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‘Is he still alive?’
‘No.’
‘You and your brother are very different.’
A wry smile. ‘David calls me the biggest people smuggler in Europe. He says I facilitate the crossings and put lives at risk. I disagree, of course, but he is entitled to his opinions.’
‘Even if they’re racist?’
‘My brother isn’t a racist. He would have been mortified by the loss of those migrant lives.’
‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Ferryman?’
Puzzlement. ‘No, who is he?’
‘That depends on who you ask.’
We’re interrupted by two waiters, carrying plates.
‘I took the liberty of ordering the degustation menu,’ says Buchan. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
The food is beautifully presented and matched with different wines. We eat and talk about the state of the world – energy prices, the war in Ukraine, global warming and the rise of China. Simon Buchan is easy company, well read and well travelled.
‘I’ve always imagined that philanthropy must be the perfect job,’ I say. ‘Giving away money. Helping the needy.’
‘There are ups and downs.’
‘Downs?’
‘The more I spend, the more I realise how little I’m achieving. A soup kitchen can feed the hungry, a church hall can shelter the homeless, a non-profit can teach adults to read, but without changes in public policy, problems like hunger, homelessness and illiteracy will continue to exist. That’s why I sometimes question whether philanthropy changes anything or whether it perpetuates the status quo, the historic power imbalance that keeps the disadvantaged in their place.’
‘You’re helping people.’
‘At what cost? Some argue that philanthropy is an exercise in power. It doesn’t deserve gratitude, it deserves scrutiny.’
‘What sort of scrutiny?’
‘Every dollar spent on a museum or a gallery or a theatre or a dogs’ home is a dollar that could have helped cure malaria or river blindness or cancer. Who decides what is effective altruism? You? Me?’
He looks at the table. ‘According to the World Food Programme, ten pounds could feed a hungry child in Africa for one month. For the price of this meal, lovely as it is, we could have fed a village.’
‘Now I feel guilty.’
A wry smile. ‘I shall feed a village tomorrow.’
21
Evie
I drift towards sleep with toothpaste on my breath, dreaming of being a child again. Eight years old. Desperate to grow up. Agnesa was in high school and wore a different uniform. Still rebellious. Still stealing Mama’s make-up and rolling her school tunic higher, showing off her legs. She wanted to dye her hair black and get bangs like the woman in Pulp Fiction; and to knot her blouse like Britney Spears when she sang ‘Baby One More Time’.
Mama said Agnesa was suffering from the ‘western disease’ – which had something to do with boys and looking in the mirror and obsessing about how much she weighed. I think she caught that disease from Aunt Polina.
Papa said Agnesa was growing up too quickly. I asked him how that was possible and he said that sometimes our bodies grow quicker than our brains.
‘Do they catch up?’ I asked.
‘Eventually,’ he said.
