This sanctimonious bullshit verified Tamara’s instinct. She had the information she needed, so she changed the subject. ‘Are the armies observing the demilitarized zone along the border with Sudan?’ she asked.
‘So far, yes.’
As they chatted about Sudan, Tamara pondered Karim’s question: What would the General do with an American drone? He might just keep it as a superfluous trophy, never to be used, just as Karim, living in the landlocked desert country of Chad, was never going to need a watch that was water resistant to a depth of 100 metres. But the General was a sly schemer, as he had proved with his ambush, and he might well have a more sinister purpose.
Tamara had all the intelligence she had been hoping to get from Karim today. She took her leave and returned to her car. She would report this conversation later. First she had to be assessed by Tab’s parents.
She told herself not to be oversensitive. This was not an exam, it was a social lunch. All the same, she felt apprehensive.
At the Lamy she went first to the Ladies’ to freshen up. She combed her hair and retouched her make-up. The arrowhead pendant looked good in the mirror.
She had a message on her phone giving her the room number. As she got into the elevator, Tab stepped in right behind her. She kissed him on both cheeks then wiped her lipstick off his face. He was dressed formally, in a suit and a spotted tie, with a white handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. ‘Let me guess,’ she said, speaking French. ‘Your mother likes her men to dress up.’
He smiled. ‘The men like it too. And you look perfect.’
They reached the room door, which was open, and went in.
Tamara had never been in a presidential suite. They passed through a small lobby into a spacious sitting room. A door to one side gave a glimpse of a dining room where a waiter was putting napkins on a table. On the opposite side of the room was a double door that presumably led to the bedroom.
Tab’s parents were sitting on a pink-upholstered couch. His father stood up and his mother remained sitting. Both wore glasses that had not appeared in the photo Tamara had seen. Malik’s looks were craggy and dark, but he was well dressed in a navy-blue cotton blazer with off-white trousers and a striped tie, a Frenchman doing the English style but with more flair. Anne was pale and slim, a beautiful older woman in a cream-coloured linen dress with a mandarin collar and flared sleeves. They looked like what they were: an affluent couple with good taste.
Tab performed the introductions, continuing in French. Tamara said a prepared sentence: ‘I’m so glad to meet the parents of this wonderful man.’ In response, Anne smiled, but coolly. Any mother should be pleased by such a remark about her son, but she was unimpressed.
They all sat down. On the coffee table was an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. The waiter came in and poured, and Tamara noticed that the champagne was vintage Travers. She said to Anne: ‘Do you always drink your own champagne?’
‘Often, yes, to check on how it’s surviving,’ Anne replied. ‘Normally, we taste in the cellars, and the same is true for buyers and wine writers who come from all over the world to our winery in Reims. But our customers have a different experience. Before they drink the wine it travels perhaps thousands of miles, and then it may be kept for years in unsuitable conditions.’
Tab interrupted her. ‘When I was a student in California I used to work at a restaurant where the wine was kept in a cupboard next to the oven. If someone ordered champagne we had to put the bottle in the freezer for fifteen minutes.’ He laughed.
His mother did not see the funny side. ‘So, you see, champagne needs one quality that will never show at a cellar tasting: fortitude. We must make a wine that can survive ill-treatment, and still taste good despite conditions that are less than ideal.’
Tamara had not expected a lecture. On the other hand, she found it interesting. And she had learned that Tab’s mother was remorselessly serious.
Anne tasted the champagne and said: ‘Not too disappointing.’
Tamara thought it was delicious.
As they chatted, Tamara checked out Anne’s jewellery. The flared sleeves of her dress revealed a pretty Travers watch on her left wrist and three gold bangles on her right. Tamara was not planning to talk about jewellery, but Anne commented on her pendant. ‘I haven’t seen anything quite like that before.’
‘It’s home-made,’ Tamara said, and she explained what a Tuareg arrowhead was.
‘How original,’ Anne said.
Tamara had met American matrons who could say something like How original when they really meant How dreadful.