People take the leaflets, expectant at first. As they realize that this is no mobile-phone deal or invitation to a cultural event, their faces crease with incomprehension. Then they see that we are not tourists or university lecturers but here for a darker reason. An inclination of the head, a murmur in the throat, and they back off, continuing their journeys.
Two girls stop and talk to Anthony. I can’t follow the conversation, but when they leave, he says, ‘They were curious, but they don’t know Lorelei. They never saw her.’
The flow of people passing never ends. Men with their T-shirts rolled up to their armpits, exposing their bellies to cool off. Grandparents with kids. Some of the little ones aren’t in nappies but wear traditional baby clothing split at the crotch. I wonder how it works, if they have to be toilet-trained first. What if they have an accident?
Listening to Anthony, I learn words that I wish I did not have to: daughter – nǚ ér; missing – shī zōng; have you seen her? – nǐ kàn jiàn to le ma?
After an hour we have a break. Tom asks Anthony if there is anywhere we can get a table with a sunshade for our next stint.
‘B &Q,’ he says.
‘No way!’ Tom laughs. ‘We could use some stools from the apartment.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought the key.’
Anthony shows us where the store is on the map and we decide to go.
‘I can call the car,’ Anthony says.
‘Be quicker to get a cab.’ Tom points to where two taxis are parked further along the road. We collect up the leaflets and walk down that way.
Anthony approaches one car and talks to the driver, who keeps shaking his head. He tries the next, and we watch the scene repeat itself. Then a third taxi drives along and pulls in opposite. Anthony waves to him, a beckoning motion with his palm facing down. The man stays put and Anthony goes up to the car. They talk, Anthony gesturing to us. After some discussion, Anthony waits for a gap in the traffic and crosses back to join us.
‘Is it too far?’ I ask him.
‘It’s lunch-hour,’ he says. ‘They won’t take a fare in lunch-hour. I’ll call the driver.’
The DIY store is startlingly similar to the ones at home. We find a round plastic table that can collapse flat for storage, and a yellow parasol that will fit into the hole in the middle.
It’s crazy: three weeks ago I was on a different continent buying bedding plants in the same outlet, growing anxious about Lori.
‘Jo?’ Tom touches my elbow. We’re at the till and the woman’s waiting for me to pay.
