Two months have yielded plenty of computer printouts. When I tidied up, when I unpacked, when he switched off 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. 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 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. It could have built a hospital, 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.’