‘What language does he speak?’
‘Afar. That’s what the Afar speak.’ Said as if he should know that.
‘And do you speak Afar?’
‘I speak Amharic, the country’s official language and the main language around here. But I have an adequate understanding of Afar. In the Danakil, it’s the main language.’
Looking at the Ethiopian: ‘And does he speak Amharic?’
‘He doesn’t seem to. But I’m making myself understood in his language.’
‘Well, let’s hope so. We need to communicate with each other somehow if he’s going to come with us.’
The pilot stood watching the two of them. They were nitpicking like a married couple; the sixty-something, straight-backed, expat nurse and the slightly overweight, heavily perspiring and twitchy middle-aged executive. Each wore neatly pressed shorts that went down to the knees. She also had on a short-sleeved check shirt, buttoned almost to the chin. Her skin was brown, his shockingly white. The two of them stood facing each other: he, ill-tempered and out of his depth; she, self-possessed and quietly in control. The sun beat down, without discrimination – on Adrian and Anne, on the two bystanders, Tim and Mujtabaa, and on the gathering of refugees who seemed to have been stupefied by it.
‘You’ve told him where we’re planning to take him?’
The young man stood next to Anne, staring fixedly at his feet, as if determined to take no part in the discussion – even if he’d been able to. He looked no different from a child being forced to listen to a scene between his parents and wishing he could leave the room.
‘Yes, I’ve told him where we want to take him – of course. It’s just that I can’t be certain he understood.’
Adrian thought, why have I ended up with someone like this? Surely there must have been someone else available? A good account man, someone like Simon Twining, that’s who I need now. Someone whom I can absolutely trust, someone I barely need to give instructions to. He closed his eyes. ‘And what makes you think he may not have understood you, Anne?’
‘It’s nothing to do with interpretation difficulties. It’s to do with the fact that these people usually stay within the same locality all of their lives. Although they’re nomadic, they rarely wander great distances.’
‘But you can still explain to him that we’re taking him to another country, to the UK, can’t you?’
‘He won’t understand what I’m talking about. The UK could be on the other side of the Danakil for all he knows. I may as well tell him we’re taking him to the moon. That would probably make more sense to him; at least he can see the moon.’ She was clasping and unclasping her hands, suddenly looking agitated and ill at ease amongst the three men.
The PR consultant and the nurse scowled at each other. Then, possibly in an attempt to be more placatory, she said: ‘I told him we’re taking him to visit another tribe. I think he understood that.’
‘Another tribe?’ Adrian was incredulous. He wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, and thought how his plans always tended to fall apart whenever other people became involved.
The pilot stepped in. ‘Can I make a suggestion, you guys?’ They both turned to him. ‘As pleasant as it is out here, maybe we should leave for Addis before our brains fry, and before you miss your London flight. Explain everything to him on the way.’
Adrian turned his back on the pilot, saying to the nurse: ‘I’m taking your word for it, Anne, that he’s happy to come with us. So we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.’
They were farewelled by the replacement nurse on loan from the sister clinic at Weldiya, and three of the local girls who helped out.
Back at the Korem airstrip, Tim opened the Cessna’s cockpit door, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, Anne, he’ll definitely be better off coming with us than remaining here.’
She didn’t reply to this attempted reassurance. Instead, giving the Ethiopian a quick smile of encouragement, she climbed into the plane. When Adrian indicated that the young man should follow her, a look of sheer panic appeared on his face. His eyes opened wide, making his head look even more skull-like. He stepped backwards, his hand hovering above the hilt of his jile.
Oh my God, thought Adrian, this is all we need. Even if we get him into the plane, we’ll be up on kidnapping charges. He obviously has no idea what’s going on.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, giving a strained smile, ‘keep calm. We’re not going to harm you. We’re doing this to help you. Help?’ he added loudly, questioningly, throwing the one word directly into the stranger’s face as if on the off-chance it might lodge there, on his skull, on the shell of his brain. There was a mixture of sweat and sunblock in Adrian’s eyes and he was doing his best not to screw them up, but the stinging was making him blink furiously. Although the young man had his head down, he was watching Adrian intently from beneath his white, salt-crusted eyebrows, his right hand now firmly gripping the hilt of the jile.
Adrian put his head in the plane to speak to Anne. ‘I don’t think he’s been in a plane before.’
There was a roar of laughter behind him. ‘You’re joking, mate?’ Tim said. ‘Been in one? It’s quite likely he’s never bloody seen one before.’
Adrian swore into the cockpit and closed his eyes with exasperation and frustration. Was his dream finished before it had even started? ‘I don’t care how you do it, Anne, but we have to get him into the plane. We have to! We’re trying to help him – and his people. Does he not understand that?’
Anne, possibly startled by the vehemence with which he spoke, reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll talk to him again.’ She climbed out of the plane and addressed the young man in a low, earnest voice. His head and eyes remained down, and his face expressionless, so it was difficult to tell whether he was either listening to, or understanding, what she was saying. She held out her hand, speaking quietly, without pause, her voice soothing and encouraging. She then took his hand, the one resting on his jile, and turned and stepped back towards the plane. Adrian and Tim watched, both men looking as if they might be betting on how far she’d get, the diminutive woman leading the giant, like a child trying to lure a stallion into a horsebox. The Ethiopian followed her, his head still down, one arm at full stretch, being dragged like a child unwillingly to school.
Anne climbed into the plane, crouching down in the doorway, still holding the young man’s hand. Adrian moved in behind him, as if to cut off his escape. The nurse continued talking, almost whispering, trying to reassure. The Ethiopian attempted to grasp the side of the door with the hand that was already holding his long, polished walking staff, but couldn’t manage it. His eyes were almost popping out of his head. Anne gently prised the staff from his hand and lay it on the floor of the plane.
Adrian reached out to support the young man’s arm. It was dry and dusty, and felt like bone, hard and brittle. He was scared of breaking something. He felt big and clumsy next to his skeletal neighbour, like a heavyweight boxer handling fine porcelain china. With a little pulling from Anne and some pushing by Adrian, they managed to manoeuvre him into the fuselage. There was then the problem of getting him off the floor of the plane and into a seat. It was a while before they succeeded. Anne put the safety belt round his waist, and even after tightening it as far as it would go, it still lay loosely across his lap.
Adrian struggled into the front seat of the plane next to the pilot. As Tim slammed