‘Oh dear, that was far too fast.’ Anne came up and stood next to the two men. ‘I think we may be seeing that milk again somehow.’
‘You mean…?’
‘Yes.’ She gently prised the glass from the young man’s hands.
‘Oh.’ Adrian took an involuntary step backwards, and the two of them stood looking down at the skeletal figure, once again slumped apathetically before them.
‘I was thinking, it doesn’t matter if he’s ill, just so long as he’s not about to die.’ Aware of how callous that might sound, he added: ‘I’d be happier if he wasn’t ill, of course; I certainly don’t want him to suffer.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Anyway, you won’t get him into the UK if he has anything too serious. As for the ethics of doing such a thing…’
He stared at her for a moment, silent, as if he were ignorant of that particular word and needed time to work out what it could possibly mean. He was exasperated by what he perceived as her lack of co-operation.
He went back to the desk and started to type on the old typewriter. ‘To whom it may concern. This is to say that I am leaving Ethiopia of my own free will, in the company of Adrian Burles, Chief Project Manager of Africa Assist and Partner of Talcott & Burles. I have agreed to fly to London in order to let the people of the United Kingdom learn of the desperate famine conditions in my country, and to help raise money for my compatriots. I absolve Africa Assist of any responsibility for what may or may not happen to me.’
He handed the sheet of paper to Anne. ‘Would you translate this for Mujtabaa and ask him to sign it?’
‘I’m certain he won’t be able to write.’
‘Make him put a cross then. Some kind of mark.’
She read the letter without comment. When she spoke to the young man, he neither moved, nor reacted. She struggled to place a pen between his fingers and thumb and hold it there, before attempting to guide his hand to draw an ‘M’ at the bottom of the page.
As Adrian took back the sheet of paper, he said, ‘I’m sure we won’t need it.’ He didn’t sound convinced, but he was more preoccupied at that moment with whether or not they’d be able to persuade Mujtabaa to get on the flight to London that afternoon without causing some kind of scene.
The terminal lay stretched out beside the empty landing strips, paralysed by the heat. Planes squatted immobile near the hangars, people slouched on seats inside the terminal, and the small number of taxi drivers at the front of the building hung listlessly out of open doors waiting for fares that seemed unlikely ever to materialize. The Arrivals and Departures boards clattered city names and flight times rarely and with complete uninterest, as if sensing no one had either the energy or the desire to read them.
A little before two o’clock, after receiving a laconic ‘goodbye and good luck’ from Rory, Adrian, Anne and Mujtabaa left what was rather ambitiously described as a Departure Lounge, and walked out of the terminal towards a jet parked on the apron.
Accompanied across the tarmac by many other passengers, each enveloped in their own damp, heavy, clinging mantle of heat, Adrian worried that Mujtabaa would create a scene and refuse to climb the stairs onto the plane. What could they do? What if an official ran forward and started asking awkward questions and the Ethiopian shouted that he was being taken out of the country against his will? He took reassurance by reminding himself of the stories he’d heard about the steady stream of Westerners leaving the country with local children in tow. Their hastily cobbled-together visa documents declared them to be adopted, but, if you had money – and not even a great deal of it – you could get your hands on documentation saying anything you damn well wanted it to say. He told himself there was no reason for him to worry; not only was their paperwork all in order, but Anne had reassured him the young man was accompanying them of his own free will.
It may have been because the plane was bigger than the one they’d been in earlier that day and he was simply unable to comprehend it, or it may have been that he found the presence of so many of his fellow Ethiopians reassuring, but Mujtabaa boarded the plane without a murmur. He climbed the stairs slowly, Anne supporting his elbow, almost with the air of a departing dignitary.
Adrian found his place in the Business Class section of the plane and Anne and Mujtabaa continued through to the rear. He settled into his seat and a minute later a steward brought him a glass of orange juice and a cool towel. He was relieved to find there was no one sitting next to him. He stared out of the window.
You’re going to make it, Mujtabaa, he said to himself. You’re going to be OK. So long as you don’t go and die on me, I’ll make you famous. This is going to be a huge coup for Africa Assist.
He was smiling as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. A few minutes later, after lumbering ponderously through the heavy heat haze rising off the tarmac, they were airborne. Stage one has gone without a hitch, Adrian told himself, and he ordered the first of a few celebratory glasses of champagne.
Some time later, after lunch, as he was flicking through the airline’s in-flight magazine, he saw a map of the world that showed the countries the airline flew to, the routes exploding across the page like fireworks over the major cities of Africa, Europe and Asia. He studied the map closely, then, keen to share his thoughts, he stood up and, still clutching the magazine, made his way past the curtain that separated Business Class from Economy. He was pleased to find that Anne had put Mujtabaa in the aisle seat, as far from the window as possible. She was sitting in the middle seat, and a young European girl was by the window.
He held out the magazine to Anne, over the head of the young man. ‘Show him Ethiopia and England, Anne, then he’ll get an idea of how far he’s flying.’
She stared at him, incredulous. ‘He won’t understand. Not a map.’
‘Try,’ he insisted, as eager as a young boy. ‘Please.’
‘He won’t be able to grasp how you can put a whole country on a piece of paper. It won’t make any sense to him.’
Adrian continued to hold the map before her face, obstinately thrusting it forward like an unwanted gift. Shaking her head in disbelief, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child, she took the magazine and held it in front of Mujtabaa. She said a few words, pointing at the map. He lowered his eyes for a second, then returned to staring at the top of the seat in front of him. Anne handed the magazine back to Adrian. ‘He’s not interested.’
‘You’d think he’d be keen to know where he’s going.’
‘When we get to London, Adrian,’ she said with an uncharacteristic hint of exasperation, ‘may I suggest you draw a map in the earth with a stick? It will probably make more sense to him.’
He noticed how, when she spoke to him, she would slightly lower her head – it was almost a bow, almost as if she felt herself unworthy to speak to him – and it occurred to him, just fleetingly, that maybe she was unused to speaking to her own people after having lived in Ethiopia for so long.
He stood in the aisle as if stranded in no-man’s-land, at a loss where to go. ‘How’s it going then? Did you give him anything for lunch?’
‘Very little.’
‘That’s good.’ He stared at the top of Mujtabaa’s head, without seeing it, and, unusually for him, without knowing what to say.
‘A stewardess kindly mixed some dried food in the galley – faffa porridge.’ Said as if Adrian should, in some way, have planned for this eventuality.
‘It was bright yellow,’ said the young girl by the window.
‘Is that right?’ Adrian smiled.
‘And she’ – the girl added, pointing at Anne – ‘had to