Meanwhile, Hakim had a long conversation with a resident, an older man with a look of intelligence, probably an informal village head man. Abdul could not hear what was said.
The travellers were shown into a compound with lean-to shelters around the sides. Abdul guessed by the smell that it had been used for sheep, probably to protect the beasts from the sun in the middle of the day. It was now late afternoon: clearly the bus passengers were to spend the night here.
Hakim called for everyone’s attention. ‘Fouad has given me a message,’ he said, and Abdul assumed Fouad was the man who looked like the village leader. ‘Our guide has doubled his price, and he will not come until he is paid the extra. It will cost twenty dollars per person.’
There was an outburst of protest. The passengers said they could not afford it, and Hakim said he was not going to pay it for them. What followed was a more intense repeat of an argument that had raged several times already on the trip, as Hakim tried to extort extra money. In the end people had to pay.
Abdul got up and left the compound.
Looking around the village, he decided that no one here was involved in smuggling either drugs or people: they were all too poor. At earlier stops he had usually been able to figure out who the local criminals were because they had money and guns, as well as the stressed-out air of men who lived on the violent fringes, always ready to run away. He had carefully noted names and descriptions and relationships, and had sent a long report to Tamara from Faya. There seemed to be no such men in this pathetic settlement. However, the mention of the Toubou people had given him the explanation: in this area the smuggling must be run by them.
He sat on the ground near the well, his back up against an acacia tree that gave him shade. From here he could see much of the village, but a spreading thicket of tamarisk hid him from people who came to the well: he wanted to observe, not to talk. He wondered where the guide was, if not in the village. There were no other settlements for many miles around. Was the mysterious Toubou tribesman just beyond the hill, in a tent, waiting to be told that the migrants had found the extra money? It was quite possible that he had not even asked for more money; that could be just another extortion ploy by Hakim. The guide might be in one of these village huts, eating stewed goat with couscous, resting up before tomorrow’s journey.
Abdul saw Hakim come out of the compound looking cross. He was followed by Wahed, the father-in-law of Esma. Hakim stopped and the two men had a conversation, Wahed pleading and Hakim refusing. Abdul could not hear the words but guessed they were arguing about the extra money for the guide. Hakim made a dismissive gesture and walked away, but Wahed followed him, hands spread out in supplication; then Hakim stopped and turned around and spoke aggressively before walking away again. Abdul made a grimace of distaste: Hakim’s behaviour was brutish and Wahed’s was undignified. Abdul was offended by the entire scene.
Hakim slouched across the dusty ground towards the well, and Esma came out of the compound and walked briskly after him.
They stood at the well to talk, as people had done for thousands of years. Abdul could not see them, but he could hear their conversation clearly, and he was practised at understanding their rapid colloquial Arabic.
Esma said: ‘My father is very upset.’
Hakim said: ‘What’s that to me?’
‘We can’t pay the extra. We have the money we must give you when we get to Libya, the balance of the fare. But no more.’
Hakim pretended to be indifferent. ‘Then you will just have to stay here in this village,’ he said.
‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ she said.
Of course it didn’t, Abdul thought. What was Hakim up to?
Esma went on: ‘In a few days’ time, we will pay you two thousand five hundred dollars. Would you really lose that for twenty?’
‘Sixty,’ he said. ‘Twenty for you, twenty for your mother-in-law, and twenty for the old man.’
A quibble, Abdul thought.
Esma said: ‘We don’t have it, but we can get it when we reach Tripoli. We will ask my husband to send more money from Nice – I promise.’
‘I don’t want promises. The Toubou don’t accept them as payment.’
‘Then we have no choice,’ she said in baffled exasperation. ‘We will have to stay here until someone comes along who can give us a ride back to Lake Chad. We will have wasted the money my husband earned building all those walls for rich French people.’ She sounded utterly miserable.
Hakim said: ‘Unless you can think of another way to pay me – you pretty little thing.’
‘What are you doing? Don’t touch me like that!’
Abdul tensed. His instinct was to intervene. He suppressed the impulse.
Hakim said: ‘As you wish. I’m just trying to help you. Be nice to me, why not?’
This has been Hakim’s agenda all along, Abdul thought. I should not be surprised.
Esma said: ‘Are you trying to tell me that you will accept sex instead of money?’
‘Don’t speak so crudely, please.’
The prudishness of the sexual bully, Abdul thought. He doesn’t like to hear the name of what he wants to make her do. A dismal irony.
Hakim said: ‘Well?’
There was a long silence.
This was what Hakim really wanted, Abdul thought. He did not really care about the sixty bucks. He was insisting on it only as a way of getting her to accept the alternative.
Abdul wondered how many other women had been offered this grim choice.
Esma said: ‘My husband would kill you.’
Hakim laughed. ‘No, he wouldn’t. He might kill you.’
At last Esma said: ‘All right. But only with my hand.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘No!’ She was insistent. ‘Nothing else.’
‘All right.’
‘Not now. Later, when it gets dark.’
‘Follow me when I leave the compound after the meal.’
With a note of desperation in her voice Esma said: ‘I could pay you double when we get to Tripoli.’
‘More promises.’
Abdul heard Esma’s footsteps walking away. He stayed where he was. A little later he heard Hakim leave.
He watched the village for another couple of hours, but nothing happened, except that people came to the well and went away.
As the sky darkened he returned to the compound. Some of the village inhabitants were preparing the evening meal, supervised by Fouad, and there was a pleasant aroma of cumin. He sat on the ground near to where Kiah was nursing Naji.
Kiah, who was sharp-eyed, said: ‘I noticed Esma talking to Hakim.’
Abdul said: ‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear them?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was said?’
‘He told her that if she didn’t have money she could pay him another way.’
‘I knew it. That pig.’
Unobtrusively, Abdul reached inside his robes and opened his money belt. He had notes in several currencies, and he kept them in order, so that he could take money out without looking. In Africa as in the US, it was foolish to let people see that you were carrying a lot of cash.
Gently, he drew out three American twenty-dollar bills. Hiding them behind his hands, he glanced down to check the denomination then folded them into a small packet. He passed the packet to Kiah, saying: ‘For Esma.’
She stashed it somewhere in her robe. ‘God bless you,’ she said.
A little later, when they lined up to get their supper, Abdul saw Kiah slip something into Esma’s hand. A moment later, Esma hugged and kissed her in happy gratitude.
The meal was flatbread and a vegetable soup thickened with millet flour. If there was meat in it, Abdul did not get any.