They saw then what had drawn the crowd — a car lying on its side. The taxi-driver stopped the car when he saw the crowd. He was a Ghaziri and he tried to stay away from the Ras, he said, when it looked as though there’d be trouble. So they had to walk the last part.
There was so much confusion, nobody looked at them twice. They slipped into the crowd and worked their way down the embankment to the car (she holding him by the hand). It was a new Peugeot, balancing on one side, with a wheel still spinning, and a door open in the air, like a trapdoor. There was a jagged, gaping hole in one side of the windscreen, and what was left of the glass was all frosted over with cracks.
Someone must have been hurt, she said to somebody.
No, he said, whoever he was, no one was hurt. It must be true, she thought to herself. There’s no blood anywhere.
So how did it happen?
It was all to do with the mugaddams, the labour contractors.
Adil al-Azraq, the blue Moroccan, and his cousin had come to the Ras in their car that evening as they often did. When they reached the embankment, they lit cigarettes, gave the horn a gentle push, and sat back in their seats, expecting people to come running up to them, as they usually did.
But there was a surprise waiting for them. They sat for a full five minutes, which they’d never done before, and there was still no sign of anyone. They blew the horn again, a little less languidly this time. It made no difference. They blew it again, and again, until at the end of twenty minutes, when the setting sun had heated the car into an oven, Adil the Blue had his elbows jammed on the horn. But still they wouldn’t get out of the car and go into the Ras — their prestige wouldn’t let them.
Then the men appeared — not running, but in a compact, dignified group. There were a lot of them there — about thirty, including Rakesh and Zaghloul. Abu Fahl was in the lead. They’d decided that he’d speak for all of them.
Abu Fahl didn’t waste any breath on greetings. He went straight up to them and said: Listen, I have to tell you something. Here in the Ras we’ve all been thinking a lot about dirt and germs and money. We’ve managed to do away with almost all the money in the Ras. The big problem is you mugaddams. With you it’s money, money, money all the time: take money, hand out money, take back money. It’s a dirty system: it spreads germs like a squid spreads ink. We’ve decided to do away with it. From now on we’ll go to the contractors and architects ourselves, all together, and we’ll work out our own terms, and we’ll carry the money we make safely to the bank, in envelopes. You can join us if you like — you can come and work with us. But — salli-’ala-n-nabi — no one here will work for a mugaddam again.
Adil the Blue and his cousin were fuming and steaming all through this, especially Adil, whose burnt blue cheeks had turned purple. He’d have run Abu Fahl over right then, but his cousin stopped him. He saw Zaghloul and twenty-eight others standing around the car, so he squeezed Adil’s elbow to keep him quiet and smiled at Abu Fahl and said: Abu Fahl, why not send all these people away, to the bottom of the embankment, and then we’ll talk?
Abu Fahl could see no harm in that, so he told Zaghloul to take the others off, and he went to the side of the road and watched them go down the embankment.
The moment the others had gone Adil the Blue started the car and threw it at Abu Fahl’s back.
Abu Fahl spun round, as quick as a top, but the car was just a hair away from his chest. So, instead of running, he jumped at the bonnet and managed to roll over safely on the other side. He picked himself up, ran to the side of the embankment and looked for something to throw, but there was nothing there, except a few pebbles. So he slipped his watch off his wrist — it was a heavy old automatic, not one of those thin quartz things — and hid it in his palm.
Adil the Blue looked back, and he was surprised to see Abu Fahl still on the embankment, waiting for him. He wheeled the car around and went straight for him, steering carefully. Abu Fahl waited until it was almost on him, and then in one movement he hurled his watch at the windscreen and jumped aside.
The watch was thrown with such force that when it hit the windscreen there was an explosion of glass. Adil lost control and the car rolled over the side of the embankment.
The others were already running up the embankment, and they followed Abu Fahl down to the car. Nothing had happened to Adil or his cousin, though they both had a bit of glass in their hair. Soon enough they got over the shock and climbed out through the door at the top.
Abu Fahl would have beaten them to a pulp right there, but Zaghloul and Rakesh stopped him. No, they said, we shouldn’t do anything to them ourselves. We’ll take them to Hajj Fahmy and see what he has to say. And so they led them off across the embankment and into the Ras.
And it was only a few minutes after that that their driver stopped his taxi and told them that they would have to walk the rest of the way.
In a way it was the best thing that could have happened. In all that confusion and excitement, it was clear that nobody would have the time to notice who was who, and who was wearing a duster and who wasn’t. So she decided not to waste any more time and led the Bird-man straight to Hajj Fahmy’s house.
There was a huge crowd there already. The news had spread everywhere: Adil al-Azraq had tried to kill Abu Fahl, but Abu Fahl had been too quick for him, and they’d caught Adil and his cousin and taken them to Hajj Fahmy’s to be judged.
She had to use all her strength to clear a path for them through the crowd, holding tightly on to his arm all the while so that he wouldn’t fall and end up being trampled to death. Once, she wondered how this young bird-lover was taking the crowds and the Ras and the excitement; whether he was frightened or nervous.
He wasn’t. The arm she was holding so tightly was perfectly steady, though damp with sweat. He seemed curious, mainly: he was staring all around him, at the crowds, peering into shacks, watching people, looking at the colourful dusters on their arms. It was as though he were watching a film.
Pushing, shoving, thrusting her weight at sharp angles, she managed to clear a way for them right up to the door to Hajj Fahmy’s courtyard. By wriggling a couple of tall Baluchis out of the doorway she managed to get a good view of the courtyard. The crowd had formed a huge circle around the courtyard now. Adil the Blue and his cousin were alone in the middle of the circle, squatting. Someone handed them a couple of cigarettes, and they lit them, and puffed away furiously. But that wasn’t enough for them. They asked for tea. Hajj Fahmy sent a message into the house, and Professor Samuel made a note in his pad, and soon a tray with two glasses appeared.
Zindi pulled the Bird-man in front of her, and held him tight against her chest, so that she could whisper into his ear without anyone else hearing. And then she pointed them all out to him. There was Abu Fahl, his one eye glowing a livid red, his jallabeyya tied around his waist with a scarf, like it used to be when he went into the fields to harvest rice. There was Zaghloul laughing, that laugh which used to drive the girls in his village mad; and there was Rakesh, worrying about his hair, smoothing his shirt. That was Professor Samuel there, worried, nervously fingering the calculator in his breast pocket. And there was Chunni squatting at the edge of the circle and Karthamma, enjoying herself while Kulfi looked after Boss at home. And of course, over there, sitting gravely on the platform, legs folded, next to the loom was Hajj Fahmy, solemnly counting his beads, for all the world like an elder sitting in council to settle a family quarrel.
And Alu?
She pointed him out, at the loom, weaving, his big head turned away from the crowd, ignoring the noise. And when he saw him the Bird-man stared and stared, like a timid falcon sizing up some unusual and frightening prey.