Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page A

travel thousands of miles, they arrive and what do they see? There’s a couple of old mosques, there’s the Monument to Islamic Progress, there’s your quaint Bohri Bazaar. But it’s kind of dirty, it’s crowded and it’s full of traffic. That’s what development means, sure – the new buildings coming up, the industrial growth. But you have to have the relaxation facilities too, if you’re going to keep your businessmen happy. A refreshed man works harder the next day. He’s more committed to the country. He can bring his wife out to join him. And you have to get the tourists. As you say, tourism’s your big growth industry. That’s where the Translux comes in.
    Sure, I’ve worked with Muslims. Eighteen months in Kuwait I lived out of a suitcase, I left my family back home, did I miss them, but now the Kuwait Translux is a hotel all nations can be proud to enter. When that happens my job’s done. I like it out here. I like the heat; I like to sweat it out. My wife calls me a puritan and that way she’s correct. I like it tough; the more I sweat the more I achieve. There’s something about the air here and the big dry spaces; the potential. The American West was like this once. I come from the West; there are still the big wide spaces but now they’re yellow with corn. We’ve farmed them and made them function.
    And I respect your Islam. It’s a clean religion. No mumbo-jumbo, no incense and plaster figurines cluttering up your heart. I step inside your mosques and I see water faucets and white tiles, and in your holiest place what do I see? A blankness. A niche. I’m a religious man myself. Baptist born and bred. Our chapels are bare too. Our God speaks direct to us; we’ve always been God-fearers as you yourselves are – a spare, fighting religion, nothing soft and easy about it. It’s the same hot white sun up there and the same God; we’re not so different from you, we believe in plain living, in rigour and denial. I’ve seen your Ramadans, with simple men flagging from thirst; fasting in the heat as they lay the highways across Saudi. It’s always the simple men.
    â€˜It’s not tea leaves, you know.’
    â€˜Uh?’
    â€˜You’re staring into it so intently,’ said Shamime. ‘And it’s only milk. Do you want me to read your future? You’d have to believe me because I’m brown. There are some advantages. Can I sit down? I came here to see a client but he hasn’t turned up.’ She sat down on the other side of the table. ‘So unreliable. You must find us maddening.’
    Duke mumbled something polite. He was sitting in the 24-hour Coffee Shop at the Intercontinental. Only place you could get a glass of milk in Karachi.
    â€˜I enjoyed that party last night,’ she went on. ‘That sweetie British Council couple, straight out of Somerset Maugham. I hadn’t really talked to you before. I see you coming into the office and disappearing into Frank’s room, now Donald’s room. I suppose it’s not really my department.’
    â€˜It’s nobody’s department yet. I mean to say, nothing’s happening.’
    â€˜Still?’
    â€˜I won’t trouble you with it.’
    â€˜Go on.’ She leant forward, chin resting in her hands. In this light her skin was greeny-brown. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse; she looked like a dusky butterfly. Each time he met her she unnerved him. ‘Bore me.’
    â€˜We have the site, we have the plans drawn up, the tourist board is right behind our project one hundred per cent. It’s just what this place needs, a leisure centre just a half-hour from the city. We’ve done the soil tests, we’ve ordered the materials, we’ve fixed the tenders for the electrics – yesterday I completed that.’ He stopped. He could not discuss cement contracts with this girl with a jewel in