Chapter 24

‘Missed him!’ Muzaffer said, sounding like the carbonation escaping under the cap of a freshly opened bottle of pop.

‘What?’ Fareeha said.

He settled back in his chair, pulled a red paisley handkerchief from a pocket in his slacks and dabbed his sweating brow. ‘McBride—he was almost out of range by the time I got the damn radios working. Sounded like he was yelling at me through a sandstorm—all whooshes and crackles—missed half of what he said.’

‘So you still haven’t asked him?’ Fareeha’s palms ran towards her knees.

‘Oh I asked him, alright.’ The handkerchief disappeared behind his thick neck. ‘Trouble is I can’t be sure if he heard me or not—all I got back was a static.’ Muzaffer squeaked around in his chair and looked out of the window; the rag went back into his pocket. ‘We ought to ask our man out there to get a message through, I suppose.’

Fareeha followed the harbourmaster’s eyes over the water to the moored hull of iron that rusted against the stone wall of the wharf. She couldn’t see the vessel’s name but recognised its ugly shape. She swallowed hard.

Muzaffer turned back to her. ‘Rashid.’ He huffed and his face rippled with contempt. ‘They seem to send him every time now. Don’t trust the scoundrel one bit, though.’ He then nodded over Fareeha’s shoulder to the adjoining room behind her. ‘We wouldn’t have any problems if those thugs didn’t come down here playing with my equipment.’ His eyes narrowed as he glared toward the shut door. ‘Nothing ever works after they’ve been here.’

‘Can’t you . . .’

‘Nothing I can do.’ His jowls wobbled as he repeated the sentence with a pronounced shake of his head. ‘According to our new way of things, they work for the same people I do. And, I might add, they have all the guns . . .’

Fareeha felt an ice cube slither down her back.

‘Never would have happened in the old days—never.’ He pulled out the handkerchief and ran it over his forehead again. ‘Don’t know why I don’t just up and go, for all the good I do here.’

Fareeha opened her mouth, as if to speak, but she just stared at the old man for a moment then ran her eyes back out onto the water.

‘Anyway,’ Muzaffer said, with a little less languor, ‘I need a cup of tea . . .’

Ten minutes later Muzaffer carried a silver tray back to the desk. ‘This should perk us up a bit,’ he said as he slid a cup and saucer in front of Fareeha. His own tea he carried to the window behind his desk. ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ he said, looking out on to the water. The cup stayed on the saucer as he lifted both to his lips with his right hand. He sipped but immediately returned the tea to its cup with a splutter. ‘Careful,’ he said trying to suck air into his mouth, ‘it’s hot.’

Fareeha hadn’t touched hers yet.

‘McBride will be down in Cochin for a few days, but when he’s back in the Gulf I’ll try to call him up and ask him what he thinks of our little idea—if he heard it that is . . . If not I’ll put it to him again.’

Fareeha had slid the cup and saucer off the desk and was raising the tea to her mouth.

‘If he bites, we’ll get you aboard The Maharaja the next time she’s in and have Rashid ferry you across. Shouldn’t be a problem for the old scoundrel—especially if we offer him something.’

The cup was almost at Fareeha’s lips but without sipping she replaced it on the saucer, where it rattled until she had put the chinaware back onto the desk. She held Muzaffer’s watery eyes for a second before turning her head to the distant wharf and Captain Rashid’s ugly ship. Something caught in her throat as she tried to swallow.

Muzaffer came back to his desk; and, still holding his cup and saucer, he dropped himself into the rattan chair. His long sigh coincided with the squeaks of the chair as he tried to get himself comfortable. ‘Perhaps I’m getting too old for this kind of thing,’ he said, ‘or perhaps I just need a good bath.’

Fareeha cleared her throat. ‘You don’t go there anymore?’

‘The bathhouse? No, not so often these days.’ He grabbed his large stomach with both hands and leaned back. ‘Suppose I should go more often—I’ve got all the time in the world.’

Fareeha wondered if he still frequented the brothels that hid behind the now-abandoned cafés and restaurants of the waterfront—brothels that her husband swore he never visited. ‘Yes, she said, ‘you look like you need a bit of fun.’