Mr. Osman had booked his flight for the end of the month. This time last year—thirteen months ago he calculated—Mr. Osman had last been back home. At present he was awaiting his visa for Sudan. As there was no diplomatic office for Sudan in Australia, the passport needed to go to Kuala Lumpur. A week should see it all done, which would have Mr. Osman flying out on the 31st as scheduled.
This turned the talk to the route, either directly to the Middle East, or else a stop-over in KL. Either way, Qatar then Khartoum. In the latter city Mr. Osman had two shops and an unfinished apartment. The shops were let and brought in some income. Work was needed on the apartment—adding a toilet and septic tank the main requirements—before it too could become an earner. Neither the shops nor the apartment had a toilet at present; as things stood the tenants went over to the near-by mosque to "piss.”
These works were the ostensible reason for Mr. Osman's trip. Of course the return home offered all kinds of additional attractions, not all needing to be detailed here.
Back over the border in Eritrea there would be the tenth anniversary of independence, this year to be held in Mr. O.'s home town of Masawa. The Qatar stop-over presented something especially wonderful too. In Qatar Mr. Osman's friend from the early days in Saudi would be waiting. Almost fifty years the pair had known each other. The friend was a fellow Masawan, though the men had not been acquainted in boyhood back home; in the time since there had been a number of connections made between the families. Meanwhile the friend had become rich, a ship chandler's business developed into oil-trading; there was a villa on the water and other assets.
— He very likes see me! Mr. O. declared with bursting pride. A wide, full radiance showing, of the kind not often encountered in men of that age.
Mr. Osman had experienced the joys of life; there was no doubt. Mr. Osman could become a little rapturous. On the one hand even-tempered, patient and deliberate, Mr.O. was also given to hilarity, to sly playfulness and boisterousness.
In his late sixties now, a father of eight, the children progressing “beautiful” in education and life. A lot to do with Mr. O.’s good management, one could safely assume. The three eldest, two boys and a girl, Mr. Osman had successfully married; two of these after trips back home escorted by himself.
Khartoum was as much home to Mr. Osman as Masawa; even before the war the family had relocated in Sudan.
In his chair Mr. Osman was quietly dwelling on his upcoming trip. Having reached the Qatari stop and the introductory outline of his friend, a pause had ensued.
At the airport the friend would await his visitor; unless Mr. Osman kept his arrival secret and intended to surprise. Beyond the keen anticipation Mr. O. did not indicate how that would go.
Mr. Osman sitting two feet across the table, eyes cast aside. Not focused exactly; not a reverie or fixity. There was nothing really to hint at the workings of mind and memory.
Not much could Mr. Osman say about this friendship in Qatar. How to tell a recent friend, one of the last five years, something of it? How to summarise?
Dark skin. Perhaps faintest red in the tint, as could sometimes be found in North Indians and Pakistanis; steel-rimmed glasses. Baseball caps that were adopted in Saudi had kept Mr. Osman’s face unwrinkled even after twenty-five years in that punishing heat.
Waiting then on Mr. Osman at the Qatar stop. There had been a short in-take of breath. Something further was to be added, something misplaced by Mr Osman it seemed.
Prompting Osman somehow was not possible. The fullness of the moment, the sense of anticipation, was strong and just a trifle strained.
Mr. Osman’s face remained unchanged. Perhaps only the slightest, the most subtle and indescribable change. There had been some kind of alteration in the man as he sat silently.
All at once, suddenly and unannounced, the long thin line of a tear became visible standing on Mr. Osman’s face. The overflow of emotion all at once seemed to have no precedence.
Thin and in a more or less straight line that had crossed the better part of the dark cheek, the tear had formed a small globule at the end. Uncannily, the other eye seemed to have remained dry.
Mr. Osman held his position in the chair. In the shadow against the wall the left side of his face was shrouded.
Mr. Osman did not wipe the tear. The glasses had been removed at some point during the long pause.
No one in the café could have noticed. Eagle-eyed Faisal at the counter directly opposite might have observed what appeared an impasse, or blockage of some kind. Two of his regulars facing off rather strangely.
If Mr. Osman had flushed it was not apparent; everything suggested balance and order, collectedness and calm. No shifting in the chair, no twitch or adjustment. The shifting in chair was all on the other side.
Mr. Osman resumed again with the details of how the money was made by his Qatari friend. This he wanted to tell, Mr. Osman declared, recharged with purpose.
A little lunge from his chair now.
Some sharp astuteness first of all had been important; recognition of opportunity and canny deal-making when the time was ripe. Steady coolness of head had been a factor. Subsequent manoeuvering that had got by the authorities and competitors drew little whoops and chortles from Mr. Osman. Broad smiles and beaming pride in the recall.
Wealth and riches would not divide this pair, nor geography either. Montaigne’s friend could not have been dearer to the old magistrate.
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