The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman Page B

glare.
    The farm, such as it was, sat near the mouth of a broad wadi . There was a ramshackle dwelling – mud-brick and palm thatch – the waterhole and, lower down, a cluster of fields irrigated by channels running off the waterhole: one growing maize, one bersiim , one molocchia . Khalifa’s deputy, Sergeant Mohammed Sariya, was standing down there, examining the withered crops. Beyond, a dusty track wound away through the hills towards the Nile Valley forty kilometres to the west, a tenuous umbilical cord linking the farm to civilization.
    ‘We’re from Farshut originally,’ said the man, pulling on his cigarette. ‘Had to get out because of the violence. They hate Christians up there. The police never did anything. They never do anything unless you’re rich. I wanted to give my family a better life, my kids. My cousin came here a few years ago, said it was OK, no one bothered him. So we came too. It’s not much, but at least it’s safe. And now they want to drive us away from here as well. God help us! What are we going to do? Please, God, help us!’
    His sobs grew louder and he slumped forward, pressing his forehead into the dirt. Twenty metres away Khalifa could see the man’s wife and three children standing in the door of their hut, watching. Two boys and a girl. The same as Khalifa’s family. He stared at them, his mouth tightening fractionally as if he was trying to swallow something back. Then leaning down, he pulled the man upright and brushed the dust off his hair.
    ‘Can we get some tea?’
    The farmer nodded, struggling to recover himself. ‘Of course. Forgive me, I should have offered. I’m not thinking straight. Come.’
    He led the way over to the house and spoke to his wife. She disappeared inside while the two men sat on a bench against the wall, shaded by a corrugated-iron awning. The children remained where they were: barefoot, grubby-faced, watchful. There was a clank of pots, and then the sound of a running tap. Khalifa listened a moment to the hiss of splattering water, then frowned.
    ‘You’re still using the well?’
    ‘No, no,’ replied the farmer. ‘That’s just for irrigation and the buffalo. Our own water we pump up from Bir Hashfa.’
    He pointed to a blue plastic hose that looped out of the ground nearby and ran around to the back of the house.
    ‘The village has got a mains supply,’ he explained. ‘They bring it in from Luxor. I pay them to connect to it.’
    ‘And these are the people you think have done this?’
    Khalifa indicated the dead buffalo and yellowed crops.
    ‘Of course they’ve done it. We’re Christians, they’re Muslims. They want us out.’
    ‘It seems a lot of trouble to go to,’ said Khalifa, swiping a fly away from his face. ‘Coming all the way up here, poisoning your well and fields. They could have just cut your water supply and have done with it.’
    The man shrugged.
    ‘They hate us. When you hate, nothing is too much trouble. And anyway, if they’d stopped the water I’d have found somewhere else to get it from. Brought it up in bottles, if necessary. They know me. I’m not afraid of work.’
    Khalifa finished his cigarette and ground the butt beneath his shoe.
    ‘And you didn’t see anyone?’ he asked. ‘Hear anything?’
    The man shook his head. ‘They must have done it at night. You can’t stay awake all the time. Two, three days ago. That’s when the buffalo started getting sick.’
    ‘She’ll get better, though, won’t she, Daddy?’
    The question came from the little girl. Leaning over, the man lifted her on to his knee. She was pretty, only about three or four, with large green eyes and a tangle of black hair. He wrapped his arms around her and rocked back and forth. The elder of the two boys stepped forward.
    ‘I won’t let them take our farm, Dad. I’ll fight them.’
    Khalifa smiled, more sad than amused. The boy reminded him of his own son, Ali. Not physically – he was too tall, his hair too short. But the