Chapter 15

Muzaffer steamed a direct line from his desk to the door, his large un-manoeuvrable hull adding to the wreckage of the office. ‘My dear man,’ he began, in English, as he opened the door, ‘I wondered where you had got to.’ He looked behind the man, along the balcony. ‘Captain Rashid’s not with you? Never mind, come in, come in. We have to go through your papers.’

Fareeha looked over and through the open door of the office saw the Englishman, tentative, unwilling to enter. He didn’t speak and several times looked behind him, over the railings of the balcony, into the soupy waters of the harbour.

Muzaffer hairy right arm came up to the man’s shoulder and gave him a friendly shove through the door. ‘I’ll sort out a few stamps for your passport—shouldn’t take long.’

Fareeha watched as the tall, thin foreigner, with a start, came gangling into the office, at once noticing his legs: exposed and hairy, beneath his oversized pair of shorts. His heavy boots clumped the floor and seemed to restrain his movement. He shrugged off the harbourmaster’s hand, as he surveyed his new surroundings. She caught his eye for a split second before he looked away.

‘Is she my helper?’ He directed his words at Muzaffer, without looking at him.

‘Helper? Heavens no! What on earth gave you that idea?’

But the man didn’t reply; he kept his eyes to the floor and edged back.

Muzaffer continued. ‘This is Mrs Azziz, wife of the assistant harbourmaster.’ He looked at Fareeha and tried to make an introduction: ‘Fareeha, my dear, this is the English doctor I told you about—Doctor Phipps.’

Fareeha had already stood up, and now readied herself for the greeting; but the man kept his eyes away and seemed to mumble something about a doctor, edging all the while back towards the exit.

‘It’s alright,’ Muzaffer said, trying to help, ‘she speaks excellent English—spent the first few years of her life in your hometown as a matter of fact. Isn’t that right, my dear?’ Muzaffer turned towards her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘London.’

But Phipps said nothing and with his head still down he began going through some of the many pockets of his khaki jacket. From one he pulled a passport, from another he retrieved an envelope, and then a folded paper from still another. Without words, he handed everything to Muzaffer.

‘You are in a hurry, Doctor Phipps, Muzaffer said, ‘but don’t worry it won’t take me long.’

Fareeha sat down as Muzaffer puffed back towards the desk. Left unattended, the Englishman slowly shuffled backwards.

‘Tea, Doctor?’ Muzaffer called out as he sank back into his squeaking chair. ‘I should have offered you a glass. Do come over and try some—it’s Turkish.’

Fareeha could not make out Doctor Phipps’s mumbled response, but it didn’t seem as if he was excited about trying the harbourmaster’s brew. She reached forward for her own glass.

Muzaffer stuck his shiny head up from an open desk drawer. ‘Mrs. Azziz, while I’m doing this paperwork, would you be good enough to tell the doctor how to get to the hotel . . . he ought to take a buggy—should be able to find one over by the old cafés. I’d take him myself if I didn’t have that blasted Rashid and his flour to deal with.’

Fareeha finished her tea, replaced the glass on the miniature saucer, and sat forward, ready to stand up; but before she could she felt a twinge beneath her dress. She put her knees together, straightened her back, and ran her hand down her stomach, past her bellybutton; her face crackled with electricity as she looked over to the doctor. She squeezed and the pain subsided.

As she approached she again caught his blue eyes, momentarily, before they darted out of the widow, then behind him, then back to the floor. Helper, she thought and lost herself for a moment as she followed the doctor around wards full of the war-injured, hanging onto his every instruction . . . but why helper and not nurse . . .

By the time she reached him he was already through the door and out on the balcony. He seemed to relax a little under the sky, before the ocean.

‘Over there,’ Fareeha said. Her outstretched arm pointed left, around the harbour to several abandoned cafe’s and restaurants. ‘Perhaps in the street behind, or in one of the side streets; you should be able to find a taxi. But don’t pay more than a few dirhams for a ride to the hotel.’ She stopped and considered for a moment then added, ‘a bit extra if you have a lot of luggage.’

The Englishman nodded.