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being drawn by donkeys. The only decent cars were the monstrous American limousines of the wealthy pashas and the occasional prewar English Austin. Mixing with the motor vehicles in deadly competition were the horse-drawn gharries, the mule carts of the peasants, and the livestock—camels, sheep and goats—which were banned from the city center by the most unenforceable law on the Egyptian statute book.
    And the noise—Wolff had forgotten the noise.
    The trams rang their bells continuously. In traffic jams all the cars hooted all the time, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted on general principles. Not to be outdone, the drivers of carts and camels yelled at the tops of their voices. Many shops and all cafés blared Arab music from cheap radios turned to full volume. Street vendors called continually and pedestrians told them to go away. Dogs barked and circling kites screamed overhead. From time to time it would all be swamped by the roar of an airplane.
    This is my town, Wolff thought; they can’t catch me here.
    There were a dozen or so well-known pensions catering for tourists of different nationalities: Swiss, Austrian, German, Danish and French. He thought of them and rejected them as too obvious. Finally he remembered a cheap lodging house run by nuns at Bulaq, the port district. It catered mainly for the sailors who came down the Nile in steam tugs and feluccas laden with cotton, coal, paper and stone. Wolff could be sure he would not get robbed, infected or murdered, and nobody would think to look for him there.
    As he headed out of the hotel district the streets became a little less crowded, but not much. He could not see the river itself, but occasionally he glimpsed, through the huddled buildings, the high triangular sail of a felucca.
    The hostel was a large, decaying building which had once been the villa of some pasha. There was now a bronze crucifix over the arch of the entrance. A black-robed nun was watering a tiny bed of flowers in front of the building. Through the arch Wolff saw a cool quiet hall. He had walked several miles today, with his heavy cases: he looked forward to a rest.
    Two Egyptian policemen came out of the hostel.
    Wolff took in the wide leather belts, the inevitable sunglasses and the military haircuts in a swift glance, and his heart sank. He turned his back on the men and spoke in French to the nun in the garden. “Good day, Sister.”
    She unbent from her watering and smiled at him. “Good day.” She was shockingly young. “Do you want lodgings?”
    “No lodgings. Just your blessing.”
    The two policemen approached, and Wolff tensed, preparing his answers in case they should question him, considering which direction he should take if he had to run away; then they went past, arguing about a horse race.
    “God bless you,” said the nun.
    Wolff thanked her and walked on. It was worse than he had imagined. The police must be checking everywhere. Wolff’s feet were sore now, and his arms ached from carrying the luggage. He was disappointed, and also a little indignant, for everything in this town was notoriously haphazard, yet it seemed they were mounting an efficient operation just for him. He doubled back, heading for the city center again. He was beginning to feel as he had in the desert, as if he had been walking forever without getting anywhere.
    In the distance he saw a familiar tall figure: Hussein Fahmy, an old school friend. Wolff was momentarily paralyzed. Hussein would surely take him in, and perhaps he could be trusted; but he had a wife, and three children, and how would one explain to them that Uncle Achmed was coming to stay, but it was a secret, they must not mention his name to their friends ... How, indeed, would Wolff explain it all to Hussein himself? Hussein looked in Wolff’s direction, and Wolff turned quickly and crossed the road, darting behind a tram. Once on the opposite pavement he went quickly down an alley without looking back. No, he