The Haunting of Tram Car 015 by P. Djèlí Clark

Author:P. Djèlí Clark
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Tor.com
Published: 2019-02-19T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

The post-work crowd had filled up Makka by early evening. And the chatter of their talk created a steady din of competing voices in the small space of the Nubian eatery. A group of factory women, in light blue dresses and gloves, debated heatedly with some iron workers—still donning soot-smeared aprons. Elsewhere, several constables in khakis shared tea with a turbaned vendor of used boilerplate eunuch parts. The policemen laughed heartily as the man complained of his wife and daughters, who had gone to protest each day leaving him without his supper. Every tongue wagged about the impending vote for women’s suffrage that was slated to take place tomorrow. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and it was hard for most Cairenes to not be swept up.

Hamed, however, eschewed talk of government affairs or social policy. He tiredly drank down a third cup of coffee and picked up another of the fragrant Abyssinian blend. Ethiopian brews had been steadily replacing the more common Turkish varieties in the city. The Amharic phrase buna tetu, literally “drink coffee,” had even made its way into the polyglot that was Cairo’s ever-expanding lexicon. Holding up the small blue porcelain cup, he sat staring into the face of the white foam topping and went over his long day.

The satisfaction he’d gotten at seeing Superintendent Bashir cowed (and it had been immensely satisfying) was short-lived. After leaving Ramses Station, they’d gone to the Ministry’s library. The repository housed an extensive selection of volumes on supernatural entities, and they hoped to discover something of the unknown spirit haunting Tram Car 015. Their research had taken up the entire rest of the day, stretching into late afternoon. And yet, they’d found not the barest hint or scrap. All they had to show for their painstaking work was exhaustion.

He looked across the table to where Onsi sat relating the events of the past ten hours to their server—the very same young woman who had acquainted them with Sheikha Nadiyaa. Her name was Abla, they’d learned. She sat in a chair between them, eyes growing wider as she learned each detail. Hamed thought dimly to scold the man for discussing Ministry business with a civilian. But he was too tired at the moment to care. Besides, there was something about Abla that made you want to talk, almost like the words were being pulled off your tongue. He glanced with interest to her earrings—no longer the sacred cow of Hathor, but matching figurines of silver lionesses.

“Wait,” she interrupted. “Slow down. Who’s this Zagros?”

“The djinn who oversees the library at the Ministry,” Onsi explained.

“I think I know a Zagros who works in Imbaba,” she mused. “A small three-horned djinn? Designs milking machines for camels?”

Hamed downed his coffee, shaking his head. The way djinn all shared names, the last census probably had a page of Zagroses—even if it was a mountain range in Persia. “Another one,” he said. “An elder Marid of some girth, with lavender scales, hair growing out of his nose and ears, and silver-capped tusks.

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