We get out under the railway arches, a little knots of agitated persons, waiting to be called. The man who gives us the jobs, he who is always angry (foul mood I have learned to say) says they need skilled men, plasterers and plumbers. A few go forward and are taken away. 

The sound of the motor-buses going through the arches reminds me of home. No, not of home quite, but of the end of home, that surge and crack of metal across the river when they came, firing in the air. 

Those of us that ran into the bush, me and little brother Nasser had hope, it soothed us on our long walk. We thought we would find another place, some work and after, in the evening a place to talk quietly together, each with a mouthful of dates. 

Were we just fools? That fixer, that dingy Greek with the yellow eyes, told us we would be picking oranges and lemons, that there was cool water and enough time for prayers. An end to fear.

But he lied. Here it is bone-cold, the oranges and lemons sit in neat rows in shop windows, already picked. The streets are the place of crows, young men who cover their heads like women and hiss their hate. 
Young Nasser, who only wanted to fly his kite and find a girl, reached despair at the bottom of that boat as we crossed the sea, so crowded they threw his body in the sea for a piece of space. 

There is no more work and the crowd of men thins and the arches are empty. I am empty. 

There is nothing more to do but wait or sleep, night and day, and in those times I think of Nasser, his body floating back through the sea and up the river, the magenta dust swirling on the river bank, the wind carrying him to our home, real home, gone home.