You drive in the desert, he says. Abu Dhabi is not a real city. Not like London or Paris or Rome. Mohsin has not been to Paris or Rome, but he pronounces this with authority. Sami can see his brother Mohsin’s mouth: turned down at the corners, disdainful but humouring. Sami talks to Mohsin often in his head, especially when driving, which means all the time. Perhaps he even speaks to him in dreams. Sami’s back at Al Zaabi Finest Bakery, already the third pick-up of the day. Shhhh, he tells Mohsin. You are wrong. Abu Dhabi is a real city. You come see. For thirty-four years Mohsin has been driving cabs in London, six more than Sami has been head driver for the Al Qubaisis, a family one rung down from the Al Nahyans, one remove from royalty. My life, Sami tells Mohsin silently as he gets out of the SUV, has been touched by luxury. It’s already so hot his khaki shirt is stuck to his back, his whole back, not just the small of it. He will change at the next stop.
