‘I ask you,’ the big man lamented. ‘See how I have come down in the world. You knew me when I was working for Saad Hanafi. Those were the days.’ He indicated the grubby shirt and trousers he wore. ‘I am a sorry figure compared to that proud man.’
Sindbad had once had a promising career as a boxer. They had met a couple of years ago when he had been working as a chauffeur for one of the wealthiest men in Cairo. In those days he had worn a suit when he drove.
‘You never really liked wearing those clothes, did you?’
‘To be honest, no, ya basha. It made me feel stiff, like one of those figures in the shop windows in Talat Harb Street. I still have it, though. Some days I think about wearing it to work, just to remember what it was like.’ Sindbad shook his head. ‘But it’s not the same. Nothing ever is.’
‘You lost your job, then?’
‘When the old man died everything went to pieces. They let us all go.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, it was a blessing. The money they gave me was enough to buy this car and now I am my own boss. There’s nothing like it in the world. I can tell you, I wouldn’t go back for anything. Not now. No matter how bad things are. Working for yourself, a man can keep his dignity. You understand what I mean?’
‘I think so.’
Sindbad tapped the wheel gently, the way you might pet a cat with a furious and unpredictable temper. ‘Actually, I bought it from my brother-in-law who is always in trouble with money. I was doing him a favour.’
‘I see,’ said Makana. It explained a lot. ‘So now you’re a free agent.’
‘Al Hamdoulilah!’
‘Do you have other people to help you, or do you work alone?’
‘Just me, Effendim.’
‘Then how do you manage to work twenty-four hours a day?’
A cloud descended over Sindbad’s face. ‘I have a wife and five children. When the Lord gives you a life like that he doesn’t intend for you to sleep.’
The traffic was the usual snarl of hot metal and smoke, but Sindbad had a good eye. Restlessly grinding the gearstick and twisting the wheel, he darted into openings, carving a swift line through the clogged obstructions. Before long they were pulling up under the twisted eucalyptus tree that leaned precariously out over the riverbank. Down below the awama waited, as regal as an emissary from a long-forgotten kingdom.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ Makana asked, as he climbed out.
‘I am at your service, ya basha. All you have to do is call.’
Makana watched the black-and-white taxi clatter away under a cloud of exhaust, then he turned and made his way down the path towards the river. At this time of day, as evening was falling, the awama seemed to lose all her blemishes and defects. As the light grew faint, the houseboat seemed to loom out of the shadows in all her former glory, or at least it seemed that way to Makana.
A large, untidy man missing most of his front teeth stood in the doorway of Umm Ali’s hut chewing a piece of sugar cane. This was Bassam, her useless brother, who had turned up about a month ago and seemed in no hurry to return to the home village in the Delta. The story was that his wife had left him. ‘First sensible thing that woman has done in her life.’ Umm Ali was not the type to mince her words. ‘Now if only she had poisoned him before she left . . .’
Spitting a wad of chewed-up pulp on the ground, Bassam wagged a finger as Makana went by. ‘And don’t forget about the rent this month. My sister is too soft, but don’t think you can play those games with me.’ The finger disappeared inside his mouth to fish out something caught between his few remaining teeth.
‘Why doesn’t he just go home?’ Aziza, Umm Ali’s youngest daughter, lay sprawled on Makana’s sofa where she regularly hid when she wanted to get away. Locking the place was a waste of time. He had the idea that Aziza climbed along and through the window on the riverside. It didn’t matter how carefully he locked the shutters, she still managed to get in without any trouble at all. Now she was reading one of his books, or pretending to