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the dream had taken place in this room—his hand on her neck （she touched it now）； his anger towards her that she had sensed the first few times she had met him。 no； not anger； a lack of interest； irritation at a married woman being among them。
they had been bent over like animals； and he had yoked her neck back so she had been unable to breathe within her arousal。
her husband brought her the glass on a saucer but she could not lift her arms； they were shaking； loose。 he put the glassawkwardly against her mouth so she could gulp the chlorinated water； some ing down her chin； falling to her stomach。
when she lay back she hardly had time to think of what she had witnessed； she fell into a quick deep sleep。
that had been the first recognition。 she remembered it sometime during the next day； but she was busy then and she refused to nestle with its significance for long； dismissed it； it was an accidental collision on a crowded night； nothing more。
a year later the other； more dangerous； peaceful dreams came。 and even within the first one of these she recalled the hands at her neck and waited for the mood of calmness between them to swerve to violence。
who lays the crumbs of food that tempt you？ towards a person you never considered。 a dream。 then later another series of dreams。
he said later it was propinquity。 propinquity in the desert。 it does that here； he said。 he loved the word—the propinquity of water； the propinquity of two or three bodies in a car driving the sand sea for six hours。 her sweating knee beside the gearbox of the truck； the knee swerving； rising with the bumps。 in the desert you have time to look everywhere； to theorize on the choreography of all things around you。
when he talked like that she hated him； her eyes remaining polite； her mind wanting to slap him。 she always had the desire to slap him； and she realized even that was sexual。 for him all relationships fell into patterns。 you fell into propinquity or distance。 just as； for him； the histories in herodotus clarified all societies。 he assumed he was experienced in the ways of the world he had essentially left years earlier； struggling ever since to explore a half…invented world of the desert。
at cairo aerodrome they loaded the equipment into the vehicles； her husband staying on to check the petrol lines of the moth before the three men left the next morning。 madox went off to one of the embassies to send a wire。 and he was going into town to get drunk； the usual final evening in cairo； first at madame badin’s opera casino； and later to disappear into the streets behind the pasha hotel。 he would pack before the evening began； which would allow him to just climb into the truck the next morning； hung over。
so he drove her into town； the air humid； the traffic bad and slow because of the hour。
“it’s so hot。 i need a beer。 do you want one？” “no； i have to arrange for a lot of things in the next couple of hours。 you’ll have to excuse me。” “that’s all right；” she said。 “i don’t want to interfere。” “i’ll have one with you when i e back。” “in three weeks； right？” “about that。” “i wish i were going too。” he said nothing in answer to that。 they crossed the bulaq bridge and the traffic got worse。 too many carts； too many pedestrians who owned the streets。 he cut south along the nile towards the semiramis hotel； where she was staying； just beyond the barracks。
“you’re going to find zerzura this time； aren’t you。” “i’m going to find it this time。” he was like his old self。 he hardly looked at her on the drive； even when they were stalled for more than five minutes in one spot。
at the hotel he was excessively polite。 when he behaved this way she liked him even less； they all had to pretend this pose was courtesy； graciousness。 it reminded her of a dog in clothes。 to hell with him。 if her husband didn’t have to work with him she would prefer not to see him again。
he pulled her pack out of the rear and was about to carry it into the lobby。
“here； i can take that。” her shirt was damp at the back when she got out of the passenger seat。
the doorman offered to take the pack； but he said； “no； she wants to carry it；” and she was angry again at his assumption。
the doorman left them。 she turned to him and he passed her the bag so she was facing him； both hands awkwardly carrying the heavy case in front of her。
“so。 good…bye。 good luck。” “yes。 i’ll look after them all。 they’ll be safe。” she nodded。 she was in shadow； and he； as if unaware of the harsh sunlight； stood in it。
then he came up to her； closer； and she thought for a moment he was going to embrace her。 instead he put his right arm forward and drew it in a gesture across her bare neck so her skin was touched by the whole length of hisdamp forearm。
“good…bye。” he walked back to the truck。 she could feel his sweat now； like blood left by a blade which the gesture of his arm seemed to have imitated。
she picks up a cushion and places it onto her lap as a shield against him。 “if you make love to me i won’t lie about it。 if i make love to you i won’t lie about it。” she moves the cushion against her heart； as if she would suffocate that part of herself which has broken free。
“what do you hate most？” he asks。
“a lie。 and you？” “ownership；” he says。 “when you leave me； forget me。” her fist swings towards him and hits hard into the bone just below his eye。 she dresses and leaves。
each day he would return home and look at the black bruise in the mirror。 he became curious； not so much about the bruise； but about the shape of his face。 the long eyebrows he had never really noticed before； the beginning of grey in his sandy hair。
he had not looked at himself like this in a mirror for years。 that was a long eyebrow。
nothing can keep him from her。
when he is not in the desert with madox or with bermann in the arab libraries； he meets her in groppi park—beside the heavily watered plum gardens。 she is happiest here。 she is a woman who misses moisture； who has always loved low green hedges and ferns。 while for him this much greenery feels like a carnival。
from groppi pa