Olives (4 page)

I lay in the
dark for ages, comfortable in the puffed warmth of the hotel duvet
but kept awake by memories of Anne and the nagging thoughts of dank
prison cells. I flailed myself in the silent room with thoughts
about what the police would do now, peeling back the layers of
false reassurance like onion skin until there was nothing left but
the certainty of jail before disgrace. I found myself wondering how
I would survive weeks or months in an Arab prison, although Jordan
was now my prison – I’d never appreciated how much actually having
a passport in your hand meant, how that silly little document meant
the freedom to walk out, to turn your back and just
leave.

Sleep finally
came and wiped away my cares, bringing dreams of home and being a
kid again, playing with Charles before he left for university – a
rare moment when he’d had time for his kid brother. My dad was
there, too. Which was nice, if somewhat fanciful. He was never
really there, even before he took his last walk out of the house
without saying goodbye, leaving my mum sobbing on the sofa with the
side of her face red and swollen.

Jordan takes
a Friday/Saturday weekend and my first Friday I stayed at the house
taking deliveries of furniture and fittings. Aisha came around to
help, hauling two friends along with her, a fussy little bird of a
girl and her friendly, lumbering boyfriend. They were good people
and we were instantly at ease working away cleaning, shopping and
arranging my new possessions. I was humbled by how helpful and
hospitable they were to a complete stranger, particularly when I
found out they were actually packing themselves because the guy was
moving to Kuwait for better money than Jordan could ever have
offered him. She planned to follow him one day.

Saturday
afternoon I checked out of my hotel and into my new home. Aisha
arrived soon after I did, banging on the kitchen door so hard I
thought one of the glass panels would smash.

I opened the
door and she burst into the kitchen, grinning. ‘Here. A present for
you, from Ibrahim. He says not to do anything stupid, he had to put
a deposit against this.’

We were
supposed to go out for drinks with the couple who had helped me
move in. Aisha, normally a conservative dresser, wore a low-cut top
with a pashmina draped around her shoulders.

I opened the
brown envelope and my passport slid out. My relief was electric,
the little burgundy document giving me the option of escape home. I
felt ashamed of the thought. Ibrahim had acted as my guarantor and
if I pulled a runner he would have to face the consequences. And
yet, at that moment, I knew I’d skip the country if it came to
facing a return to jail. I stammered my thanks but Aisha waved
dismissal.

‘
It’s okay,
Paul. He said to tell you there’s no formal charge yet. He’s still
negotiating with Captain Mohammed and hopes to have the case
dropped completely.’

‘
Please just
thank him for me, Aisha.’

‘
No thanks
needed, Paul.’ She smiled at me, her big eyes on mine. ‘You’re a
friend of the family. Come on, let’s go meet the guys.’

The bar was a
two
minute drive uphill from
my new home. Decorated in Arabesque, its red-tinted ambience was an
escape from the chill night. Everyone seemed to be smoking,
chattering over the funky
Arabi
chill-out
backbeats.

We sat
together in a corner and talked about the Ministry and my initial
meeting with the Minister earlier in the week. Harb Al Hashemi, the
Jordanian Minister of Natural Resources, was one of a small band of
reformers trying to introduce liberalisation and foreign investment
in the face of an increasingly conservative parliament. He had been
shockingly frank about Jordan’s problems during our
meeting.

Aisha laughed
at that, hitching up the shawl around her shoulders. ‘We all like
to talk about how bad things are. Harb’s probably glad of the
chance to talk to someone from outside about it.’ She played with
her wine glass, frowning. ‘He has a hard time trying to get these
reform programmes pushed through, but Jordan desperately needs
them. We need to cash in on the peace dividend. If they have truly
reached a lasting deal in Palestine, Jordan has a new chance to
build and grow. The water privatisation is really the most
important job we’ve undertaken at the Ministry and Harb’s
negotiating his way through a social and political minefield. But
Jordan simply doesn’t have enough water.’

Aisha’s
friends arrived, weaving their way through the crowded bar. We
ordered food, Aisha chatting in English, occasionally forgetting
about me and lapsing into Arabic. Soon enough I found myself
immersed in the conversation, revelling in the warmth of readily
offered friendship and laughter.

Leaving the
bar at the end of the evening, we stood on the pavement and waved
Aisha’s friends goodbye, our faces reddened by their rear lights. I
could see my breath in the air.

Aisha turned
to me. ‘Do you want a lift?’

Her shawl had
slipped, exposing the small mole on the rise of her right breast. I
looked up to find her eyes on me. The uncertainty on her face
amplified the little thrill in me, the urge towards her broken only
by an instant’s thought of Anne.

‘
No, no
thanks. I’ll walk down,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s only a few minutes away
and I could do with clearing my head. Will I see you at the
Ministry tomorrow?’

‘
Of course,
bright and early. Look, you don’t even have a fridge in the house
yet. Why don’t you come around to my place tomorrow and have
dinner? My mum’s been dying to meet our new Englishman.’

‘
I’d like to
very much. Thank you.’

The valet
brought Aisha’s Lexus and we said goodnight. The cold night air on
the walk back brought a resolution to spend what little remained of
my first month’s overseas salary on warm winter clothes. I hadn’t
expected English winter weather in Amman. My mind wandered as I
walked, back to winter nights at home – strolling back from The Two
Badgers arm in arm with Anne, huddled close together for warmth and
tipsy from the insanely expensive bottle of red wine we’d shared
over dinner in the little back room restaurant. Striding down the
hill to my little Jordanian home, the wash of homesickness made me
hunch up, my hands deep in my pockets against the foreign coldness
creeping insidiously into me, making my bones ache.

FOUR

Aisha had
arranged an affordable hire car through a cousin and I managed to
strike my way through the jostling traffic over to the British
Embassy without any major incidents.

The Embassy’s
reception area was quiet and smelled faintly of antiseptic, like a
school. I asked the fussy, grey-haired woman about registering as a
British national and she handed me a form, explaining they had a
warden system to keep everyone ‘in the loop.’ The Americanism
seemed slightly odd in her plummy, Joyce Grenfell voice. She made a
note of the area I lived in before asking what had brought me to
Amman. She handed me a card with my warden’s name and mobile number
and asked me to wait while she copied my passport for their
records. Giving it up to her brought back a strong memory of the
police cell. I took a deep breath of clean air.

She left the
room and I stood reading a faded leaflet on the joys of the Norfolk
Broads. I was considering going to look for her when she returned,
followed by a dark-haired man in shirtsleeves. He was a
handsome-looking fifty-something, with a catlike surety of
movement. He strode up to me, hand outstretched. ‘Hi. Lynch. Gerald
Lynch. I’m the assistant commercial secretary here, Mr…’

Two could
play the Bond game. ‘Stokes. Paul Stokes.’

He was
sweating and I caught a hint of stale alcohol under the supermarket
aftershave. His accent was Northern Irish softened, I guessed, by
years away from home. He knew my name perfectly well, he held my
precious passport in his hand.

‘
Yes, that’s
it. Stokes. So you’re a journalist.’

‘
Of
sorts.’

‘
Excellent.
Good man. Well then. Welcome to our little expatriate enclave.
Sheila here tells me you’re settling in for a long
haul.’

‘
A
year.’

‘
Too long for
some by half.’ He laughed, alone, but I noticed the laughter didn’t
quite reach his slightly teary, drinker’s eyes. ‘Settled in
yet?’

‘
Yes. On the
first circle.’

‘
You know
your way around already.’ He turned to Sheila, who was pecking at
her terminal. ‘Fast lad, Sheila, eh? Settled in less than…’ Then to
me. ‘Two weeks isn’t it?’

‘
Yes.’

Lynch patted
my arm, a touch as welcome to me as his brittle
geniality.

‘
Just pop
this way a second, then, Paul and we’ll get you sorted
out.’

I followed
him down a corridor and into a small room. Lynch gestured to the
seat in front of the desk and sat behind it, rocking back on the
cheap office chair.

‘
So. TMG. The
Media Group. Didn’t you people get a Queen’s Award last
year?’

‘
Yes, I
believe so.’

‘
Grand. Her
Majesty’s Government delighted at your contribution and all that.
You know what they say, two Queen’s Awards and a flagpole before
they go bust. Best not to go for the second one, just to be safe.
Eh?’

Another
lonely laugh from Lynch, one of those people who find themselves
funnier than everyone else does. His dark hair was cropped short
and receding at the temples. He needed a shave.

‘
You’ve been
to Jordan before, I see.’ He stated.

‘
I only came
in here to register as a British national.’

‘
Sure, don’t
I know it. And a good move, too.’ He gave his nose a conspiratorial
tap. ‘Difficult times, always best to be safe. Especially after
peace has broken out. You can’t go trusting the locals now. Not
when there’s Peace Breaking Out.’

It sounded
like ‘Piyuss breykin ayt.’

I crossed my
arms and sat back. ‘So what do you want?’

His bushy
eyebrows met above his snub nose and framed his blue eyes, making
his direct stare somehow unnerving. He was rumpled, his shirt too
big for him and it had a grease stain on the collar. Women would
like Gerald Lynch, they’d want to tidy him up and care for him and
he’d be a bastard to them in return.

‘
Nothing in
particular, my friend. It’s nice and quiet right now our pals the
Yanks have brought everyone back to the table for the latest
love-in. Camp David Three, isn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Sure an’ it’s not every day we get our hands on a real live
journalist, let alone one working with the government here, you
know what I mean? It’s always handy to touch base, you know, try
and help out. That’s the old job description, see? Building export
earnings and so on. Helping you Queen’s Awards types. And maybe you
could keep an eye out for us, too. Give us a few hints and tips,
like.’

‘
Just
commercial stuff, right?’

Lynch sat
back and smiled. ‘That’s right.’

I stood up.
‘So what if I told you I’m not interested in being a provider of
low level intelligence for you or any other outfit?’

Lynch’s
Northern Irish accent thickened, mangling the vowels. ‘I’d say you
were being a very foolish young man. Our interest is purely in
building commercial links and information for British companies
doing business here. And you need friends right now unless you want
to find yourself being sent down for assaulting a Jordanian
policeman.’

I put out a
hand to steady myself as Lynch sat back, his hairy hands together
in a steeple. He gestured to the chair and I sat down, my palms
sweaty.

‘
How did you
know about that?’

He ignored my
question. ‘So, you’ve been beavering away on your magazine.
Ministry of Natural Resources, eh? They’ve got some job on their
hands, that lot. Jordan’s not an easy place to reform. The water
privatisation, for instance. That’s going to change a whole lot of
vested interests, isn’t it?’

‘
I
suppose.’

‘
I met the
Secretary General the other day, and that’s a fact. Emad
Kawar?’

‘
That’s his
name, yes.’

‘
You meet up
with him yet?’

‘
No.’

‘
You’ve met
the Minister.’

It wasn’t a
question. ‘Yes.’

‘
Nice bloke,
the Minister. Harb Al Hashemi. They say he’s going in the next
reshuffle though.’

‘
Do
they?’

‘
It’s what
they say. Be interested to find out what the view inside the
Ministry is. Might affect the whole privatisation programme. Be a
shame, for instance, to invest in bidding for a programme that’s
not going to be taken seriously, wouldn’t it now?’

‘
I’m sure it
would.’

Lynch sat
forward, his neat forefingers paired over his mouth, his thumbs
under his chin. He wore a signet ring. ‘Come on, Paul. Let’s work
together. I’ve been asked to scout out some background information
for a couple of British companies who are interested in becoming
involved in the privatisation bid. No big deal, but you’re working
on all that stuff and it would save us time and
heartache.’