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for me in the sitting room while I splash water on my face.
    â€œThey don’t go out in the morning,” Mustafa says as soon as I settle next to him, “only in the afternoon: four, five, six o’clock. Keda , like that. They don’t come back until late: nine, ten, eleven o’clock. Keda. They always dress nicely, with makeup and styled hair. They take the microbus—maybe because they can’t afford taxis.”
    â€œOf course they can’t afford taxis.”
    â€œWell, that’s when my man always loses them—until this time, that is. Yes, he took a chance and got on the same microbus, dangerous as that was. I mean, what if, what if?”
    â€œBut they don’t know who this man is.”
    â€œTrue, but if they saw him there and remembered his face from another place, and then keep spotting him? They might solve the puzzle and form a picture.”
    â€œWe’re the ones trying to form a picture, not them. Now, Mustafa, will you get to the point and tell me what you found out?”
    â€œYes, yes, exactly.” Mustafa clears his throat. “Anyway, my man—and I won’t tell you his name or where he lives, for your protection, of course. The last thing we want is people saying that Majed Al-Naseemy is spying on his daughter and her mother.”
    â€œWhat did you find out?”
    â€œThey got off in front of a building near the embassies in El-Dokki. It’s an old building, gray or maybe beige, I’m not sure because of all the dust and diesel fumes. You know, in Cairo buildings are never washed.”
    â€œMustafa!”
    â€œSorry, bey,” he stutters. “Where was I?” He interlaces his fingers, then leans back and thrusts his hands out to produce a mighty crack. “It seems they are looking for a composer.”
    â€œA composer? What is that supposed to mean?”

5
DALAL
    A pinch of what feels like mildew clings to the back of my throat. I cough it away, and the dryness that takes its place signals the start of another day. Something pokes my bottom—another loose spring in the mattress—and I cry out a bit too dramatically before rolling off the bed, all the while scowling with the certainty that I’ll never get used to this place.
    My waking moments never feel fresh. In my room, the air doesn’t move. It’s as if a hundred old men slept around me, snoring, belching, and farting all night. The lingering staleness that is the hallmark of our dark, dank apartment always seems worse in the morning, and it makes me rush to slip into my dressing gown and step out onto the balcony off the sitting room. It’s not much better out here, overlooking an alley so tight that any trapped breeze fizzles to nothing before it can reach me. The balcony is so small that I’d have to stand sideways if anyone joined me. Alone, I have enough space to take one step to the right or left. A pencil of light falls just beyond its edge. I clutch the iron railing and lean over to bathe my face in it.
    I live with my mother on the fringe of the densely populated Imbaba slum in a building just a couple of streets away from Sudan Street. I can’t see the road, but I can hear it. The persistent honks wrapped in the hollow drone of traffic is a daily reminder of how close I am to Sudan Street, that just by crossing it I’d be strolling in the more affluent Mohandessin district.
    I hear a call from a balcony below me in the facing building. “Don’t get too much sun, or you’ll turn black.” It’s Salwa, a sweet-faced mother with five children and a brutish husband. She has pulled up her cuffs and is hanging her washing on a line secured to poles that jut out of her window ledge. I peer down at her briefly and look back up at the sun, taking notice of another woman two balconies above her who is preparing to do the same with her laundry. It pleases me that there are no bruises on Salwa’s pale arms,