31. Bangkok, 1996 - End it

In which two men discuss Eleanor.

Mahdi learns that friendship comes with hard truths. A conversation pits loyalty against desire.  

Mahdi

Amina knocks on his door. He looks up from the report he’s reading. “An Ambassador Imaad Musa on the line for you, sir. Shall I put him through?” 

“Yes, thank-you, Amina. Put him through.” He’s surprised. He wasn’t expecting a call from Imaad. Amina closes the door as she leaves. His phone rings a moment later. He puts it on speakerphone. 

“Comrade, Imaad here, thanks for taking my call.” 

“Happy to,” says Mahdi, “how are things going in Istanbul?”

They chat for a few moments. About Head Office, ANC internal politics, and the lingering difficulties of bringing the old guard round to the new world order. They’re both new to their Ambassador roles, both starting up new Embassies, Imaad in Istanbul, Mahdi in Bangkok. They trade stories and reminisce about the struggle days for a bit. 

Then Imaad’s tone shifts. “So, I’m calling you to raise a difficult topic.” There’s a long pause on the line. Instinctively Mahdi shifts forward in his chair and picks up the handset, taking the call off speakerphone. “There’s no easy way to broach it, so I’ll just get right to it.” Again Imaad pauses. Mahdi wonders what is coming. He rests his elbows on the desk. 

“It’s about Eleanor. Eleanor Williams.” 

“Okay,” says Mahdi slowly. All the air rushes out of him. He doesn’t trust himself to say more. This is not what he expected. Not at all. What does Imaad know, Mahdi wonders, telling himself not to panic, not to assume anything. His hand tightens painfully on the handset.

“What about Eleanor?” Mahdi finally asks, keeping his voice as neutral as he can. 

“She’s just been here for a visit,” Imaad continues. 

A pang of jealousy and alarm flares in Mahdi. Are Eleanor and Imaad…? He knows from Eleanor that she and Imaad had had a brief fling, before they had met, but that it hadn’t gone anywhere then. Has that changed? And so what if it has? Eleanor is a young woman, she’s free to have any relationship she wants. Imaad is single, attractive, much closer in age, an ANC high- flyer. He can see the attraction. 

And what with the time difference, Eleanor being busy with her language program in Cairo, and he with arriving in Thailand and trying to get things up and running at the mission, they haven’t been able to speak much on the phone over the last months. His whole body aches for her sometimes. He misses her energy, her eagerness, her aliveness. So he’s drowned himself in work to try to take his mind off of her. And as a cover with his wife for his distraction. 

“Comrade to comrade, please, end it, Mahdi.” Mahdi’s heart skips a bit. A wave of nausea washes over him. So Imaad knows. How? He’s been so careful. As has Eleanor, he’s sure. “As your friend,” Imaad continues, “I’m asking you not to do this. Don’t do this to your wife. Don’t do this to Eleanor. Don’t do it yourself.” Imaad’s voice is firm, insistent. There’s no question that he knows. 

Mahdi’s glad he’s on the phone and Imaad can’t see him. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He calls up his military training. Breathe. Just breathe. Be still. Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything. Let the crash of adrenaline and cortisol flow through him. 

“If you have any respect for Fatima, who carried you all through your years in the struggle, end it. I have too much respect for you to see you do this to yourself. You know it can’t go anywhere, so the sooner you end it the better for everyone.” 

There’s silence on the line now. A flash of white hot anger flares in Mahdi. How dare Imaad presume…? But the anger quickly gives way to shame and guilt. Imaad is right. And finally he feels a strange release inside of him. Imaad is only saying out loud what one part of him has been whispering for months and which he has been burying himself in work to try to ignore. 

Eventually Mahdi tries to speak. “How— What did she—” but then he falls silent again. He can’t seem to trust his voice. He realizes he’s just confirmed it all to Imaad. But there’s no use denying it; he and Imaad go too far back—and Imaad is too astute—for him to try to pull that on Imaad. 

“She didn’t say anything, Mahdi. It was written all over her face. I’d suspected before she left for Cairo that something was going on between the two of you. You know how expressive her face is.” Mahdi does. He can see her face right now, her smile, her dark brown eyes large behind her glasses that draw him in, her whole face alive with thought and feeling. “I only needed to mention your name once casually and it was as clear as daylight what she feels for you.” 

“Did you—?” Mahdi doesn’t know what he really wants to know. He still can’t seem to find his words. 

“Confront her?” Imaad guesses. “Not really. I did warn her that she was playing with fire—and that it would burn you both if you weren’t careful.” He goes silent, then adds, “But I did lay on a little guilt. I told if she truly wants to show her love, she won’t risk the career of one of the struggle’s great quiet unsung heroes.” 

Mahdi barely registers the compliment. He’s still in shock, mind and heart racing. 

“Why—”

“Why was she here?” Is Imaad reading his mind? Or does he just know him that well, after all those long years working so closely together? “Nothing’s going on between Eleanor and I, Mahdi. We’re good friends, that’s all.” Mahdi’s heart slows a beat. He’ll take small mercies. “She wanted to explore the region, get out of Cairo for a bit, so I invited her here for the weekend. The residence is huge—I have the space. I just showed her around the city. She stuffed her suitcases with Iznik pottery then flew back to Cairo on Monday.” 

Mahdi stares off into the distance. He can see her doing that. When they had working meetings in his office in Pretoria, she’d quizzed him on the various small objects he had displayed on the bookshelves. She loves interesting and beautiful things. 

“She’s lonely in Cairo. And in her loneliness, she’s fixating on you.” Imaad pauses. “Fatima deserves better from you, Mahdi.” Imaad’s tone is more severe now. “She’s an amazing woman, who’s never complained about how much of your life you gave to the cause. Now that the struggle is over, she deserves to get you back.” 

There’s a long silence. Mahdi takes off his glasses, rubbing his aching forehead with his free hand. 

“You’re right, Imaad. I know you’re right.” He doesn’t tell Imaad how he’s known for months he should end it, but just hasn’t had the courage. He willingly put his life on the line for the struggle, but he couldn’t bring himself to end something that had brought him so much joy. He takes a slow breath to steady himself. “Consider it ended, Imaad. It’s done.” As he says the words, an aching void opens up inside of him. There’s silence from Imaad. “And thank you. I know it couldn’t have been easy to make this call.”

“No. And you’re welcome. I know you would have done the same for me if our roles were reversed.” Mahdi nods. 

“And I get it, Mahdi. She’s an alluring young woman. And part of her allure is that she doesn’t even know how alluring she is.” Mahdi sees Eleanor in the wine-red dress he got her. The void grows. 

“Yeah,” is all Mahdi says. “God, I’ve been a fool.” He lets out a long breath. 

“No, Mahdi, just a man. But now you must be a man.” 

“Thank you, Imaad, for being a true friend. For having the courage to call me out on this. I…it means a lot to me.” Mahdi rubs his aching temples again, a sickening realization coming to him. “And, I have to ask, if you could see it so easily, who else knows, do you think?” 

“I think the Deputy Minister might have suspected it. But then she got posted to Cairo and you to Bangkok, and so I think he will have assumed that it will have died out. I know I did. But—” the pause gets Mahdi’s heart racing again. “Has Eleanor ever called you at the mission?” Imaad asks. 

“Once, but usually I try to call her—as I can catch her at home, while of course she can’t. But that was many months back.” 

“Then you’re probably okay. I doubt one call will have raised a red flag. And Mahdi,” Imaad adds, “call me. I mean it. I’m here for you, brother. You fell for her—I get it.” Mahdi doesn’t correct him, that it was a lot more than just “falling” for Eleanor. It’s not going to be that easy to give her up. If it were, he’d already have done it. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out. You’ve been there so many times for me. I finally get to repay a little of the debt I owe you.” 

“No, I owe you—for being straight with me. Shukran, ya akhi.” 

“Al-‘afiya, Mahdi. You going to be okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. There’s plenty of work to keep me busy. And you’re right, I have been neglecting Fatima. I think we’ll start to do some weekend trips. She’d like that.” 

They say their good-byes. 

His heart achingly heavy, Mahdi hangs up the phone. His hands tremble as he reaches into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. He weeps silently at his desk, his heart breaking. Putting Eleanor out of his life feels like he is extinguishing a light. A light that has brought him such indescribable joy. A joy he didn’t even know existed. In thirty long years of struggle and exile and duty and loyalty, loving Eleanor, giving himself totally to her, was the one thing he did just for him, only for him—not out of duty or obligation, but for pure selfish love and the exquisite joy it brought him. The light of that joy flickers and fades. Bleak grayness takes its place. 

Oh god, he is going to break her heart. He knows how this will devastate her. But she is young—so very young. Her heart will mend. She will find love again. And his old heart? It has felt her light, the warmth of her love, the sensuousness of her body. 

And he can be at peace with that. 

That can be enough for him. 

He steels his resolve. No, it is enough for him. 

Putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, Mahdi pages his secretary. “Hold all calls for the next hour, will you please, Amina.” 

He opens a drawer in his desk, takes out a notepad, and starts writing. 

Imaad

In Istanbul, Imaad lets out a long slow breath. He realizes with surprise that he’s feeling shaken. He puts his palms flat on his desk, feeling its steadying coolness. 

Mahdi took it well. But then that’s Mahdi. Such a gracious man. But also such a principled man. Which is why the whole thing is just so out of character. What on earth had gotten into him? Mahdi’s no fool, he knows what is at risk, so why had he taken the risk? He shakes his head. It’s not his business to know. But it is his business to protect an old and dear friend from himself. And he’s done that now. 

It had felt awful to confront Mahdi with this. It felt like a betrayal and an intrusion. Mahdi, who is revered by all, for his calmness and clarity of thinking. Mahdi, who was in the struggle before Imaad was even born. Mahdi who has been a mentor and role model to so many, and who Imaad feels blessed to count as a friend. 

But if he’s honest with himself, he gets why Mahdi would fall for her. Hell, he did, for a while. She’s a fascinating young woman. She’s ambitious, intelligent, and idealistic. She’s also highly articulate, outspoken and unafraid to question things. Which gets her into a lot of trouble, but is exactly the kind of ballsy that appeals to him. Yet underneath the fierce, intense exterior is a guileless, deeply sensitive, desperately insecure young woman who is struggling to navigate the top-down, hierarchical Department. Men seem to either dismiss her, detest her because she doesn’t play by any of the established rules, or admire her for her spunk and charm, depending on how secure they feel in their own power. In short, she’s a ball of paradox, fun for a fling, but a whole mess of complicated for anything more serious. And deep, deep trouble for Mahdi, who he respects too much to see tangled up in an affair like this. 

Imaad had told it to her straight that memorable weekend at her family’s farm in the Drakensberg nearly three years ago. “You do know your walls are so high, anyone can just walk in underneath,” and proceeded to show her what he meant. She’d been furious and embarrassed—which just made her that much more adorable. 

She’s the polar opposite of Fatima and he can see how seductive her youthful admiration and unconventionality could be to Mahdi. But Mahdi’s old enough to be her father, for god’s sake. What was he thinking! 

Imaad shakes his head again, ruefully. He can guess what Mahdi was thinking. Imaad knows how the high of being welcomed home as returning hero’s by young, idealistic South Africans like Eleanor went to his head. Throw Eleanor and Mahdi together as closely as they had been on the Inauguration, and he can’t blame Mahdi for being smitten for a while too. But Eleanor’s reaction last weekend when she came to visit him here in Istanbul had alarmed him. Clearly this had gone much farther—for far longer—than he would have predicted. It was completely out of character for thoughtful and deliberative Mahdi to be this reckless. 

No, he admonishes himself. He’s not being fair to Mahdi. He’d been just as reckless—he just didn’t have a wife to worry about. Eleanor’s guileless passion could be quite…arousing. 

It’s why he’d cut bait and has kept things strictly platonic since that weekend. 

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Bonus Material

Correcting an oversight: the Zabeleen in Cairo

In the previous chapter Eleanor mentions that she volunteered at a school in Moqattam, and that “That Egypt couldn't be further from this Egypt. The Zabaleen are Coptic Christians, and the refuse collectors of Cairo.”

I neglected to include more about the Zabaleen in that post’s bonus materials.

I’ve corrected that oversight now.

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So, while you wait for the next chapter, maybe take a moment to check out these historical fiction books from other independent authors? Maybe you’ll discover your perfect next read?

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