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Authors: Paul Sussman
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then
several other voices, one after another, responded.
67
The official listened, spoke again and then laid the
walkie-talkie down.
'He not at excavation and no-one see him. Wait
here please.'
He went into another room across the hall.
There was a low murmur of voices. He was back
within a minute.
'He go Cairo yesterday morning, then come
back Saqqara in afternoon. No-one see him since
then.'
He picked up the phone. Again he held a brief
conversation, emphasizing the words 'Doktora
Mullray'. He was frowning when he replaced the
receiver.
'That Ahmed. He driving taxi for your father.
He say your father tell him come Beit Mullray last
night, take him to airport, but when Ahmed come
your father not there. Now I worried too. This not
like the Doktora.'
He was silent for a moment, tapping his fingers
on the desk, and then, opening a drawer, he pulled
out a set of keys. 'This spare keys to dig house,' he
explained. 'We go see.'
They left the office and he pointed towards a
battered white Fiat parked outside. 'We take car.
Quicker.'
He drove fast, the car bumping and jolting
along the uneven track, skidding to a halt in front
of the house. They walked down to the front door,
where Tara immediately noticed that the note she
had left was gone. Her heart surged and, rushing
forward, she tried the door handle. It was still
locked and there was no reply to her frantic
knocking. Hassan selected a key from the ring,
68
slipped it into the lock and turned it twice, throw-
ing the door open and walking in. Tara followed.
They were in a long whitewashed room, with a
rectangular dining table at the end nearest them
and at the other a couple of moth-eaten sofas and
a fireplace. Other rooms opened off to left and
right, in one of which Tara could make out the
edge of a wooden bedframe. It was dark and cool,
with a faintly sweet aroma in the air, which she
realized after a moment was the smell of cigar
smoke.
Hassan walked across and threw open a
window. Sunlight spilled across the floor. She saw
the body immediately, slumped against the far
wall.
'Oh God.' She was choking. 'Oh no.'
She ran across and fell to her knees, seizing his
hand. It was cold and stiff. She didn't bother try-
ing to revive him.
'Dad,' she whispered, stroking his unkempt grey
hair. 'Oh my poor Dad.'
69
7
LUXOR
As Inspector Khalifa stared down at the corpse, he
was reminded of the day they had brought his
father's body home.
He'd been six at the time and hadn't really
understood what was going on. They had carried
the body into the living room and laid it out on the
table. His mother, weeping and tearing at her
black robes, had knelt at its feet, while he and his
brother Ali had stood side by side at its head,
holding hands, staring at the pale, dust-covered
face.
'Don't worry, Mother,' Ali had said. 'I will look
after you and Yusuf. I swear.'
The accident had happened only a few blocks
from where they lived. A tourist bus, going too
fast for the narrow streets, had spun out of control
and slammed into the rickety wooden scaffolding
on which his father had been working, bringing
the whole structure down. Three men had been
killed, his father one of them, crushed beneath a
70
ton of bricks and wood. The tour company had
refused to accept responsibility and no
compensation had ever been paid. The people in
the bus had escaped unharmed.
They had lived in Nazlat al-Sammam in those
days, at the foot of the Giza plateau, in a cramped
mud-brick shack from whose roof you could look
directly out over the Sphinx and the pyramids.
Ali had been the older by six years, strong and
clever and fearless. Khalifa had idolized him,
following him everywhere, mimicking the way he
walked and the things he said. To this day, when
he was annoyed, he would mutter 'Dammit!', a
word he had learnt from his brother, who in turn
had picked it up from a British tourist.
After their father had died, true to
several other voices, one after another, responded.
67
The official listened, spoke again and then laid the
walkie-talkie down.
'He not at excavation and no-one see him. Wait
here please.'
He went into another room across the hall.
There was a low murmur of voices. He was back
within a minute.
'He go Cairo yesterday morning, then come
back Saqqara in afternoon. No-one see him since
then.'
He picked up the phone. Again he held a brief
conversation, emphasizing the words 'Doktora
Mullray'. He was frowning when he replaced the
receiver.
'That Ahmed. He driving taxi for your father.
He say your father tell him come Beit Mullray last
night, take him to airport, but when Ahmed come
your father not there. Now I worried too. This not
like the Doktora.'
He was silent for a moment, tapping his fingers
on the desk, and then, opening a drawer, he pulled
out a set of keys. 'This spare keys to dig house,' he
explained. 'We go see.'
They left the office and he pointed towards a
battered white Fiat parked outside. 'We take car.
Quicker.'
He drove fast, the car bumping and jolting
along the uneven track, skidding to a halt in front
of the house. They walked down to the front door,
where Tara immediately noticed that the note she
had left was gone. Her heart surged and, rushing
forward, she tried the door handle. It was still
locked and there was no reply to her frantic
knocking. Hassan selected a key from the ring,
68
slipped it into the lock and turned it twice, throw-
ing the door open and walking in. Tara followed.
They were in a long whitewashed room, with a
rectangular dining table at the end nearest them
and at the other a couple of moth-eaten sofas and
a fireplace. Other rooms opened off to left and
right, in one of which Tara could make out the
edge of a wooden bedframe. It was dark and cool,
with a faintly sweet aroma in the air, which she
realized after a moment was the smell of cigar
smoke.
Hassan walked across and threw open a
window. Sunlight spilled across the floor. She saw
the body immediately, slumped against the far
wall.
'Oh God.' She was choking. 'Oh no.'
She ran across and fell to her knees, seizing his
hand. It was cold and stiff. She didn't bother try-
ing to revive him.
'Dad,' she whispered, stroking his unkempt grey
hair. 'Oh my poor Dad.'
69
7
LUXOR
As Inspector Khalifa stared down at the corpse, he
was reminded of the day they had brought his
father's body home.
He'd been six at the time and hadn't really
understood what was going on. They had carried
the body into the living room and laid it out on the
table. His mother, weeping and tearing at her
black robes, had knelt at its feet, while he and his
brother Ali had stood side by side at its head,
holding hands, staring at the pale, dust-covered
face.
'Don't worry, Mother,' Ali had said. 'I will look
after you and Yusuf. I swear.'
The accident had happened only a few blocks
from where they lived. A tourist bus, going too
fast for the narrow streets, had spun out of control
and slammed into the rickety wooden scaffolding
on which his father had been working, bringing
the whole structure down. Three men had been
killed, his father one of them, crushed beneath a
70
ton of bricks and wood. The tour company had
refused to accept responsibility and no
compensation had ever been paid. The people in
the bus had escaped unharmed.
They had lived in Nazlat al-Sammam in those
days, at the foot of the Giza plateau, in a cramped
mud-brick shack from whose roof you could look
directly out over the Sphinx and the pyramids.
Ali had been the older by six years, strong and
clever and fearless. Khalifa had idolized him,
following him everywhere, mimicking the way he
walked and the things he said. To this day, when
he was annoyed, he would mutter 'Dammit!', a
word he had learnt from his brother, who in turn
had picked it up from a British tourist.
After their father had died, true to
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