The security guard appeared and said to Fatima: ‘Is everything all right, boss?’
Kiah realized that if they decided to force her, the guard could hold her down with little effort. The realization changed her mood. The worst thing she could do now was look helpless, an ignorant village girl who could be pushed around. She had to stand up for herself.
She took a step back and raised her chin. ‘I will not do this,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Fatima, but it’s your own fault – you deceived me.’ Speaking slowly and emphatically, she said: ‘So let us not have a fight.’
Fatima looked angry. ‘Are you threatening me?’
Kiah looked at the guard. ‘Of course I can’t fight against him.’ She raised her voice. ‘But I can make a terrible row in front of your customers.’
At that moment a customer looked out of another private room and called out: ‘Hey, we need more drinks in here!’
Fatima said: ‘Coming, sir!’ She seemed to relent. ‘Go to your room and sleep on it,’ she said to Kiah. ‘You will see things differently in the morning. You can try again tomorrow.’
Kiah nodded without speaking.
Fatima said: ‘And for goodness’ sake don’t let the customers see you whimpering.’
Kiah walked away immediately, before Fatima could change her mind.
She found her way to the staff door and crossed the courtyard to the girls’ house. Jadda was sitting in the entrance lobby watching television. ‘You’re back early,’ she said disapprovingly.
‘Yes,’ Kiah said, and hurried upstairs without explanation.
Naji was still fast asleep.
Kiah stripped off the uniform she now thought of as prostitutes’ clothing. She put on her shift underdress and lay down alongside Naji. It was past midnight, but she could hear the band and the roar of conversation from the club. She felt tired but she did not fall asleep.
Zariah came in at about three o’clock, her eyes sparkling, a fistful of money in her hand. ‘I’m rich!’ she said.
Kiah was too tired to tell her she was doing wrong. In fact, she was not even sure it was wrong. ‘How many men?’ she said.
‘One gave me twenty, and the other I did with my hand for ten,’ said Zariah. ‘Think how long it takes my mother to make thirty!’ She took off her clothes and headed for the bathroom.
‘Have a good wash,’ said Kiah.
Zariah returned shortly and was asleep a minute later.
Kiah lay awake until the morning light began to seep through the flimsy curtains and Naji stirred. She breastfed him to keep him quiet a little longer, then she dressed them both.
When they left the room, no one else was stirring.
They crept out of the silent house.
The Avenue Charles de Gaulle was a broad boulevard in the centre of the capital. Even at this hour there were people around. Kiah asked for directions to the fish market, the only place in N’Djamena that she knew. Every night, fishermen from Lake Chad drove through the dark to bring yesterday’s catch into the city, and Kiah had accompanied Salim a few times.
When she got there the men were unloading their trucks in the half-light. The smell of fish was overpowering, but to Kiah it seemed more breathable than the atmosphere of Bourbon Street. They were arranging silvery displays on their stalls, spraying water to keep them cool. They would sell everything by midday and drive home in the afternoon.
Kiah walked around until she spotted a face she knew. She said: ‘Do you remember me, Melhem? I’m Salim’s widow.’
‘Kiah!’ he said. ‘Of course I remember you. What are you doing here, all on your own?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Kiah.
CHAPTER 8
Four days after the shoot-out at the N’Gueli Bridge, four nights after Tamara slept with Tab without having sex, the American ambassador threw a party for his wife’s thirtieth birthday.
Tamara wanted the party to be a success, both for Shirley’s sake, because Shirley was her best friend in Chad, and for the sake of Shirley’s husband, Nick, who was knocking himself out to organize everything. Shirley was normally in charge of parties – it was one of the duties of an ambassador’s spouse – but Nick had decreed that she could not manage her own birthday celebration, and that he would take charge.
It would be a big event. Everyone at the embassy was coming, including the CIA, who pretended to be ordinary diplomats. All the important staff of allied embassies had been invited, and many of the Chad elite. There would be a couple of hundred guests.
It would take place in the ballroom. The embassy rarely held actual dances there. The traditional European ball was now old-fashioned, with its stiff formality and bumpety-bumpety music. However, the room saw plenty of use for large receptions, and Shirley was always good at making people relax and enjoy themselves, even in formal surroundings.
In her lunch hour Tamara went across to the ballroom to see if she could help, and she found Nick floundering. There was a huge cake in the kitchen waiting to be decorated, twenty waiters hanging around for instructions, and a jazz band from Mali called Desert Funk sitting outside under the raffia palms smoking hashish.
Nick was a tall man with a big head, big nose, big ears, big chin. He had a relaxed, friendly manner and a sharp intelligence. He was a highly competent diplomat but he was no party organizer. He was keen to do it well, and he walked around with an eager look, having no idea why things were going so wrong.
Tamara got three cooks icing the cake, told the band where to plug in their amplifiers, and sent two embassy staff out to shop for balloons and streamers. She told the waiters to bring in huge containers of ice and set the drinks to cooling. She moved from one task to the next, chasing details and chivvying staff. She did not go back to the CIA office that afternoon.
And all the time Tab was in her thoughts. What was he doing right now? What time would he arrive? Where would they go after the party? Would they spend the night together?
Was he too good to be true?
She just had time to run to her room and put on her party frock, a dress made of silk in the vivid royal blue that was popular here. She was back in the ballroom minutes before the guests were due.
Shirley arrived a moment later. When she saw the decorations, the waiters with their trays of canapés and drinks, and the band holding their instruments ready, her face was suffused with happiness. She threw her arms around Nick and thanked him. ‘You’ve done so well!’ she said, not hiding her surprise.
‘I had crucial assistance,’ he admitted.
Shirley looked at Tamara. ‘You helped,’ she said.
‘We were all driven by Nick’s enthusiasm,’ Tamara said.
‘I’m so glad.’
Tamara knew that what made Shirley so happy was not so much the success of the arrangements as Nick’s wish to do it for her. And he was happy because he had pleased her. That’s how it should be, Tamara thought; that’s the kind of relationship I want.
The first guest came in, a Chadian woman in robes of a bright red-white-and-blue print. ‘She looks so great,’ Tamara murmured to Shirley. ‘I’d be like a sofa in that.’
‘But she carries it off wonderfully.’
California champagne was always served at embassy parties. The French politely said it was surprisingly good, and put their glasses down unfinished. The British asked for gin and tonic. Tamara thought the champagne was delicious, but she was on a high anyway.
Shirley looked speculatively at her. ‘You’re very bright-eyed this evening.’
‘I enjoyed helping Nick.’
‘You look as if you’re in love.’
‘With Nick? Of course. We all are.’
‘Hmm,’ said Shirley. She knew when she was getting an evasive answer. ‘I’ve learned to read what silent love hath writ.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Tamara. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Ten out of ten, and a bonus point for avoiding the original question.’