Up in the Tropics it could all pass almost as a non-event, even Singapore if you carefully picked where you went. Before that on these shores the Jews in Balaclava had provided some kind of decent cover. Now on the return it would be the Muslims, Buddhists and Orthodox in Foots—the East Africans, Viets and Ethiopians. For a moment it looked like Faisal might in fact not have opened, despite what he had said the day before. The advertising stands were out on the street, not the tables or chairs. I don’t want the junkies sitting, Faisal explained at the coffee machine. It seemed the street people had been around earlier in some numbers; shortly after noon there were very few. Even some of the African places seemed to have shut. First up Greg needed a call and more so Al. The former was surprised. Yes, he’d been down to the Mission, where they had feasted on turkey and the rest, and also received $25 supermarket vouchers. It was always quite a show at the Mission for Chrissy, the locals took great pride in the staging, celebrity chefs, TV people & sports stars helping in the kitchen. Talk could not be prolonged, Greg promptly warned. No need of explanation; early afternoon with one hole filled, the chase would get going to fill the other. There was a tentative date set for Monday. Monday was a good day for Greg, yeah, yeah. First up Al didn’t make it to the phone. If he was anywhere other than in the living-room he could not beat the answering machine. It could wait. It was uncertain too whether the Viet bakery was open. Good chance, but you never knew. Couple of older girls on the bench outside the Hub; some occasional passing guys. With the bottle shop beside Faisal closed the quarter had lost its draw. There might have been something akin to the Mission put on for the locals here. Surprisingly, a middle-aged Ethiopian woman, regular, upright lady, later stopped out front of the bottle shop to ask where she might get alcohol. A short few minutes after Greg a new, thick-set fellow in a hoodie bowled up all of a sudden. Not interested in buying a $25 voucher for $10?... Ten minutes later he tried a couple getting into a Saab that you would have expected to scoot off quickly and nervously. On the contrary, the lad behind the wheel took some time fishing out what must have been ten in coins and handed it through the open door. In his characteristic marching gait Faisal had paced off shortly before for the communal prayer in back of one of the shops further down. This was something tailored for him, a goodie to tell on his return. The head was still reeling a bit from the Boris J. item on ABC from the morning. For some reason the pad had given a different version of it to the phone; much more comprehensive the latter. Lottsa detail that hadn’t emerged earlier. Fully eleven of the post-war UK PMs had been Etonians (Brown the odd man out). At a Writers’s Festival down here in fact at some point eight or nine years ago Johnson had been a guest. During a playful cat-and-mouse interview where some earlier inadequacy had been exposed he delivered from the podium an animated extempore recitation of lines from…. Wait for it…Homer’s Iliad in the original Ancient Greek! Achilles it sounded like in a long dramatic passage that might have been the agony over the death of Patroclus, or suchlike. Not a mere dozen lines; lasting a full 2-2½ minutes in total. I could go on, when he could finally bring himself to a stop. Highbrow vaudeville on the politico/literary funhouse stage, barrel of laughs. At the time the man had recently been given the meagre Arts portfolio, or shadow portfolio. A shaggy-haired performer cavorting on the platform like that; one willing and enthusiastic, soaking up the limelight. An inevitable counterpoint to the colleague across the other side of the Atlantic; altogether different kinda fish, though cut from the same cloth/taken from the same tank. The Old Vic against talk show jabber variety. Apparently Johnson was vastly rich too; not merely average upper crust loaded. That had not made it into any of the reportage, not even on the BBC in all the time since his ascension. (Recently a mention of Trump being the richest President in US history too, when memory had Washington some little while ago unsurpassable.) One of the accompanying photos in the piece showed Etonians circa WWI marching in formation with top hats and rifles on their shoulders. Wandering far from Christmas, but by chance that had been the content of the morning’s lie-in reviewing the day’s news. The deal with the EU had finally been signed overnight, on the very Eve. Faisal was not surprised at the Saab deal. Greed was everywhere, Faisal contended. The cafe owner declared if he himself ever found money on the street he never took it for himself—acting out the placing of the note in his shirt pocket. No, Faisal put it in the box at the mosque. The same with anything left on the floor of his caf. After asking around among his customers and unclaimed, these monies too went into the box at the mosque. One of the chaps from early afternoon who had used the utility box for a ledge for a couple of Coke bottles he seemed to be drinking simultaneously returned later with what may have been a third 750ml. This time there was an older tradie friend in tow who drove a canopied ute. Shifting his bulk into the passenger seat proved a slow, arduous procedure for the Coker. Odd that Faisal had not heard about the Sudanese incursion into Ethiopia and the killing and reprisal killing that followed. When he was told he wrongly assumed it had been into the Tigray region. News of the near-fisticuffs between Abiy and Kenyatta at their meeting in Djibouti had reached him. The day before when Adib the Addis accountant had first revealed the events he expressed his fears for the worst. Like your country—meaning Yugoslavia. (x 4+ in the case of a country the size of Ethiopia; then factor the wider East African powder keg.) Like some others, Adib tried to shield himself from events in his former homeland. He was here now, this was his country, he had said a number of times. Thinking about the madness over there only made Adib mad, depressed. On this occasion the shying away had been unsuccessful. Al when he was reached was agreeable for a meat pie and sausage roll in lieu of turkey for Chrissy supper. As usual, it had been WeetBix for lunch.
No comments:
Post a Comment