Dune Time (4 page)

Authors: Jack Nicholls

BOOK: Dune Time

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“Hasan. And Tariq? Mike. Good to meet you. Lovely country here, isn't it? What a drive. Sorry it's taken me so long to get down, the visa was a little rough with everything that's going on. Wow, you guys have really kitted this place out, haven't you?”

Mike glanced at the wind chimes, the rows of cheap plastic clocks, and at the Quranic verses Hasan had nailed to the doorposts. Months of spiritual fortifications.

“It's cultural,” said Tariq.

Mike nodded understandingly. Of course.

They went inside, poured the mint tea in long cascades, made small talk about the documentary. It was strange to hear another voice after so long. When the cups were down to their dregs, Mike glanced meaningfully at the laptop on the table and asked if they could have a look at the completed footage.

Hasan excused himself for a cigarette, leaving Tariq to load up the computer. A gust of hot wind outside set the wind chimes jangling atonally, fragmenting the sounds from outside.

They had about thirty seconds of stop-motion footage for each time block. Tariq selected the noon batch and set it running, watching the Englishman's face rather than the now-familiar imagery.

“Beautiful,” Mike murmured, the flickering screen reflected in pupils. “Such bizarre patterns. We'll get a bloody BAFTA for this. You two will be credited, of course. Assistant cinematographers.”

Tariq did not respond. If the Englishman could not see them, he wouldn't point them out. He wondered what would happen when the footage screened on TV.

Mike copied the photos onto three thumb drives before pronouncing himself satisfied. “I guess you'll be off now, too,” he said. “Or have you decided to make a go of it here?”

Hasan laughed hollowly from the porch.

“We're going into business together back home,” said Tariq. “At the moment everyone is divided: young and old, cities and regions, traditional and modern. Everybody argues, and everybody only hears what they want to hear. We're going to set something up so all those people can hear each other's voices.”

“Like a radio show?”

“Or a website, or a newsletter. Somewhere people can speak about what kind of country we want, loudly enough that the government can't ignore it.”

“You sure you want to get mixed up in that? I could talk to the bosses about immigration visas if you'd rather be out of it.”

“We're not running away. Even if we can only change things little by little, the country will move eventually.”

“One grain at a time,” suggested Hasan from outside.

The Englishman nodded his understanding. “Best of luck with it. Seriously, if there's anything I can doâ¦” He stood and made his apologies. He had a plane to catch, needed to be home. Within minutes his dust trail was dissipating over the horizon.

“Come on then,” said Hasan. “Let's go.”

“Coming,” said Tariq. He clicked the video one more time.

Once you knew what you were looking for, you couldn't miss them. Blank-eyed faces emerging and receding, the stirring of hands in glacially slow waves. He watched the djinn make their unhurried pilgrimage through the sand.

“Where do you think they're going?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Hasan, taking his hand, “but I suppose they'll get there in the end.”

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