Joseph O’Neill - The Dog

‘Numerous.’ I was wondering why he’d decided to have the conversation in English. In Beirut, we’d spoken in French.

‘Exactly. They are numerous. There are more than one billion Chinese, si je ne me trompe pas . Also one billion Indians, and many of them are stupid, and again the tiger suffers. I am not sure where to begin. What do you suggest?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could —’

‘What are your arrangements?’ Georges said.

I didn’t know what he meant.

Georges said, ‘What arrangements have you made to help others? That would be very good to know. I could follow your example.’

‘I’m not sure that would be instructive,’ I said. I smiled humbly. ‘Our situations are not comparable,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not in a position —’

‘Yes, yes, yes — I understand. But you make good money. Eddie has taken care of you. You are in a position to help others, even if only a little. It would be a guide, an inspiration, to hear about your personal efforts.’

He was trying to push me around. I declined the top-up an attendant was offering me. To Georges, I said, ‘My arrangements are my business, with respect.’ (I had no arrangements at that time. I had only recently arrived in Dubai. I had not yet put in place my automatic transfers to HRF and HRW.)

‘But what I give to charity, what I do with my money — that’s your business?’

‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr Batros. I don’t have an opinion about this. I was just trying to be useful as the family officer.’

‘I like you,’ Georges stated. ‘You’re Eddie’s old friend. And Sandro trusts you. This is a point in your favour, because my sons can’t agree about anything. So let me explain something to you. You have one function. You know what this function is? It is to make sure nobody steals. This is your function.’

Various ripostes came to mind ex post facto, but at that moment I said, ‘Absolutely. Understood.’ If Georges wanted to flex his biceps, put me in my place, show me who was boss, ream me out — whatever, sticks and stones. Fundamentally, spiritually, he had no standing. All I was interested in was keeping my job and getting the fuck off the yacht.

So it came about. Somebody took away my glass, somebody gave me my bag, somebody ushered me to the dinghy. Georges was at the top of the boarding ladder, waving. ‘Please give my regards to Mr Trompe,’ he called out. I was quickly transported to the nearest coastal village. I made a deal with a villager and was driven to Antalya. The autobus was long gone. I flew back commercial, via Istanbul. A week later, I was informed that the Batros Foundation had been incorporated in Dubai and that the board of directors had appointed me to the (pro bono and essentially honorary) office of Treasurer.

The Batros family endowed the Foundation with forty million USD. I signed the GEA authorization myself — an unforgettable, vertiginous moment. Almost four years later, the Foundation (through sub-charities and in cooperation with partner donors) supports medical clinics in Abidjan, Libreville, Tunis and Kinshasa. These projects are going very well, judging from the brochures and the websites, which feature photographs of very-happy-looking Africans. I have no involvement in the operational side, which is carried on by a mainly Lebanese team based in International Humanitarian City, over by Business Bay. The team reports directly to Georges but copies me in on about fifteen e-mails a day, few of which I am in a position to make much sense of. I do, as Treasurer, have power to authorize payments from the Foundation accounts, which in theory I oversee. This power enables me to ensure that the Foundation makes miscellaneous donations authorized by the Batros directors. To date I’ve received authorizations from Alice Batros, in support of CARI (working for Irish victims of childhood sexual abuse), and from Sandro, in support of Operation Smile (surgical repair of facial deformities in children) and the Heritage Foundation (development and dissemination of right-wing ideas). I have given the relevant instructions to the Batros Foundation employees and followed up personally. The donors can be sure that their benefaction has been effective.

It has never been explained to me by what process Georges Batros decided to green-light the Foundation. I believe I played an instigative role, even if this has never been recognized by any Batros. When I question the worth of my life, it comforts me to think that but for my instrumentality in this matter, a significant number of humans would probably be living less healthy, less happy, less worthwhile lives. One might say that this unforeseen good contains nothing less than the hidden meaning of my move to Dubai.

My dealings with the Batros family are confidential, and I’m not one to toot my own horn, so there was no question of sharing any of this with Mrs Ted Wilson at Al Nassma — if, that is, she showed up. I drank a cappuccino; I drank a second. As I watched one person after another who wasn’t Mrs Wilson walk into the café, I passed into an awareness of another person — the one waiting for the arrival of Mrs Ted Wilson. What was he doing? Who did he think he was? Was it really his plan to inform Mrs Ted Wilson of an unverified rumour that there was a second Mrs Ted Wilson? As if she hadn’t heard it already? As if he had some kind of standing in the matter? As if he was an Extraordinary Gentleman? As if she was really going to meet up for a coffee with an unstable lentil-thrower who didn’t even know her husband? And then what — take a romantic stroll in the mall? Fall, for no reason, for a supererogatory weirdo? LOL.

I rolled up my Philanthropy and went to the office.

Speaking of which, who should drop by today but Sandro. He enters unannounced and catches me and his son working on a Green Belt Sudoku problem.

‘What’s this?’ he says, picking up the puzzle book. Before anyone can reply, he lets go of the book and advances to my side of the new partition and with a great sigh takes a seat in my chair. Sandro must have the mistaken idea that the partition creates an acoustic barrier, because he says loudly, ‘We need to talk.’

I pause him with a raised hand, which I suspect irritates him. I go to the kid. ‘Why don’t you sit at Ali’s desk for a while.’ The kid picks up his chair and follows me out. Ali gets up and offers the kid his own chair, behind the desk. I veto that. Ali must sit in his chair and the kid must sit in his chair.

Sandro is fiddling with my mouse and looking aggrieved. He tells me, ‘I’m not happy with my doctors.’

‘Which ones?’ I say. Sandro’s healthcare profile is complex. There’s an orthopaedist in Lausanne for his bad knees, a pulmonologist in London for his bad breathing, and a cardiologist in New York for his bad heart. In Dubai, he retains physicians who provide 24/7/365 concierge medical services to a very small clientele. (The Batros family has its own in-house emergency room in both the Dubai and Beirut compounds. Each has an X-ray machine, CT scanner, blood-analysis facilities, ultrasound equipment, etc. The Giselle has an ER cabin, albeit a relatively rudimentary one. (Sandro’s yacht, the Mireille , has no special cabin, but does have a defibrillator. (Eddie has no yacht.)))

‘Lieberman,’ Sandro says. Lieberman is the Park Avenue cardiologist. ‘He’s got me wearing this for the next couple of weeks.’ To my dismay Sandro lifts his Notre Dame T-shirt (Notre Dame is his alma mater, though he never graduated). Even as I avert my eyes, I see that wiring has been taped to his breast tissue. ‘It’s a monitor. This way they can follow my heartbeat second to second.’

‘OK, that makes sense,’ I say. Sandro suffers from cardiac dysrhythmia.