Read Online The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman - Free Book Online

defiance, the boyish bravado – that was pure Ali. He reached for his cigarettes only to remember he’d given them to the farmer. He didn’t like to ask for one, not having made a gift of them, and so instead folded his hands in his lap and sat back against the wall of the house, watching as Mohammed Sariya came trudging up the track towards them. Despite the heat he was wearing a heavy jumper over his shirt. You could stick Sariya in an oven and he’d still be cold. Good old Mohammed. Some things never changed. Some people never changed. There was comfort in that.
    There was a clinking sound and the man’s wife emerged from the house carrying a tray: three glasses of tea, bowls of torshi and termous beans and a plate of pink sugar cake. Khalifa accepted the tea and took a handful of beans, but declined the cake. They were a poor family and he’d rather it was kept for the kids. Sariya came up and took a seat beside them, also accepting a glass of tea. He reached for the sugar cake, but Khalifa gave him a look and he diverted his hand towards the torshi bowl. They understood each other like that. Had always understood each other. Solid, dependable, on the level – had it not been for Sariya he probably wouldn’t have got through those nightmarish first few weeks back at work.
    ‘You’re not going to do anything, are you?’ said the farmer once his wife had returned indoors, taking the children with her. His tone was more resigned than accusing. The tone of a man who was used to being ill-treated and accepted it as the natural course of events. ‘You’re not going to arrest them.’
    Khalifa stirred sugar into his tea and sipped, avoiding the question.
    ‘My cousin said I shouldn’t bother with the police. He didn’t.’
    Khalifa looked up, surprised. ‘This happened to him as well?’
    ‘Three months ago,’ said the man. ‘Four years he worked that farm. Turned the desert into a paradise. Fields, a well, goats, a vegetable garden – all ruined. I said to him, “Go to the police. This is not Farshut – they’ll listen. They’ll do something.” But he wouldn’t, said it was a waste of time. Moved out, took his family up to Asyut. Four years and all for nothing.’
    He spat and fell silent. Khalifa and Sariya sipped their tea. From behind them, inside the house, came the sound of singing.
    ‘Someone’s got a good voice,’ said Sariya.
    ‘My son,’ said the man. ‘A new Karem Mahmoud. Maybe one day he will be famous and none of this will matter.’
    He grunted and drained his glass. There was a silence, then: ‘I won’t leave. This is our home. They won’t drive us out. I’ll fight if I have to.’
    ‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ said Khalifa.
    The man looked across at him. ‘You have a family?’ he asked, his gaze searching, intense. ‘A wife, children?’
    Khalifa nodded.
    ‘Would you protect them if they were in danger? Do whatever you had to do?’
    Khalifa didn’t answer.
    ‘Would you?’ pressed the man.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘So, I’ll fight if I have to. To protect my family, my children. It is a man’s greatest duty. I might be poor, but I am still a man.’
    He stood. Khalifa and Sariya did the same, finishing their tea and returning the glasses to the tray. The man called and his wife came out, the children too, the five of them standing together in the doorway of the house, arms around each other.
    ‘I won’t let them drive us away,’ he repeated.
    ‘No one’s going to drive you anywhere,’ said Khalifa. ‘We’ll go down to the village, speak to the headman. We’ll sort this out. It’ll be OK.’
    The man shrugged, clearly not believing him.
    ‘Trust me,’ said Khalifa. ‘It’ll be OK.’
    He looked at them, his eyes lingering on the eldest son, then thanked them for the tea and, with Sariya at his side, walked down to their car, a battered, dust-covered Daewoo. Sariya went to the driver door, Khalifa took the passenger side.
    ‘I would,’ said Sariya,