Alexandra Singer Read Online Free PDF

forehead.
    “I must leave you now. I have that appointment.” Mahmoud winked extravagantly at Maia, making her wince.
    “We have known one another for years. He has a big personality,” the Historian remarked. It was more of a statement than a judgment. Maia nodded in agreement, wondering what sort of
friendship this strange pair might share.
    For a few moments they sat together in silence. When he finally spoke, the Historian’s voice was soft and low, and peculiarly sad, as if radiating despair.
    “It’s been a very long time since I saw him,” said the Historian.
    “You mean – ”
    “Yes,” he said abruptly. He was talking about the academic who had recommended the Historian. He tilted his head contemptuously. “Feels guilty, does he?”
    Maia wondered what the academic had to feel guilty about. “He was very helpful.”
    “Yes,” said the Historian. “I am surprised he was so helpful. They don’t think so highly of me in London.”
    “Oh no, I believe you are very respected.”
    “Oh yes, respected academically, perhaps, but not liked. They’ll never like me again. Not enough to have me back.”
    “I see,” Maia said, not knowing what she could say. “I didn’t know.”
    “No, of course you didn’t know. A young girl like you. Why would you know? Why would you know anything at all?” and he began to mumble something under his breath. As she
watched his mouth form the words, she understood that he was swearing in French with a coarseness that surprised her, making obscene, bizarre accusations against his former colleagues. Maia began
to understand why the Historian had been so ostracised, why he had never returned to London. He had a temperament that made others feel uncomfortable.
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am not cracked in the head. Not yet, anyway. Memories of the past, they make me angry. Do you know what it is like to be pushed out of your
position?”
    “No.”
    “Of course not. So tell me, how is that lecherous little Napoleon? What I could tell you about him. Flourishing, I suppose?”
    “I don’t know,” said Maia, which was the truth.
    “So, you have had time to explore?” he asked.
    “Not so much. I didn’t set my alarm to wake today. After all the travelling I’ve done in the past few weeks.”
    “Of course, I know just how it is,” said the Historian, in a manner that suggested he had little sympathy with her.
    Maia had felt justified in having slept away most of the day. All the travel and the emotional exhaustion had caught up with her. The endurance of the fact that four years had gone up in smoke
and humiliation. Maia decided that if she wanted to sleep all day, she would.
    “I only eventually woke because of the call to prayer.”
    “Have you eaten nothing?”
    “Not much.”
    He called over the waiter and said something unintelligible in a throaty, gurgling accent.
    Maia was taken aback. “You speak Arabic?” He had lived here long enough, but she had not expected such fluency.
    “I’ve been studying for years.”
    Maia’s late breakfast arrived; rolls of bread with butter and jam, sweet black coffee and squeezed orange juice with bottled water. Maia devoured it as the sun continued to set, turning
the city’s sandstone a deeper shade of pink.
    At the next table along, a large woman was laughing, her head thrown far back. She must have been in her early fifties at least, and her voice made a low, rasping sound. Her head was uncovered,
her skin pitted and her hands rough, and she was talking to her much younger male companion with all the innocent flirtatiousness of a school girl. But when she laughed, she laughed loudly, with
the voice of a savage. Maia was enthralled by the woman’s plumpness, her great femininity.
    The Historian watched Maia so distracted, looking at the woman. “You mustn’t be so surprised, Maia. This is one of the very last decadent outposts of Europe. Africa begins
here!”
    “I’m afraid you haven’t been to