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With the room cleared Tamanna spoke one word. “Nishat.” Finger in the air she attended to her buzzing device.
Vince looked out again at the middle of the night bridge traffic flowing lightly now. Tami had first told him of her own vision, a modified global discussion. The Bangladeshi canary would screech from its coal mine, she said, no longer signaling via sacrificial death. And no more farce negotiations dominated by the historical essence of colonialism.
The truth was starting to sink in. The numbers were plain enough, but maybe he actually got it now. Not just in his head, but in his gut, maybe even in his heart. Acceptance, Tami said. The Canadian lifestyle, his lifestyle, that was the real carbon dumping issue. A deep dragging guilt swirled within. His own time in the candy store left the shelves bare for Annalise. Just like these Africans, his daughter loses. So what about her and other kids? She gets to pay for his party...unless he does something.
Vince told Tami of southern Alberta tradition, the pioneer focus on rebuilding after the first flood. Little change came after the second one eight years later in spite of triple Calgary over-the-dam flow rates. Prioritize repairs, build bigger berms, dig a diversion channel around High River. And then the third flood. Yet even after another downtown soaking, many argued normal forces of nature. Her stories of Bay of Bengal cousins resonated with similarity, just other waters forcing other peoples from their homes. All effects of this mutual problem.
He listened to the story of Her Excellency’s shopping trip for a fall guy. Selection came down to Canada and Russia, Tami said, Nishat’s primary candidates. A proposition arose–why not bring a new guy on stage and how about the little guy with the puffy chest? An easier pickings bad guy. Free advertising helped, with global media focused on Alberta tar sands. Nishat had called for a scapegoat, and now that goat was right here, entangled. Negotiating, that could be his new career–his oilfield enthusiasm long subsided anyway. But with that an eco-terrorist label no doubt.
Tamanna pushed end on her device, letting her breath out slowly.
“So?” Vince came over. “We expand our story?”
“No, well maybe.” Her eyebrows creased. “Remember I told you I’d never walk through the doors of any totally shit COP meeting again? Ever? Well, we may be flying out with these gentlemen tonight. So if that happens and only outside Nigerien airspace.” She looked at him. “If all that comes, then let’s have another look.”
“Look at what?”
She took a breath. “Piss it!” She looked directly into his eyes. “Right, look Vince we never told any HICCC contractor, so you’re the first to know. Niger is not the only artificial volcano. Sulphur balloons are releasing across four other Sahel countries. Tonight.”
Vince’s jaw dropped, a deep hollow swirling into place. Back and forth in his head, car crashes resonated to the rhythm of a cuckoo clock–this couldn’t be real–they were so fucked. He had known, he should have known. Oh Christ. They were going major regional, and what was left between that and the mid-ocean monsoon enhancing release? Tami had been clear; the only way to get a Green Sahara. Fuck! What had he gotten himself into?
He dug deep through the internal churn, OK, decide! He took a deep breath...fuck it, forget the Alberta oilfield. He had a new career, he would bring real voice to Alberta, he would tell the world–he would do anything he could for this HICCC. And for his daughter Annalise.