Olives Page 10

  Anne slid open the patio window from the bedroom and stepped into the garden, sleepy-eyed and blinking in the warm morning light. She shaded her eyes and started to walk towards me. She stopped, her hand dropping to her hip.

  ‘Paul, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  I looked around me, the newspaper on my lap, my mobile on the table next to my still-steaming coffee, the paved area around me scattered with brown leaves. Too late, I realised. I grinned weakly. Anne hated smoking. I snatched my hand behind my back, a reflex that made me feel like a naughty schoolboy, but Anne had already turned on her heel. She went indoors without a word.

  I stubbed out the cigarette and followed her into the kitchen, anxiety pricking at me and making my heart pump. If my voice was over-bright, then Anne’s was dull and lifeless.

  ‘Fancy some toast?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, one leg tucked under the other and her hands cupped protectively around a glass of orange juice.

  I made coffee and toast, the kitchen filling with breakfast smells. Buttering the slices, I remembered I didn’t have any marmalade. Anne only ever had marmalade on toast. I had meant to go down to FineFair and buy some for her.

  ‘Um, there’s no marmalade. Jam?’

  She didn’t look up. ‘No, I’ll just take it plain, thanks.’

  Her toast stayed on the plate as I ate mine. She finished her orange juice and left the kitchen and I heard the shower as I sat, looking at the sunlight on the tiled floor and feeling sick.

  I stood centre stage in Amman’s Roman amphitheatre feeling the pressure of my own voice reverberating from the stone seating circled around me. I watched Anne as she walked in the flat arena, called out to her. ‘Come up here and try it. It’s so acoustically perfect you can hear a man talking in a normal voice even if you’re sitting all the way up at the back.’

  She looked up at me and smiled. ‘I’ll take your word for it. What’s the equipment behind you? Do they still have concerts here?’

  I surveyed the stage behind me. Beyond the speaker stacks I could see the shabby Eastern city climbing up the hill towards the Citadel, straight stairways set into the tightly packed buildings, reaching towards the cloudy sky.

  ‘Yes. A big Lebanese singer played here over the weekend. Not bad to be using a venue after two thousand years, is it?’

  I jumped down to her and managed to wind myself in the process. Anne laughed and put her arm in mine, her cheeks rosy with the cool autumn air. She had zipped her brown leather jacket up, her red scarf tucked into the top.

  ‘It’s cold.’

  I held her closer. ‘Come on, let’s drive up to the Citadel.’

  The Amphitheatre is on the margins of the Eastern city’s poverty, the streets choked by jostling, beeping traffic. A line of desperate people sat along the front wall selling miserable scraps, their last pathetic possessions laid out by the roadside. Anne stopped by a small boy, a broken radio, a tape cassette and a pair of worn shoes laid out on the stained blanket in front of him. My mobile rang. It was Lynch insisting we meet. I walked away from Anne, hissing at him.

  ‘I can’t. My girlfriend’s over from the UK.’

  I turned to see Anne staring at me. The boy was imploring. Anne beckoned me.

  Lynch’s clipped Northern Irish vowels were urgent. ‘This is important, Paul.’

  ‘I can’t just dump her in the house and go gallivanting around Amman right now, Gerald. Sorry.’

  ‘Call me back later, so. You’ve got the number.’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  I dropped the line and went back to Anne, who shook her head as I pulled her away from the boy. ‘Can’t we give him something, Paul? It’s so dirty here. These people are so poor.’

  ‘Come on, Annie. Whatever we do here won’t change that. And most of the beggars are actually professionals.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Me, Anne. I’ve been living here, remember?’

  She was silent until we reached the car. ‘Who was on the phone?’

  I hadn’t thought to concoct a reason for the call. What the hell do I say now? Nobody, dear, just a gentleman from British intelligence. I opened the door to buy time. I looked across the roof at her, smiling reassuringly.

  ‘Just one of the people from the Ministry. He didn’t realise I was on leave.’

  Anne’s reflection on the car roof was framed by dark cloud. I shivered as her face softened and she smiled. ‘Come on, then. Show me this Citadel place,’ she said.

  My relief at having avoided another big scene was tempered by the knowledge that the lie, like getting caught smoking and our disastrous attempt at copulation the night before, was another little wedge between us.

  The Golan Heights are both notorious and beautiful, a majestic sweep of green rising up from the lowlands around Lake Tiberias, a couple of hours’ drive north of Amman. Exploring the North of the country was Lars’ idea – he’d made the suggestion the night before at dinner.

  We stood in the ruins of the Roman City at Umm Qeis and looked out at the green swell of one of the world’s bloodiest and most hotly contested pieces of land, and I was humbled into silence. Anne was next to me, her jacket collar turned up and her hair whipping her face. It was a day of clear, cool sunshine. The clouds were starting to gather, drifting across the rich blue sky and casting jagged shadows across the ruins and the hump of the Golan beyond. I heard the shouts of the tamar man selling his date juice in the ruins behind me and turned to see him lugging the huge, brass pot on his back, bright ribbons and pompoms decorating it.

  Lars spoke to Anne, raising his voice against the breeze blowing across the black stone skeleton of the city Rome had left behind. The wind gusted through the centuries and across into Israel. ‘The Israelis took it from Syria in ’67,’ Lars shouted against the wind. ‘You could stand here at the time, apparently, and watch the MIGs dancing in the air as the land shook with the bombs. I know a guy who was here. He was crazy to have been close to it as like this. He said it looked beautiful, the explosions and smoke. The border’s down there, in the valley. The Syrians used to launching the rocket attacks from the heights down onto the Israelis. Gave them more range.’

  Anne shuddered. ‘I think it’s horrible. Why can’t they just live together?’

  ‘That is a long story, Anne,’ said Lars. I could imagine him thinking ‘stupid cow’ as he smiled at her because, to be honest, I was thinking something like it myself.

  Lars’ exposition into the wind continued. ‘The Arabs tried to fight against the Israelis ever since the country was founded in 1948. But they couldn’t work together, the Egyptians, Syrians and Jordanians. They took the beating in ’48 and took another one in ’67, the six-day war. The crazy Syrians lost the Golan, tried to take it back in ’73, the Yom Kippur war, but the Israelis threw them out again. Back and forward all the time, you see? It’s all about the water – that’s Lake Tiberias you can see over there – the Israelis took it in ’67. It’s the cornering stone of their water supply now.’

  I was impressed. Lars had the history down pat. Although Anne and Lars seemed cordial enough over our dinner together the night before, they were not exactly destined to be star-crossed lovers. Lars had brought a pal of his along to the restaurant, a privatisation consultant. Privatisation Man and Anne had spent most of the evening swapping London stories and I hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t drinking until we got back to the house and she gave me a hard time for being pissed.

  A real comedy of errors, except I couldn’t hear anyone laughing.

  We wandered through the maze of ruined buildings to eat lunch at the Lebanese restaurant hidden away around the back of the Roman city, a few wrought iron tables topped with marble mosaic scattering a patio overlooking the Heights. We ordered mezze and arak and sat, shielded from the breeze. Anne didn’t like the arak so I ordered her a glass of dry local white wine she liked little more.

  As La
rs chatted to Anne, I watched the clouds chasing the sunshine across the Golan, my thoughts drifting to Daoud, driving up through here into Syria and Lebanon in search of his fanatical younger brother. Daoud must have watched Hamad changing and becoming angrier, more politicised. I could imagine his concern, his growing reservations about the company his brother was keeping, the late night meetings and the family arguments. One day Hamad hadn’t come home and Daoud had chased after him, tailing him across the uncertainties of the Syrian border.

  I was there with Daoud, white-faced at the wheel of the car as he raced to try and catch up with his headstrong little brother, knowing in his deepest heart what Hamad was planning. The failure, the vengeful Mukhabarat stopping Daoud at the border on his way back. Daoud brought low, moaning in the prison cell with the wounds and bruises from the hourly beatings, until Ibrahim tracked him down and had him released. No wonder Daoud came across as dark and intense now.

  Of course, I had eventually given in and watched Hamad’s last testament, the videotaped statement he had made wearing a green bandana and a bomb belt. The grainy quality of the recording couldn’t disguise his strong resemblance to Daoud. I didn’t have the means to decipher what Hamad was saying on the tape. But I had been mesmerised by the sight of him crowing before he marched off to kill a busload of children, his chin raised and his eyes angry and defiant.

  ‘Paul.’ Anne’s voice, sharp, bringing me back to the present, the marble-topped table cold under my elbow and Lars grinning at me. ‘I asked if you could get the bill please. I don’t have any Dinars on me.’

  The unkind thought flashed through my mind, use your fucking Amex then, dahling. ‘Okay. Hang on a tick,’ I said, fumbling for my wallet.

  I called the waiter. ‘Law samaht. El-fattura, min fadlak.’

  He came over with the bill.

  ‘Yislamouh,’ I said as I handed back the little black folder.

  Lars turned to Anne. ‘See? He’s even speaking Arabic now. He’s bright, your boy. Half Arab already.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Anne’s face wasn’t exactly a picture of pride.

  We left Umm Qeis and would have been totally silent on the drive back to Amman if it hadn’t been for Lars the tourist guide, who kept up a constant patter from the back seat as I drove. I rather suspected he was doing it because he knew Anne didn’t like him. My mobile rang and it was Lynch. I rejected the call before clearing the received call list on the phone and dropping it back in the car’s ashtray so Anne wouldn’t pick it up and see the last caller number. Her eyes followed the phone as I put it back into the slot in the dashboard.

  When we got back to the house late in the afternoon, Lynch was sitting in the garden. I introduced him to Anne as a friend who worked at the British Embassy. Lars took Lynch’s proffered hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Lars said, making it abundantly clear it wasn’t. ‘Paul, Anne, thanks for the fun. I am going out to meet a crazy Jordanian chick who loves me too much, so I have to make myself beautiful.’ He nodded at Lynch. ‘You’ll excuse me, ya?’

  Lynch smiled at us both and sat down again. He looked up at Anne, standing with her arms crossed.

  ‘I just need two minutes with Paul here, if you don’t mind. Maybe you’d like to freshen up a bit after your trip or something?’

  Anne gasped. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, looking at me and waiting for me to defend her right to stay but my eyes were on Lynch. She snatched the keys from my hand and marched over to the door, unlocking it with a savage twist before slamming it behind her.

  ‘You rude fucker.’

  Lynch smiled. ‘Do you actually like her? She doesn’t seem your type.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  He leaned forward, his smile fading fast.

  ‘We need your help. Dajani’s confirmed to a journalist from one of the Arabic rags he’s going to be bidding for the water privatisation and he’s claiming he has the solution to Jordan and the West Bank’s water supply problems. We’re deeply concerned about what he’s up to, Paul. The West Bank’s none of his business and it isn’t part of the privatisation as far as we are aware. The Izzies are screaming blue murder already and asking the Jordanians for clarification – and they’re saying nothing, not confirming, not denying. Your Minister has clammed up tighter than a shark’s arse at fifty fathoms.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  Lynch cast his eyes briefly to heaven. ‘Find out what he’s up to, Paul. Find out why the Ministry’s gone quiet.’

  ‘And why should I do that? Don’t you have the contacts there to do that? Since when did Israeli reaction to newspaper reports become a problem for the Foreign Office?’

  Lynch relaxed, his hand on the table and his arm hooked over the back of the chair. ‘Why should you help me? Because you and I are great pals, Paul. Because I can help you and you know it. My friends across the border have confirmed the Arafi boy was the Jericho bomber, by the way. Thought you might like to know that.’

  ‘What Arafi boy? Who’s Arafi?’

  Lynch counted on his fingers like a child. ‘Rashid Arafi. Son of Ghaith Arafi. Brother of Nancy Arafi. Wife of Ibrahim Dajani, brother of Emad Dajani, father of Daoud Dajani.’

  He reached the seventh finger. ‘Brother of Aisha Dajani. You’ve got to get used to these Arab families, Paul. They’re spread out. Rashid Arafi was family and he worked for Ibrahim Dajani and the Israelis shot him running towards the checkpoint in Jericho set up next to the police station. Remember Jericho, Paul? Rashid Arafi killed nine people. He was wired up with enough explosive to bring down a house.’

  I was still trying to make sense of the family tree. I bought a little time to think. ‘So what does that change, Gerald?’

  Lynch leaned forwards again, peering intently into my face. His cold gaze was fixed on me, his voice a Northern Irish rasp.

  ‘Rashid Arafi was no innocent bystander. He was a bomber and he’s tied into the family you are so buddy-buddy with. He’s part of whatever Daoud’s up to, and it’s a problem for Her Majesty’s Government precisely because we don’t like terrorists or the people who fund them. Any more than we like people stirring up trouble with wild schemes driving wedges into one of the most divisive political issues in this part of the world – the fucking water. Dajani’s a two for one deal. He’s up to his neck in both.’

  He glared at me for a second, then rocked back on his chair, stretched his legs and got up with a small grunt. ‘Tell me what’s going on there. Find out from the Ministry. They’re covering his arse, I know it.’

  ‘I’m on leave.’

  ‘Go off leave.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Lynch leered at me. ‘Yes, you can. By the way, your case will be heard by a judge called Ayman Khasawneh. He’s a powerful man, very respected. A reputation for upholding the law. A hardliner.’

  Lynch stood by the garden table, flicking the flaky-varnished surface with his fingernails. ‘He’s a big pal of ours, actually. Big Anglophile. Loves coming over to the Ambassador’s house for roast beef, so he does. The Ministry of Justice assigned your case to Khasawneh because there’s a clampdown on public order offences right now and they don’t like foreigners taking swings at their police. They even brought the case forward. It’ll be heard next week. So you’ve got a deadline.’

  ‘What if I don’t make the deadline?’

  Lynch looked straight at me, his blue eyes totally devoid of emotion. ‘Find out what’s happening with Dajani and the Ministry, Paul. The sooner you do, the sooner we can help you. Don’t put anything in writing. You don’t have to be James Bond. We just want to know what’s going on and you just happen to be the boy to tell us.’

  My heart raced, the anger and fear in me making my skin prick with sweat despite the cool evening air. I had a sudden urge to flee, to strike out at him, to take any action to affirm my right to a choice. But choices were a luxury denied little people like me.

  Lynch patted my
arm before he walked away down the steps to the road, leaving me standing by the garden table trying to contain my growing sense of horror and hopelessness.

  I went into the kitchen looking for Anne, but found her in the bedroom, sitting on the bed by her packed bag. She had been crying. She got to her feet clearing the damp hair from her face as I came into the room.

  ‘I’ve checked into the Hyatt, Paul. I’m leaving. I’ve had enough.’

  The relief I felt was like slipping into the warm, gloopy waters of the Dead Sea, an almost sensuous feeling of enveloping calm. I’d paused outside the house before coming in, dreading telling her I had to go back to work. Standing alone in the garden with the city spread out below me darkening from the spectacular roseate glow of its sunset, it had been a huge effort to push open the door and face yet more of Anne’s palpable disapproval of everything I had come to enjoy, of my new life in this city that had won my heart.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anne.’

  She sat back down again. Her face crumpled and reddened. I stepped towards her but she waved me away.

  ‘No. Leave me alone. You’re not sorry, Paul. You’re not. You didn’t want me here in the first place. You’ve changed and I don’t like it. I don’t want it. You’re happy here, I can see that, but you were happier before I came. I’m no fool, Paul. This was all an awful mistake.’

  She started sobbing, drawing heaving breaths, her nose blocked and her eyes streaming. I stood watching her snivel in front of me. She gushed simplicities, almost childlike, a jarring contrast to Anne the smart, hard international contract lawyer who negotiated like a pit bull. She reached across to the box of tissues on the bedside table and wiped at her face.

  ‘I can’t like this place, Paul, but you do. I don’t want to be part of this. I should never have come.’

  ‘Then you have to go,’ I heard myself say to her, an awful finality in my voice I didn’t mean to let out.

  She hunched in on herself as if I had hit her, looked around the room slowly before looking at my feet. Her voice was small, quiet as she said: ‘So that’s it, then.’