here were unwashed dishes in the sink, fragile broken egg shells for me to crumple in my hands before I threw them away, dirty socks on the floor, on Majdy's desk empty mugs of tea, the twisted cores of apples. I started to tidy up, he switched on the TV. Computer print-outs lay in piles on the floor. Many evenings before I went to Khartoum, he would work on the desk banging numbers on his calculator, grinding his bare feet on the carpet while I sat and cut the perforated edges of the sheets, strings of paper with holes. I played with them in my hands, twisting them into shapes, making bracelets and rings like a child. And these were the happy moments of our marriage, when the world outside was forgotten, when his concentration in his work was so intense that he would whistle the tunes of Sudanese songs we knew long ago.
Two months have yielded plenty of computer printouts. When I tidied up, when I unpacked, when he rose from the television and settled at his desk with a mug of tea, a feast awaited me. A feast of the sounds of paper separating from paper, holes settling upon holes, chains of entwined crispness. Now I could sit on the floor with the paper in front of me, lean my back on Majdy's chair and unroll my memories, conjure them up and spread them out. The Ostrich sitting on the bumper of a car parked inside the University, a number of us around him standing against its windows. Notebooks in our arms, those thin notebooks with a spiral wire holding the pages, a drawing of the University on the front cover. What was the weather like? Hot, very hot we can smell each other's sweat. Or one of those bright winter days when the sun softens its blows and a breeze whispers around the trees. Dust on the car, inside it, dust clinging to the Ostrich's hair, dust climbing between our toes. The shadows of the tree dance around the Ostrich, elusive patches of playful shade. What did we speak of in those days, when everything seemed possible and we were naive, believing the University an end not a means? 'Some Emir in the Gulf bought a horse in England for ten million pounds. Imagine ten million in hard currency. How many hospitals could this money have built, schools, roads. Shoes for me, says the Ostrich stretching his feet, his sandals torn, his toes coarse and gnarled, feet that could withstand burning tiles... Wish for a coup, the first thing they'll do is close the University, or better still a reason for a strike a month or so before the exams. Postponement and no Fiscal Policy... What has that man been going on about all year? Swear I saw last year's paper and couldn't even tell which parts of the lecture notes the answers came from'.
