Tunisian Dreams

Ivor Rawlinson

Description

Celia, an ex-BBC journalist turned film director, is in Tunisia a year before the Arab Spring with her handsome, archaeologist boyfriend, Sam, looking for locations for her next film. She comes across a story she cannot resist. She could not know that it would change her life, blunt her emotions, but make her name. Whilst Celia is out of contact for weeks following her story, Sam thinks she's found someone else. Once back in London, he falls for the attractive and rich Alison Grainger. Sam, who has always been money conscious, has his own lucrative project; to turn one of Tunisia's most interesting Roman ruins into a living Roman-era town, with actors in togas, nudes in the public baths and gladiators - financed by the cynical, immensely rich Mr Ayeb. But Sam has a dilemma: he's uncovered something sensational at the site. It needs excavating but to do so would hold up the living town project - and Mr Ayeb's projects are never held up. In a beautiful country ripe for revolt, this is a story of a man and two women: secrets suppressed, feminine curiosity, an epic quest and migration from Africa - the problem no one wants to face. We are given fascinating insights into the rights of the citizens of Roman Africa in 200 AD. We're cleverly engaged in the debate about commercialising our heritage and the plight of sub-Saharan Africans looking for a better life. The characters are true to life: interesting but flawed. Suspense is maintained to the very end when the threads are drawn together in an unexpected, spectacular and profoundly moving ending. Written by an ex-Ambassador to Tunisia, with an assured style and great sensitivity, this is an exceptionally readable and thoughtful page-turner.

Sujets

• Túnez
• Tunisia
• Tunisie

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mars 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780888613
• Langue: English

Extrait

TUNISIAN
DREAMS
TUNISIAN
DREAMS
A NOVEL
IVOR RAWLINSON
Copyright © 2012 Ivor Rawlinson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1780888 613
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Cover image from an original painting “Coastal Shelf” by Val Archer based on a Roman mosaic.
For Catherine
Foreword
We remember what we want to remember and easily forget the rest. Lest we forget what life was like in Tunisia before the Revolution of 2010 - 2011, this novel stands as a humble record. It was completed just before the Revolution began. You will hear the distant rumble of thunder. The underlying issues with which it deals are unlikely to go away, though today they would be approached rather differently. Even in the most pleasant countries, such as Tunisia, unpleasant things happen. That they do, is not a reflection on the place or the people, for both of which I have the highest possible regard and admiration.
Ivor Rawlinson
January 2012
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Carthage, Tunisia, September 2009
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: November
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10: London. Three months later.
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
Carthage, Tunisia, September 2009
“Stop! Photography forbidden! Arrêtez! Pas de photo!” The guard waved his rifle fifty metres away in the shade of a sentry-box. Fallen pillars and broken arches littering the site did not obstruct his voice which sounded close. Celia lowered her camera and peered beyond the sunlit ruins into the shadow beyond. She hadn’t noticed the soldier and didn’t know what he was guarding. But by narrowing her eyes she could make out a long, white wall, dark trees behind it and the red and white Tunisian flag quivering on a flagpole.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she shouted back. “I don’t understand.”
To her alarm, the guard walked directly towards her, holding his rifle with one hand and glancing backwards to see where the other guards might be. She did not recognise the uniform but assumed it was Tunisian army. Her heart began to thump as he lengthened his stride. She switched off her dictating machine and put it in her pocket. She turned round hoping to see other visitors to the Antonine Baths in Carthage behind her. There were none.
She wondered whether she should run back to where she had left Rafiq, her guide. She was fit and might be able to outrun someone in boots, carrying a rifle. But then he would have reason to suspect her. So running was not an option.
She wished she’d brought her phone with her. Foolishly she’d left it behind in London when she’d been told that in Tunisia she’d have to change the SIM card.
“You take too many photographs,” the guard said, rolling the “r” in the last word. Beads of perspiration lined his forehead where dark, curly hair peeped from under his cap-band.
“Did you not see the notice? Vous n’avez pas vu le panneau?”
“What notice? No, I did not.”
“It is prohibited to photograph the Presidential Palace. I could arrest you. Your papers, please.”
Reading from her passport, his attitude perceptively softened and Celia detected the faintest of smiles.
“Celia Purchas. British,” he said.
He was now looking for entry stamps and a visa perhaps. She was tempted to offer to delete her pictures, to apologise if she’d done something wrong. She remembered Rafiq saying the President of Tunisia lived next door to the site. She vaguely remembered him talking of political tensions, increased nervousness and suspicions of outside interference. She had genuinely seen no notice about photography. Her mind was on the splendours of the Roman Carthage of 370 AD and how it would have looked to a first-time visitor.
“So what are you doing?” the guard asked.
His features were relaxing, his fingers were off the trigger guard and the barrel was pointing firmly towards the ground.
She should have known better. Had he noticed her dictating, she wondered? That must have looked suspicious. But she always dictated notes whilst impressions were fresh in her mind. Otherwise she forgot them.
“Researching for a film. Looking at locations. This might be one.” Her gesture took in the whole archaeological site, a maze of massive reddish walls, waterworks and heating ducts.
“A political film?”
The guard was still unsure what she had been photographing.
“No. Not at all. It’s a film on the life of St Augustine of Hippo. An amazing man who lived here in Roman times. It’s for the BBC.”
“You work for the BBC?”
“Not exactly. But I used to. I haven’t for a year now. Why do you want to know?”
“Ah. But you know people there? You are in contact?”
Celia’s mind continued racing. It was over a year since she had quit the frenetic world of journalism so that she could be more of her own mistress in films. She didn’t answer straight away. Warm wind from the sea, a stone’s throw away, puffed dust across her sandals. She looked above the foundations of the Roman baths to the indigo Bay of Tunis, darkly sparkling in the September afternoon sun, then back at the face of her interrogator. His smile had developed and his eyes definitely sought contact with hers. Who was this man?
“Yes. I still know people at the BBC. But my work here is nothing to do with them.”
“Something very serious happens. Very serious.”
He looked around him once again then held Celia’s gaze. If expression alone could convey sincerity, his did.
“It is urgent that the right people will know. But at any time the patrol will see I have not returned and will come to look for me. Listen, can I meet you when my duty is finished, later today?”
“Who are you? Where are you from? Your English is good.”
“My name is Khaled.” He lowered his voice. “But it is not important. I am in the army – temporarily. Normally I work in the university in Tunis. I am with an army unit reinforcing the palace guard over there. When they ask me what I was doing, away so long from the patrol, I will say I was interrogating you.”
“But, it’s ridiculous. I was not photographing the palace walls. I was photographing the site of the baths…”
“It is prohibited…”
Just then, the radio at his belt startled Celia, who hadn’t noticed it. It spluttered “khamsa, khamsa” (five, five) then cut out. The man in uniform motioned to Celia to stay where she was. He lifted the radio from his waist and gave a brief reply. She noticed he had a ring on the small finger of his right hand. He must have been about thirty. But his eyes looked older.
“They want to know where I am. I do not have long. Can I meet you to tell you what is happening? In two hours my duty is finished. We can meet at the ruins over there, a basilica, called Damous el Karita.” He indicated the direction with a nod of his head.
“Can you remember the name? Damous el Karita.”
“O.k. I’ll be there. Perhaps.”
She was shocked to hear herself saying this. Yet it was a considered reply. The “perhaps” gave her time to reflect, gave her room for manoeuvre.
“Of course,” he was almost whispering now, “what I am doing is illegal. We were told not to speak about it to anybody, “jamais” , not even our families. I must return, quickly, otherwise I will be in trouble. Thank you. Thank you sincerely.”
“At six this evening, then,” Celia confirmed.
“You must be alone. Please. I cannot trust anyone.”
Curiosity was what had made Celia a good journalist at the beginning of her career. What turned her away from the profession was dissatisfaction: she constantly felt she was just scratching the surface. She was never given time to explore her stories deeply enough. At first she blamed the market-place atmosphere, the budget-driven agenda; then she blamed her editors; but finally she convinced herself it was the public that didn’t want to know too much of what lay behind the headlines. It didn’t have time and it probably didn’t care.
Celia made her way back to the centre of the site, looking for Rafiq. The sun was surprisingly hot and there was not much shade in the ruins of the third largest baths in the Roman world. Two grey, granite columns stuck up to the blue sky like the remaining teeth in the wreckage of a giant’s jaw. All the other columns holding up the roof thirty metres above her had gone, plundered, leaving just their bases and intricately carved capitals, mute testaments to the opulence of Roman Africa’s chief city.
She tried to imagine the virile young man that was Aurelius Augustinus coming to this colossal complex for the first time. No wonder he was overawed. He would have met his student friends in the meeting rooms, looked at the shops, exercised in the gyms, sweated in the sweating room and swum in the huge pool. The cavernous baths would have echoed to shouts and splashing from the privileged bathers. Light from the sea and sky would have flashed off the wet, white marble.
Celia had spent the morning at Tunisian TV with Rafiq and Ferid, the two film production assist