Eight Months on Ghazzah Street: A Novel

Andrew looked. “So it is. That’s not his own car he’s driving.”

“I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

Andrew had returned his attention to the scene ahead; she returned hers to the next car, and their neighbor’s bronze unyielding profile. Abdul Nasr took one hand from the wheel and fitted a cigarette between his lips. The man in the passenger seat leaned across and lit it for him. She caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and she knew him at once, even though she had seen him greasy and bareheaded, and he now wore an immaculate white ghutra. She remembered his lugubrious features, and the blank expression in his eyes when she had tried to deter him from knocking on the door of the empty flat. What was it the landlord had said? “I want you to know this Egyptian.”

The backseat of the car also had an occupant; a woman, veiled, and so far shrunken into the dark velour upholstery that until she moved Frances had hardly registered her existence. As the Egyptian subsided into the passenger seat, hidden by Abdul Nasr, the woman hitched herself forward in the seat, as if to speak; she put a hand to her face, holding a square of something white, and for just a second, she raised her veil. How provident she was, on this stifling evening, thunder hanging in the air; Frances envied her for a moment, feeling the cold sting of the cologne tissue against burning skin. As the black cloth fell back into place, she recognized the woman; it was Yasmin.

She said nothing; she did not know what to say. Her mind revolved the possibilities. They drove; the policeman waved them on.

On Mecca Road, still miles from home, they were stopped at a roadblock; but their documents were not checked. Another policeman pressed his face to the windscreen, and then withdrew it. His colleagues flung up the boots of the cars ahead. “What are they looking for?”

“Drugs,” Andrew said. “Or weapons. Maybe a nice consignment of Kalashnikovs up from the Yemen?”

She said fearfully, “Who wants them?”

“Me,” Andrew said. “I could use some violence.”

They drove; behind them, the heart-churning cacophony of sirens, trailing across the bridges and the junctions and the highways in the sky.

When they got into the flat the phone was ringing. She picked it up. It was Eric. “You finally made it home,” he said.

“Yes, we got stopped at a roadblock. The police are everywhere. It was like this at Christmas, remember?”

Eric grunted. “More on that later. First of all, would you tell Andrew to get down to the site by seven o’clock tomorrow? Jeff says the Indians are having one of their mutinies. They’ve got a list of hard questions about their baggage allowances and they want to put them to a high authority.”

“I think Andrew hoped he might catch up on his sleep.”

“Look, we have a contract to fulfill. It won’t help anybody if work comes to a halt.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him.”

“I’m going to the airport first thing. I have to talk to the airline about sending the body home.”

“What body? We haven’t got a body yet.”

“We’ll find it. Meet me at the hospital at ten o’clock. Oh, and one more thing.” What she heard in Eric’s voice, what she realized she had been hearing, was not his usual monotone urbanity, not even the night’s deep fatigue: but a sort of numbness, like shell shock. “There’s a strong rumor that someone tried to kill your next-door neighbor a couple of hours ago. There’s been a shooting at the Sarabia Hotel. So do me a favor. Keep your heads down. Just remember that whatever happens it’s got nothing to do with you.”

3

Next morning dawn did not arrive. The dust, in a dirty brown cloud, blotted out the early sun; bowed figures, subfusc and gagged, groped their way down Ghazzah Street beyond the wall. “I will be back soon,” Andrew promised her. “I must drop by at the site and then I’ll get hold of Eric and we’ll go back to the hospital.” He kissed her. She huddled into the doorway. He coughed as he made his way to the car, the dust peppering his face.

At nine o’clock yesterday’s wind began to blow, out of yesterday’s yellow sky, and plastered the mountain ranges against the windows. It did not blow the dust away; there was an endless supply of it, a continent of dust. She looked out and watched it shifting, banking up. The street cats swarmed over the wall, looking for shelter, and dragged themselves before the glass. She watched them: scared cats, starving, alive with vermin, their faces battered, their broken limbs set crooked, their fur eaten away. She felt she could no longer live with doing nothing for these cats. Slow tears leaked out of her eyes.

When the telephone rang she almost did not answer it. But it might be Eric, with a message about the hospital; or Andrew, to say the Indians had delayed him. It was Daphne Parsons.

“Yes?” Frances said. “What did you want?”

Daphne sounded hurt. “Only to tell you the news. You’ve heard about Raji?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I know Eric phoned you, but more’s come out since then. Apparently he was having dinner at the Sarabia Hotel with some bigwig, a major in the security forces, and as they were leaving, as they were on the steps, somebody took a shot at him out of a car.”

“And?”

“They got the major. He was hit in the shoulder, he’s going to be all right. Raji wasn’t hurt, but I bet it shook him up a bit. Don’t you know anything about it? I thought you would know. Shall I come over there?”

“How do you know they were aiming at Raji? Maybe it was this major they were after.” She put the question; it was idle, academic. Perhaps it was not the time for it, but she felt almost entertained.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure.” Daphne had taken offense. “I’m only giving you the story as it was told to me. Perhaps there’s more to it. Perhaps it’s just the fact that Raji has so many enemies. It’s what he stands for, isn’t it?”

“And what do you think he stands for?”

“Oh,” Daphne said vaguely, “progress, all that.”