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due could be disastrous, but also flattering, and raising up a minor could raise eyebrows or even attract ridicule. Because he was, by nature, cautious, and by instinct generous, Mahmoud often erred on this side. Minor officials, irrelevant acquaintances, and struggling merchants would find themselves showered with his cordial attention, only to be cold-shouldered when their true identity was revealed.
    Nabilah touched his arm and he leaned closer to listen.
    ‘There are hardly any senior Egyptian officials. Very different from previous occasions.’
    She was right. The government was keeping the Egyptian contingent at a distance. Instead, it was the aspiring Sudanese politicians who were milling close to the Governor-General. None of the conservative tribal sheikhs were here, though. They would shun such a gathering, which included women and alcohol. Here, with the garden lights and the waiters circling with trays of hors d’ oeuvres, was the British and Levantine core of Khartoum: cosmopolitan and opportunistic, confident and only recently vulnerable. Mahmoud spotted a merchant who had expressed interest in leasing office space in the new building. It was too early to come to an agreement, but Mahmoud strode across the lawn to reassure him that the construction work was proceeding according to schedule.

V
     
    Ustaz Badr stood in the busy Abuzeid office facing Mahmoud Bey’s imposing desk. He took his time greeting the Bey, expressing with eloquence how grateful he was to Allah for restoring the gentleman’s health and returning him to his place of business. But something was wrong. He could tell from Mahmoud’s puzzled look and the way he frowned sideways at his brother and shook his head as if to ask, ‘Who is this?’ Before Badr could remind him that he was his children’s private tutor, the door of the office was pushed open and, as it seemed to Badr, the sun itself blasted through. The Coptic secretary, who had a minute ago carelessly waved him in, was now standing upright with the utmost energy and expectation, to usher in a tall well-dressed Englishman. To Badr’s astonishment, Mahmoud Abuzeid sprang to his feet and circled from behind his desk to greet his guest in the middle of the room.
    ‘Mr Harrison, what a pleasure, what a pleasure! Welcome, Sir, to my office. What an honour!’ He pumped the young man’s hand and the Englishman smiled with appreciation.
    It seemed to Badr that he was pushed aside. Metaphorically yes, he was discarded but physically, too, he was pushed aside, though afterwards, when he looked back on this scene, he was not sure who had actually touched him and shoved him out of the way. Was it the secretary, Victor, who had a few minutes ago in the reception area, casually asked him his name and occupation without leaving his desk? Or was it Mahmoud Abuzeid himself, or his brother, or the other attendants in the office who had sprung to their feet, not as fast as Mahmoud Bey, but immediately after him? Badr did what was expected of him. He moved outof the way. He shrunk himself, backed out, and slipped out the door, away from the enthusiasm between men who mattered and the exchange of these clipped, sparkling English words.
    There was space for him in the streets of Khartoum. He blended with the pre-sunset liveliness when shops and offices re-opened after siesta. The December air was clean and invigorating and this should have been an afternoon of hope and new beginning, of action not delay. Subhan Allah, when something is not meant to happen, it will not happen, no matter what. Who would have thought that his mission would abort? Or that he would fail before even attempting?
    ‘Go to him at his office,’ Hanniyah had said. ‘You have been relying on his son and his wife to ask him about the apartment but his son has gone away and Madame Nabilah must have forgotten. Go to him yourself.’
    Her advice had seemed sound, remarkably solid for an uneducated village woman. But he should