Chapter 14

The harbourmaster gripped the table, as if the building were being shaken by a sudden earthquake. He stopped Fareeha with a croak and a spasm of ejected air, ‘My goodness,’ came next, almost screeched, like a cry for help; and then he broke off in strangled laughter that sounded more like the splitting of walls. ‘My dear,’ he said at last when the tremor had subsided, ‘what madness is this? You must be pulling an old man’s leg.’

‘But I haven’t . . .’

‘No more, please,’ he said, lifting his hand. Chuckles rippled out like aftershocks. ‘And now that you have made me laugh, let’s drink some tea.’

‘Mr. Hussein, I am being serious and I haven’t even . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, raising his voice. He then pushed back his rattan chair and with his furry hand and forearm pushed himself up. ‘Serious! I should think so,’ he said, ‘serious about getting your throat cut and thrown into the harbour.’

‘But . . .’

‘My dear,’ Muzaffer said looking down on her with a wrought serious face. He raised both hands for added effect. ‘You are just a woman!’ He looked over to the corner. ‘Now let’s have that tea.’

Fareeha grabbed the sides of her chair with her tingling hands and shifted herself forwards. She swallowed, blinked. ‘But, Muzaffer, at least let me try to . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, turning his back on her and staggering across to the worktop.

Fareeha heard the harbourmaster opening jars, filling pots, preparing glasses and saucers but she didn’t look over—she kept her boiling, unfocused eyes staring out of the window. After a dozen deep breaths, she cleared her throat and spoke. 'There is a lot of money to be made,’ she said slowly, in an even voice. ‘A man could grow rich.’

Muzaffer stopped what he was doing and turned back into the room holding a tea-towel in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. ‘Mmm,’ he sighed, and then he flicked the tea-towel over his shoulder. The palm of his now-free hand came up and smothered his bristly face then pulled away, as if were pinching off a mask. ‘But, my dear,’ he said at last, ‘what on earth do you know about the mercantile trades?’

Fareeha refocused her eyes on the desk then turned towards him. She frowned. ‘Mercantile. . .?’

‘trades, my dear. The mercantile trades’ He struck the top of his thigh with the teaspoon. ‘I’m sorry, I thought for a moment back there you were talking about import, export—trading.’

‘I was,’ she blurted out. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

Something behind the old man caught his attention. He span around, removed a saucepan from the small stove, and span back again. ‘And what exactly is it that you propose to . . . to trade, my dear?’ The tea-towel and teaspoon were still there.

‘Tobacco,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I should have said before. Oh and cigarettes, of course.’

‘Well, of course,’ Muzaffer said, but his tanned face had already creased into a hundred lines and now began to buckle with more wall-splitting laughter. It came in waves and he put his free hand on his stomach that rippled in sympathy; quivering hairs poked around the buttons of his paisley-patterned silk shirt.

Fareeha looked away.

‘Fareeha, Fareeha, my dear,’ he said through aftershocks, pushing down the tails of his shirt. ‘Nothing comes into this port any longer; take a look for yourself.’ He swept his hairy arm towards the window. ‘Only a few battered fishing vessels and the occasional charity boat.’

‘I know that,’ she began, looking back at him. She needed something for her eyes to hold onto; she tried the teaspoon but he kept moving it, slapping it into his thigh. She raised her eyes to his round face and picked out a mole hair that for some reason he had declined to clip. Suitably anchored, she continued, ‘. . . and if ships did still used this port, well . . . there would be nothing for me to do.’

‘Do?’ The old man fixed her with a stern look. ‘And what would you be doing, exactly?

‘Well, there’s the beauty of it. In fact I wouldn’t have to do much at all. Just arrange things for other people to do. That’s what I’ve been trying o tell you. And even better, nobody can do anything without me!’

Muzaffer didn’t move for a few seconds, his eyes had glazed and he seemed to be lost somewhere out over the soupy water of his harbour. He leaned back, before suddenly remembering what was behind him. He jumped away from the stove and with a contortionist’s arm swished the back tail of his silk shirt, filling the office with curses.

Fareeha stared out of the window and let him finish preparing the tea, which he seemed to do quickly: a few moments later he returned to the table with a tray, upon which sat two silver pots, one on top of the other.

‘I thought you’d like a drop of Turkish tea,’ he said, adjusting the topmost pot. ‘I do so like it myself—must be all those Turkish ancestors I have.’ He looked up from the pots and grinned. ‘Still, I suppose we all have plenty of those.’

Fareeha knew a little about the harbourmaster’s family history, enough not to have to ask for any clarification. She nodded.

‘ . . . anyway, there’s no milk around at the moment—can’t even get my hands on a can of the stuff.’ He put his hands back to the top pot, as if to warm them. ‘Can’t rush it,‘ he said, ‘must let it stew for a while.’ He took his hands away and went for the sugar bowl. ‘Now;’ he looked up; ‘what were we talking about?’

‘The mercantile trades,’ Fareeha said with the hint of a grin. ‘Tobacco.’

Two large spoonfuls of sugar fell into a very small narrow glass. ‘Ah yes, my dear. And why is it that . . .’

The door of the office rattled, they both turned their heads, and Muzaffer’s sentence fell unfinished onto the silver tray. He pushed back his squeaky chair and tried to stand up. ‘Doctor Phipps,’ he called over, and then more quietly to Fareeha, ‘My goodness, I left him aboard The Maharajah and forgot all about him.‘

Fareeha strained her eyes, and through the dirty glass of the office door she suddenly made out what had moved the old harbourmaster: a stooping white man stood on the balcony outside.

‘Do please come in,’ Muzaffer bellowed as he scrambled out from behind the desk.

Fareeha pushed her chair back to give Muzaffer more room as he shunted past.