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  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Excellent, have a go at this …’ She handed him the flask. ‘It’s cognac, the best that Auckland airport duty-free had to offer. That’s my resolution. No more cheap booze, I’m too old for cheap booze.’

  While they took turns with the flask, the pair chatted. Jean was no closer to getting an interview with the President but she’d started work on some feature articles. ‘Hopefully that’ll keep the editor happy until I land the big one.’

  ‘What kind of thing are you doing?’

  ‘Personality-led stuff. Kinda thing you hate.’

  Carver shook his head.

  ‘I’m gonna do something about this priest: Father Rumbek. You heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s interesting, a sort of international do-gooder. Pope’s man in North Africa right now, bit of a hero for some. Think Mother Teresa with a schlong.’

  ‘There’s your first paragraph.’

  ‘Yeah, the story should more or less write itself. He’s a bit of a big-head but good company and you know I’ve always had a soft spot for a priest.’

  ‘Did he hear your confession too?’

  ‘Nah, we only had a few hours. Maybe next time, I’m seeing him again. How about you?’

  Carver gave Jean the short version of his day, most of which had been spent in Tahrir watching the square steadily fill and filing regular updates.

  Jean nodded. ‘It doesn’t sound like you’re loving it, Billy.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘No. Now that the world and his wife have arrived I’m not sure what I can offer. Brandon and that lot are all over it. I’m just adding to the noise.’

  ‘Not your kind of story anymore, huh?’ She took the flask from his hand. ‘Did you get a chance to check out that tear gas thing?’

  Carver sat up a little straighter. ‘Yeah. Looks like there might be something in that. I was just doing a little digging.’ Carver explained that he needed to get the young woman who’d seen the gas being used on the record and find some other witnesses if there were any. ‘Then I’ll see if I can get someone on the Egyptian side to admit they were using something new, something that’s found its way in since the export ban.’

  Jean gave this some thought. ‘If I get anywhere near Colonel Balit, maybe I can help? He could be pretty indiscreet, back in the day.’

  Carver smiled. ‘He had the hots for you too, huh?’

  Jean shrugged. ‘If you’re a drunk or a sociopath – I’m irresistible.’ She passed the booze back. ‘It’s only nice fellas never been interested.’ Carver stuttered – reaching for some sort of reassurance – but Jean waved him away. ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t complaining. Maybe I should’ve said yes to the President, back when that offer was on the table.’

  ‘A dozen camels and a villa, was it?’

  ‘Yeah. My old dad never forgave me for turning that one down. That time Tony Blair was staying in the President’s villa in Sharm, he phoned me up – he never phoned me up – gave me an earful.’ Jean’s accent thickened as she slipped into an impression of her beloved, sheep-farming father. ‘“Jeanie, look what you’ve done. I could be drinking tea with the fucking British Prime Minister!”’

  Carver smiled. ‘Is your dad still going?’ It seemed unlikely.

  Jean took the hip flask from William and drank the last of the cognac. ‘He died Christmas before last. Ninety-nine years old.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. That one hurt like a bastard; burying him nearly killed me. But it was time, he was old and he was living all by himself way out in the wops, still working.’

  ‘Still sheep?’

  ‘No. No money left in sheep, he’d moved into dairy but he didn’t really get along with them. He bought a load of Devons and then realised he couldn’t find their teats in all that fur. He was bloody hilarious about it – hilarious and furious. The last time we talked about farming he said he was going to get into wine: “I’m going to sell those furry fuckers and plant a vineyard, Jeanie.”’ Fitzgerald was smiling but her dark eyes brimmed with tears.

  William’s hand moved in her direction and Jean took and held it. Carver struggled in these situations but he knew he needed to say something. ‘You introduced me to him once. He was a good man, your dad.’

  Fitzgerald wiped a sleeve across her face. ‘A stupid man, more like. A vineyard! I don’t think he drank a glass of wine in his life, the ignorant Maori bastard. Beer was his drink.’

  Carver knew how proud Fitzgerald was of her mongrel roots: part Maori, part Scots Irish and all Kiwi although she hadn’t lived there since her father put her on a boat to England aged seventeen.

  ‘I miss him so fucking much.’

  16 Hospitality

  DATELINE: Reception desk, Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 28 2011

  @tsquarelawan

  The regime is a flea biten old hyena. We have it in the corner and so it lashes out. It means we are winning!

  Zahra re-read Nawal’s message – the first contact she’d had with her since Nawal had waved goodbye from the top of the hotel wall that morning. Ten hours. She took a moment to correct Nawal’s English and sent the tweet back, together with a message of her own: Where were u? I was worried and what does this tweet mean? Are you ok?

  Nawal replied that she was fine, she’d been busy setting up a new checkpoint near Tahrir and lost track of the time, that was all. She asked if Zahra was free to talk. Not now, boss is here. I’ll call u when he leaves. X

  Mr Akar was at his desk, studying the menu for the next day’s meals, a deep frown on his face. As far as he was concerned his head chef was an idiot, an illiterate. The words he used to describe the dishes he planned to make made no sense in any language and the only person who could make head or tail of what he wrote was Zahra. She had translated his childish scribble into the English menu Mr Akar was reading aloud: ‘Salmon, chicken quesadilla, vegetable frittata …’ He turned the page over. ‘Where is the rest?’ He stood, leaned across his desk and shouted: ‘Zahra!’

  She arrived with her phone still in hand. When her boss looked down at the menu she stuffed it hurriedly into her jacket pocket.

  ‘Yes, Mr Akar?’ She watched while her manager made a show of reading the menu again with look of great seriousness on his face. Akar was a small man with a preference for grey suits, a wide collection of bright ties and an unreliable hairpiece.

  He waved the piece of paper in her direction. ‘This menu is even worse than his usual. Where is the grilled beef fillet? The American burger?’

  ‘We couldn’t get the beef for the price you agreed to pay, sir. There is almost no beef in the market today.’

  ‘Do not say we, Zahra. It is not your job to buy the meat; it is chef’s job. How much did he say it cost?’

  Zahra named a price that was almost three times what Mr Akar had been willing to countenance.

  ‘Stupid, more than stupid – criminal. Who will buy beef at that price?’

  ‘The Marriot.’

  Akar sucked his teeth with contempt. ‘Fine. Then the Marriot will go out of business and I will laugh. I let them have the beef, I do not want it.’ He looked again at the menu. ‘What about this?’ He poked a finger at the paper. ‘Frittata? What is frittata?’

  ‘It is a thick omelette, it’s Italian. We have lots of eggs so I spoke to the chef about making frittata to fill the gaps. They have frittata at the Marriot.’

  Akar nodded. ‘Yes, good, so I will approve this. And please will you tell chef that I want him to make some cheesecake tomorrow; we have not had this for a while.’ Mr Akar had a sweet tooth.

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  ‘Puddings are the only thing that man is good for – the only thing.’ Akar went to hand the menu back to Zahra then pulled it away. ‘There was something else I meant to ask you … but now I forget. What was it?’

  The young woman shook her head.

  ‘I guess I will remember later.’

  Zahra lowere
d her head. ‘Yes, Mr Akar.’ She was backing out of the open door and about to pull it shut when he shouted.

  ‘I know what it was!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What did Mr Carver want from you?’

  Zahra felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck but she met Akar’s eye and held it. ‘Mr Carver? The English journalist?’

  ‘Yes, I have seen you talking together; more than once.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So what does he want?’

  Zahra glanced down at the floor; she was not a good liar. Her manager walked around his desk and took her hand in his. His grip was soft, his hand clammy, almost wet.

  ‘Come, Zahra. We are old friends you and I, old friends cannot have secrets. Was it help with his work, or’ – the hotel manager’s gaze fell, his eyes settling on Zahra’s skirt, her bare legs – ‘perhaps he was making inappropriate advances?’

  Zahra looked at Akar’s hungry eyes and decided to give him the story he was most ready to believe. ‘Yes.’

  Mr Akar sighed. ‘I feared he was this type, he has the look.’ Akar gestured in the direction of his office chair and encouraged Zahra to sit. The brown leather still carried the heat of its previous occupant and she shuffled herself towards the front of the chair. Her manager took up a position directly in front of her, leaning back casually against his desk. He saw her glance at the open drawer and pushed it shut but not before Zahra had seen Mr Akar’s spare hairpiece, a set of pass-keys for every room in the hotel and a small collection of gold watches and pens: lost property that was thus far unclaimed. ‘Yes, I am afraid that we will have this problem for as long as all these journalists are here. These people are not the same class of people that our hotel usually welcomes, you understand?’ The question expected no answer. ‘Just today I was thinking about gathering all the female members of staff together and asking you to dress more modestly.’

  Zahra said nothing, although this advice contradicted guidance Mr Akar had given her in the past. On several occasions he had suggested that she consider wearing something that made more of her figure. He had even turned to religion to back up his argument.

  ‘Remember that Allah loves those who do what is beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, but I am not sure this passage means that Allah wants me to wear a shorter skirt.’

  ‘We can never be sure precisely what Allah means, Zahra, we can only interpret to the best of our ability.’

  She glanced up at her employer; he was still wondering out loud about how he might best protect his female staff.

  Zahra had known Mr Akar since she was a child; he had worked as an apprentice to the doorman at the apartment block – one of Cairo’s more salubrious – where her family lived, from her birth until she was a young teenager. However, Zahra’s family had been forced to give up the place and find cheaper accommodation when her father lost his job, but Akar had stayed in touch. As her family’s fortunes suffered, Mr Akar’s went from strength to strength. Doorman work was one of the most coveted and simultaneously hated jobs that any ambitious young Egyptian could do. It involved fulfilling the residents’ every need, around the clock, and, at the same time, monitoring their every movement and passing that information on to the secret police as and when they asked for it. Akar discovered that he had a talent for the position and it taught him a range of skills that had served him well ever since. He had quickly risen from apprentice to assistant, eventually becoming the head doorman when the browsing history on his boss’s computer was found to contain links to Muslim Brotherhood websites; the man was sacked and arrested. When Mr Akar took his place he made sure that his own laptop was always kept under lock and key.

  When he heard that the Seti Hotel was looking for a manager he did not hesitate: a thousand Egyptian pounds in a manila envelope and a glowing reference from a senior figure in the Egyptian army were enough to win him the job. Zahra’s father was one of the first people to hear the happy news; Mr Akar arrived at their door wearing a new suit, Italian shoes and with a fuller head of hair than anyone remembered seeing previously. He wanted to share his good fortune but also to let Zahra’s father know that if ever his daughter decided that the industry of hospitality was for her then Akar would pay a fair wage and protect the family name. It was another couple of years before circumstance forced Zahra to take him up on the offer.

  For the first week Mr Akar did nothing more than watch Zahra; it was unsettling but not unusual. It wasn’t until the end of her second week at the hotel that Mr Akar asked if she would mind staying behind that evening and helping him make a full inventory of the storeroom. She agreed and then quickly sought information from one of the more seasoned members of staff. Before Zahra arrived, his favourite had been a woman called Fatma.

  ‘He does not do much, mainly just touching. Sometimes you will have to wash your skirt.’

  Fatma told Zahra that the abuse was unpleasant but predictable and that after it was over, Mr Akar would press an Egyptian ten-pound note into the woman’s hand and make her a gift of whatever storeroom item came most readily to hand. The woman would return to her work with the money and a couple of sixty-watt bulbs, some Lifebuoy soap or a few small bottles of shampoo. Fatma’s advice to Zahra was that she should close her eyes until he was finished doing what he was doing and always take the gift.

  Zahra was working in the restaurant, serving coffee to the last few tables when Akar came to find her, a ledger in his hand.

  ‘Miss Moussa, would you mind assisting me with the inventory when you are finished?’ His polite tone was for the benefit of the guests, a couple of whom nodded approvingly.

  ‘Of course, Mr Akar.’

  Zahra found her employer in the corner of the storeroom counting tins of instant coffee.

  ‘Twenty-eight cans of Nescafé we have. Zahra, you take this and take down the numbers as I say them.’ He handed her the book. They walked up and down the rows of metal shelves, counting things that did not need to be counted. The storeroom was dank; the white paint on the walls was flaking and falling away. Zahra followed, writing down the numbers he called out and waiting; the wait was so long that she began to wonder whether her suspicions were unfounded; perhaps Mr Akar’s intentions were harmless. Then they arrived at a dead-end, a narrow, inky alley where the blankets and bed linen were stored. Akar sighed deeply, as though suddenly overwhelmed by passion and moved towards her. Pushing her gently back against a pile of starched sheets, he touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. ‘Ah … Zahra.’ His other hand headed south, searching for the hem of her skirt but Zahra shielded herself with the book.

  ‘Mr Akar, please, sir! Stop a moment.’

  He stopped.

  ‘I can see that you have feelings for me’ – Akar nodded coyly – ‘and I am flattered.’

  His right hand started to twitch again but the book held firm.

  ‘I am fond of you too, but not in this way. You have known me since I was a girl, a baby – before I could walk I think?’

  Akar gave a reluctant nod of the head and took half a step back.

  ‘You are like an uncle to me, Mr Akar.’

  Her manager sighed again, this time with genuine frustration rather than manufactured passion. ‘Yes, I see. But I think, Zahra, maybe even uncles sometimes …’ He left this line of argument incomplete.

  ‘I know you would not do anything that could damage my reputation or my family’s name?’

  Before Akar knew it, he was holding the ledger of pointless numbers and Zahra was gone.

  Fatma had stayed behind to wait for her colleague at reception – a combination of solidarity and curiosity. She watched Zahra closely as she walked towards her across the lobby; her colleague was empty-handed.

  ‘Are you okay? He did not give you a gift?’

  Zahra shook her head. ‘I gave nothing, so I got nothing.’

  ‘You gave nothing. He did not touch you? How?’ The look on Fatma’s face suggested she’d witnessed some small act of magic. />
  ‘I told him that I could not, that it would be wrong, given we have known each other so long. I called him uncle.’

  Fatma grinned. ‘You are the cleverest person.’

  Mr Akar let Zahra alone for a week before trying again: cornering his employee behind the pool bar and pressing his case. But again the word uncle halted his advance and cooled his ardour. Zahra was reminded of an advert she had seen on television. The product was a dog collar, an American invention, which would squirt water up into the dog’s face if the animal became dangerous or threatening. The word uncle had a similar effect on Mr Akar.

  The touch of the hotel manager’s hand on her hair brought Zahra back to the present and she realised he was still talking.

  ‘So there are some things we can do, but you see that these unwanted attentions are in many ways a hazard of our occupation.’

  Zahra gave an understanding nod.

  ‘Perhaps you would like for me to talk to Mr Carver?’

  Zahra decided to call her manager’s bluff. ‘I would like that, Mr Akar, if you don’t mind?’

  Akar’s hand went to the knot of his tie. ‘Yes, well, of course I don’t mind – my first duty is to my staff. Especially you, Zahra.’

  She got to her feet and edged past Mr Akar in the direction of the door.

  ‘Especially you. I only want what is best for you. To look after you.’

  She opened the door. ‘Thank you, uncle.’

  Mr Akar gave Zahra a doleful look. ‘You’re welcome.’

  @tsquarelawan

  This regime is like a flea-bitten old hyena. We have it cornered and so it lashes out! But all this means is we are winning.

  Patrick smiled. Tsquare Lawan had gone AWOL for a large part of the day and it was good to see her back. Now that he knew that the messages were a joint enterprise between Zahra and her slightly scary, skinny friend he had a feeling he could hear Zahra’s voice as he read them. He sat down on the edge of his bed and as he did so, his phoned pinged.