The heat of Khartoum had walloped him like a fist.
A hard vicious assault. Three days in, he felt the temperature was still climbing... and the walls, he was close to climbing those.
Prior to departure, he’d gone to Jermyn Street, to “A gentleman’s outfitter for the Tropics.” Four lightweight suits later, he bored a sizeable hole in one of the major investments. April in London, he’d frozen in the cab to Heathrow.
His visa was of ten days duration. He’d reckoned that was ample time to find Nina. His guide book recommended The Acropolis Hotel as being cheap and laden with character. Cheap it wasn’t.
Full of shady characters... yes.
He hadn’t got the swing of the money yet. Whatever transactions he did seemed to cost a bucket of the Sudanese pounds. Smelt; there was a definite odour from the notes and they were filthy. Like newspaper print, they left black marks on his fingers. He’d been advised of the thriving Black Market, but hadn’t found it.
Arak, yea he’d found that. The local booze, and he’d drunk gallons. It kicked back like a psychopathic mule and gave him the kind of diarrhoea he was truly alarmed by...
Huge patches of perspiration dotted his suits; they already looked like something Oxfam would see and say, “Ah no... the third world’s not that desperate.”
The way he felt now, he wished he’d simply sent the suits on the trip.
Rivers of sweat ran across his bald head and down into his eyes.
“Jay-sus,” he said, “no one has this much water in them.” If it continued he didn’t think he’d have it much longer.
He’d reckoned spring was a shrewd time to head to Sudan. Khartoum, even the name had a majesty. No one had told him that April is the start of the habood system. Huge storms of dust howling in from the desert and covering everything. It had a sound like terror, a thin wailing that surrounded him.
Ten days, he’d no idea how he’d last and he still hadn’t found Nina. The telephone system didn’t work and no one had heard of her at the hotel. The care workers he’d met did know her and provided him with two phone numbers. Everyone he spoke to, he gave them his name and phone number. Finally, he’d given various Sudanese the equivalent of the budget for a minor country and they’d promised to find her.
Trying to spot her anywhere was a joke. The women all wore the black chador. These black silk cloaks were from head to ankle. Like huge flocks of grounded jackdaws or malicious nuns. He found them vaguely sinister and had no intention of approaching them.
So he drank the arak, fled to the toilet and counted the minutes. He was told of the huge famine in the Sudan and was near starvation himself.
There were massive shortages of bread, flour and water. He’d brought a packet of Rich Tea biscuits from London... on a whim... and was sparing them now like a lifeline. According to his guide book, there were at least forty types of mosquito in Khartoum and he’d no reason to doubt the claim. He’d been bitten by at least 36 branches of the things.
Chloroquine was the assured and established remedy but he suspected it was attracting them. A large spacious room had been free, and he’d been delighted to see it had an overhead fan. Visions of the movie Casablanca had unfolded.
It didn’t work.
He’d paid a porter to install two floor fans which blew blissful streams of air.
Till the power cuts.
On inquiring when the power might be resumed, he’d heard,
“Insha Allah.”
Back to the guide book which told him this meant, “God willing.” God hadn’t willed it for the past 48 hours.
He was sitting in his Marks and Spencer’s Y-fronts, chugging Arak and dreaming of E Street Market. Oh, to be cold and miserable. A battalion of mosquitoes were stinging him.
A knock at the door.
“Jay-sus,” he said on opening it, “The friggin Grim Reaper in person.”
A black spectre shimmered there.
“Oh, do get a grip, Stephen.”
The hood was thrown back to reveal Nina.
He nearly hugged her.
“Come in,” he gasped, “Come in!”
She glanced inside the room.
“Actually, I’d rather not. Why have you got it like a furnace?”
“I’ve got some Rich Tea.”
He had, in fact, three.
“Get dressed, we’ll go to my place.”
He donned one of the suits and wiped away a yard of sweat with the sleeve.
“Where did you get that suit?”
“Oxfam.”
“Yes, well... they saw you coming.”
Her place was a cool, airy bungalow on the outskirts of the city. They’d driven there in her small Datsun... air conditioned. Divans were scattered haphazardly. Clay pots and posters on the wall. He sank into a divan, said, “I might never leave here.”
“Khartoum?”
“No, this room.”
She made sweet tea which he found enormously refreshing. Then removed her chador. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the logo, “SOLEDAD.”
“Why are you here, Stephen?”
“To see you... to find out about Suzy.”
“A letter would have been cheaper. How did you find me?”
He smiled and looked around. A bungalow was the last thing he’d anticipated, the only place he could push her out was the door.
“Well, Nina... it wasn’t easy. Since my family were martyred, you and Suzy are all I’ve got.”
“Your Mother... and Martin... what... are they, are they all right?”
“Dead, a car accident... together.”
It silenced her.
“So Nina, you’re caring for the masses here... who’s caring for Suzy?”
“How dare you... she’s been cared for. I see her every two months.”
“Oh wow, that will do it.”
Nina stood up.
“Stephen, I don’t know what mad scheme you’re planning or what you hoped to accomplish. I want no part of it. I’ll drive you back to your hotel, and if you want my advice... you’ll go back to London. This is no place for you.”
Stephen drained the tea.
The drive back was silent. A choking dust storm had risen, and as he got out of the car... whatever she said was snatched away. In the lobby of the hotel, a thin, dark Arab wearing the tight western clothes approached him.
“Al Labibi... a word in private.”
“Why not?”
“I am Abdul, you are not comfortable here, my friend, I arrange for you to stay at the Sahara. Much clean, much cool.”
“But it’s booked out.”
“Meet here, nine o’clock. I arrange all... Salaam a leccum.”
And this, according to his guidebook, was “Peace be with you.”
Abdul was the business. Not only did he effect a smooth hotel change, but showed the way to food, the black market services. Even Stephen’s suits perked up and were whisked away for cleaning. The second night at the Sahara, a relaxed Stephen was in a generous mood.
“So, Abdul, you’ve got to let me pay for all your help.”
