Cairo by Chris Womersley Page B

wild-eyed, and inspected the studio as if checking nothing was stolen or damaged, before ushering us out and closing the door. ‘I don’t know yet. Come on. Quick. The countdown has started.’
    The flight of the
Challenger
lasted under two minutes. The shuttle exploded into pieces like a lumbering, oversized firework against the hard blue sky. At first it was unclear anything was wrong. The audio was a direct feed from NASA Control, an engineer’s staticky drawl.
There seems to be a problem. An explosion. The feed is down
.
    We watched in silence, shocked and thrilled at witnessing the deaths of seven people live on television. White smoke fizzed off in various directions, a dozen zippers opening in the sky. Shots of faces in the crowd turned skywards with mouths agape, hands clutched to pale American throats.
    After seeing a replay of the explosion for the umpteenth time, Edward said, with an ill-concealed and callous air of satisfaction, ‘Well, I doubt they’d fake that.’
    *
    Some time later, the television was switched off. Dawn light slunk through the warehouse. Despite this, no one showed any inclination to retire for the night. Gertrude was curled in a chair leafing through
The Face
magazine with a picture of Grace Jones onits cover. Buster snored on a red satin cushion on the floor. Edward and Max continued an argument they had been having about the Kennedy assassination (‘Edward, the word “assassin” does
not
come from sneaky Arab killers smoking hashish in the goddamn kasbah — you’ve been reading way too much William Burroughs’). I was exhausted and still drunk. It had easily been the best night of my life to date. I wanted it never to end.
    As the room brightened, and hitherto unseen parts of the warehouse were illuminated, I became aware of a remarkable sight. Like a silent-movie buffoon I sat up and rubbed my stinging eyes. The vision, however, remained. From beneath an arbour painted across the portion of the ceiling adjoining the far wall, there rose broken, vine-covered columns lining an ancient Roman terrace, shrubs, stone urns, a family of gypsies resting in the shade. Beyond that was a large bay enclosed on its left by houses. The sky was pale blue, its clouds wispy and thin. On the horizon was a mountain shrouded in gauzy mist. The cry of distant gulls, sunlight glinting on water. A breeze caressed my face. I sniffed the air, expecting to detect a briny tang from the sea.
    â€˜Welcome to Naples, Tom.’ It was Gertrude. She was standing directly behind me. ‘Do you like it?’
    â€˜I think it’s the most incredible thing I have ever seen,’ I said, quite sincerely.
    The trompe l’oeil stretched across ten metres of wall, floor to ceiling, the effect interrupted only by a low bookcase and a wooden chair in the right corner. If one studied the mural, one might also notice the vertical bump of a water pipe passing through a menacing-looking succulent on the left.
    â€˜Naples is on Italy’s coast. The home of Caravaggio after he fled Rome accused of murder. The birthplace of pizza, believe it or not, and the capital of its own kingdom for a while. That mountain in the background there is Vesuvius, the destroyer of Pompeii. Thisis based on a nineteenth-century painting. Naples doesn’t look anything like this now.’
    â€˜Have you been there?’
    She gave one of her cackles. ‘No. I don’t leave the house much. But I don’t need to go there, do I? Naples came to me. It took us five months. The morning is when it’s at its best.’
    â€˜Are you a painter, too?’
    Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Not really. I used to be.’
    Max and Edward’s argument ran out of steam. Coffee brewed on the stove; spoons tinkled against cups. I lay back on the couch, unable to remove my gaze from the splendid view of Naples that had materialised before me as if at a genie’s whim. I closed my eyes