Golden Boy Read Online Free

which had been written dynastic poetry in hieroglyphs, bead necklaces, pottery oil lamps and bronze jewellery. The difference between this museum and those I had visited in England, however, was that everything here was for sale. Captivated by the ushabtis, I attempted to persuade my mother to buy me one, even desperately arguing that it might help me with my history lessons, but the price was too high and this was not, she told me in hushed tones, an emporium in which one haggled the price down.
    â€˜What does haggled mean?’ I asked. My mother’s reply was a severe keep-your-mouth-shut look. I complied.
    Further along the same street we came upon a low, colonnaded building which seemed to be attracting passengers from the Corfu as a picnic did ants. The interior was dark and cool, large wooden and rattan-bladed ceiling fans spinning overhead, blue sparks dancing in their electric motors. This was the Simon Artz department store, almost as famous in Egypt as the Sphinx or the pyramids, alabaster replicas of both of which it sold in a variety of sizes. In addition, one could buy copies of ancient Greek amphorae; grotesque leather poufs decorated with hieroglyphs, high priests and heavy brass studs; camel saddles (labelled as being genooine Bedooine ); beaten copper water jugs; wooden boxes inlaid with brass, lapis lazuli or ivory; carved camels, red felt fezes; brass salvers, alabaster ash trays and a working model of a water-raising system called a shadouf which I coveted but was forbidden to purchase by my father in case it harboured woodworm. That said, he purchased an alabaster ash tray. Without his knowing, my
mother bought me a small wooden camel supposedly devoid of insect infestation.
    Wherever we went, my father was addressed as effendi, my mother as Mrs Simpson. This I found puzzling in the extreme.
    â€˜ Effendi is like saying Sir or Mister,’ my mother said when I questioned her.
    â€˜But our name’s not Simpson,’ I went on.
    â€˜That’s Mrs Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor.’
    â€˜Are you related to the Duchess of Windsor?’ I enquired wondrously.
    â€˜No!’ my mother replied tersely. ‘She’s a tart.’
    The look on my mother’s face precluded any further discussion of the duchess or her pastries.
    We took lunch in a small hotel overlooking the sea, which my father had frequented during the war. The meal consisted of cubes of nondescript gristle immolated on metal skewers and served on a bed of gummy rice mottled with dark brown objects that might have been unhusked grains, mouse droppings or steamed weevils. My mother ate one piece. I masticated another for the better part of ten minutes before swallowing it with difficulty. My father liberally soused his in Tabasco and ate the full portion. His face went red, his brow broke out in a sweat and he drank a number of glasses of pilsner. This, he declared, was an ideal prophylactic for malaria. (Nevertheless, he periodically suffered from a recurrence of the disease, regardless of this occasional medication, until he was in his late thirties.)
    As he ate, my father embarked upon a tale of his wartime exploits.
    â€˜I was having dinner in this very room in 1942 – er 3 … It doesn’t matter – when an Arab approached my table. “ Effendi ,” he said, “I have some very fine dirty French postcards.” He started to open his jacket.’

    My father started to open his as if he, too, had something to offer.
    â€˜Ken …’ my mother remonstrated in vain.
    â€˜â€œI have fifty, effendi. Just one hundred piastres.”’
    My father gave me a salacious wink. His eyes were somewhat glazed as if, in his mind, he was back in early-forties Egypt.
    â€˜That’s enough, Ken,’ my mother muttered sternly.
    â€˜I bought them,’ my father continued unabashed, his voice now quite loud, having gradually increased in volume through the telling. ‘And do