Free Cairo by Chris Womersley

drew me close. His voice sank to a whisper, and he affected the facial expression of one walking barefoot over broken glass. ‘Ah. Now, Tom. Do me a favour.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    He glanced at the doorway. ‘We don’t ever need to mention that, uh,
letter
you found at your apartment, do we.’
    â€˜No, I suppose not.’
    â€˜Do you promise?’
    I perceived, dimly, a chink in his otherwise bluff armour, but was content to assume the role of the innocent. ‘OK.’
    His grip on my shoulder tightened. ‘It’s very important. In fact, let me be even clearer. Breathe a word of it and there will be trouble.’
    My nervous giggle was curtailed by the suspicion, reinforced by his blunt stare, that perhaps he wasn’t joking.
    Before alarm truly set in, however, he snapped back to his previous genial self. ‘Good. It might make things, ah, difficult for us, that’s all. Now, do me yet another favour and look at that recipe up there. I can’t recall how long they recommend cooking our fat friend.’ He indicated a large, food-stained cookbook propped open on top of the fridge.
    Relieved at the brisk change of subject, I did as he asked. ‘It says … cook for an hour and a half at 180 degrees Celsius.’
    â€˜Excellent news!’
    There was a wonderful fragrance, followed by movement at my right shoulder. I turned to see a woman standing in the hallway, which was gorgeously lit by the sun setting through the trees — hot wooden floor, glancing light, a mermaid breaching the shadows.
    Although she was obscured by the jangling bead curtain, I recognised her as a woman I had admired many times around the neighbourhood. I had, in fact, seen her that morning at Cafe Rhumbarella reading a paperback novel and smoking thin, hand-rolled cigarettes. Up close, her loveliness was heart-stopping. I heard myself gasp but, fortunately, any adolescent embarrassment I might otherwise have betrayed was eclipsed by Max dashing across the tiny kitchen to pop his head through the beads.
    He pecked her on the cheek. ‘Feeling better, my love?’
    The woman shrugged and smiled sleepily. She wore a cream dress patterned with large red hibiscus flowers. Her blonde hair was damp and marginally darker where it touched her neck.
    â€˜Sally. This is our new neighbour, Tom. Tom, this is my wife, Sally. Poor thing has been lying in a cool bath all afternoon. This damnable heat, you know.’
    We exchanged greetings and shook hands. Again she smiled. Her body exuded an orchidaceous warmth. I felt the insistent tug of what I would recognise, in later life, as doomed romance.
    â€˜Dinner’s ready,’ Max said behind me. ‘Tom, will you grab some cutlery from that drawer. Sally, take him up, will you. Are you prepared for a feast?’
    Sally cocked her head and held out a hand to me. ‘Come.’
    *
    To my surprise and my everlasting delight, that dinner took place on the Cairo rooftop. Somehow, Max had managed to transport a table (complete with white tablecloth, crystal decanter of wine and candelabra) and chairs up there. Strung up around us were half-a-dozen red and orange Chinese paper lanterns. The tower blocks to our east glowed in the late sun and, below us on the other side, trams and cars and people passed by in the street. I imagined passengers in planes far overhead peering down upon the magical scene, wondering who on earth we were and how they could possibly be invited to our exclusive party.
    The first hour of that dinner is little more than a blur of sensory snapshots in my memory: chilled Sauvignon Blanc, Max tossing his fringe from his eyes, James’s smoke rings disintegrating like ramshackle galleons as they sailed the length of the table, Sally’s collarbone as luminous as coral. The pheasant (in reality a very fat chicken) was rich and juicy, so different from anything I had ever eaten before, and followed by buttermilk panna