3

Cairo, 1974

Fathers are born to disappear; your own died in his sleep one night. In his bed, like Nasser, just when everyone was beginning to think he was immortal. Your mother didn’t realise until the next morning. She rarely woke up before him. Believing he must still be sleeping next to her, she hadn’t dared rouse him. His face in death was as rigidly impassive as the one he’d worn in life. There was no reason to suspect he had crossed the threshold. She glanced at her watch. It was after 6 a.m. How strange that he had not woken up at 5:20, per his custom. At first, she’d worried he would blame her for waking him. Maybe he just needed a little more sleep than usual? Who was she to know what was best for her husband, who was a doctor after all? She waited a while longer. When still he made no sign of getting up, she worried instead that she’d be blamed for letting him sleep. She made some gentle sounds, to no avail. Now sure that she’d be found at fault no matter what she did, she decided to give him a shake. Against all odds, this time he did not blame her for anything at all.

The news didn’t reach you right away. You had just driven off towards Mokattam, the plateau in Cairo’s far eastern reaches where you were having a clinic built. You’d taken a day off to oversee the work. Scarcely had you got out of your car when a young boy ran over to you.

‘Dr Tarek! Dr Tarek! Your father, Dr Thomas, is dead! You have to go home right away!’

You would have suspected a bad joke had he not said your name and your father’s. You tried asking questions, but his shrugs made it clear that he knew nothing beyond the message he had been sent to deliver. You pulled a few coins from your pocket to thank him before sending him on his way. At the sight of the money, a grin replaced the solemn countenance he had put on for the occasion. You got back on the road, more in shock than grief at the news that had yet to sink in. You rushed to get back to your family.

You came in through the clinic where your father would never again practise, not yet trying to understand the implications of this seismic shift, and took the stairs four at a time to reach your mother’s side. You found her sitting in the living room with your aunt Lola. The scene resembled a rehearsal for her new role as widow, held before an audience of one. Visibly thrilled to have front-row seats for your mother’s investiture, your aunt showed her appreciation with effusive sobs. You felt almost like you were interrupting.

Sensing your confused presence in the doorway, your mother beckoned you in. Her bracelets jingled with impatience. When you reached her, she stood up, took you i