best schools in Khartoum for a fraction of the price. And a curse because, well, if your father was a teacher what could you expect but the regular taunts and occasional beatings? It was his father’s dream for his son to attend university, something he himself never had the opportunity to do. So he stood in front of the blackboard day after day and stared out of the window listening to fifty boys repeating their times table and imagined his son an engineer or doctor. A father should be allowed to dream.
The market was coming slowly to life. Merchants yawned as they greeted one another. In a few hours it would be crowded with people trawling up and down for the loofahs that hung in strings like desiccated fruits; tubs of spices heaped like miniature hills; peppery vermilion, coppery turmeric and dusty cumin, little brown pearls of coriander and heaps of dates, of which there was an encyclopaedic variety. These were separated by other stores packed with items shipped in by container from distant continents; brightly coloured plastic tubs, upright fans and plastic slippers, huge underpants flapping in the breeze like flags, towers of shiny metal bowls. On and on it went.
When he reached the Corniche, the air lifted and the palm trees bobbed gracefully in greeting. A battered and faded metal sign announced Blue Ibis Tours with a handpainted version of the strange bird logo he knew from the Cairo offices. Their centre of operations comprised two rusty boats shackled in parallel. In the gully between the two hulls golden ripples of sunlight on water outlined a man perched on a wooden bosun’s seat refreshing the paint on the name, Nile Star. His dark skin stood out against the oversized grubby white vest he was wearing. The brush hovered in mid-air as his eyes followed Makana crossing the gangway above him.
In the centre of a lobby area with a low ceiling, a large vase stuffed with plastic roses stood on a circular table. The colours were faded and dusty, proving that even artificial flowers had a finite lifespan. In one corner of the room was a high counter with the word Reception above it. There was no one behind it. Doors opened to left and right. He had no idea where they led. The sound of voices drew him to a sign marked Dining Room where he observed tourists having their breakfast. He was about to go in when a voice behind him said:
‘Can I help you?’
Makana turned to find a small woman in a dark suit clutching a clipboard. The very image of efficiency. Pinned to the breast of her nylon jacket was a silver badge with the name Dena on it.
‘I’m looking for Ramy.’
‘And you are?’
‘Makana. Faragalla was supposed to inform you of my arrival.’
‘Well,’ she frowned, ‘we’ve heard nothing.’
‘That’s very strange. He gave me his word he would arrange everything.’
‘I would have sent a car to the airport.’
‘I came by train,’ Makana said, although it didn’t seem important.
Dena held up a finger as a herd of tourists swept through. They seemed a very mixed bag. Some Asians. The majority being middle-aged Europeans suitably clad for an expedition into deepest, darkest Africa. Their outfits resembled military fatigues, with heavy boots, belts and straps everywhere. Each carried a small rucksack and several had water bottles clipped to their swelling waists. Faces broke into smiles when they caught sight of Dena. They waved and smiled and bowed. For her part she managed to flit effortlessly between half-a-dozen languages. Makana picked up French, Spanish and English.
‘Arigato, arigato. Hai.’
Four small women bobbed their heads in return as they marched off up the gangway towards the Corniche and the waiting tour buses.
‘Full ship?’
‘Not exactly. We are carrying about thirty per cent of our full capacity. For some of them this is the trip of a lifetime. They spend years dreaming of coming here. Imagine their disappointment.’ The way she studied his rumpled appearance and creased clothes suggested they were not the only ones to be disappointed. ‘It’s odd that Mr Faragalla didn’t tell me about you.’
‘He has a lot on his mind these days.’
‘Yes, of course, the shooting. That poor woman. I think I might even have met her once.’
‘I’d like to see Ramy as soon as possible.’
‘Oh,’ Dena’s face fell. ‘I thought Mr Faragalla would have explained.’
‘Explained?’
‘Ramy is not here. He had to inspect our Aswan offices.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, late last night.’ Her teeth gleamed impossibly white as she smiled. ‘Can