In those days many Ghaziris wanted work. But there was no work for them in the Oiltown, for the Oilmen knew that a man working on his own land has at least a crop to fight for. Instead they brought their own men. They were welcome: since the beginning of time al-Ghazira has been home to anyone who chooses to call it such — if he comes as a man. But those ghosts behind the fence were not men, they were tools — helpless, picked for their poverty. In those days when al-Ghazira was still a real country they were brought here to slip between its men and their work, like the first whiffs of an opium dream; they were brought as weapons, to divide the Ghaziris from themselves and the world of sanity; to turn them into buffoons for the world to laugh at. And with time on their side they succeeded. So, when Nury threw himself on the fence and clawed his hands to ribbons, begging them to let him in, nothing happened, for there were no men inside to open the gates for Nury the desperate Damanhouri.
When the gates did open, it was to let out the Oiltown’s uniformed guards with their batons and shields and water-hoses. There was nothing Nury could do but turn again, and run, with the crowd milling behind him.
By this time the crowd was an avalanche of people and confusion, and they were driven straight on, past the Ras again, straight towards the Maidan al-Jami‘i, like fish into a net. The Amir’s men had long since ringed the square, and blocked all the lanes and roads leading out of it. Once the crowd was inside, coolly and efficiently the guards let fly.
It was not the End or the Day of Judgement — nothing of the kind. The guards hurled not bullets but tear gas. In a few minutes the excitement died away and the crowd was as docile and drugged as a school of stunned fish. The Amir’s men let them out and herded them back to their houses. Some people’s eyes watered for days afterwards, a couple of old men were stricken with palsy because of the excitement, and there were a few broken legs and a miscarriage or two. All that was lost was a little breath.
We were wrong. This was no feud: no tyrants died; there was no fratricide, no regicide, no love, no hate. It was just practice for the princes of the future and their computers — an exercise in good husbandry.
Only Nury died. He was running across the Maidan towards the Bab al-Asli when the tear gas burst. Temporarily robbed of his sharp eyes Nury shambled helplessly around until he blundered into a Bedu boy, come to the Souq on his camel to sell wool. The animal, frenzied by the noise and the gas, bit poor Nury’s head cleanly off his shoulders.
That was the end of Nury the Sharp-Eyed Damanhouri.
It happened for the best: even if Saneyya had not already blown away the foundations of his trade, Nury would have been homeless in the new Ghazira. There was no place in it for sharp-eyed egg-sellers. All the eggs now came from the poultry farms of Europe, and Nury could never have afforded a plane.
The Malik was rarely seen after that, though he was, and still is, said to be the ruler. He was left in the Old Fort, but more as a prisoner than a king. They say the Amir found and seized a vast trove of arms in the Fort. The Oilmen offered to pension the old Malik off in their own country, but they could only have carried his dead body out of the Fort, so the Amir had to be content with leaving him there, with his own guards posted outside. But, still, he’ll never have a day’s rest as long as the Malik still lives, for no one can tell what the old man is plotting.
And Jeevanbhai: all his businesses and ships, his warehouses and customs contracts were seized. Only his shop in the Souq and his office near the harbour were left to him. For years he was a broken man. But his happy couples didn’t forget him, and with a little bit of help he started again. What little he has today he had to build up anew. Then, just when he thought he still had his gods’ blessings, his wife died, and today he is the walking corpse you see. A man can try only so many times and no more. That’s why Jeevanbhai has taken to drinking in the secrecy of his shop.
Jabal the Eunuch moved to the New Palace and soon became one of the Amir’s closest advisers. The Amir never forgot that he may have lost the Battle of the Date Palms if it were not for Jabal, and he slipped a dozen or so of the most lucrative British and American agencies into his lap, and today they say Jabal the Mountainous Eunuch has grown into a whole cordillera, with enough money to buy a continent to spread himself out on.
The Amir found out which shopkeepers had supplied Jeevanbhai with kerosene that night, and their shops were seized, every single one, and distributed among the Amir’s friends. Soon after, the fairs on the empty site were stopped as well.
The New City appeared overnight, like a mushroom. The Oilmen forgot all about a new Oiltown, for the whole country was their Oiltown now.
For years that bit of land on the edges of the New City was left as it was, covered with charred date palms. Then, long afterwards, when the Amir judged the Battle of the Date Palms forgotten, he had the plot cleared, and later the Corniche was laid around it. Then, last year, people said that a group of Ghaziri companies were putting up money to build a market greater than any in the continent; an immense shopping arcade, with five pointed arms, in celebration of the starry future. It would be called an-Najma, the Star, and it was to be built on a marshy, useless bit of land at the far end of al-Ghazira near the border. Nobody knew at first where the money was going to come from; the newspapers gave the names of unknown companies.
Truth lies in silences.
That money was put up by Jabal, King of the Eunuchs, and his friends.
Hajj Fahmy retreated into a long silence. No one in the room spoke, for they knew there were many twists and turns to the Hajj’s storytelling. At length, the Hajj put up his hand again.
Let me tell you now, he said, why the Star fell. It fell because no one wanted it. The Malik didn’t want it: he hasn’t forgotten one moment of the Battle of the Date Palms and never will. Nobody in the Souq wanted it: they haven’t forgotten the Battle, either, nor the confiscations. Besides, none of them had been allotted a shop in the Star. If the Star had actually opened, how long would the Souq have lasted? The Mawali didn’t want the Star because of their sheikh’s grave. The contractors who built it didn’t care whether it stood or fell — they had made their money anyway. The lovers who went there at night didn’t want it; the smugglers who landed there didn’t want it; Jabal and his friends didn’t want it — they’ll be happier with the insurance money. Did even the Amir want it? His money’s far away in some safe country, and nothing that happens in al-Ghazira matters to him much.
No one wanted the Star. That was why the Star felclass="underline" a house which nobody wants cannot stand.
Hajj Fahmy leant back against the wall, sighing with exhaustion. After a long while Abu Fahl broke the silence with a laugh. For an old man, he said, a grain of sand can become the Dome of the Rock. Nothing is simple. Anybody can see why the Star felclass="underline" it fell because too much sand was mixed with the cement. Anyone with any experience of building can see that. There is no mystery to it. Alu had no experience of building, so he reacted too slowly and got himself caught in the wreckage while everyone else managed to get away. Finished. Some things are simple.
Abu Fahl threw a dismissive glance across the room at Hajj Fahmy. The Hajj did not see it, for his eyes were shut. It was Rakesh who spoke: You really think it’s so simple, Abu Fahl? The words were forced out of his throat with a visible effort: Rakesh was not a man who relished being conspicuous in a crowd.
Abu Fahl, artlessly skilled in carrying an audience, looked around the room smiling, encouraging laughter. Yes, he said to Rakesh, it’s really that simple.