Cairo Read Free

staircases provided access to the upper floor at the southern and eastern corners. Architectural flourishes were kept to a minimum, in accordance with the modernist aesthetic of the era. The apartments’ front doors all had porthole windows and these, combined with the waist-high railing along the exterior walkways,gave one the impression of being on board a liner moored at the edge of the city, waiting for clearance to set sail.
    Helen’s apartment was sparsely furnished, but tasteful: a green sofa, an armchair, Persian rugs over the bare floorboards, a wooden table by the window, a coffee table with a pile of magazines, a low bookcase. On the floor was a record player with a stack of old records (the soundtrack from
Dr Zhivago, Scottish Military Anthems
) leaning against the skirting board beside it. A floorboard under a rug in the narrow hall squeaked when stepped on.
    The bedroom contained a spongy double bed, a wardrobe and a bureau of drawers upon which, among the scattering of jewellery and desiccated cosmetics, stood a framed, black-and-white photograph of Aunt Helen at a party with one hand resting on the forearm of the corpulent, bejewelled actor Frank Thring, who lived nearby.
    The kitchen led off the entrance hall and was dim and poky, not much larger than a galley. A window of frosted glass set high above the sink allowed for some natural light. The kitchen’s shallow cupboards contained a profusion of teacups, packets of spices, noodles, tins of tomatoes, bottles of liquor.
    Opposite the kitchen was the equally small bathroom with its glorious deep bath, a mirrored cupboard, tiles of the palest green. It smelled of musty drains and peppermint mouthwash. Spider webs fluttered in the corners; the sink bore a rusty tear-drop from the dripping tap.
    There was an elegant balcony off the lounge room that looked over a side street. Standing on it in the blazing sun, I could see the balconies of my neighbours on either side of this apartment, but no one appeared to be home. A car drove past in the street below, trailing a cricket commentary in its wake. I stretched out, tore off a handful of leaves and dry buds from the peppercorn tree, and held them to my face. To this day I cannot open a jar of peppercornswithout being plunged into that distant afternoon; it is an aroma (blunt, complicated; familiar yet exotic) that contains multitudes.
    My assessment of the apartment didn’t take long. Obviously, it needed to be thoroughly cleaned, but on that first afternoon I could do no more than lie on the couch, red satin cushion beneath my head, and gaze through the window at the swaying fronds of the peppercorn tree. Every so often, the thin curtain billowed out in the warm breeze like a woman’s dress. I was exhausted, relieved, scarcely able to believe my good fortune. I imagined Aunt Helen lying here doing the same thing. I felt at rest, as if I had travelled vast distances to be here.
    The heat subsided as the afternoon drew to a close. People came and went along the walkway outside. I sensed doors opening and closing, birds chirruping, voices, a woman humming an indistinct tune as she walked by, the vague sound less a melody than an enticing scent that hung on the air long after she had passed.

TWO
    IT’S DIFFICULT TO PINPOINT THE PRECISE BEGINNING BUT, IF I were to try, I would need to start earlier than the murder and that infamous heist; back further than meeting the Cheevers and their intriguing friends; before moving into Cairo, even though those events might be the obvious starting points for what transpired.
    Let’s face it: the rot set in early. Much later, Sally (dear Sally) told me that without a past a person has no character, and she might have been right. Now, perhaps, I have too much character.
    If I cast my mind back into the murky waters of that ever-receding past, I can picture myself late one afternoon on a low hill overlooking the football oval in Dunley, Victoria, population