The woman who emerged was about fifty. She was dark skinned, but she wore expensive European clothes: a dress that revealed her figure, shoes with heels, a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face, and a handbag. No one in the village had ever owned a handbag.
The driver pressed a button and the door closed with an electric whirr.
The older village women stared from a distance, but the youngsters crowded around the visitor. The teenage girls, barefoot in their hand-me-down dresses, stared enviously at her clothes.
The woman took from her handbag a pack of Cleopatra cigarettes and a lighter. She put a cigarette between her red lips and lit it, then inhaled deeply.
She was the epitome of sophistication.
She blew out smoke and then pointed to a tall girl with light-brown skin.
The older women moved close enough to hear what was said.
‘My name is Fatima,’ said the visitor in Arabic. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Zariah.’
‘A lovely name for a lovely girl.’
The other kids giggled but it was true: Zariah was striking.
Fatima said: ‘Can you read and write?’
Zariah said proudly: ‘I went to the nuns’ school.’
‘Is your mother here?’
Zariah’s mother, Noor, stepped forward with a cockerel under her arm. She raised chickens, and undoubtedly had picked up the valuable bird to keep it safe from the wheels of the car. It was grumpy and indignant, and so was Noor. She said: ‘What do you want with my daughter?’
Fatima ignored the hostility and replied pleasantly: ‘How old is your beautiful girl?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Good.’
‘Why is that good?’
‘I have a restaurant in N’Djamena, on the Avenue Charles de Gaulle. I need waitresses.’ Fatima adopted a brisk, matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘They must be intelligent enough to take food and drink orders without making mistakes, and they must also be young and pretty, because that is what customers want.’
The crowd became even more interested. Kiah and the other mothers moved closer. Kiah noticed an aroma as if someone had opened a box of sweets, and realized the fragrance came from Fatima. She seemed like a creature from a folk tale, but she was here to offer something down to earth and much sought after: a job.
Kiah said: ‘What if the customers don’t speak Arabic?’
Fatima looked hard at her, assessing her. ‘May I ask your name, young lady?’
‘I’m Kiah.’
‘Well, Kiah, I find that bright girls can quickly learn the French and English words for the dishes they’re serving.’
Kiah nodded. ‘Of course. There wouldn’t be many.’
Fatima looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to Noor. ‘I would never hire a girl without her mother’s permission. I am a mother myself, and a grandmother too.’
Noor looked less hostile.
Kiah asked another question. ‘What’s the pay?’
‘The girls get all their meals and a uniform, and a place to sleep. They can make up to fifty American dollars per week in tips.’
Noor said: ‘Fifty dollars!’ It was three times the normal wage. Tips could vary, everyone knew, but even half of that would be a lot for a week of carrying plates and glasses.
Kiah said: ‘But no wages?’
Fatima looked irritated. ‘Correct.’
Kiah wondered whether Fatima could be trusted. She was a woman, which was a point in her favour, though not decisive. She was undoubtedly painting an attractive picture of the job she was offering, but that was natural and did not make her a liar. Kiah liked the frank speech and the undoubted glamour, but under all that she detected a hard vein of ruthlessness that made her uneasy.
All the same, she envied the single girls. They could escape from the lakeside and find a new future in the city. She wished she could do the same. She thought she would be a perfectly good waitress. And she would be saved from the dreadful choice between Hakim and destitution.
Except that she had a child. She could not even wish for a life without Naji. She loved him too much.
Zariah said eagerly: ‘What’s the uniform like?’
‘European clothes,’ said Fatima. ‘A red skirt, a white blouse, and a red neck scarf with white polka dots.’ The girls made appreciative noises, and Fatima added: ‘Yes, it’s very pretty.’
Noor asked a mother’s question. ‘Who is in charge of these young girls?’ It was obvious that sixteen-year-olds needed to be supervised.
‘They live in a little house behind the restaurant, and a lady called Mrs Amat al-Yasu looks after them.’