his eyes at Freya to make sure she had got the message, then shifted the Land Cruiser back into gear and carried on, the undergrowth gradually thinning until eventually the track petered out in a glade of lilac-flowered jacaranda trees. Ahead, near the far edge of the glade, stood Alex’s house – single-storey, whitewashed, with a satellite dish on the roof and a bougainvillaea-framed front door. Zahir pulled up, got out and, grabbing Freya’s bag from the back seat, crossed to the front door.
‘You sure you no want stay in hotel?’ he asked, pulling a set of keys from his djellaba and unlocking the door. ‘My brother have good hotel in Mut.’
She thanked him, but said she was quite happy here.
He shrugged, threw open the door and dropped the bag inside.
‘Housekeeper leave food,’ he said. ‘You heat on cooker, very easy.’
He handed her the keys and gave her his mobile number which she keyed into her own phone.
‘No walk in trees without shoes,’ he warned. ‘Many snakes. And no speak Mahmoud Garoub. Very bad man. I come tomorrow morning seven and half take you Doctor Alex—’
He broke off, as if reluctant to say the word.
‘Funeral,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
They stood for a moment, Zahir shuffling his feet as if building up to saying something. Freya just wanted him to go. Seeming to read her thoughts, he gave a curt nod, climbed back into the Land Cruiser and, swinging it around, drove away.
Once the car was out of sight Freya went into the house and closed the door behind her. The roar of the Land Cruiser’s engine slowly faded, leaving just the distant putter of an irrigation pump and, intermittently, the soft, rattling hiss of palm fronds as they swayed in the breeze.
The building’s interior was cool and dim and for a moment she just stood there, relieved to be on her own at last. Then, crossing a large living area, she opened a set of shuttered doors and stepped out onto a veranda at the back of the house. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by a giant jacaranda tree and with fabulous views out over the desert. The air was redolent with the scent of blossom and citrus. She imagined Alex standing there, and started to smile, only for the smile to fade as she caught sight of the wheelchair parked up at the far end of the veranda. She winced, staring at it in horror as though at some item of torture equipment, then turned and went back inside.
A series of rooms – kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, study, storeroom – opened off the main living area and she wandered from one to the other, taking the place in. There was little by way of furniture or ornament – Alex had always been like that, living simply, hating clutter – but it was unquestionably her sister’s home, her character stamped everywhere and on everything. It was there in the CD collection (Bowie, Nirvana, Richard Thompson, her beloved Chopin Nocturnes); the maps Blu-Tacked all over the walls; the labelled rock samples lined up along every windowsill. There was even a smell of Alex, invisible to a stranger, perhaps, but unmistakable to Freya who had grown up with it: Wright’s Coal Tar Soap mingled withSure deodorant and just the faintest hint of Samsara perfume.
She came to the bedroom last. Draped from a hook behind the door was Alex’s old suede travelling jacket – Christ, how many years had she had that? Freya wrapped her arms around it and pressed her face into the worn material, then went over to the bed and sat down. On the bedside table were three books: The Physics of Blown Sand and Desert Dunes, by R.A. Bagnold; The Heliopolitan Tomb of Imti-Khentika, by Hassan Fadawi – since when had Alex been interested in Egyptology? – and, most poignantly, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, the battered, dog-eared copy that had once belonged to their father. Three books and, also, three photographs: one of their parents; one of a handsome, dark-haired man, something vaguely academic-looking in his round spectacles and
‘You sure you no want stay in hotel?’ he asked, pulling a set of keys from his djellaba and unlocking the door. ‘My brother have good hotel in Mut.’
She thanked him, but said she was quite happy here.
He shrugged, threw open the door and dropped the bag inside.
‘Housekeeper leave food,’ he said. ‘You heat on cooker, very easy.’
He handed her the keys and gave her his mobile number which she keyed into her own phone.
‘No walk in trees without shoes,’ he warned. ‘Many snakes. And no speak Mahmoud Garoub. Very bad man. I come tomorrow morning seven and half take you Doctor Alex—’
He broke off, as if reluctant to say the word.
‘Funeral,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
They stood for a moment, Zahir shuffling his feet as if building up to saying something. Freya just wanted him to go. Seeming to read her thoughts, he gave a curt nod, climbed back into the Land Cruiser and, swinging it around, drove away.
Once the car was out of sight Freya went into the house and closed the door behind her. The roar of the Land Cruiser’s engine slowly faded, leaving just the distant putter of an irrigation pump and, intermittently, the soft, rattling hiss of palm fronds as they swayed in the breeze.
The building’s interior was cool and dim and for a moment she just stood there, relieved to be on her own at last. Then, crossing a large living area, she opened a set of shuttered doors and stepped out onto a veranda at the back of the house. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by a giant jacaranda tree and with fabulous views out over the desert. The air was redolent with the scent of blossom and citrus. She imagined Alex standing there, and started to smile, only for the smile to fade as she caught sight of the wheelchair parked up at the far end of the veranda. She winced, staring at it in horror as though at some item of torture equipment, then turned and went back inside.
A series of rooms – kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, study, storeroom – opened off the main living area and she wandered from one to the other, taking the place in. There was little by way of furniture or ornament – Alex had always been like that, living simply, hating clutter – but it was unquestionably her sister’s home, her character stamped everywhere and on everything. It was there in the CD collection (Bowie, Nirvana, Richard Thompson, her beloved Chopin Nocturnes); the maps Blu-Tacked all over the walls; the labelled rock samples lined up along every windowsill. There was even a smell of Alex, invisible to a stranger, perhaps, but unmistakable to Freya who had grown up with it: Wright’s Coal Tar Soap mingled withSure deodorant and just the faintest hint of Samsara perfume.
She came to the bedroom last. Draped from a hook behind the door was Alex’s old suede travelling jacket – Christ, how many years had she had that? Freya wrapped her arms around it and pressed her face into the worn material, then went over to the bed and sat down. On the bedside table were three books: The Physics of Blown Sand and Desert Dunes, by R.A. Bagnold; The Heliopolitan Tomb of Imti-Khentika, by Hassan Fadawi – since when had Alex been interested in Egyptology? – and, most poignantly, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, the battered, dog-eared copy that had once belonged to their father. Three books and, also, three photographs: one of their parents; one of a handsome, dark-haired man, something vaguely academic-looking in his round spectacles and
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