Pharaoh by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Read Free Book Online Page B

overwhelmed by the consequences. The loss of my job, my wife . . .’
    ‘What are you going to do now?’
    ‘Now as in “right now”?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘I’ll find my way back to the car and go home. I’ve got a little place not too far from here. By the ballpark. I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ said Husseini. ‘I don’t think there’s much I can do for you. I’m just an assistant professor and I don’t have tenure but, if you like, you can tell Olsen when he comes back that I’m willing to give you a hand if I can.’
    ‘Thank you, Husseini. You’ve already helped me. And we’ve never even been . . . friendly.’
    ‘That’s normal. You can’t have relationships with all of your colleagues.’
    ‘Well, it’s late. Time for me to go.’
    ‘Listen, it’s no problem for me. If you like you can sleep here on the couch. It’s pretty comfortable.’
    ‘No, thanks. I really appreciate you taking me in like this but . . . I should be going now. Thanks again. You know, if you’d like to come out to my place, it’s not as nice as here but there’s always something to drink and . . . Well, I’ll give you the address. It’s in Bridgeport . . . If you feel like it, you know.’
    ‘Count on it,’ said Husseini.
    Blake went to a table to write out the address and noticed a photograph of a little boy of maybe five, and a phrase in Arabic that said: In memory of Said. Dad. He would have liked to ask about the little boy, but instead he just scribbled down his address, put on his coat and went to the door. It was still snowing.
    ‘Listen, can I ask you one last question?’ asked Husseini.
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Where does the name William Blake come from? It’s like being called Harun al Rashid or Dante Alighieri or Thomas Jefferson.’
    ‘Just chance. I’ve never liked being called Bill, because Bill Blake is awful.’
    ‘I see. Well, goodbye, then. I’ll come and visit, and you can come here whenever you like, if you feel like talking.’
    Blake waved briefly and trudged off through the deep snow. Husseini watched him as he passed from one ring of light to the next under the street lights, until he disappeared in the dark.
    He closed the door and returned to the living room. He lit another cigarette and sat in the dim light, thinking about William Blake and the papyrus of the Exodus.
    At eleven he switched on CNN. The crisis in the Middle East was old news, but he liked seeing the places anyway: the horrible roads of Gaza, the ruined buildings, the piles of filth. It reminded him of his childhood: the friends he’d played with in the streets, the scents of tea and saffron in the bazaar, the taste of unripe figs, the smell of dust and youth. But at the same time he found unutterable pleasure in living in this comfortable American apartment with a salary in dollars and a girlfriend, warm and uninhibited, a secretary at the university who came by two or three times a week and never set any limits in bed.
    The telephone rang as he was getting ready to go to sleep. He thought that William Blake must have changed his mind and decided to spend the night in his apartment instead of facing the long trip through snow and icy wind.
    He picked up the receiver and was about to say, ‘Hi, Blake, changed your mind?’ but the voice on the other side froze his blood.
    ‘ Salaam alekum , Abu Ghaj. It’s been a long time . . .’
    Husseini recognized the voice. There was only one person in the world who would call him by that name. For a moment he was speechless, but then he forced himself to react and said, ‘I thought that phase of my life was over a long time ago. I’ve got my life here, my work—’
    ‘There are promises that we must remain faithful to our whole lives, Abu Ghaj, and there’s a past from which no one can escape. Aren’t you aware of what is happening in our country?’
    ‘Of course I am,’ said Husseini. ‘But I’ve