him.'
The driver leaned out and shouted something at
the man sitting in the window. They held a brief
conversation, in Arabic, and then another man,
young, came out of the building and bent down to
the taxi, looking at Tara.
'Your father work here?' His English was
heavily accented.
'Yes,' she said. 'Professor Michael Mullray.'
'Excellent!' The man smiled broadly. 'Everybody
62
know the Doktora. He most famous Egyptologist
in world. He my good friend. He teach me
English. I take you dig house myself.'
He came round to the other side of the taxi and
slipped into the passenger seat, giving instructions
to the driver.
'My name Hassan,' he said as they moved off. 'I
work here at main teftish. You very welcome.' He
extended a hand, which Tara shook.
'I was supposed to meet my father at the air-
port,' she said. 'I think we must have missed each
other. Is he here, do you know?'
'I sorry, I only just come. He probably in dig
house. You look like to him, you know.'
'Like him,' smiled Tara. 'I look like him. You
don't need the "to".'
The man laughed. 'You look like him,' he said
carefully. 'And you are good teacher like to him
too.'
They followed the road up to the top of the
scarp and then turned right onto a bumpy track
that ran along the edge of the desert plateau. The
step pyramid was behind them now, with two
other smaller pyramids nearby, both ruined and
slumped, so that Tara had the impression they
were all images of the same pyramid in different
stages of collapse. To the right the patchwork
fields of the Nile plain shimmered in the morning
heat; to the left the desert rolled and bumped off
towards the horizon, barren and empty and
desolate.
A hundred metres along the track they passed
through the middle of a small settlement and
Hassan signalled the driver to stop.
63
'This teftish,' he said, indicating a large yellow
building to the right. 'Saqqara main office. I stop
here. Beit Mullray, your father dig house, more
further. I tell driver how go there. If you have
problem you come back here.'
He climbed out, said something to the driver
and they moved off again, continuing for another
two kilometres before pulling over beside a low,
one-storey house standing on the very edge of the
escarpment.
'Beit Mullray,' said the driver.
It was a long, ramshackle building, painted a
dusty pink and arranged around three sides of
a sandy courtyard, in the centre of which stood a
huge wood and wire excavator's sieve. A rickety
wooden tower with a water tank on top stood at
one end of the building, a pile of wooden crates at
the other, with a mangy dog dozing in the shade
beside them. The windows were all closed and
shuttered. There seemed to be no-one around.
The driver said he'd wait, arguing that if her
father wasn't there he could take her back to
Cairo, where he knew lots of good hotels. She
declined the offer and, removing her bag from the
boot, paid the fare and set off towards the house,
the taxi reversing behind her and driving off in a
cloud of dust.
She crossed the courtyard, noticing what looked
like a row of painted stone blocks beneath a
tarpaulin in the corner, and hammered on the
front door. No response. She tried the handle.
The door was locked.
'Dad!' she called. 'It's Tara!'
Nothing.
64
She walked around to the rear of the house. A
long shady terrace ran its full length, with pots of
dusty geraniums and cacti, some gnarled lemon
trees and a couple of stone benches. There were
fabulous views eastwards across the green Nile
plain, but she was oblivious to them. Removing
her sunglasses, she went up to one of the shuttered
windows and peered through the peeling slats. It
was dark inside and apart from the edge of a table
with a book on it she could see nothing. She
looked through another shutter further along,
making out a bed with a pair of battered desert
boots tucked beneath it, and then walked round to
the front of the house and
The driver leaned out and shouted something at
the man sitting in the window. They held a brief
conversation, in Arabic, and then another man,
young, came out of the building and bent down to
the taxi, looking at Tara.
'Your father work here?' His English was
heavily accented.
'Yes,' she said. 'Professor Michael Mullray.'
'Excellent!' The man smiled broadly. 'Everybody
62
know the Doktora. He most famous Egyptologist
in world. He my good friend. He teach me
English. I take you dig house myself.'
He came round to the other side of the taxi and
slipped into the passenger seat, giving instructions
to the driver.
'My name Hassan,' he said as they moved off. 'I
work here at main teftish. You very welcome.' He
extended a hand, which Tara shook.
'I was supposed to meet my father at the air-
port,' she said. 'I think we must have missed each
other. Is he here, do you know?'
'I sorry, I only just come. He probably in dig
house. You look like to him, you know.'
'Like him,' smiled Tara. 'I look like him. You
don't need the "to".'
The man laughed. 'You look like him,' he said
carefully. 'And you are good teacher like to him
too.'
They followed the road up to the top of the
scarp and then turned right onto a bumpy track
that ran along the edge of the desert plateau. The
step pyramid was behind them now, with two
other smaller pyramids nearby, both ruined and
slumped, so that Tara had the impression they
were all images of the same pyramid in different
stages of collapse. To the right the patchwork
fields of the Nile plain shimmered in the morning
heat; to the left the desert rolled and bumped off
towards the horizon, barren and empty and
desolate.
A hundred metres along the track they passed
through the middle of a small settlement and
Hassan signalled the driver to stop.
63
'This teftish,' he said, indicating a large yellow
building to the right. 'Saqqara main office. I stop
here. Beit Mullray, your father dig house, more
further. I tell driver how go there. If you have
problem you come back here.'
He climbed out, said something to the driver
and they moved off again, continuing for another
two kilometres before pulling over beside a low,
one-storey house standing on the very edge of the
escarpment.
'Beit Mullray,' said the driver.
It was a long, ramshackle building, painted a
dusty pink and arranged around three sides of
a sandy courtyard, in the centre of which stood a
huge wood and wire excavator's sieve. A rickety
wooden tower with a water tank on top stood at
one end of the building, a pile of wooden crates at
the other, with a mangy dog dozing in the shade
beside them. The windows were all closed and
shuttered. There seemed to be no-one around.
The driver said he'd wait, arguing that if her
father wasn't there he could take her back to
Cairo, where he knew lots of good hotels. She
declined the offer and, removing her bag from the
boot, paid the fare and set off towards the house,
the taxi reversing behind her and driving off in a
cloud of dust.
She crossed the courtyard, noticing what looked
like a row of painted stone blocks beneath a
tarpaulin in the corner, and hammered on the
front door. No response. She tried the handle.
The door was locked.
'Dad!' she called. 'It's Tara!'
Nothing.
64
She walked around to the rear of the house. A
long shady terrace ran its full length, with pots of
dusty geraniums and cacti, some gnarled lemon
trees and a couple of stone benches. There were
fabulous views eastwards across the green Nile
plain, but she was oblivious to them. Removing
her sunglasses, she went up to one of the shuttered
windows and peered through the peeling slats. It
was dark inside and apart from the edge of a table
with a book on it she could see nothing. She
looked through another shutter further along,
making out a bed with a pair of battered desert
boots tucked beneath it, and then walked round to
the front of the house and
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