Anatomy of a Disappearance by Hisham Matar Read Free Book Online Page B

excuse of celebrating my thirteenth birthday, we took a boat up the Nile to Luxor, and the fire was reignited. The same sad hunger, only darker and harder to bear.
    The boat was moving soundlessly. I could see through the small window in my cabin the waters parting behind us, the discrete ripples running wide like pressed skin, gathering pace then collapsing gently against the soft grassy banks of the river. This was our first morning aboard the
Isis
, clamorous Cairo far behind now. The capital’s fat river had withered to a provincial waterway. Its banks pressedclose and so seemed more reticent somehow. We were traveling upstream, south into the continent. Already the skin of the boys who occasionally ran along with our speed—waving, sticking out tongues, revealing buttocks—was a shade darker, as dark as Naima’s. Another four days and we would reach the pale waters of Luxor, where, the captain had told us when we boarded, the waters are so clear you can see right to the bottom of the ancient river. Will we see jewels and ruins and things down there? I had thought to ask. But from where I was standing on the narrow lacquered deck behind Mona and Father and their two giant suitcases, speaking seemed impossible.
    That night I could not sleep. The fluid motion of the boat combined with the muffled happy voices from the cabin next door kept me awake most of the night. The newlyweds did not fall asleep until the water’s surface had turned silver: giggling, shushing, then a breathless silence, then sudden laughter. At one point, delirious with exhaustion and jealousy, I thought, They mean to do this; they mean to torment me.
    Now that we were farther south, the sun had become braver. I lay uncovered, unready for morning, which came thick with heat. My T-shirt and trunks were sticky against my skin, my jaw slack on the pillow, when Mona walked in without knocking. I held my eyes shut, but she was not convinced.
    “I have tried everything. It’s past nine and he still won’t wake.”
    She walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Without needing to move I could see part of her thigh. I heard the sound of her pee pouring into water—closer to a small stream than a fountain—then the scrape of paper. She washed her hands, splashed her face, gasping against the cold water. She sat on the bed. I turned and faced the wood paneling, reading the lines and twirls of the grain. She placed a hand on my back.

CHAPTER 12
    What I then took for adoration was Mona’s fancy to be adored. I imagine she found the torment and slow discovery of a boy-admirer all at once entertaining, flattering and pathetic. I think this now as I recall what happened next.
    The three of us were taking turns diving into the passing river, then hurrying to catch up with the steamer. The other two would cheer as the swimmer chased after the ladder. The pace of the boat was gentle, but our excitement feigned danger. Every time the swimmer grabbed hold of the first tread, the other two would clap. Mona put her thumb and index finger in her mouth and whistled loudly. I wished I could do that. And ever since I have looked up to people who can as a kind of elite. At one point Father lifted her in his arms and kissed her. We had caused a spectacle. Clothed passengers stood leaning on the rail, watching us. Theyclapped as we climbed up onto the deck. Children looked at me. It was a performance, and we knew it. Our strangeness urged us on to act more, and we relished the questions we imagined our appearances and accents, our tongues that switched comfortably from Arabic to English to French, provoked in others.
    “Ça, c’était vraiment rafraîchissant,” Father called out from the deck.
    And knowing full well his purpose, I replied, “Ah oui, c’était superbe.”

    Father plonked himself down into a deck chair, his chest heaving with effort, and I watched the dark wood beneath him darken further still. The captain stood nearby, looking at him. Father