Chapter 33

Fareeha must have been the only person in Sa’ An to cry on Deliverance Day; any other day would have seen plenty of tears but not the day on which the outside world made its irregular contact with the city. As it had often done in the recent past, that contact came today in the form of Captain Rashid and his rusty ship, The Maharaja; and as the vessel was spilling its first pools of oil into the harbour waters, that same puffy-eyed woman showed her sallow face on the quays. She wore the colours of a widow, had pulled her hair tight under a dull headscarf, and was clutching a small box-like suitcase, coffee-brown in colour.

Rashid put one hand on the rail of the verandah and with the other he grabbed the hairy flesh of Muzaffer’s forearm. ‘Quick, a stowaway,’ he said. ‘Get that woman in the harbour lockup; I don’t want any refugees aboard my ship.’ He then started to look up and down the waterfront. ‘I thought you had soldiers guarding the place!’

‘Rashid, my dear fellow,’ Muzaffer began, shaking away the sticky hand of the Indian. ‘You have met that woman before; she is Mrs. Azziz, your next passenger: she is not some rat that will scuttle up the mooring ropes of the first tub she sees.’

Captain Rashid held up the identity papers that Muzaffer had only minutes before given him; he squinted at the photograph glued to the top right corner of one of the documents and then peered down to the waterfront. ‘Mmm,’ he mumbled, ‘Mrs. Azziz.’ Movement from farther along the quay caught his eye and he pulled back from the banister. ‘And who the hell is that?’

Muzaffer raised his hand to his brow and squinted, slowly making out the tall, gaunt figure that gangled along the grey flags. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘You’ve met him before as well.’ He dropped his hand and creased his brow. ‘He doesn’t want to leave already, does he?’

The two men started along the verandah, their eyes fixed on the quay below. Muzaffer tried to attract Fareeha’s attention with a wave but her eyes were held by the approaching man, who was by now almost upon her. Pushing off from the bottom step, the harbourmaster called out and again threw his hand in the air. He was certain he saw the man glance over towards him and the captain; but before he could signal the man had swung around and was already striding away, back in the direction he had come from. Muzaffer slowed. ‘Odd fellow!’ he said over his shoulder to the sweating Rashid. He then stopped completely and raised a hand to his jaw. He poked his tongue into one of his right-side molars, shook his head, and grimaced. ‘Very odd.’

*

An hour later, Muzaffer watched the propeller of the charity boat churn up turbid green water as it pushed away from the quay. He raised his wet eyes along the lines of rivets in the rusting hull to the railings of the decks. He searched along their lengths but found nothing: Mrs. Azziz, it seemed, didn’t want to wave goodbye.