Cairo Stories Read online

  ‘You hid all you were going through so remarkably well,’ I told Basma.

  ‘Looking back, would I do it differently? The thought of living in poverty is as abhorrent to me today as it was when I was eighteen. That hasn’t changed. So, would I do it differently?’

  Nothing I could think of saying seemed right. I thought of telling Basma I was not really surprised that the two children had always been on her mind. I thought of mentioning the day the motorcycle hit us. But before I could come up with a half-meaningful way to say these things, Basma carried on, ‘This week, I heard that the girl is pregnant. It has been on my mind ever since. I suppose that this is what got me going today, when you asked me how the children were doing.’

  ‘A thousand congratulations!’ I burst out which was probably the only right thing I had managed to say throughout the conversation.

  Basma answered, wistfully, ‘Yours will be the only congratulations I hear for that. A mother who leaves her daughter does not deserve to be congratulated on such an occasion. Still, it feels good to be congratulated. I worry a lot about her. Will she repeat my experience? Only God knows what is in store for that unborn child.’

  After that, we talked about other things. Basma was hoping to go on pilgrimage to Mecca. The only obstacle was the unresolved question of who would look after her husband, in her absence, should one of his bouts recur.

  Hand on Heart

  ‘By the way, an old family friend might drop by this morning,’ Nelly’s mother told her as she was getting ready to go to the dentist. ‘You’ve probably met him. His wife is the painter whose exhibition I took you to last year. Tell him I had to go out. He can drop by later this evening, if he is free and up to it. He can’t do too much these days because of a heart condition. He’s rather down and restless. When he heard we’d be spending some time here he called immediately to announce his visit.’

  ‘Who is he exactly?’ Nelly asked.

  ‘He was a close friend of your uncle’s. In their bachelor days, they used to party hard together. He must be well into his mid-seventies.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do, if he wants to come in in your absence?’ Nelly asked, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Invite him in, of course. Entertain him. It’s not as if you have much to do today.’

  ‘I may have nothing to do, but I don’t particularly want to make conversation with that gentleman: he seemed like a buffoon the couple of times I met him, once with you, and once with my aunt. I like his wife though. Why she married him is beyond me.’

  ‘Well, consider making conversation with him a charitable act. Talk to him about your recent trip to the Red Sea, or about university life. He has intellectual pretensions. In any case, chat with him. Find something to say.’ Noting Nelly’s wry face, Nelly’s mother added impatiently, ‘Don’t make more out of it than it is! I must hurry now.’

  She ignored Nelly’s exasperated look when she finally set off.

  Like a fish out of water: this is how Nelly felt since they had moved in temporarily to her aunt’s villa while their apartment was being repainted. She hated the quiet, green, clean surroundings of Maadi, a garden suburb of Cairo, and counted the days till she would be back home in noisy, dusty, crowded downtown Cairo. Trees, gardens and birds chirping in the morning were not her thing. She was used to hearing honking, loud voices, and backgammon pieces slapped hard on wooden boards in downtown cafés, at all hours of the day and late into the night. She found Maadi’s silence oppressive. A visit from this gentleman might be a welcome distraction after all, although she would not have admitted this to her mother.

  An old gentleman with a heart problem would probably want to drink something on arrival. It was already hot, yet the day had barely begun. Nelly went to check what was in the fridge. Not much other than some freshly squeezed lemonade. Fortuitously, there was also some lemon cake, which tasted rather good with a few drops of lemon squeezed on it. So lemonade and lemon cake it would be, if the gentleman showed up. She would need a tray though. The one in the living room, an ornate silver tray, was probably too good for use, but Nelly had no idea where her aunt kept her everyday trays. Just as she was about to look in the kitchen cupboards, the phone rang. But where was the phone? For a few seconds, she couldn’t remember. When she did, she ran. It was probably her boyfriend calling her. Though they were quarrelling a lot these days, they were about to get engaged. They had had a huge row the previous evening. Their frequent rows were often brought on by jealousy and possessiveness – on both of their parts, but he was more direct about it. She was more underhand, often pretending to be upset about some other matter, while he saw no need to pretend. He wanted exclusivity, in the fullest possible sense of the term, and made that crystal clear. Aware of the nature of their quarrels and their frequency, Nelly’s mother, who thought their engagement premature, would often say that she didn’t know which of them was to blame: they were both equally difficult.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ Nelly said, trying to sound indifferent.

  …

  ‘I’m not doing anything in particular; I have just started to organise myself for the day,’ she continued with the same indifferent tone. ‘What about you?’

  …

  ‘I’m sorry you had difficulties sleeping. I’m not the one who started it.’ Her tone was becoming more animated.

  …

  ‘Sure, let’s not start again but, really, you were so unreasonable yesterday.’

  …

  ‘I’m not starting it again. I was just saying you were intemperate.’

  …

  ‘What have I been reading? What do you mean by asking me that question?’

  …

  ‘What makes me use such a word? It just happens to be the one that came to my mind!’

  …

  ‘I can’t take a joke? So I’m a humourless sort?’

  …

  ‘Well, I don’t see what’s so funny. You were sort of putting me down.’

  …

  ‘Alright! Alright! Let’s be calm then. What I’ll do today is try to read a bit. That’s all. And a family friend may be dropping by. I’m supposed to entertain him.’

  …

  ‘Yes, it’s a he, not a she; an old friend of my uncle’s.’

  …

  ‘Look, the man is in his eighties – well perhaps a bit younger, but not by much. What strange ideas get into your head.’

  …

  ‘Not invite him in? You can’t be serious. And what do I tell my mother when she gets back? Tell me that.’

  …

  ‘Men are men, no matter their age? You want me to say this to my mother? You want her to ridicule me, ridicule you, ridicule us?’

  …

  ‘I’m not naive. But I’m not crazy either. It would be crazy for me not to invite this old gentleman in just because you happen to think that every man under the sun is potentially dangerous!’

  …

  ‘Oh, please drop it.’

  …

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know what to say to you any more. You put me in an impossible situation.’

  …

  ‘Alright, we’ll talk about it later, when we’re both calmer.’

  …

  ‘Bye!’

  Nelly slammed the phone down and threw herself on the nearest couch in a rage. He had not told her how he had spent the previous evening, after their quarrel. She had called him several times, but he hadn’t answered. Where had he been? With whom? Doing what? And now he had the gall to provoke another scene! Was it to avoid her questions? To avoid being put on the spot about what he had done with his evening?

  The rest of the morning dragged on. Nelly tried to read but jumped at the slightest noise. The house made strange noises she was not accustomed to. She was hoping her boyfriend would call her back. Not once did the phone ring. Her friends seemed to have forgotten her since she had come to this remote location. And the visit by the old gentleman did not materialise. The book Nelly was read
ing, a book on the Second World War she had randomly picked from her aunt’s bookshelves, didn’t make the time go any faster. It was far too serious.

  When Nelly no longer expected it, the bell rang. It was almost lunchtime. The gentleman at the door was the same rotund, short, bald gentleman she had briefly met twice before, except that his complexion seemed to have gone sallow. He was huffing and puffing, and seemed really quite old.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s great to see you look so grown up all of a sudden. I can hardly believe my eyes. I remember you as a toddler.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Nelly said, smiling coyly.

  ‘And where’s your mother? Your aunt is in Alexandria. That much, I know. But I expected to see your mother. It’s pleasure to see you, though.’

  ‘Mother had an unexpected toothache. She apologises, but she had to go to the dentist this morning; it was the only appointment available.’

  ‘One must look after one’s teeth. That’s one of the few things I’ve learnt in life.’ The elderly gentleman winked, then added, ‘I’ll most certainly come in. How could I say no to such an attractive young lady?’ Then, he raised his hand and patted Nelly’s cheek in a grandfatherly way.

  He knew the house better than she did and went straight to the living-room couch, where he made himself comfortable. ‘Well, young lady, tell me about yourself. We met a couple of years ago. You were with your aunt. I remember thinking then that you showed promise but you have surpassed my expectations. How statuesque! You look like your aunt. I see a bit of your father in you too, although I could not say what exactly. I knew him well. He was a fine man. So was your uncle, with whom I had a lot of fun in my youth. A lot.’ The gentleman then seemed to study Nelly attentively. She was still standing. ‘Let us forget about the past and talk about the present. Are you at university already?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Would you like something cold to drink? We have cold lemonade.’

  ‘I’ll want some in due course. But don’t stand like a pillar! You make me edgy! Relax. Sit down and tell me about university life.’

  Nelly sat in the armchair opposite the couch.

  ‘Why are you sitting so far? I am hard of hearing; like all old folks. Come closer, dear,’ the gentleman ordered Nelly. ‘Come and sit on the couch. Then I can see you better, and I might be able to tell in what ways you remind me of your father, a very distinguished-looking gentleman. The comparison should flatter you.’

  Nelly complied, sat on the couch, at the opposite end, and started talking about her university. The gentleman seemed interested, asked pertinent questions, mentioned books she had heard about so she could pretend to have read them. All in all, the conversation was smoother than she had anticipated. The gentleman had a good sense of humour.

  Suddenly, he interrupted her. ‘Come and sit closer to me, I’ll have a good look at your face,’ he ordered. So she moved closer and continued to talk in an increasingly animated way. He interrupted her again, saying this time, ‘Now I know; you talk the way your father did. That’s it.’

  Nelly asked, ‘And how is that?’

  And the old gentleman explained, ‘You are as intense,’ and he patted her knee.

  To Nelly’s surprise, he left his hand on her knee. ‘Well, he is bound to be a bit forgetful,’ she told herself but was, all the same, uncomfortable. She tried to ignore his hand and resumed her account of university life. The gentleman seemed to be losing interest in her tales. He was no longer asking her questions or making comments. ‘Time to renew my offer of refreshments,’ Nelly thought. Just at that very moment, she noticed that he was staring at her neckline. And was rubbing her knee with his hand. And before she knew it, he threw his arm around her neck, and tried to draw her face close to his, which was turning red. It was all so ridiculous, Nelly thought. He was going to injure his neck if he lifted his head up, as strenuously as he did. She, of course, resisted him – with awkwardness though, saying ‘But no, but no,’ – and had to struggle to disengage herself from his arm. When she finally managed it she jumped up and hurried to the kitchen, where he followed her and tried to corner her against the fridge. This was getting ridiculous beyond anything imaginable. The man was half her size and four times her age. Trying not to hurt him, Nelly pushed him away again and instinctively ran up the stairs leading to the first floor. When she heard him slowly climb up the stairs, all the while begging her to come down, ‘Just for a little kiss, just a little kiss,’ she ran up the second flight of stairs, leading to the attic. At the end of the staircase, she stood, totally still, next to the attic, dreading to see mice, rats, bats, or some other such creature suddenly creep out. She avoided looking up: all she could hope for now was that the old gentleman would lack the energy to climb up the second flight of stairs!

  She could hear creaking sounds. The gentleman climbing the stairs? Then, all was quiet in the house. Nelly could no longer hear his heavy step. Where was he? She climbed down the stairs with as light a step as she could. And she saw him, leaning against the wall at the end of the first flight of stairs, hand on heart. All the redness was gone from his face. He was very pale.

  What to do? Nelly’s own heart began racing. He looked up, saw her and said, ‘Help me down the stairs. I can’t breathe properly.’

  Supporting him under the arm, she led him down the stairs, back to the living room and sat him on the couch. He closed his eyes. ‘Should I be calling his wife?’ Nelly asked herself. She didn’t have her number, but she could call directory information. Instead, she decided to ask him, with a clear and loud voice, whether he would like his lemonade now. Mercifully, he heard her, opened his eyes and mumbled more than answered, ‘Yes, it’s time for refreshments.’ She brought him a glass of lemonade and put it on the side table next to him. They both pretended that nothing unusual had taken place – neither the chase, nor the heart problem.

  When he left fifteen minutes later, some colour was back in his cheeks.

  ‘So, did our visitor come?’ Nelly’s mother asked Nelly later in the day.

  ‘He did,’ Nelly shrieked, ‘and let me fill you in!’ she added with vehemence. Then proceeded to give her mother a blow-by-blow account of the morning’s events. ‘A buffoon and a scoundrel,’ Nelly declared, theatrically, by way of conclusion.

  Shaking her head, the mother exclaimed, ‘My! My! It can’t have been very pleasant, but you managed to look after yourself. Mind you, it couldn’t have been that difficult, given his age and condition.’

  ‘Mother!’ Nelly cried.

  ‘Some men are men till the very end,’ her mother said.

  ‘Mother!’ Nelly repeated loudly, sounding the way mothers do when they reprimand their children.

  Just then, the phone rang. Nelly happened to be standing close to it. She grabbed it nervously, not having made up her mind what she would tell her boyfriend.

  …

  ‘Oh, you don’t really need to apologise,’ Nelly said, in an exceptionally subdued tone.

  …

  ‘No, no, you had a point. One never knows.’

  …

  ‘Yes, he did come. I’ll tell you all about it later. Mother is expecting a phone call.’

  …

  ‘No, I’m not angry any more. I overreacted.’

  …

  ‘I do too. Very much. I’ll call you in the evening,’ Nelly whispered into the phone.

  Pasha, Be Careful

  He was at the height of his power and he knew it. In his fifties and with more money than he had ever imagined he would end up with. Even in his wildest dreams. Money he himself had made – mostly in urban development. True, he hadn’t started from nothing. He came from a well-to-do family, prominent in Cairo’s Syrian community. The many connections had served him well. His great grandfather and great-uncles had held high-ranking administrative positions under Mohamed Ali and had been given generous land grants for years of loyal and efficient service. A rich and well-connected family is, however, never a guarantee of success. Ma
ny of his school friends, also from well-to-do families, had ended up squandering their family’s assets, living the lives of bon vivant rentiers. Even some of his brothers had chosen to live their lives that aimless way. He, the youngest of the lot and the one with the least education and worst temper, had decided early in life that he must become very rich. He had had a carefree and frivolous phase in his early twenties, seeking amusement and romance all over Europe. But that had been short-lived. Making money was to provide him with a far greater sense of satisfaction than all his youthful adventures.

  ‘Good evening, Selim Pasha; may God preserve your health, Pasha.’

  ‘Be careful, Pasha; they have redone the pavement and left it very uneven. Fools! I nearly broke my leg yesterday. Better watch where you walk.’

  ‘The paper will be at your doorstep at six in the morning, Selim Pasha – well before you get to the office. I know you like to start the day with a look at the paper. These days, the news is all about the quarrel between the king and the Wafd, and the possibility of a war abroad – news to give one a big headache. Have a good night, Pasha.’

  ‘The dates are very sweet, Pasha. Just the way you like them. Tomorrow, I’ll send my son to your office with a couple of kilos. I’ll send you the very best. I will choose them one by one, myself.’

  ‘Pasha, it is getting cooler; you ought to be wearing something heavier at night.’

  ‘Pasha, how are the children? Still abroad?’

  ‘Pasha, did you enjoy the peanuts you bought on Friday?’

  ‘Pasha’, ‘Pasha’, ‘Pasha’. He enjoyed the sound of the word tacked on to his name. He did not have the title officially, but he more than deserved to be called ‘Pasha’. Didn’t Cairo owe him much of its modern, urban look? Walking downtown Cairo at nine in the evening, after tearing himself away from his desk to meet his wife at the Semiramis, where some charity was holding a function (for orphans, he vaguely remembered), it felt good to be greeted, left and right, by storeowners, newspaper vendors, fruit vendors, shoeshine boys and doormen. Did they like him as much as they let on? Probably not, but he didn’t care. It was clear that they respected him.