elegant with thick wavy hair and very white teeth. His suit was
impeccably tailored and he smelt faintly of an expensive cologne. His
expression was grave and sad.
'He was a good man. I held Duraid in the highest esteem,' he told Royan,
and she nodded without replying to this blatant untruth. There had been
little affection between Duraid and his deputy. He had never allowed
Nahoot to work on the Taita scrolls; in particular he had never given
him access to the seventh scroll, and this had been a point of bitter
antagonism between them.
'I hope you will be applying for the post of director, Royan,' he told
her. 'You are well qualified for the job.'
'Thank you, Nahoot, you are very kind. I haven't had a chance to think
about the future yet, but won't you be applying?'
'Of course,' he nodded. 'But that doesn't mean that no one else should.
Perhaps you will take the job out from in front of my nose.' His smile
was complacent. She was a woman in an Arab world, and he was the nephew
of the minister. Nahoot knew just how heavily the odds favoured him.
'Friendly rivals?'he asked.
Royan smiled sadly. 'Friends, at least. I will need all of those I can
find in the future.'
'You know you have many friends. Everyone in the department likes you,
Royan.' That at least was true, she supposed. He went on smoothly, 'May
I offer you a lift back to Cairo? I am certain my uncle will not
object.'
'Thank you, Nahoot, but I have my own car here, and I must stay over at
the oasis tonight to see to some of Duraid's affairs.'This was not true.
Royan planned to travel back to the flat in Giza that evening but, for
reasons that she was not very sure of herself, she did not want Nahoot
to know of her plans.
'Then we shall see you at the museum on Monday.' Royan left the oasis as
soon as she was able to escape from the relations and family friends and
peasants, so many of whom had worked for Duraid's family most of their
lives.
She felt numbed and isolated, so that all their condolences and
exhortations were meaningless and Without comfort.
Even at this late hour the tarmac road back through the desert was busy,
with files of vehicles moving steadily in both directions, for tomorrow
was Friday and the sabbath. She slipped her injured right arm out of the
sling, and it did not hamper her driving too much. She was able to make
reasonably good time. Nevertheless, it was after five in the afternoon
when she made out the green line against the tawny desolation of the
desert that marked the start of the narrow strip of irrigated and
cultivated land along the Nile which was the great artery of Egypt.
As always the traffic became denser the nearer she came to the capital,
and it was almost fully dark by the time she reached the apartment block
in Giza that overlooked both the river and those great monuments of
stone which stood so tall and massive against the evening sky, and which
for her epitomized the heart and history of her land.
She left Duraid's old green Renault in the underground garage of the
