the car would go out of control, but it simply skidded with a squeal of tyres. For the second time that day, I was impressed with Daisy’s speed. I was about the world’s worst driver, and they’d run in front of us so abruptly I was certain I’d have ploughed straight into them.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ she said. ‘Don’t you have subways here?’
‘A little item neglected when they planned this great city,’ I grinned, ‘I suppose they thought no one’d have to walk anymore.’
‘So what does the great Hammoudi have to say?’ she asked, inching the vehicle forward again.
‘Our orders are to hit the Mena Palace Oberoi hotel,’ I said. ‘That’s where Ibram holed up before he died. It’s at Giza, right at the foot of the pyramids — about a half-hour drive from here.’
‘Oh boy! So I get to see the pyramids at last!’ She looked so pleased with herself and so childishly enthusiastic that I almost felt sorry to disillusion her. Almost.
‘Not today you don’t, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’ll be nearly dark by the time we get there, and anyway they close the site at four o’clock.’
‘Just my luck,’ she said, ‘and I’m not your sweetheart.’
She pouted and was about to accelerate again when a motorcycle cut in front, carrying another family — a man and a woman and no less than three children, the tiniest of whom was sitting happily on the fuel tank. ‘Will you look at that!’ she gasped. ‘Five people on a motorcycle! Is that legal?’
‘No, but who cares!’
‘I’ve had it with this traffic,’ Daisy said, ‘this is like Dante’ s Inferno ! ’
Earlier the streets had been almost empty, but now every motor vehicle in the city, it seemed, was either heading out for the evening or heading home. In Tahrir Square the cars were almost bumper to bumper and the air was heavy with gasoline fumes drifting nauseatingly in the heat. Cairene drivers like to drive at breakneck speed, and there was a deafening cacophony of motor horns as they vented their frustration on each other. I saw a whole bunch of them sticking their heads out of their windows, waving their arms, and carrying on a running battle of abuse.
Past Tahrir Square the traffic freed up and as we circled slowly back into the sun on to the Corniche, a shaft of light shone directly into my face, blinding me. ‘By the way,’ Daisy said, staring at me suddenly, ‘how did you get those green eyes?’
‘Crusader genes,’ I said. ‘Result of all that raping and pillaging your ancestors did here. Specially the raping.’
‘Come on. That’s bullshit.’
‘OK, maybe it is. If you want to know, my father was a Yank.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Believe what you want. I have to live with it. My father was a USAF sergeant over here on some kind of attachment — I don’t know what. Mother was only sixteen when she met him and he was sort of brawny and handsome. She really fell for him. She lived in Aswan, and every time he came back he’d bring her presents. Swept her off her feet. It was frowned on by her family and the neighbours — big scandal, and even bigger when she got pregnant and I was born. Dad set us up in a flat and lived with us part of the time, but Ma was regarded as a whore and ostracized by the community. She didn’t care, she said, because she loved him so much. Then Dad’s posting came to an end and he pissed off and left us. He always promised Ma he’d come back for us, but he just dumped us without a cent. It was a long time afterwards that Ma got a letter explaining that he was already married and had three kids at home. He’d been married all the time. That killed Ma. They said she’d died of cancer, but I reckon it was a broken heart.’
I sighed and looked at the road, wondering as I’d always wondered whether that was the whole story. I’d been very young when my father had left, but I still remembered how he’d sat me on his knee and tousled my hair, saying ‘I’ll come back for
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