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Authors: Paul Sussman
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his word, Ali
had left school and gone to work to support them.
He had found a job at the local camel stables,
mucking out, repairing the saddles, taking the
camels up onto the plateau to give rides to
the tourists. On Sundays Khalifa had been allowed
to help him. Not during the week, however. He
had begged to be allowed to work with his brother
full time, but Ali had insisted he concentrate on his
studies instead.
'Learn, Yusuf,' he had urged him. 'Fill your
mind. Do the things I can't. Make me proud of
you.'
Only years later had he discovered that every
day, as well as buying them food and clothes and
paying their rent, Ali had put aside a little of his
meagre earnings so that when the time came he,
Khalifa, would be able to afford to go to university.
He owed his brother so much. Everything. That was
71
why he had named his first son after him – to show
that he recognized the debt.
His son, however, had never seen his uncle, and
never would. Ali was gone for ever. How he
missed him! How he wished things could have
turned out differently.
He shook his head and returned to the business in
hand. He was in a white-tiled room in the base-
ment of Luxor general hospital and in front of him
the body they had found that morning was
stretched out on a metal table, naked. A fan
whirled above his head; a single strip light added
to the cold, sterile atmosphere. Dr Anwar, the
local pathologist, was bent over the body, poking
at it with his rubber-gloved hands.
'Very curious,' he kept muttering to himself.
'Never seen anything like it. Very curious.'
They had photographed the corpse where it had
washed up beside the river and then zipped it into
a body-bag and brought it back to Luxor by boat.
There had been a lot of paperwork to fill out
before they could get it examined and it was now
late afternoon. He had sent Sariya to make
enquiries about any person reported missing
within a radius of thirty kilometres, thus sparing
his deputy the unpleasant business of witnessing
the autopsy. He himself was finding it hard not to
gag. He was desperate for a cigarette and every
now and then reached instinctively into his pocket
for the packet of Cleopatras, although he didn't
take them out. Dr Anwar was notoriously strict
about smoking in his morgue.
'So what can you tell me?' asked Khalifa,
72
leaning against the cool tile wall, fiddling with a
button on his shirt.
'Well,' said Anwar, pausing for a moment to
think. 'He's definitely dead.' He let out a guffaw
of laughter, slapping his belly appreciatively.
Anwar's bad jokes were as notorious as his dislike
of smoking. 'Apologies,' he said. 'In very bad
taste.'
Another chuckle escaped him and then his face
straightened and he was serious again. 'So what
do you want to know?'
'Age?'
'Difficult to be precise, but I'd say late twenties,
possibly a bit older.'
'Time of death?'
'About eighteen hours ago. Maybe twenty.
Maximum twenty-four.'
'And he's been in the water all that time?'
'I'd say so, yes.'
'How far could he have floated in twenty-four
hours do you think?'
'Absolutely no idea. I'm interested in bodies,
not currents.'
Khalifa smiled. 'OK, cause of death?'
'I would have thought that was obvious,' said
Anwar, looking down at the mutilated face. It had
been cleaned of mud and looked, if anything, even
more grotesque than when Khalifa had first seen
it, like a badly carved joint of meat. There were
lacerations elsewhere on the body, too – on the
arms and shoulders, across the belly, on the tops
of the thighs. There was even a small puncture
mark in the scrotum, which Anwar had taken
great delight in pointing out. Sometimes, Khalifa
73
thought, the man was just a little too enthusiastic
about his job.
'What I meant was . . .'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said the pathologist. 'I was
being facetious. You want to know what caused
the injuries.'
He leaned back against the examination table
and ripped off his
had left school and gone to work to support them.
He had found a job at the local camel stables,
mucking out, repairing the saddles, taking the
camels up onto the plateau to give rides to
the tourists. On Sundays Khalifa had been allowed
to help him. Not during the week, however. He
had begged to be allowed to work with his brother
full time, but Ali had insisted he concentrate on his
studies instead.
'Learn, Yusuf,' he had urged him. 'Fill your
mind. Do the things I can't. Make me proud of
you.'
Only years later had he discovered that every
day, as well as buying them food and clothes and
paying their rent, Ali had put aside a little of his
meagre earnings so that when the time came he,
Khalifa, would be able to afford to go to university.
He owed his brother so much. Everything. That was
71
why he had named his first son after him – to show
that he recognized the debt.
His son, however, had never seen his uncle, and
never would. Ali was gone for ever. How he
missed him! How he wished things could have
turned out differently.
He shook his head and returned to the business in
hand. He was in a white-tiled room in the base-
ment of Luxor general hospital and in front of him
the body they had found that morning was
stretched out on a metal table, naked. A fan
whirled above his head; a single strip light added
to the cold, sterile atmosphere. Dr Anwar, the
local pathologist, was bent over the body, poking
at it with his rubber-gloved hands.
'Very curious,' he kept muttering to himself.
'Never seen anything like it. Very curious.'
They had photographed the corpse where it had
washed up beside the river and then zipped it into
a body-bag and brought it back to Luxor by boat.
There had been a lot of paperwork to fill out
before they could get it examined and it was now
late afternoon. He had sent Sariya to make
enquiries about any person reported missing
within a radius of thirty kilometres, thus sparing
his deputy the unpleasant business of witnessing
the autopsy. He himself was finding it hard not to
gag. He was desperate for a cigarette and every
now and then reached instinctively into his pocket
for the packet of Cleopatras, although he didn't
take them out. Dr Anwar was notoriously strict
about smoking in his morgue.
'So what can you tell me?' asked Khalifa,
72
leaning against the cool tile wall, fiddling with a
button on his shirt.
'Well,' said Anwar, pausing for a moment to
think. 'He's definitely dead.' He let out a guffaw
of laughter, slapping his belly appreciatively.
Anwar's bad jokes were as notorious as his dislike
of smoking. 'Apologies,' he said. 'In very bad
taste.'
Another chuckle escaped him and then his face
straightened and he was serious again. 'So what
do you want to know?'
'Age?'
'Difficult to be precise, but I'd say late twenties,
possibly a bit older.'
'Time of death?'
'About eighteen hours ago. Maybe twenty.
Maximum twenty-four.'
'And he's been in the water all that time?'
'I'd say so, yes.'
'How far could he have floated in twenty-four
hours do you think?'
'Absolutely no idea. I'm interested in bodies,
not currents.'
Khalifa smiled. 'OK, cause of death?'
'I would have thought that was obvious,' said
Anwar, looking down at the mutilated face. It had
been cleaned of mud and looked, if anything, even
more grotesque than when Khalifa had first seen
it, like a badly carved joint of meat. There were
lacerations elsewhere on the body, too – on the
arms and shoulders, across the belly, on the tops
of the thighs. There was even a small puncture
mark in the scrotum, which Anwar had taken
great delight in pointing out. Sometimes, Khalifa
73
thought, the man was just a little too enthusiastic
about his job.
'What I meant was . . .'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said the pathologist. 'I was
being facetious. You want to know what caused
the injuries.'
He leaned back against the examination table
and ripped off his
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