‘Thanks, I do not need protection.’
‘Valletta’s full of rogues and men with questionable motives. O’Grady, case in point.’
‘I was part of Colonel Gaddafi’s close protection team for a year,’ Elhasomi said. ‘If I can look after my president, I am sure I can look after myself.’
‘Ah, but here you’re far from home. This beautiful city is full of dangerous people.’
‘And how do I know you are not one of them?’
The colonel put his hand on his heart as if he’d been mortally wounded. ‘But now you offend me, Miss. I am a gentleman and an officer. Malta’s my second home, I know everyone here, and everyone knows me. I am a helicopter pilot, very skilful, very professional. I can take you on a flip. Have you been in a helicopter before?’
Elhasomi smiled disarmingly. ‘I have my commercial rating on helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft. Maybe I will take you some day. Excuse me please, I have seen someone I know.’
Elhasomi glided off towards the entrance and the colonel watched her moving towards a man sitting alone at a table. The colonel smiled, and shook his head in defeat.
The man at the table was tall and well built, with short, black, gelled hair and dark Middle Eastern features. Elhasomi observed that he had a noticeable, but not unattractive, scar on his chin. He looked at her briefly as she stood at the cocktail table and then looked down again. His eyes were dark, Elhasomi thought, secret eyes.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Can I join you here?’
The man looked surprised, shy almost. ‘I’m not going to be here much longer.’
‘I just want to be away from those annoying men.’
The man looked at his watch and then at Elhasomi. He was silent.
‘I do not want to disturb your dream.’
The man smiled without looking up. ‘I’m not dreaming, I’m observing.’
‘Are you security?’
‘My favourite pastime at these functions. Forget zoos – human beings are the most interesting creatures to watch.’
Elhasomi frowned, then smiled and felt herself relaxing. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Have you ever watched men and women at these functions? The way they play?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the hunting, the preening, the posturing, the flirting. Everybody is acting, but the movie is never good.’
Elhasomi smiled and extended her hand to the man.
‘Leila Elhasomi.’
The man took her hand and looked into her face for the first time. ‘Ben Salem. Pleased to meet you.’
Elhasomi smiled flirtatiously. ‘Were you observing
me
?’
The man nodded. ‘I was, but only from a scientific point of view. You’re a good subject.’
‘I will take that as a compliment.’
‘I’ve been watching these pretentious idiots all night. I’ve seen how they act around the pretty girls.’
‘Do you think I am pretty?’
Salem looked at her. ‘Yes.’
‘So … Are you acting now, or is this understated, shy man the real you?’
‘You can decide.’
‘I think you are security. Diplomats talk and mix. You are not mixing, networking. Why?’
‘I only get invited to these functions because of the business I’m in.’
‘And what business would that be, Mr Salem?’
‘Wine.’
Elhasomi frowned and then smiled. ‘Wine?’
‘I import fine wine. What better way to impress your friends and pursue your country’s interests than over a glass of fine wine?’
‘And what makes wine so fascinating? It is just old grapes, isn’t it?’
The man smiled and the smile was warm and sincere. ‘Wine reminds us of God’s greatest gift to mankind: women.’
‘You are a philosopher too?’
‘Take this Merlot, for instance, which I could equate to you. At first, intriguing and complex. And then, after a while on your palate, rewarding and generous in its flavours.’
‘The same pick-up line you no doubt use on all the women you meet?’
‘You asked a question and I answered it honestly.’
‘You know nothing of me, Mr Salem, because if you did you would know that I am not rewarding or generous. And I am unlikely to be on your palate any time soon.’
‘And you know nothing of me,’ Salem replied. ‘Otherwise you’d know I don’t pick up women at diplomatic functions.’
‘Is that so?’
‘They all have hidden agendas; they are either spies or desperate wives of diplomats who are away from home too much.’
‘So which one am I?’
Salem glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger, so I assume you’re a spy. I must go. I never stay long at these things.’
Elhasomi momentarily looked over her shoulder. ‘You are the most hated man in this room right now.’
Salem smiled and nodded. ‘They can hate me, as long as they drink my wine. Most of these people I will never see again anyway. Probably you too.’
‘Probably,’ Elhasomi said. ‘I do not drink wine.’
‘Let me guess. You’re Muslim. Probably from Egypt?’
‘Close. Libya.’
‘Libya.’
‘Alcohol is banned in my country, so you would not want to open a branch there. I am involved in tourism.’
‘I didn’t know Libya was a tourist destination.’
‘It is an emerging tourism destination. I am marketing our country at every opportunity. Malta is a good launch pad for the campaign: relations are good, it is close and it is central. That is why I am here.’
‘Okay. Sounds like a hard job.’ Salem looked around as he heard the sound of a glass breaking followed by loud laughter. ‘You know, I’ve seen presidents and kings and ambassadors drinking themselves into a frenzy until four in the morning, and then going to world summits and making decisions about wars.’
‘Decisions on foreign policies which affect people’s lives, I know. I also thought about that. But you are providing the alcohol. You are part of the problem.’
‘Then we both have hard jobs. Will you excuse me, I’ve had enough of this function, and I’m calling it a night. Nice meeting you, Miss Elhasomi.’
Elhasomi put her hand on Salem’s arm. ‘Please, you must call me Leila. You cannot leave now. Who am I going to talk to?’
Salem smiled. ‘The Brazilian colonel seems quite harmless.’
‘Ben, I have enjoyed speaking to you. I do not get to have too many intelligent conversations. I miss them.’
Salem hesitated momentarily and then looked at his watch. ‘Leave with me then. Let’s go somewhere else where we can drink coffee and talk about interesting things. I can’t promise you a memorable night, though.’
Elhasomi closed her eyes for a second, smiled and then looked at Salem. ‘You are asking me on a date?’
‘You can call it a date if you want. I’m calling it an extraction.’
Elhasomi laughed and took Salem by the arm. ‘I could have left with any ambassador, foreign secretary, military attaché or diplomat here, and I’m leaving with the guy who supplies the wine. What does that tell you?’
‘It tells me you want to get out of here even more than I do.’
The Tourism Indaba was in its second day and the South African Tourism Authority had welcomed hundreds of local and foreign exhibitors to the International Convention Centre in Durban to market their tourism-related products. Imaginative exhibition stands looked like the lounges of luxury private game reserves, the inside of grand railway coaches and posh bush pubs. The Robben Island Museum stand was popular; tourists could be locked up in a reconstruction of Nelson Mandela’s prison cell. At times there were queues of people waiting outside the cell to go in and be photographed. Most of them felt that thirty seconds in the claustrophobic cell was long enough, and couldn’t imagine spending twenty-seven years in one. Delegates from more than a hundred countries wandered around the stalls and networked with one another, debated over the competitiveness of the international tourism industry, and discussed, with some jealousy, South Africa’s success in capturing a large slice of the international tourism market. Colourful people in traditional outfits entertained visitors, and the food and drink on offer lent to the festive mood.
Emile Dahdi imagined himself in the Kruger National Park as he sat in a camp chair and stared at the posters. This didn’t smell like the African bushveld, he thought. And when he looked up, he saw the steel girders and bright lights of the roof of the convention centre. He couldn’t fool himself that he was in the bushveld if he couldn’t look up and see a blue sky above. He eased himself out of the chair. He was tired. His light-pink suit was old and faded and only made his bright-yellow tie seem even more uncomplementary. A red baseball cap sat atop his bush of grey hair. Some delegates stared and others struggled to conceal their smiles as Dahdi leaned on a table, sending a wad of brochures flying over the floor. He leaned forward to pick them up and knocked over a huge wooden sculpture of a giraffe. By now a small crowd had gathered. He was either a flamboyant and clumsy old tourist, or a sideshow event designed to draw attention to the stand. And he was certainly drawing attention.
He fumbled for a camera in his bag. Then he saw a poster of the big five on the wall and decided to take it for himself. The people gathered around stared, amused, as he pulled the poster from the wall and began rolling it up. He tried again to take his camera from its carry case. The bemused man standing closest to him quickly turned and walked away as Dahdi’s shaking hand held the camera bag out to him.
‘Photograph, please, you take of me?’ Dahdi’s French accent made the spectators think of Inspector Clouseau. He looked flustered for a moment, then fumbled with his camera, dropped the poster, bent down to recover it, and let the strap of his camera bag slip off his shoulder. As he twisted to stop it falling, he let go of his camera which dropped to the concrete floor and shattered into three distinct pieces, one of which was a now-exposed – and useless – roll of film. A striking woman with long black hair and smooth olive skin, who had been observing the man’s misfortunes, took a step towards him and smiled.
‘I am sorry, sir, but can I help you?’ Dahdi still seemed confused and was trying to gather the pieces of his camera together and reassemble it. The woman smiled and knelt down beside him, her ankle-length white-and-red floral dress highlighting her tall and slim figure. Dahdi looked at her, looked at his camera, and rose slowly to his feet, leaning on the woman’s arm for support. He looked confused for a moment and then shook his head, his thick, horn-rimmed glasses magnifying the tears in his eyes.
‘The camera is useless.’
The woman let go of his arm when she was satisfied he was supporting himself and said softly, ‘I am sorry.’ She started to move off, hesitantly, when Dahdi looked up at her and put his hand on her arm. She was afraid if she pulled away he would fall over.
‘Excuse me, madame. Thank you for your kindness. I am Emile Dahdi. I am from Paris. I would like to take some pictures back with me – please.’ He looked at the digital camera clasped in the woman’s hand. ‘Please, it will not take a moment.’
‘Please understand I cannot help you any further—’
‘Please. A favour for an old fool. A few pictures of me here, and there.’ He pointed at the Robben Island Museum stand. The woman looked around, and felt her chest tighten as a policeman materialised and came towards Dahdi.
‘Is this man bothering you, madam?’ the policeman asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you okay?’
The woman frowned and then smiled. ‘Everything is okay. I am helping this man.’
The policeman stood motionless for a brief moment and surveyed the scene. Then he moved away.
Dahdi touched his cap and smiled. ‘I am unworthy of your assistance, madame, but I am equally in need of it.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card. She noted he had an address in Paris and one in Durban. ‘My e-mail address is on there. Please, if you could send the pictures to me?’
‘I … if …’
‘You are too kind. What is your name?’
‘Leila.’
Dahdi smiled and shook her hand. ‘Night beauty. Did you know the meaning of your name is night beauty? And you look like a princess, you are so beautiful.’
‘Thank you. Now I must …’
‘Do I look like a tourist?’ Dahdi asked quickly, before the woman walked away.
‘Well, sir, you do,’ the woman said, not taking her eyes off the police officer who was now standing a few metres away and watching them.
‘Well I am not a tourist. What am I then? Have you holidayed in Bosnia?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘Exactly! Exactly what I do, you see I find new places for tourists to holiday.’
‘Okay, that’s good.’
‘Who would ever think of having a holiday in North Korea or Angola or Liberia?’
‘A very select few,’ the woman said. ‘These countries need to market themselves properly.’
‘Thank you, madame.’ He tipped his cap. ‘And that is what I do. I represent a European consortium looking for investment opportunities in emerging markets.’
Elhasomi looked at the old man’s eyes, tired and gentle eyes. ‘I guess that is why we are all here.’
‘Have you seen some of these stalls? I have seen some countries represented here which look like paradise, but they are poor and cannot attract tourists.’
‘It is a battle I have been fighting for years.’
‘I am eighty-five years old and have been to just about every country in the world. I advise the investors where to invest, and they listen to me. If I told them Burundi was a good emerging tourism destination, they would ask me to find a tourism company to sponsor.’
‘You, sir?’
‘Is it not incredible, madame, that they would use an old man like me to do this? I can hardly see through these glasses, yet they trust my judgement.’
‘And African countries further north, such as Algeria, Morocco … Libya?’
‘Islamic countries have lost tourists since September 11, we cannot deny it. But one must market the positive aspects of these countries, the history, the culture, the beauty, the people.’
‘Perhaps we should be in contact again. You may be able to increase my country’s share in the North African and Mediterranean tourism markets.’
‘I am leaving for Paris on Saturday. I spend six months a year in Paris and six months in Durban. I will give you my e-mail address and we can talk.’