television, Khalifa noticed.
'Well?'
'I'm afraid I have some bad news,' said the
detective. 'Your husband, he's . . .'
'Been arrested?'
Khalifa bit his lip.
'Dead.'
For a moment she just stared at him, then sat
down heavily on the sofa, covering her face with
her hands. He presumed she was weeping and
took a step forward to comfort her. Only as he
came close did he realize that the muffled grunts
coming from between her fingers were not sobs at
all, but laughter.
'Fatma, Iman,' she said, beckoning the two girls
to her. 'Something wonderful has happened.'
104
11
CAIRO
Having finished at the embassy Tara wanted to go
to her father's apartment to look through his
belongings.
He had kept few possessions with him during
his four-month season at Saqqara – a change of
clothes, a couple of notebooks, a camera. Most of
his things had stayed in the Cairo flat.
Here he had his diaries, his slides, his clothes,
various artefacts the Egyptian authorities had
allowed him to keep. And, of course, his books, of
which he had a vast collection, several thousand
volumes, all individually bound in leather, the
result of a lifetime of collecting. 'With books,' he
used to say, 'even the poorest hovel in the world is
transformed into a palace. They make everything
seem so much more bearable.'
Oates offered to take her in the car, but the
apartment was only a few minutes' walk away
and, anyway, she felt like being alone for a while.
He phoned ahead to make sure the concierge had
105
a spare set of keys, drew her a map of how to get
there and escorted her to the front gates.
'Call when you get back to the hotel,' he said.
'And as I mentioned before, try not to stay out
after dark. Especially after this river-boat thing.'
He smiled and disappeared back into the
embassy.
It was by now late afternoon and the sinking
sun was casting dappled patterns across the
uneven pavement. She gazed around her, taking in
the police emplacements along the embassy wall, a
beggar squatting at the roadside, a man pulling
a cart piled high with watermelons and then,
glancing down at the map, set off.
Oates had explained that this part of Cairo was
known as Garden City and as she navigated her
way through a maze of leafy avenues she realized
why. It was quieter and more sedate than the rest
of the metropolis, a faded remnant of the colonial
era, with large dusty villas and everywhere trees
and flowering shrubs – hibiscus, oleander,
jasmine, purple jacaranda. The air echoed to the
twitter of birds and was heavy with the scent of
mown grass and orange blossom. There seemed to
be few people around, just a couple of women
pushing prams and the odd suited executive.
Many of the villas had limousines parked in
front of them and policemen stationed at
their front doors.
She walked for about ten minutes before she
reached Sharia Ahmed Pasha, on the corner of
which stood her father's apartment block, a turn-
of-the-century building with huge windows and
intricate iron-work balconies. Once it must have
106
been a cheerful shade of yellow. Now its exterior
was grey with dust and grime.
She went up the front steps and pushed open the
door, stepping into a cool marble foyer. To one
side, sitting behind a desk, was an old man, pre-
sumably the concierge. She approached, and after
a confused conversation conducted in sign lan-
guage, managed to convey who she was and why
she had come. Muttering, the man came to his
feet, removed a set of keys from a drawer and
shuffled over to a cage lift in the corner, pulling
back the doors and ushering her in.
The apartment was on the third floor at the end
of a silent, gloomy corridor. They stopped in front of
the door and the concierge fiddled with the keys,
trying three in the lock before he found the right
one.
'Thank you,' said Tara as he opened the door.
He remained where he was.
'Thank you,' she repeated.
Still he showed no sign of moving. There
'Well?'
'I'm afraid I have some bad news,' said the
detective. 'Your husband, he's . . .'
'Been arrested?'
Khalifa bit his lip.
'Dead.'
For a moment she just stared at him, then sat
down heavily on the sofa, covering her face with
her hands. He presumed she was weeping and
took a step forward to comfort her. Only as he
came close did he realize that the muffled grunts
coming from between her fingers were not sobs at
all, but laughter.
'Fatma, Iman,' she said, beckoning the two girls
to her. 'Something wonderful has happened.'
104
11
CAIRO
Having finished at the embassy Tara wanted to go
to her father's apartment to look through his
belongings.
He had kept few possessions with him during
his four-month season at Saqqara – a change of
clothes, a couple of notebooks, a camera. Most of
his things had stayed in the Cairo flat.
Here he had his diaries, his slides, his clothes,
various artefacts the Egyptian authorities had
allowed him to keep. And, of course, his books, of
which he had a vast collection, several thousand
volumes, all individually bound in leather, the
result of a lifetime of collecting. 'With books,' he
used to say, 'even the poorest hovel in the world is
transformed into a palace. They make everything
seem so much more bearable.'
Oates offered to take her in the car, but the
apartment was only a few minutes' walk away
and, anyway, she felt like being alone for a while.
He phoned ahead to make sure the concierge had
105
a spare set of keys, drew her a map of how to get
there and escorted her to the front gates.
'Call when you get back to the hotel,' he said.
'And as I mentioned before, try not to stay out
after dark. Especially after this river-boat thing.'
He smiled and disappeared back into the
embassy.
It was by now late afternoon and the sinking
sun was casting dappled patterns across the
uneven pavement. She gazed around her, taking in
the police emplacements along the embassy wall, a
beggar squatting at the roadside, a man pulling
a cart piled high with watermelons and then,
glancing down at the map, set off.
Oates had explained that this part of Cairo was
known as Garden City and as she navigated her
way through a maze of leafy avenues she realized
why. It was quieter and more sedate than the rest
of the metropolis, a faded remnant of the colonial
era, with large dusty villas and everywhere trees
and flowering shrubs – hibiscus, oleander,
jasmine, purple jacaranda. The air echoed to the
twitter of birds and was heavy with the scent of
mown grass and orange blossom. There seemed to
be few people around, just a couple of women
pushing prams and the odd suited executive.
Many of the villas had limousines parked in
front of them and policemen stationed at
their front doors.
She walked for about ten minutes before she
reached Sharia Ahmed Pasha, on the corner of
which stood her father's apartment block, a turn-
of-the-century building with huge windows and
intricate iron-work balconies. Once it must have
106
been a cheerful shade of yellow. Now its exterior
was grey with dust and grime.
She went up the front steps and pushed open the
door, stepping into a cool marble foyer. To one
side, sitting behind a desk, was an old man, pre-
sumably the concierge. She approached, and after
a confused conversation conducted in sign lan-
guage, managed to convey who she was and why
she had come. Muttering, the man came to his
feet, removed a set of keys from a drawer and
shuffled over to a cage lift in the corner, pulling
back the doors and ushering her in.
The apartment was on the third floor at the end
of a silent, gloomy corridor. They stopped in front of
the door and the concierge fiddled with the keys,
trying three in the lock before he found the right
one.
'Thank you,' said Tara as he opened the door.
He remained where he was.
'Thank you,' she repeated.
Still he showed no sign of moving. There
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