Chapter 7

Muzaffer Hussein’s office was on the top floor of the Harbour Master’s building, which was long and narrow and stretched along the waterfront. Fareeha had ignored the main road and the harbour gates and had taken a shortcut through derelict land, reaching the building from behind. She’d stepped over fallen concrete to get to its front, and now as she climbed the outside steps she still hadn’t looked out over the water. Instead her eyes were full of a scene from the past: a beautiful natural harbour divided neatly in two by a long thin pier. In front of the building sparkled blue water of the old port, upon which bobbed fishing boats and pleasure yachts. Over the pier, in a deeper anchorage, heavy cargo ships strained their mooring lines along the main wharf as goods were loaded and unloaded by swinging derricks and boisterous dock workers, waving, shouting. And, reaching the top step, she pictured the portly Harbourmaster, standing where she now was, with his magnificent view of everything he held sway over. What an honour.

She turned seaward and the image vanished in an instant, the way the bubbles of a broken wave disappear into the sand as they rush back down a steep beach towards the sea. Where she had seen elegant ships in a twinkling blue background, she saw an empty expanse of filmy water, soupy green from which the sunlight could not reflect. The main wharf, away to her right, lay empty, crumbled, fallen into disrepair. The only signs of activity were a sheet of loose corrugated iron, flapping on the roof of an empty warehouse, and below her a black cat that slinked around a rusty mooring post.

She slumped over the banister and took a long, deep breath, filling both nostrils with the stench of decay.

A timid knock on the door and a self-conscious call summoned nobody. She peered through the glass and saw an abandoned office; it was as if the last occupant had fled quickly from a gale or a sandstorm, leaving the contents to the temper of the elements. She turned and ran her eyes around the rim of the harbour, right up to the headland and its octagonal red tower, an ancient fortification that once repulsed invaders. She saw somebody sitting in the shade of the battlements and waved, but the figure didn’t move. She called but her voice carried no farther than the shabby black cat, who raised a tired head from behind the mooring post before sloping away to look for a cooler place to lie. She picked up an iron bar and banged at the railing then waved again. The figure stirred, looked over, and disappeared into the red stones of the tower. It was a man, but when he reappeared at the bottom, she wished she hadn’t been so hasty in attracting his attention: he was half-formed, steamy, and shimmering in the afternoon heat, but revealing enough of his squat, compact shape to show that he couldn’t be the Harbourmaster.

Fareeha began to walk back along the balcony; but by the time she had reached the top of the steps, the figure had grown, taken shape, started to bulge through its wavy outline. She stopped and waited as the growing figure bobbed towards her, trying its best to keep in the shade.

Fareeha had been wrong, tricked by the heat: the man now puffing at the bottom of the steps was the Harbourmaster and his appearance had changed little since the last time they’d met. She announced herself and threw down a greeting.

‘Mrs. Azziz,’ he said, catching his breath and looking up at her, ‘Of course; Mrs. Azziz.’

After heaving himself up the steps, he ploughed along the balcony, like an under-powered tugboat, his runnels too near the waterline. ‘Fareeha,’ he said, before mooring himself to the doorframe. ‘Fareeha. such a long time; what a pleasure it is to see you.’ He wheezed and took a long pause. ‘Come in, come in,’ he managed at last through a heavy chest, ‘do come in.’

She accepted his windy invitation and followed him through the unlocked door, unprepared for the scene that greeted her inside. She had seen untidiness through the window, but now, unblurred by dirty glass the chaos was overwhelming. My God, Muzaffer, she thought to herself, whatever has happened to you?

‘How is your husband, Fareeha?’ the harbourmaster said over his shoulder as he steered his hull through the choppy waters of the office. ‘I haven’t seen him in a very long time.’

‘Oh . . . ah, fine, thank you,’ she said, pulling her eyes from the mess, ‘he’s fine.’ It was a lie, but to the harbourmaster she was little more than his former assistant’s wife—and for now at least, she’d better remember it. She watched his square stern, which was hidden well behind the loose fabric of his slacks and the tails of an airy silk shirt, and tried to follow in its wake.

Muzaffer seemed to lack manoeuvrability and the short trip to his desk added to the flotsam and jetsam of the room: he spilled piles of ledgers, knocked down books, and trampled on papers.

Fareeha picked her way over everything, anxious not to add to the disorder.

The rattan chair behind the desk responded noisily as Muzaffer dropped his tonnage. ‘Fareeha,’ he said, ‘do take a chair, please.’

Fareeha began to clear off a chair near the desk, at which Muzaffer tried to raise himself. ‘It’s alright,’ she told him, ‘I can manage.’ She sent a pile of papers plummeting to the bottom of the sea, and then, ignoring the film of dust, she sat.

Muzaffer’s furry right forearm had in the meantime pushed out a little space on the surface of his desk. ‘Now, Fareeha,’ he said, at last fixing her with his glassy wet eyes, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure?’

Physically, it was the same old Muzaffer Hussein who had dropped anchor on the other side of the desk. He was older of course, hair a little greyer, much thinner on top, but the war had done little to slim him down to a reasonable size, and he was still obese, chins wobbling, stomach rippling. Everything beyond his rolling flesh, however, starting immediately with his casual clothes and finishing with the upheaval of his office, gave Fareeha the impression that a lot had changed in the old man. The stiff, slightly pompous Muzaffer of a few years ago would never have forgone his formal attire and worn cotton slacks and a tie-less silk shirt to the office. And the fastidious, neat man that had been her husband’s superior would never have worked amid what looked like the wreckage of a ship.

‘Just passing by,’ Fareeha said, looking back into his watery eyes. ‘You’re right it has been a long time; I thought I would say hello.’

Muzaffer raised his bushy eyebrows and scour lines raced along his forehead. ‘Well, I am a lucky man,’ he pronounced. ‘Most other days you would have found nobody here—except, of course, when the outside world sends its charity.’

Fareeha nodded. He meant that day when the UN shipped in flour. Deliverance Day, the citizens had come to know it as. And the reception of the boat and its captain was probably the only duty left for the Harbourmaster to perform.

‘Should be here in a few days.’ Muzaffer looked over his left shoulder, out onto the harbour. ‘I wonder who they have persuaded to run it in this time; what kind of old tub he’ll bring . . .’ He swivelled back. ‘Usually that slimy Indian fellow, Rashid, in his Maharajah. Don’t suppose you ever met the man; we had a better class of captain in the days when your husband worked here.’

Fareeha shook her head and looked into the eyes of the old man, whose once-respectable job had been reduced to the overseeing of charity. ‘Nothing else comes in?’ she asked.

The chair yelped as he rose above the waterline, swimming onto the desk. ‘Heavens no!’ he squeaked, his glassy eyes narrowing as his wiry eyebrows met above them. ‘The war has sunk ships,’ he said, ‘and submerged shipping, I’m afraid.’ He laughed at his own pun and fell back into his chair. He continued in a more subdued tone. ‘Those suited men far away in London, shipping insurance underwriters, consider us to be—now what’s the term?—yes, an unpredictable hot-spot.’ He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the hardwood surface of his desk. ‘Hot spot,’ he repeated, staring vacantly into space. ‘Beyond the pale, lawless.’ He huffed. ‘Sailing in here, they say, a captain is more likely to get his throat slit and his cargo hijacked than his bill of lading stamped. No, my dear, insurance is unobtainable, the shipping lines too scared.’ He turned to look out over the harbour. ‘—nothing sails in here; nothing besides those damned charity boats. And there’s nothing for me to do but wait for the next one.’

‘But couldn’t you . . . do something about it . . . I mean . . .’

Muzaffer cut her off with a forced laugh. ‘Ha, what can I do? The men in London decide these things, not me. The ships won’t come; and that’s it!’ He turned again for the window.

‘I was just thinking, there must be another way.’

The Harbourmaster’s eyes came back and bore into Fareeha. He held her for two deep breaths. ‘No other way,’ he said, and then he puffed and relaxed his shoulders. A smile crept back onto his face. ‘You look well, my dear,’ he said.

Fareeha wriggled and pushed away the image of the skinny, ugly woman that he must be looking at. ‘Mmm,’ was all she said.

‘You know, Fareeha, if you ever need anything, just say. Flour will be here in a day or two and if . . .’

‘I’m fine, really, Muzaffer, thanks for the offer anyway.’ She hadn’t come here to beg; she had come to . . .

‘But it is getting more and more difficult,’ she admitted. ‘Some days I hardly . . . I just can’t understand why nobody does anything about it.’

‘It’s a war, my dear, another war. Who can do anything about that?’

Fareeha bit her lip before opening her mouth. ‘Nisham, the muleteer,’ she said. ‘He’s doing something, isn’t he?’

Muzaffer huffed. ‘You mean that rascal of an Armenian? Smuggling tobacco over the mountain? Yes, I suppose he is doing something about it.’ He huffed again and grinned. ‘Ha, too old now for that sort of thing myself. Anyway, my dear, don’t worry about such things. I’m sure the war will be over soon enough and we can all go back to the normal way of things.’ He stopped talking and looked over to a sink and worktop to his right. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

Fareeha suddenly remembered the rich concoctions the Harbourmaster used to brew up and her stomach leapt at the offer. ‘Mmm, I’d love some,’ she said with a girlish squeal. She remembered herself and in a more subdued tone added, ‘If it wouldn’t be any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all, my dear.’ The chair squeaked in gratitude as Muzaffer released it from the burden of his weight. ‘I might even have a piece of cake somewhere.’ His buttocks wobbled under the loose cotton slacks as he waddled over to the Formica surface, upon which lay a kettle, some pots and jars, and a few glasses.

Cake and creamy tea. Fareeha coughed to try to hide a bubbly cry from her empty stomach. She turned away from the rippling backside of the harbourmaster: the office would help keep her mind off the treat he was about to prepare for her. She flitted her eyes between dusty stacks of yellowing ledgers and papers towering up from the floor or from the edges of chairs. She saw spiral-bound pads and hard-backed books spilling from crates and boxes, which had been heaved into corners and under desks. She gazed up and clucked at official-looking certificates and licenses hanging at angles from the walls. Old newspapers, here and there, added to the sense of neglect. Why? she asked herself, and from a man with a sturdy, lockable door attached to his four walls!

Fareeha noticed a a family photograph that hung under a satellite shot of Sa’ An’s harbour. ‘How is your wife?’ she asked.

‘Good, good,’ Muzaffer said, without looking round. ‘And we have both stopped putting on weight since the war.’ A warm chuckle rippled around the room.

*

Fareeha swallowed back saliva and bit her lip when Muzaffer at last returned to the desk with a silver tray. He put it near the corner and dropped back into his squeaky chair. Fareeha’s eyes fell on the two slices of cake that crumbled onto a china plate.

‘I do like my tea strong, don’t you?’ he said, pouring a spout of muddy brown liquid from the steaming kettle.

Fareeha murmured a response, kept her eyes on the cake.

‘A habit I picked up overseas, in Cairo. They don’t drink tea for pleasure over there; they drink it like a drug.’ He paused at the top of one of the glasses, allowing the froth to settle. ‘Well, I suppose they would now that all their hash dens have been closed down. Ha!’ He put the glass on a saucer and pushed it over to Fareeha. ‘Never enough milk, I’m afraid.’

‘Mmm, smells wonderful,’ she said, inhaling the paraffin-like fumes of the brew in front of her.’

‘Sugar is never a problem, though,’ he added.

Fareeha lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. It was scalding hot and her tongue flared as the tea passed over it; she felt it slip all the way down into her empty stomach. She parted her lips and sucked in air before smacking them together again and licking away the sweet, creamy residue. She replaced the glass on the saucer. ‘Mmm, that’s delicious,’ she said through a grin. The libation had already begun to impart its sustenance.

Muzaffer caught her eye and went for his own glass.

Leant back, Fareeha changed her expression. ‘I can hardly drink the water from my well any more,’ she said. ‘So brown and bitter it is.’

‘Oh you mustn’t,’ Muzaffer quickly said with a shake of his whiskered jowls. ‘It’s not safe to drink anymore.’

‘You’re right, but . . .’ Fareeha dropped her eyes.

‘Here, take a slice.’ Muzaffer reached over with the plate. ‘Don’t think I’ll eat one myself.’ He grimaced as his tongue played with a tooth in the upper-right side of his mouth. ‘Toothache,’ he said, pulling his tongue away. ‘Never mind, I’ll have the foreigner take a look at it—when he finally gets here that is.’

Fareeha took one of the slices, and as she moved it to her salivating mouth, her left hand stayed beneath it, ready to catch any dropped crumbs. She bit down quickly over a large corner and drew in the mouthful with closing lips. At once, her teeth broke it up with two or three fierce jaw movements and she gulped it back. The next corner disappeared into her mouth but before she could repeat the same action she looked up at her host, who fortunately was still distracted by something in the corner of his own mouth. She chewed this piece a little more delicately before swallowing. The rest of the cake she nibbled, with half an eye on the remaining piece and half an eye on the harbourmaster; but she didn’t speak until she had eaten it all—and had picked the crumbs from the palm of her left hand. ‘Foreigner?’ she said at last.

‘Mm.’ Muzaffer’s tongue was back on the bad tooth. ‘New doctor. Supposed to be arriving on the next charity boat.’

‘Oh.’ Fareeha’s hand went to her stomach, almost instinctively. She pushed her knees together and leaned forward. ‘What kind of doctor?’ she asked.

‘English, I suppose. Coming out from London. Sent by some charity or another—from what I can gather.’ He motioned across his office and with a sigh said: ‘My communications are not what they used to be.’

Fareeha released her stomach, turned, and followed his eyes to the closed door of an adjoining room.

‘I’m to meet him, stamp his papers, and point him to the hotel. Ha!’ He broke off in a laugh. ‘Hope he enjoys his stay.’

‘I thought we were all cut off from the outside world,’ Fareeha said.

‘Might as well be,’ Muzaffer said. ‘But I do still get the occasional message. Brierly.’ He stopped and caught Fareeha’s eyes. ‘You remember him I suppose?’

Fareeha nodded.

‘Had him on the line just the other day. Out there somewhere.’ He turned and looked through the window, giving Fareeha a clear view of his grizzled sideburns and hairy ear. ‘Said he’s missing the old place.’

Fareeha knew Brierly; she even called him Tom on his last visit to her house. ‘And his mate . . . what was his name? . . . Jacks?’

‘Jutes, my dear. And he’s gone. Brierly has a new first mate now, a man by the name of Crow. Jutes, I believe, was lost overboard, down near the Horn somewhere.’

‘Oh how terrible.’ Now she remembered the name: Hassan had always mispronounced it: ‘Jites,’ he had called the first mate. She thought of the last time her husband had invited them to their home and she had prepared a meal. ‘Such a nice man,’ she said.

But Muzaffer’s attention was back with his tooth and he seemed not to hear.

‘Anyway,’ Fareeha continued, ‘at least his wife won’t be stuck.’

‘What? Sorry what was that, my dear?’ Muzaffer pulled his face out of its pained twist.

‘Jutes’s wife; she will still be able to get by even without her husband. She runs some kind of business in . . .’

‘Gravesend; they lived just outside London.’

‘Yes,’ Fareeha continued, ‘he told me so himself. Does everything herself she does, while he’s off sailing half way around the world.’

‘Easy for a woman in England, I suppose.’ Muzaffer shrugged.

Fareeha leaned forward, putting both hands on the edge of the desk. ‘You mean she couldn’t do it if she lived here?’

‘Yes . . . no . . . what ever do you mean, my dear?’

Fareeha didn’t move. ‘I just mean . . . I just want to know why women never do anything here, that’s all.’

Muzaffer shrugged again and gave a pronounced roll of his eyes. ‘I don’t know; I’ve never really thought about it.’ He then leaned back in his chair and forced a laugh. ‘You know the real bottom line is money.’ He said the word again, slowly, ‘Money,’ with a smack of his lips. He stared across at her. ‘If there is a dirham to be made, any man in Sa’ An would strike a bargain with the devil himself—so why not a woman? Why not indeed?’ He fell forward, scaring the chair into a crackle of protest. ‘Anyway, my dear, why on earth are you worrying about such things? Please, eat up the cake.’ He tongued his bad tooth and blinked at the china plate on Fareeha’s side of the desk.

Fareeha also leaned back and smoothed her dress that had ridden awkwardly up her thighs. She sighed and looked at the piece of cake. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I just feel so . . . so . . . I don’t know. Frustrated. I feel so frustrated at times.’