Through twelve evocative tales of longing and loss, Exiles Incorporated depicts a volatile world of hostile landscapes, where humans strive to belong amid the cruelty of conquest, the madness of desire and the transience of love. In the sixth story Rumi, a pickpocket in medieval Cairo braves a sandstorm in search of a mysterious golden house offering treasures beyond imagination.
I’ll tell you its name, as long as you don’t expect to hear mine. A khamsin it’s called: a giant sandstorm blanketing markets, mosques and mausoleums in blinding swathes of ochre. A thing with no face or shape. Exceeded in power, according to some, only by the breath of Allah. But I don’t believe in the divine. Dirty air is the only thing blowing through my hollow body.
As afternoon fades, a khamsin sweeps Cairo. The breeze stiffens. A hush slithers the streets. Bartering ceases in the souks. The city empties of ritual and every abandoned pot, place and pathway is suffocated by the desert’s veil.
I emerge from the bazaar to confront the beast. Storm winds blast my slim frame. I shield my eyes with the back of my hand. My headscarf covers the rest of my face. In my profession, it doesn’t pay to be recognised. Stooping, I cup a handful of sand in my palm. Removing the scarf, I blow tiny desert shards back where they came, observing them scatter, dip and disappear.
So with sand, so with people. People, politicians, princes. Husbands, wives, lovers. They come. They go. Only two powers thrive in a khamsin. The first is chaos. The second is me. I know how to be in the right place at the right time. In Cairo, you learn to grasp whatever there is. See opportunities where others feel fear. If you don’t, life beats you into a corner, where you cower at the mercy of a deranged shadow who screams at you not to move.
Every day I circle the Qasaba. Through the stench of sweat, spices and incense, I sniff for easy wealth hanging from low branches like ripe fruit. The sandstorm within never settles. I am the world’s thirstiest person. Not for water, but for coin. The precious circles around which everything revolves. My wispy motions slip unnoticed through crowds. My sound is soft; my disarming eyes forever watch the world. Let me lead you on a merry dance, they say.
A beggar buys a date. He drops the money into a pot. A boy slips his arm inside, snaffles the coin and runs into a bazaar past a woman thieving fur to seduce a soldier. She steals into an alley and steps over another beggar. The wretch hasn’t received anything today, until a city official throws scraps to him on his way to prayers. Treasure chests all of them, ready to be unlocked. I draw so close I can smell my prospects’ breaths. They barely notice me, until they waken to what’s happened. Pickpockets must be as cold as the Nile in winter.
Many revere the mystery of the pyramids. I idolise the legend of the Sphinx. Freedom lies in perplexity; the art of sending my victims’ minds spinning. Especially those too naïve for Cairo. My only emotion is disdain. My only impulse greed. My only path flowered with profit. The one thing I won’t steal is someone’s breath. Not even my former master’s. There is not much sport in murder. The victims can never look back and realise what’s been taken.
Exiles Incorporated is available to buy on Apple Books, Amazon and Google Play as an e-book, plus on Amazon and Barnes & Noble as a paperback.
PHILIP PARRISH 