Khartoum: A Recollection, Part 3

“I whirled to face him, and saw a red-faced Englishman, staring at me belligerently. He was responsible for the production of the prototype furnishings. Not far from him stood a tall young Sudanese man, dressed in a black waiter’s uniform, holding a tray with a pitcher of ice water and drinking glasses. I hadn’t heard him come in. He stood so still he might have been a statue. The furniture producer turned, and without acknowledging the waiter, poured a glass of water and gulped it down, all the while staring at me.  His behavior towards the waiter, the waiter’s stoic stance, smacked disturbingly of colonization. I immediately took a dislike to the man and stood staring back.”—Helen Noakes 

Waking Point

By Helen Noakes

Editor’s Note: This is Part 3 of “Khartoum: A Recollection.” Read Part 1 here; and Part 2 here.

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Hubris)—December 2023—Last night’s heat was nothing compared to what assaulted me when we stepped out of the lobby onto a walkway leading to the cabanas. It felt as though something had slammed into me. My intake of breath earned a concerned glance from the manager and the architects, but I shook my head to indicate I was all right.

“It’s a shock, that’s all,” I commented.

The whitewashed cabanas were clustered in a grassy area. We were close enough to the Nile that I could smell the silt-filled water and recalled the river’s importance to the ancient Egyptians.

“Whoever stays in these will have quite a view,” I commented, glancing towards the Nile.

“Yes, but we discourage approaching the water,” the manager said. “Crocodiles.”

“Just adds to the local color,” I quipped, earning a chuckle from the architects and a grim stare from the manger.

“This is the model room,” the manager said, leading the way.

The interior of the cabanas was quite beautiful: stark white walls, earth-colored floor tiles, brightly colored covers on the beds. The furniture, of natural, unstained wood, was substantial in its proportions, but not overbearing.  A campaign desk leaned heavily against one wall, its crisscrossed legs buckling at the meeting joint.

“As you can see, we have a problem with this thing.” The manager pointed towards the desk.

The problem was that whoever fabricated the unit had no concept of proper construction, or the fact that each of the interlocking legs had to be manufactured with continuous pieces of wood. Instead, the leaning desk’s legs consisted of separate segments of wood glued at the meeting joint. I pointed out the problem and heard a bellow of contradiction from a man who had entered behind us and whom I hadn’t met.

I whirled to face him, and saw a red-faced Englishman staring at me belligerently. He was responsible for the production of the prototype furnishings.

Not far from him stood a tall young Sudanese man, dressed in a black waiter’s uniform, holding a tray with a pitcher of ice water and drinking glasses. I hadn’t heard him come in. He stood so still he might have been a statue.

The furniture producer turned, and without acknowledging the waiter, poured a glass of water and gulped it down, all the while staring at me. His behavior towards the waiter, the waiter’s stoic stance, smacked disturbingly of colonialism. I immediately took a dislike to the man and stood staring back.

The manager stepped in and introduced him. The man reached a hand out in greeting, I didn’t take it, and said, “You feel that that desk is acceptable?”

“It’s a prototype. Once we get the order we’ll fix it. You should know that!” he spat out.

“Protypes are made for a reason. They represent exactly what will be ordered. I will not sign off on that unit,” I countered coldly, and turning to the manager, asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Is the structure acceptable?” the manager asked.

I examined the walls, floor, inspected a sample of the floor tiles, inspected the bathroom, and added a thorough check of the chest of drawers to assure myself that the drawers weren’t as shoddily constructed as the desk. They weren’t. “Everything seems in order,” I replied. “Actually, I like the clean lines of the structure.”

The architects exchanged glances; nodded at me.

The manager’s warning about moving from the heat into the air-conditioned lobby was correct. After a few minutes in the lobby, I felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. I needed some caffeine and requested hot tea.

The manager led me to a table in the lobby bar, where we parted with the architects and the contractor. The furniture producer lurked about until the manager told him that I would send him my notes about the proper construction of the desk. He gave me an evil look and left without a word.

“Not a pleasant fellow, that,” the manager commented. “Do take a look around as you have your tea. I’ll get the engineer and the executive housekeeper up here to discuss their issues with the lobby and this bar.” He stepped away to a reception desk phone.

I looked around, noticing that both areas were in need of upgrading, and was making a few notes when the engineer I’d met earlier and a tall slender Caucasian woman stepped up to my table. The executive housekeeper introduced herself. They laid out their issues with both spaces, were genial and efficient in answering my questions.

One of my questions to the engineer was whether they had a carpentry department in the hotel and if the carpenters were top notch. The engineer stated that he had an excellent man but would have to translate if I had instructions. I made a few rough sketches to indicate what I proposed for the upgrading of the bar. The engineer nodded, said he’d call the carpenter to take a look.

As he was making the call, the housekeeper looked at me expectantly. I made my suggestions for the lobby seating area and indicated that I wanted to incorporate a Sudanese design for the area rug.

The housekeeper looked at me earnestly and said, “Mrs. Noakes, would we be able to wash blood out of the rug?”

“Blood?” I was stunned. “No one has asked me that before.”

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “We’ve had a few political assassinations in this lobby.”

I sat bolt upright and stared at her, dumbfounded.

“It looks OK, today, though,” she continued, glancing around the lobby, looking for all the world as if she were talking about a mundane occurrence.

Before I could press her further, the engineer arrived with a wiry, short, Sudanese man. A few grey hairs at his temples seemed incongruous with his otherwise youthful appearance. His eyes shone with wit and intelligence as he examined me. I nodded a greeting to him, which he returned.

“This is Abdulah. He’s a very good craftsman,” the engineer said.

“Excellent. Nice to meet you, Abdulah, I’m Helen.” Abdulah gave me a huge grin, as the engineer translated.

All right,” I said, opening my notebook to the sketches I’d made. “Here’s what I’m thinking for the bar. Shall we walk up to it?”

Abdulah and I began communicating through a series of sketches. I’d draw a detail. He’d nod, take my pencil and sketch a joining detail next to it. I’d nod; he’d grin. And so it went, our exchanges getting faster and faster.

The engineer stood back and chuckled. When I looked in his direction, he said, “You and Abdulah speak the same language—sketches.”

Abdulah must have caught the engineer’s meaning and, nodding cheerfully at me, gave me the thumbs up. I responded in kind. “Please tell Abdulah that I’ll send some real drawings to him after I get back to Athens.”

The engineer translated. Abdulah nodded, and said, “Bye, bye,” his eyes sparkling with amusement.

The housekeeper stayed a while after the engineer and Abdulah left. She seemed to be considering something. “I’ll do my best to specify fabrics that are easily cleaned, but I can’t guarantee . . .” I began.

“No,” she interrupted, “that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I just wanted to say, I appreciate how easy you are with the locals. I’m married to a Sudanese, and even though they say nothing to my face, I know the salacious things they say behind my back.”

“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “The thing about people like that is to remember that they are that way because they know they’re inferior.” She nodded. “Where are you from? I noticed a slight accent.”

“Russia,” she replied.

“I speak Russian.”

Her face lit up. She insisted on buying me another tea, and we sat at a table chatting in Russian for a little while.

(To be continued.)