Two of the tram’s fares were tourists late home to bed, the other three Iskandryian, headed to work. A short-order cook, a chambermaid, a stall holder from a minor souk. Travel was cheap in the city. For most of those who worked in the service industries it needed to be.
At some hours of the day gulls could be heard everywhere across the city, but this early in the morning they circled tightly over the Shambles, rabid for any entrails that might be tossed from gutting table to harbour.
Years before, when the women with their razor-edged filleting knives had been children, or maybe it was when their mothers had been children, the Khedive had declared it illegal to discard the guts and tailings of each night’s catch. Every scrap not sold had to be ploughed into the barren edges of the delta to improve the soil. Then came the first flu epidemic and with too few felaheen to gather in crops that lay spoiling in the existing fields, increased maize yields ceased to matter. So now the entrails went back into the water.
And when the gulls finally dispersed and first light finished staining the horizon, the sun rose out beyond Glymonopolo Bay and another Tuesday morning began.
Shutters were opened, doors unlocked. In red-brick tenements everywhere, middle-aged women looked at potbellied men and remembered dark-eyed boys, marriage vows and lost virginity. Men mourned the slim-hipped girls they’d married and, catching sight of themselves in the mirror, wondered how they’d never noticed they’d become someone else.
And on the edge of Glymonopolo Bay, in a stuccoed villa as arrogant as any conquistador’s palace, a barrel-chested industrialist turned off his phone, sighed heavily and picked up a revolver.
Again.
In front of Hamzah Effendi was a naked angel, wings spread wide and breasts full, like those of a distantly remembered mother. Except that the angel was pale and fair-haired and elegant, things untrue of anyone in his family.
She hovered within a page torn from a book, written in a language he couldn’t read and inscribed on the back, “Only here will you find peace” and “Apollyon.” General Koenig Pasha had penned these in his immaculate copperplate just below a half title that read “Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri: Paradiso.”
With the engraving came a gun. They were the governor’s answer to Hamzah’s desperate plea for help.
Shooting himself would ruin his looks, Hamzah knew that. Regretted it. A long succession of twentysomething mistresses had assured him that he had the dark eyes of a hunter, the mouth of a poet and the profile of an emperor: the founder of a dynasty, not one of those weaklings that came later, slope-chinned and nervous, the kind who got strangled with a golden rope as they slept.
Hamzah’s chin jutted so proudly that the eye almost slid past his heavy jowls and neck. His face had a flabbiness now that business partners seldom recalled when they thought back to meeting him; somehow imperfections got forgotten, leaving only a memory of his strength.
A gulp from his crystal tumbler later, Hamzah put down the gun.
Again.
“Coward.”
Alcohol tells the truth. “I didn’t mean it,” that’s the lie. People do mean it, every time. Hamzah did, even if the person at which he swore was himself. Of course, he’d have preferred to bawl out Ashraf al-Mansur but the recently appointed Chief of Detectives wasn’t taking calls.
Downing another gulp of neat Laphroaig, Hamzah topped up his glass and carefully hid the bottle in the bottom drawer of a burr-walnut desk. Alcohol was illegal in Iskandryia, except for tourists and in certain bars attached to the bigger international hotels, or unless one had written permission from the General. It was a prohibition of which Hamzah heartily approved since one small sliver of his diverse interests involved supplying illegal alcohol to illegal clubs, many of which he owned anyway.
There were no early memories for him of a high-breasted, thin-hipped girl. Any more than his wife had memories of a smouldering-eyed boy who turned her body to fire. Their marriage was arranged and the only thing odd about it was that, in theory at least, Hamzah did the arranging. Rahina’s useless father had owed him a debt and she was part payment.
Hamzah would have preferred the money.
He wondered, but only briefly, how well his wife would cope as a widow. Maybe her life would be improved? Money would be no problem and Villa Hamzah had never been Rahina’s first choice as a home, so his guess was that she’d leave the city entirely. Either to live on a country estate in the delta or else move to Tunis or Algiers, where his disgrace might not follow her.
Hamzah ran through the checklist in his mind.
Will, signed and witnessed.
Accounts, doctored obviously; the real ones were bleached to NSA standards, overwritten and bleached again.
Deeds to the villa.
Share certificates. . . Those were mostly for Hamzah Enterprises, the Midas Refinery, Quitrimala Industries and the offshore and Sudanese oil fields. The French and the Germans had recently offered to buy him out, but any deal could be done with his executor.
Bank accounts, both known and previously hidden.
Suicide note. Words had always given Hamzah trouble. So he’d quoted from a poem he learnt once, long ago beside a river, when he was a boy. “I loved you so I wrote my need across the night in stars . . .” He’d probably got half of the words wrong, but they’d expect that.
Everything was in place for what came next. Shares in Hamzah Enterprises would dip on the Bourse but bounce back. Oil prices were rocketing and the Midas Refinery would continue turning crude to cash, whoever owned it. Only in the illegal clubs, brothels and dance halls would there be a fight for succession, and that would have happened someday, whatever . . .
The revolver he held stank of oil, which was his own fault. Every gap in the previous week he’d spent cleaning and recleaning the .38, until the rifling shone metal-bright and the cylinder spun as cleanly as if the weapon was new rather than a hundred and twenty years old.
Now was the point for him to suck silence from its muzzle.
Only he couldn’t.
He’d been maybe ten years old when he acquired his first gun. Felaheen back then didn’t know their ages. Often they didn’t know their families either. Some nights he’d wished he was one of them. But later he found excuses for the beatings as he tried to imagine what life must have been like for his uncle in Abu Simbel at the height of the little war, to be penniless, illiterate, with a dead wife, dead sister and a small nephew.
No, Hamzah shook his head slightly—children, responsibility, the past—those were places he wouldn’t revisit. Because then he’d start thinking about . . .
Bite on darkness.
The revolver’s handle looked odd, held upside down like that, with three of his fingers wrapped round its ivory stock and one curled tight across the trigger. All but one of the chambers were empty, because he’d only need the single bullet, the one waiting for the fall of the hammer.
Watch the knuckles whiten.
Every step of his life had been leading to this point. From a shack on the Nile’s bank to a study panelled in pale English oak in a vast stone villa, on the edge of Glymonopolo Bay. Symmetry was what his daughter Zara would have called it. Perhaps a paradigm. She was fond of big words and bad politics.
From nothing back to nothing.