtedly painting an attractive picture of the job she was offering, but that was natural and did not make her a liar. Kiah liked the frank speech and the undoubted glamour, but under all that she detected a hard vein of ruthlessness that made her uneasy.
All the same, she envied the single girls. They could escape from the lakeside and find a new future in the city. She wished she could do the same. She thought she would be a perfectly good waitress. And she would be saved from the dreadful choice between Hakim and destitution.
Except that she had a child. She could not even wish for a life without Naji. She loved him too much.
Zariah said eagerly: ‘What’s the uniform like?’
‘European clothes,’ said Fatima. ‘A red skirt, a white blouse, and a red neck scarf with white polka dots.’ The girls made appreciative noises, and Fatima added: ‘Yes, it’s very pretty.’
Noor asked a mother’s question. ‘Who is in charge of these young girls?’ It was obvious that sixteen-year-olds needed to be supervised.
‘They live in a little house behind the restaurant, and a lady called Mrs Amat al-Yasu looks after them.’
That was interesting, Kiah thought. The chaperone’s name was Arabic Christian. She said: ‘Are you Christian, Fatima?’
‘Yes, but my employees are a mixture. Are you interested in working for me, Kiah?’
‘I can’t.’ She glanced at Naji, who was in her arms, staring in fascination at Fatima. ‘I couldn’t leave my little boy.’
‘He’s beautiful. What’s his name?’
‘Naji.’
‘He must be what, two years old?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is his father handsome too?’
Salim’s face flashed in Kiah’s memory: the skin darkened by the sun, the black hair wet with spray, the folds around the eyes wrinkled from peering into the water looking for fish. The unexpected reminder filled her with sudden sadness. ‘I’m a widow.’
‘I’m so sorry. Life must be hard.’
‘That’s true.’
‘But you could still be a waitress. Two of my girls have babies.’
Kiah’s heart leaped. ‘But how is that possible?’
‘They spend all day with their children. The restaurant opens in the evening, and then Mrs Amat al-Yasu watches the babies while the mothers are working.’
Kiah was startled. She had been assuming she was not eligible. Now suddenly a new prospect opened up. She felt her heart racing. She was excited but intimidated. In her whole life she had been to the city only a handful of times, and now she was being asked to move there to live. The only restaurants she had ever entered were small cafés like the one in Three Palms, but she had been offered a job in a place that sounded terrifyingly luxurious. Could she make such a huge change? Did she have the nerve?
She said: ‘I need to think about this.’
Noor asked another motherly question. ‘Those girls who have babies – what about their husbands?’
‘One is a widow, like Kiah. The other, I’m sorry to say, was foolish enough to give herself to a man who ran away.’
The mothers understood. They were a conservative group, but they had been flighty girls once.
Fatima said: ‘Think about it, take your time. I have other villages to visit. I’ll pass through here again on my way back. Zariah and Kiah, if you want to work for me, be ready by mid-afternoon.’
‘We have to leave today?’ said Kiah. She had thought she could consider the offer for a week or two, not a few hours.
‘Today,’ Fatima repeated.
Kiah was frightened all over again.
Another girl said: ‘What about the rest of us?’
‘Maybe when you’re older,’ said Fatima.
Kiah knew that in truth the others were not pretty enough.
Fatima turned back to the car and the driver opened the door. Before getting in she dropped the end of her cigarette and trod on it. The whole conversation had been only as long as it took her to smoke it. She sat in the car and leaned out. ‘Make up your minds,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ The driver shut the door.
The villagers watched the car drive away.
Kiah said to Zariah: ‘What do you think? Will you go to N’Djamena with Fatima?’
‘If my mother will let me – yes!’ Zariah’s eyes gleamed with hope and enthusiasm.
Kiah was only four years her senior, but the age difference felt bigger. Kiah had a child to worry about, and she was more aware of hazards.
Then she thought of Hakim, with his dirty T-shirt and his grigri beads. She was now faced with a choice between Fatima and Hakim.
There was really nothing to think about.
Zariah said: ‘What about you, Kiah? Will you go with Fatima this afternoon?’
Kiah hesitated only a moment longer. ‘Yes,’ she said, then she added: ‘Of course.’
*
The restaurant had an English name, Bourbon Street, displayed outside in red neon. Kiah arrived in Fatima’s Mercedes late in the afternoon, along with Zariah and two girls she did not know. They all walked into a lobby with a thick carpet and walls painted the soft colour of white orchids. It was even more luxurious than Kiah had imagined. She found that reassuring.
The girls made sounds of amazement and delight, and Fatima said: ‘Enjoy it. This is the last time you’ll come in through the front door. There’s a staff entrance at the back.’
There were two big men in plain black suits in the lobby, doing nothing, and Kiah guessed they were security guards.
The main room was big. Along one side was a long bar with more bottles than Kiah had ever seen in one place. What could be in them all? There were sixty or more tables. On the side opposite the bar was a stage with red curtains. Kiah had not realized that restaurants might also put on a show. The room was carpeted but for a small circle of wood flooring in front of the stage that Kiah worked out must be for dancing.
A dozen or so men were having drinks, and a couple of girls were serving them, but otherwise the place was empty, and Kiah guessed it must have just opened. The red-and-white uniforms were very smart, although she was shocked by how short the skirts were. Fatima introduced the new girls to the waitresses, who cooed over Naji, and to the barman, who was curt. In the kitchen six cooks were busy cleaning and chopping vegetables and making sauces. The space seemed too small for the task of preparing meals for all those tables.
At the far end a corridor led to a series of small rooms, each with a table and chairs and a long couch. ‘Customers pay extra for the private rooms,’ Fatima said. Kiah wondered why anyone would pay more to have dinner in secret.
She was awestruck by the scale of the enterprise. Fatima had to be very clever to manage it. Kiah wondered whether she had a husband to help her.
They passed through a small staff area with hooks for coats, then they went out by the staff door. Across a courtyard was a two-storey concrete building, painted white, with blue shutters. An elderly woman sat outside enjoying the cool of the evening. She stood up when Fatima approached.
‘This is Mrs Amat al-Yasu,’ Fatima said. ‘But everyone calls her Jadda.’ It was the colloquial word for a nanny. She was a small, plump woman, but there was a look in her eye that gave Kiah the feeling that Jadda might have the same tough streak as Fatima.