new life. Comfortable and safe. But what would we become? Stateless, homeless. Unable to come back. Who would we be? Have you any idea what that would be like?’
‘I think I can imagine.’
Meera smiled and bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I should have guessed you are in exile. Can’t you go back?’
‘It wouldn’t be a good move.’
‘Then maybe you do understand,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t bear the thought of leaving. If we were to turn our backs on this country it would end up in the hands of pious brothers and corrupt businessmen. Greed and piety, the two crosses we have to bear, if you will forgive me a little joke.’
‘You forget the army.’
‘Once you take off their uniforms they fall into one category or the other.’ Meera stirred the dregs in the bottom of her coffee cup. ‘Don’t you wish you could go home?’
‘I lost my wife and daughter,’ said Makana. ‘There’s nothing to go back to.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. For a time neither of them said anything. A noisy group of youngsters came in and made a big fuss moving tables together and scraping chairs. They had the look of soft, comfortably-off kids without a care in the world.
‘I feel like telling them to enjoy themselves while they can,’ she said. ‘In a few years’ time they will finish their studies and find themselves out of work.’
‘You miss teaching?’
‘Your students become a form of hope. It’s a shame, all that energy and enthusiasm going to waste. Don’t you like your coffee? I can ask for something else.’
‘No, thank you, it’s fine.’ Makana reached for another cigarette. ‘Why don’t you tell me about these letters. How many are there?’
‘Three. They arrived in the morning post. No stamp. No address. But there’s nothing odd about that. People drop letters off with Abu Salem downstairs. Everyone knows I open the post.’
‘And they all contained the same passage from the Quran?’
‘No, all of them are different, but from the same Sura.’
In the context of what Meera had just told him, about who she was and who her husband was, the idea of the letters being a threat addressed to her made more sense.
‘And you are convinced they were meant for you?’
‘Oh, yes. I mean, if I hadn’t been late that day Faragalla would never have seen them. Look,’ Meera said, ‘the Sura is addressed to the Arabs of the Jahiliyya, the age of ignorance before the coming of Muhammed and his message. It is addressed to pagans, idolaters, worshippers of stars.’
‘People like your husband.’
She nodded. ‘Someone must have found out my identity.’
‘But there is no specific threat, or demand in any of the letters.’
‘No.’ She hesitated.
‘Is there something more, something you’re not telling me?’
‘No, it’s nothing.’
‘Look, it sounds like you are in some kind of trouble. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.’
Meera nodded, her eyes on the table. She reached for another cigarette and he lit it for her. She exhaled slowly. ‘Things are about to change. I can’t explain it all right now but . . .’ Her eyes lifted to meet his. ‘Perhaps if you talked to Ridwan. You could come to the flat, we could talk, all of us together. I might be able to persuade him.’ She sighed, staring out of the window. ‘This place, after a while it just closes in on you. You forget there is a world out there full of life.’
Chapter Six
Makana had no trouble finding another taxi to take him home. As he climbed out under the big eucalyptus tree and descended the path, the sun was setting and the water was streaked with change, purple and blue. There was no sign of Bassam today, but the smell of food frying came from behind the wooden shack where Umm Ali and her little brood lived, and although she couldn’t see him she called out a greeting as he went by.
‘Good evening, ya bash muhandis.’
‘Good evening, Umm Ali.’
Filling a bucket, Makana bathed in the timeless manner of pouring water over himself with a large plastic beaker. He watched the soap suds swirling through a hole in the bathroom floor to vanish downstream to the sea. Having washed and changed his clothes, he walked back up the incline to the road and joined the glowing red stream that slid like molten metal back into the city.
Since getting married, Sami Barakat had settled down in a small flat with his wife Rania who was also a