sake!’
Shiraj looked around in some alarm as Jay’s voice rose.
‘And they’ll do the same to Shiraj if our stupid fucking government sends him back! He needs help, Dad.’
‘Please, sir, I’m fine. There are people who can help me.’
‘Dad’s a journalist. He has contacts.’
Mabbut suddenly felt protective towards his daughter. With her innocent, untested idealism. Her frank and generous support for this man she’d only just met. And her loyal and totally unjustified belief in her father.
‘I would like to be a journalist,’ Shiraj said quite decisively. ‘All my friends want to be journalists.’
Mabbut looked around the room. At every table were men deep in conversation. Eyes staring into eyes, arms constantly rising and falling, hands in perpetual motion, fluttering and turning with sharp and delicate gestures. Everyone seemingly engaged in the mostimportant argument of their lives. It wasn’t quite the same in the Dog and Feathers. Was it the lack of muddling alcohol, or was it just that these people had more to discuss? Or that the customers in a place like Harveh were in someone else’s country, and there was so much that mattered.
‘Do you write for a newspaper, sir?’
‘Me? No.’
Mabbut didn’t quite know where to go from here. A History of Sullom Voe Oil Terminal wouldn’t cut much ice, but this eager young man needed something.
‘I write books mostly.’
Shiraj nodded. His serious dark eyes rested on Mabbut.
‘He’s writing a novel,’ said Jay, proudly.
Shiraj’s brow furrowed. ‘What is this novel?’
‘Yes, tell us, Dad. I haven’t a clue what it’s about.’
Mabbut wanted to give a fluent, enthusiastic answer, but the unfamiliar smells of herbs and rosewater and fresh-baked bread, combined with the intense chatter of people talking in a language he didn’t understand, made him feel a sudden wobbling of resolve.
‘It’s a story,’ he said to Shiraj.
‘Is it true?’
‘No, that’s the point. It’s a story . . . like The Arabian Nights .’
Shiraj’s brow furrowed. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘You should write about what is happening today.’
Mabbut noticed Jay give Shiraj’s arm the lightest of touches.
‘With respect, sir, I could tell you some true stories you would not believe.’
Mabbut thought of Tess. How had she put it?
‘Sometimes you can tell the truth better through stories,’ he replied.
Shiraj leant towards him. His tone remained even, but he spoke a little faster.
‘Forgive me, sir. With respect. There are too many good people telling stories, when what we need is to tell the world the facts .’
Jay crooked her finger and scoured the last of the sherbet from the rim of her glass.
‘He’s right in a way, Dad.’
Youthful idealism had always irritated Mabbut, especially when it was fluently expressed. He’d been a martyr to it himself. Vietnam, Watergate. Civil rights. The world’s problems, which he and his friends were convinced could all be sorted out from the safety of Hull University. He felt Shiraj’s eyes flick back to him, and as the boy leaned in he caught the faintest scent of jasmine.
‘You were a journalist, sir?’
‘I was.’
Shiraj tapped the table, emphatically, as if this proved his point.
‘Then I must tell you the story of my people and you can write about it. In my country no one will write this. They will be arrested, like my father. He was a journalist, and my brothers were trying to find him, and they have been arrested.’
Mabbut nodded. More people squeezed on to the table. The café was busier than ever. He felt his own enthusiasm being appropriated by this eager young man. It was not only wearing him out, it was making him feel inadequate.
‘If you don’t mind I must go.’ He rose and shook the young man’s hand. ‘It’s been good to meet you, Shiraj. I’ll . . . I’ll do what I can.’
Jay caught up with him as he stepped into the street.
‘Sorry,
Shiraj looked around in some alarm as Jay’s voice rose.
‘And they’ll do the same to Shiraj if our stupid fucking government sends him back! He needs help, Dad.’
‘Please, sir, I’m fine. There are people who can help me.’
‘Dad’s a journalist. He has contacts.’
Mabbut suddenly felt protective towards his daughter. With her innocent, untested idealism. Her frank and generous support for this man she’d only just met. And her loyal and totally unjustified belief in her father.
‘I would like to be a journalist,’ Shiraj said quite decisively. ‘All my friends want to be journalists.’
Mabbut looked around the room. At every table were men deep in conversation. Eyes staring into eyes, arms constantly rising and falling, hands in perpetual motion, fluttering and turning with sharp and delicate gestures. Everyone seemingly engaged in the mostimportant argument of their lives. It wasn’t quite the same in the Dog and Feathers. Was it the lack of muddling alcohol, or was it just that these people had more to discuss? Or that the customers in a place like Harveh were in someone else’s country, and there was so much that mattered.
‘Do you write for a newspaper, sir?’
‘Me? No.’
Mabbut didn’t quite know where to go from here. A History of Sullom Voe Oil Terminal wouldn’t cut much ice, but this eager young man needed something.
‘I write books mostly.’
Shiraj nodded. His serious dark eyes rested on Mabbut.
‘He’s writing a novel,’ said Jay, proudly.
Shiraj’s brow furrowed. ‘What is this novel?’
‘Yes, tell us, Dad. I haven’t a clue what it’s about.’
Mabbut wanted to give a fluent, enthusiastic answer, but the unfamiliar smells of herbs and rosewater and fresh-baked bread, combined with the intense chatter of people talking in a language he didn’t understand, made him feel a sudden wobbling of resolve.
‘It’s a story,’ he said to Shiraj.
‘Is it true?’
‘No, that’s the point. It’s a story . . . like The Arabian Nights .’
Shiraj’s brow furrowed. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘You should write about what is happening today.’
Mabbut noticed Jay give Shiraj’s arm the lightest of touches.
‘With respect, sir, I could tell you some true stories you would not believe.’
Mabbut thought of Tess. How had she put it?
‘Sometimes you can tell the truth better through stories,’ he replied.
Shiraj leant towards him. His tone remained even, but he spoke a little faster.
‘Forgive me, sir. With respect. There are too many good people telling stories, when what we need is to tell the world the facts .’
Jay crooked her finger and scoured the last of the sherbet from the rim of her glass.
‘He’s right in a way, Dad.’
Youthful idealism had always irritated Mabbut, especially when it was fluently expressed. He’d been a martyr to it himself. Vietnam, Watergate. Civil rights. The world’s problems, which he and his friends were convinced could all be sorted out from the safety of Hull University. He felt Shiraj’s eyes flick back to him, and as the boy leaned in he caught the faintest scent of jasmine.
‘You were a journalist, sir?’
‘I was.’
Shiraj tapped the table, emphatically, as if this proved his point.
‘Then I must tell you the story of my people and you can write about it. In my country no one will write this. They will be arrested, like my father. He was a journalist, and my brothers were trying to find him, and they have been arrested.’
Mabbut nodded. More people squeezed on to the table. The café was busier than ever. He felt his own enthusiasm being appropriated by this eager young man. It was not only wearing him out, it was making him feel inadequate.
‘If you don’t mind I must go.’ He rose and shook the young man’s hand. ‘It’s been good to meet you, Shiraj. I’ll . . . I’ll do what I can.’
Jay caught up with him as he stepped into the street.
‘Sorry,
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