‘He will come,’ said Hakim.
In the centre of the village was a well that gave clear, cold water, and everyone drank their fill.
Meanwhile, Hakim had a long conversation with a resident, an older man with a look of intelligence, probably an informal village head man. Abdul could not hear what was said.
The travellers were shown into a compound with lean-to shelters around the sides. Abdul guessed by the smell that it had been used for sheep, probably to protect the beasts from the sun in the middle of the day. It was now late afternoon: clearly the bus passengers were to spend the night here.
Hakim called for everyone’s attention. ‘Fouad has given me a message,’ he said, and Abdul assumed Fouad was the man who looked like the village leader. ‘Our guide has doubled his price, and he will not come until he is paid the extra. It will cost twenty dollars per person.’
There was an outburst of protest. The passengers said they could not afford it, and Hakim said he was not going to pay it for them. What followed was a more intense repeat of an argument that had raged several times already on the trip, as Hakim tried to extort extra money. In the end people had to pay.
Abdul got up and left the compound.
Looking around the village, he decided that no one here was involved in smuggling either drugs or people: they were all too poor. At earlier stops he had usually been able to figure out who the local criminals were because they had money and guns, as well as the stressed-out air of men who lived on the violent fringes, always ready to run away. He had carefully noted names and descriptions and relationships, and had sent a long report to Tamara from Faya. There seemed to be no such men in this pathetic settlement. However, the mention of the Toubou people had given him the explanation: in this area the smuggling must be run by them.
He sat on the ground near the well, his back up against an acacia tree that gave him shade. From here he could see much of the village, but a spreading thicket of tamarisk hid him from people who came to the well: he wanted to observe, not to talk. He wondered where the guide was, if not in the village. There were no other settlements for many miles around. Was the mysterious Toubou tribesman just beyond the hill, in a tent, waiting to be told that the migrants had found the extra money? It was quite possible that he had not even asked for more money; that could be just another extortion ploy by Hakim. The guide might be in one of these village huts, eating stewed goat with couscous, resting up before tomorrow’s journey.
Abdul saw Hakim come out of the compound looking cross. He was followed by Wahed, the father-in-law of Esma. Hakim stopped and the two men had a conversation, Wahed pleading and Hakim refusing. Abdul could not hear the words but guessed they were arguing about the extra money for the guide. Hakim made a dismissive gesture and walked away, but Wahed followed him, hands spread out in supplication; then Hakim stopped and turned around and spoke aggressively before walking away again. Abdul made a grimace of distaste: Hakim’s behaviour was brutish and Wahed’s was undignified. Abdul was offended by the entire scene.
Hakim slouched across the dusty ground towards the well, and Esma came out of the compound and walked briskly after him.
They stood at the well to talk, as people had done for thousands of years. Abdul could not see them, but he could hear their conversation clearly, and he was practised at understanding their rapid colloquial Arabic.
Esma said: ‘My father is very upset.’
Hakim said: ‘What’s that to me?’
‘We can’t pay the extra. We have the money we must give you when we get to Libya, the balance of the fare. But no more.’
Hakim pretended to be indifferent. ‘Then you will just have to stay here in this village,’ he said.
‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ she said.
Of course it didn’t, Abdul thought. What was Hakim up to?
Esma went on: ‘In a few days’ time, we will pay you two thousand five hundred dollars. Would you really lose that for twenty?’
‘Sixty,’ he said. ‘Twenty for you, twenty for your mother-in-law, and twenty for the old man.’
A quibble, Abdul thought.
Esma said: ‘We don’t have it, but we can get it when we reach Tripoli. We will ask my husband to send more money from Nice – I promise.’
‘I don’t want promises. The Toubou don’t accept them as payment.’
‘Then we have no choice,’ she said in baffled exasperation. ‘We will have to stay here until someone comes along who can give us a ride back to Lake Chad. We will have wasted the money my husband earned building all those walls for rich French people.’ She sounded utterly miserable.