with a
near-vertical drop away to their right. The woman
with sunburnt shoulders clutched the neck of the
donkey and trembled, too frightened even to
complain. The wails of the madman gradually
grew fainter until they disappeared altogether.
59
6
CAIRO
Tara waited at the airport until past ten a.m., by
which point her eyes were red from lack of sleep
and she was dizzy with tiredness. She had called
her father every half-hour, wandered round and
round the arrivals hall, even taken a taxi over to
the domestic terminal in case he'd gone to the
wrong place. All to no avail. He wasn't at the air-
port, he wasn't at his dig house, he wasn't at his
flat in Cairo. Her holiday had gone wrong before
it had even started. She clambered onto her seat
for the umpteenth time and gazed around the con-
course. So many people were now milling to and
fro, however, that even if her father had been
among them she wouldn't have seen him. She
jumped down, went over to the payphone and
called the dig house and flat one last time. Then,
swinging her bag over her shoulder and slipping on
her sunglasses, she went outside and hailed a taxi.
'Cairo?' asked the driver, a burly man with a
thick moustache and nicotine-stained fingers.
60
'No,' Tara replied, sinking wearily into the back
seat, 'Saqqara.'
Her father had been excavating at Saqqara, the
necropolis of the ancient Egyptian capital
Memphis, for the best part of fifty years.
He had dug at other sites around Egypt, from
Tanis and Sais in the north right down to Qustul
and Nauri in upper Sudan, but Saqqara had
always been his first love. Each season he would
take up residence in his dig house and remain
there for three or four months at a stretch,
painstakingly working over a small area of sand-
blown ruins, uncovering a few more metres of
history. Some seasons he wouldn't dig at all, but
would spend his time in restoration work or
recording the previous year's finds.
It was a frugal existence, monastic almost – just
himself, a cook and a small group of volunteers –
but it was the one place in the world, Tara
believed, where he was truly happy. His infrequent
letters revealed, in their minute descriptions of the
progress of his work, a sense of contentment that
seemed wholly absent from the other areas of his
life. That's why she had been so surprised when he
had asked her out to stay with him – this was his
world, his special place, and it must have taken a
leap of faith on his part to invite her into it.
The journey from the airport wasn't a comfort-
able one. Her driver seemed to have no concept of
road safety, thinking nothing of overtaking on
tight corners and in the face of heavy oncoming
traffic. On one stretch of road, alongside a foetid
green canal, he pulled out to go past a small truck
61
only to see a lorry approaching from the opposite
direction. Tara assumed he would pull in again.
Far from it. He hammered his palm on the horn
and pressed his foot to the floor, moving slowly
past the truck which, in response, started to go
faster, as though racing. The oncoming lorry grew
larger by the second and Tara felt her stomach
knot, convinced they were going to crash. Only at
the last minute, when it looked as if a head-on
collision was inevitable, did the driver yank his
wheel to the right, swerving in front of the truck
and missing the front of the lorry by what looked
like a matter of centimetres.
'You frightened?' he laughed as they sped on.
'Yes,' Tara replied curtly. 'I am.'
Eventually, and much to her relief, they turned
right off the main road and, after following a
smaller, tree-lined road for a few kilometres, came
to a halt at the foot of a steep sandy escarpment,
above which peeped the upper courses of a step-
shaped pyramid.
'You get ticket here,' said the driver, pointing to
a ticket window in a building to the right.
'Do I need one?' she asked. 'My father works
here. I've come to visit
near-vertical drop away to their right. The woman
with sunburnt shoulders clutched the neck of the
donkey and trembled, too frightened even to
complain. The wails of the madman gradually
grew fainter until they disappeared altogether.
59
6
CAIRO
Tara waited at the airport until past ten a.m., by
which point her eyes were red from lack of sleep
and she was dizzy with tiredness. She had called
her father every half-hour, wandered round and
round the arrivals hall, even taken a taxi over to
the domestic terminal in case he'd gone to the
wrong place. All to no avail. He wasn't at the air-
port, he wasn't at his dig house, he wasn't at his
flat in Cairo. Her holiday had gone wrong before
it had even started. She clambered onto her seat
for the umpteenth time and gazed around the con-
course. So many people were now milling to and
fro, however, that even if her father had been
among them she wouldn't have seen him. She
jumped down, went over to the payphone and
called the dig house and flat one last time. Then,
swinging her bag over her shoulder and slipping on
her sunglasses, she went outside and hailed a taxi.
'Cairo?' asked the driver, a burly man with a
thick moustache and nicotine-stained fingers.
60
'No,' Tara replied, sinking wearily into the back
seat, 'Saqqara.'
Her father had been excavating at Saqqara, the
necropolis of the ancient Egyptian capital
Memphis, for the best part of fifty years.
He had dug at other sites around Egypt, from
Tanis and Sais in the north right down to Qustul
and Nauri in upper Sudan, but Saqqara had
always been his first love. Each season he would
take up residence in his dig house and remain
there for three or four months at a stretch,
painstakingly working over a small area of sand-
blown ruins, uncovering a few more metres of
history. Some seasons he wouldn't dig at all, but
would spend his time in restoration work or
recording the previous year's finds.
It was a frugal existence, monastic almost – just
himself, a cook and a small group of volunteers –
but it was the one place in the world, Tara
believed, where he was truly happy. His infrequent
letters revealed, in their minute descriptions of the
progress of his work, a sense of contentment that
seemed wholly absent from the other areas of his
life. That's why she had been so surprised when he
had asked her out to stay with him – this was his
world, his special place, and it must have taken a
leap of faith on his part to invite her into it.
The journey from the airport wasn't a comfort-
able one. Her driver seemed to have no concept of
road safety, thinking nothing of overtaking on
tight corners and in the face of heavy oncoming
traffic. On one stretch of road, alongside a foetid
green canal, he pulled out to go past a small truck
61
only to see a lorry approaching from the opposite
direction. Tara assumed he would pull in again.
Far from it. He hammered his palm on the horn
and pressed his foot to the floor, moving slowly
past the truck which, in response, started to go
faster, as though racing. The oncoming lorry grew
larger by the second and Tara felt her stomach
knot, convinced they were going to crash. Only at
the last minute, when it looked as if a head-on
collision was inevitable, did the driver yank his
wheel to the right, swerving in front of the truck
and missing the front of the lorry by what looked
like a matter of centimetres.
'You frightened?' he laughed as they sped on.
'Yes,' Tara replied curtly. 'I am.'
Eventually, and much to her relief, they turned
right off the main road and, after following a
smaller, tree-lined road for a few kilometres, came
to a halt at the foot of a steep sandy escarpment,
above which peeped the upper courses of a step-
shaped pyramid.
'You get ticket here,' said the driver, pointing to
a ticket window in a building to the right.
'Do I need one?' she asked. 'My father works
here. I've come to visit
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