Chapter 34

A week or so later the same plump man was waiting on the same quay, staring up at the same empty deck railings, as Rashid’s amorphous vessel was being winched in sideways on its ropes. At last a hatch in the ship’s side opened and she appeared.

‘Mrs. Azziz,’ Muzaffer called out.

She grabbed the knot under her chin and looked across at him. Her eyebrows rose and fell in a swift acknowledgement of his presence but she didn’t smile; instead she turned away from him, distracted by something behind her.

Muzaffer first saw the whites of his eyes, appearing from the shadows of The Maharaja’s hull; he then made out his face—that of a black-skinned Tamil, standing at Fareeha’s shoulder, with something in his hand. Fareeha moved aside and the Indian threw a plank across the gap to the quay. Fareeha’s right hand left her chin as she bent over to pick up the luggage between her feet. Muzaffer yelled at the Indian, who reacted swiftly and beat Fareeha to the handle of the case. The sailor waited for the woman to cross the gangplank, and when she was safely at the other side he bounced after her.

Muzaffer couldn’t stop himself from smiling. ‘Well, my dear?’ he said.

Fareeha rolled her eyes but said nothing to him; she turned to the Tamil, spoke a few soft words, and then pointed back over the gangplank, in through the open hatchway. He wobbled his head and bounced back across to the boat. Moments later the whites of his eyes reappeared out of the gloom and he struggled to the door with an awkward-looking box.

Muzaffer frowned. ‘Yours?’ he asked.

Fareeha nodded, keeping her eyes on the Tamil, who was carefully sliding his feet along the narrow walkway towards them. ‘Careful,‘ she warned him as he stepped off the wood and began to let the box down. She looked across at the harbourmaster’s building and then bent again for her case. This time it was Muzaffer himself who beat her to it, yelling once more at the Tamil, who had already begun to slink away from the awkward-looking box.

*

‘My wife baked a special cake this week,’ he whispered as they ascended the steps. Whispering, however, was not an easy thing for the harbourmaster to do, and he quickly checked behind; but the Tamil was well out of earshot, struggling over the hot stones with his burden.

Fareeha said nothing.

‘Everything went alright, I presume,’ Muzaffer said, again in a failed whisper.

Fareeha nodded but still said nothing.

Muzaffer threw up his hands and huffed. He then turned back towards the Tamil and shouted exactly where the Indian was to leave the box.

*

By the time they reached the desk, Muzaffer was almost exploding; he kept his watery eyes fixed on Fareeha and could barely hold his tongue. His expression, as he dropped himself into his squeaky chair, screamed at her to tell him what had happened.

Fareeha seemed distracted. ‘Muzaffer,’ she began in a soft voice, ‘I could hardly drink a thing on that boat. Could you . . . ?’

‘Of course, my dear, of course.’ He reached for the jug of water on his desk; but Fareeha had turned towards the little alcove where he prepared his snacks and teas. He looked away from the jug and followed her eyes. ‘Tea?’ he asked

Fareeha pinched at her throat and nodded.

Muzaffer made a pronounced shrug and then struggled to his feet

For the next five minutes Muzaffer did his best to fill the silence that Fareeha had deemed necessary between them. He hummed, whistled, spoke to himself, and clattered the pans, jars, and cups; preferring noise to the unfocussed tranquillity that would otherwise have pervaded the room.

‘Thanks, that should help,’ Fareeha said at last, sipping from the scalding-hot glass that the harbourmaster had just presented to her on a silver tray. ‘You make such lovely tea.’

Muzaffer ignored the compliment and waddled back to his side of the desk. ‘The trip, my dear,’ he implored her, standing behind his rattan chair and grabbing its back. ‘How was the trip?’

Fareeha reached forward and put the glass on the side of the desk. ‘Good,’ she answered, with a barely perceptible nod of her head .

Muzaffer leaned forward; his forearms strained and the wickerwork creaked as it began to take some of his weight. Sharp lines shot across his shiny forehead; his watery eyes poured into her.

‘Good,’ Fareeha repeated slowly, and then from somewhere inside her jacket, she produced the notebooks that he had given her and put them on the edge of the desk. She sighed and her hand came away with the glass. ‘It is all in there,’ she said, ‘. . . I think.’ The tea had cooled and she took a longer gulp.

Muzaffer’s eyes swam across the desk to the notebooks. He pulled out his chair and dropped himself noisily into it ‘Everything?’ he said, above the squeaking rattan.

Fareeha raised her eyebrows.

Muzaffer took a deep breath and reached forward, the buckle of his bulging trousers scratching at the edge of the desk as he did so. He snatched up the notebooks and then fell back into his complaining chair. He pulled open the first, gazed at a page for a moment, and then ran his forefinger over its surface. As he turned to the next, his bushy brows jumped towards his distant hairline. He mumbled something. The next page received a sharper sound and at the next he gave a pronounced cluck. ‘Well, well, my dear . . . I never would have . . .’ he stopped himself and looked up from the open pages. A smile had drawn his fleshy face into curls and loops. ‘Now, where did I put that cake?’