She dropped him off at his school and walked across the street on her own. He wasn’t fazed. He showed his friends all the different ways kids wore their hats in Canada, the ways his cousins showed him.
She didn’t walk home with him that day. Ramy picked him up.
“Where’s Mariam?” Botros asked.
“She’s in the hospital,” Ramy said.
“Why?”
Ramy turned his head towards the passing cars for a moment, then back to the road.
“She’s got a bad tooth,” Ramy said.
“Did they fix it?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“You have some money you could lend me to pay for her surgery?” he yelled throwing his palm up to Botros. Botros pushed his brother’s hand away.
“You could sell your car.”
“This piece of garbage?” Ramy said peeling a piece of tape off the side of Botros’ seat. “I’d have to pay someone to take it.”
Botros nodded and played with the tape, tearing it off completely.
“Ask Uncle Sami, Canadians have too much money,” he said, sticking the tape back onto the tear.
Ramy nodded and let his shoulders loose. Botros heard his breathing slow. Ramy ran a hand down through his hair.
“Maybe,” he said.
They took her home a few nights later, her face now pale and tired. Their mother made her hot lemonade at dinner time, since she refused to eat, and strapped a small wooden frame with a picture of St. Demiana around Mariam’s head using a church headscarf. She put her hand on Mariam’s head and mumbled something to Jesus. She left a few minutes later, she still hadn’t made dinner for Botros’ dad who’d be home in an hour.
Mariam had a fever now and could barely talk, though she listened. His mother told him to go and talk to his sister. She needed someone and Ramy was at work.
“I don’t want to talk to her,” he said. “She’ll throw something at me.”
His mother slammed the knife in her hand on the counter and jerked him towards her by his shirt. She held him in front of her, her cold wet hands gripping the back of his neck, and stared him in his eyes. Her brow raised like she wanted to be angry. He knew she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were wet. She was tired.
“Do you want baba to find out?” she whispered. He shrugged her off and walked to his sister’s room.
“Remember, she can’t talk,” his mother said just loud enough for him to hear. He knew that already. Her tooth hurt.
He sat at the edge of her bed, hat off, trying to think of what to say. She stared at him, heavy eyed and pale and smiling, as if on some opiate. She wasn’t on any opiate.
Botros couldn’t think of anything to say, so he told her a story she knew well. Botros knew she loved listening to stories about herself, maybe even more than living them.
“Remember last Easter in Alexandria? We were walking down the Nile to tayta and giddu’s home, and we heard a loud snatch sound like kshhhhh and we looked at the water bank and there was an alligator!” She smiled and nodded. She knew what was coming.
“And you said we needed to get it to go away somehow or it’d eat us, so I yelled ‘go away you stupid alligator or we’ll eat you!’ but it just stayed. So you picked up a rock and threw it at him and we ran away?”
She shook her head yes.
“I need to find that alligator again,” he said. “I think it ate my watch. Remember my Ninja Turtles watch?”
Mariam giggled, then winced and rested her head on her pillow. Something in her laugh hurt her. Botros felt it, but he couldn’t name it. She waved him towards her. He crawled onto the bed. Mariam licked her lips open.
“Water,” she whispered. “Cold.”
Botros nodded a quick nod and ran towards the kitchen. He fetched a cold glass of water and brought it back to her. She smiled, took the glass from him and drank.
She finished her water and tried to open her mouth again.
“Don’t talk anymore!” he yelled.
“Thankou,” she said, squinting. She turned her head, and fell asleep.
She laid in her bed, the lights on, mouth closed, still as the night. He could only hear her breathe, and he wondered if she was still his sister. He never felt so big. Or, she never looked so small.
Everything, their home and the room they shared and the clanking of pots from the kitchen felt so quiet, dissociated from a world that now lived outside their room. In his newly acquired peace, Botros realized he missed her.
“I’m going to Tahrir in the morning,” Ramy told his little brother. “To make Mubarak pay for her tooth.” Ramy laughed at himself a moment later, mumbling something about being an idiot for trying to believe that garbage.
Botros hated when Ramy second guessed himself. In Botros’ mind, this was all he could do. Walk and yell “Freedom!” and ask the government to fix his sister’s tooth. He dreamed of meeting the President himself, telling him Mariam’s story. The President cared in his dreams. If only he could get to him. Ramy left his parents a note in the kitchen, and took Botros in the early morning to Tahrir.
~~~
Botros rode on his brother’s shoulders for half an hour until they reached Tahrir. A group of teenagers were stationed in front of the Square checking ID cards at a steel barricade. One man, tall and skinny with a thin moustache, stood in front of the barricade, each arm tied to one of the railings.
“What’d he do?” Ramy asked pointing to the man.
“His ID said he was police, so we’re giving him the royal treatment,” a teen said. “Isn’t that right Mr. Police Man, sir?” The tied man didn’t answer. The teenager laughed.
“Good morning Captain,” Ramy said and smiled and gave a shallow bow as he passed the officer.
Botros rode on his brother’s shoulders the rest of the way to Tahrir. He spotted a small tent city in the heart of the Square. “We’re here!” he yelled. Ramy took him off his shoulders and plopped him on the ground. He grabbed the boy’s hand and walked towards the protesters circling Tahrir. A short, skinny man with the fat face of a cow and the bark of a dog rode on his people’s shoulders singing slogans he read off a sheet of paper. “Leave means leave! We’ve made our stand,” he chanted, punching his chest. “Take your pride, leave us our land.” The protesters sang and many banged their chests after him.
“Captain,” a woman’s voice sang behind Botros. The boy noticed the voice right away. He smiled and turned around. There was Engi. Green eyes and brown hair and soft skin Engi. The kind Botros saw on television in soap commercials. He had all but cried when he found out Ramy was soon to be engaged to her. She smiled, her mouth and her eyes, and picked him up and kissed him on his forehead and called him her little prince. “If only you were my age,” she said, “I’d leave your brother in a heartbeat.” Botros pointed to his cheek. She kissed him again on his cheek and ran her hand through his hard, black hair. Up close, her hair smelled like green apple.
She smiled at him for a moment, though her eyes grew tender, sweet. Maybe sad. “What a handsome little prince,” she said. “My friend Samia’s here with her baby. Wanna go talk to her? You can meet her daughter.” Botros nodded and she dropped him back down, held his hand, and led him to a sidewalk in Tahrir.
He could feel her turn to him every now and then as they walked. He felt the gravity of her eyes, they were so heavy.
“Did you tell him yet?” she whispered to Ramy.
“Shh,” he whispered back.
Botros looked up at the two of them.
“Tell me what?” he asked.
Ramy looked down at Botros, sighed, and looked back up.
“You wanna know?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Tell me!”
“Here it goes,” he breathed. “You’re getting a little too fat.”
“No I’m not! I’m handsome. Even Engi thinks I’m handsome.”
Engi laughed, t
hough she sounded nervous, and patted the boy’s head. “More handsome than your brother at least,” she said. Ramy nudged her.
“I’m joking,” she said. “You’re not so bad either.” Botros smiled.
“There she is,” Engi said, pointing at a young woman sitting on a beach chair outside a closed café in Tahrir. “Her daughter’s name is Aida, she’s five.”
Samia stood up when she saw them. She shook Ramy’s hand and kissed Engi on each cheek. She turned to Botros. “So this is the little prince?” she said. “Engi pointed you out to me when she saw you from far away.”
She was a chunky girl, heavy thighs, fat cheeks and an honest smile. Her daughter, who sat on another beach chair with her head rested on her palm, eyes closed in the heat and noise, looked exactly like her. All except the hair, which was much softer than her mother’s.
“Ramy and I have to discuss something for a minute. Botros, can you take care of Samia for a while? She gets lonely.”
“Yes I can,” he said. Samia laughed. Ramy and Engi waved goodbye and walked towards the Square.
“Sit,” Samia said, picking Aida up from her seat and placing her on her lap. Aida didn’t fuss. She rested her head against her mother’s chest and closed her eyes again.
“She’s really tired,” Samia said. “She didn’t sleep much last night. We camped out right there,” she pointed at the tents in the middle of Tahrir. “It was a long night.”
Botros climbed onto the beach chair.
“She’s so small,” he said. “Does she know how to dance?”
Samia smiled.
“She did some dancing last night.”
Botros wondered how much money he’d need to buy Aida as a wife. He knew he couldn’t ask Ramy for help. Ramy still couldn’t afford to pay for his own engagement. Botros wondered how he would pay for Aida if he wanted to marry her. He couldn’t think of anything. But he loved the idea of a tiny dancer wife. Still, she was no Engi. Engi called him her little prince. She sang to him and bought him little cheese balls wrapped in red plastic. He never liked cheese before she first bought him some. There was only one Engi.
“Do you dance?” Samia asked.
“I love to dance. I have an Amr Diab CD at home and Ramy taught me to dance.”
“Oh ya?” Samia giggled. “Can you show me?”
“It’s easy,” he said as he stood up. He threw his hands to his sides and started to shake his hips to a beat he heard in his head. Samia laughed and clapped on beat to his sway. She threw a flat palm above her lips and ululated, then clapped again. A smiling man with a tabla approached him as he danced, rested against the wall with the tabla between his feet, and played his drum to the boy’s rhythm. A few young people, men and women, who were passing by saw the young boy dancing to the tabla. Their laughter turned to clapping which turned to dancing for many. As the crowd grew, Botros became frustrated. All his life, Mariam never let him steal any of her parent’s attention. He finally had a moment others watched and clapped and cheered for him, and it was hijacked by teenagers. Botros stopped dancing and walked back to his seat.
“Look what you started,” Samia smiled. The dancing girls and boys and the ululating women and the man playing tabla went on without him just a few feet from where he sat. “You’re not a little prince, you’re a Casanova.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll find out eventually.”
Botros nodded and set his stare on Aida again.
“Why don’t you let her sleep in the tent?”
“It’s too hot in the tent in the day. But I might leave soon anyways. I think she might be getting sick.”
Botros sat back in his seat and examined the little girl’s face. Her mouth was open. One of her ears was red, though that could’ve been because of the heat. She snored, very quietly.
“She doesn’t look sick.”
“I hope not.”
“My sister Mariam is sick.”
Samia frowned and nodded.
“I heard. I’m very sorry.”
“That’s okay. We just need to get her surgery to replace her dead tooth.”
“Dead tooth?”
“Yeah. Didn’t Ramy tell you?”
Samia furrowed her brow. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I guess he did. Yeah he told me about the dead tooth.”
“He and my dad are working to make some money and soon she’ll be alright. I’m hoping to find Mubarak to see if he can help me.”
Samia looked away towards the crowd and examined them. She bit her lower lip, chewing her words before they escaped. Botros wanted to tell her to say what she thought, but he couldn’t. He knew she probably wouldn’t. She turned back to Botros and nodded. Her air lightened, now hopeful. For a moment, her round face shone like the moon.
“Your sister,” she said, “is Egypt.”
“Her name is Mariam.”
“Her name is Egypt,” she said. “Maybe we just need to pull out the old tooth.”
“Egypt doesn’t even have teeth to need a new one.”
“Let’s hope that’s all it needs.”
Botros leaned against the nylon backrest of his beach chair. He suddenly felt heavy, anchored to the bottom of his seat. He felt the world rotating underneath him. The sky stood still. Everything around him felt like nothing more than a moving picture, a horribly dull movie he was forced to watch. Everybody sang and laughed and clapped and danced and protested and cursed and spat, but Mariam was still sick.
Last night, he’d seen his father at the dinner table, his head lowered to the empty plate in front of him, his eyes bloodshot. Botros’ mother had wept as she’d served her husband dinner and told him to pray and pleaded the Virgin’s intercession.
“She’ll grow and get educated. She’ll become a doctor someday, God willing. And we’ll find her a nice man and she’ll get married,” his mother said. His father waited until he was composed before he went on night watch with a few of his neighbours now that there were no police to protect their property from being looted. Every man had a post.
“Where’s your husband?” Botros asked Samia.
“I dunno. He could be with another woman now for all I know.”
“You don’t see him anymore?”
“We’re divorced. I think he’s in Saudi right now. You wanna eat?” she asked. He nodded. Samia pulled out a cucumber from her purse. She broke off a piece and passed it to Botros.
The last Saudi Botros had seen was on the night of Easter Sunday. His father took the whole family out to Montazah Beach in Alexandria. They ate at a Chinese all you can eat restaurant that Botros knew probably cost his dad a fortune. He probably emptied most of his funds on that small vacation. Ramy told him not to do it because they may need it in the future.
“You only live once,” Botros’ dad said. “Maybe if you’d gave up some of your pride, I could have leant you the money and you’d be engaged by now.”
Ramy ignored his father’s words.
Everyone that sat around Botros in the Chinese restaurant looked rich. White businessmen in black suits and striped ties, a few white women in warm coloured pantsuits. Even a table of Asians. Soft black hair, narrow slanted eyes – they, along with the Asian staff, looked just like how Botros had seen them on television. Though they weren’t as short as he imagined them.
A man in a white galabeya sat across from Botros’ table and hovered above a plate of food. He ate slowly. He was a dark man, darker than Botros, with sparse facial hair he permed into a tidy goatee. A red and white kuffeya rested on his hair, held together by a thick black band that tied it around the crown of his head. His eyes were dark, hostile, though his brows looked plucked. He sat infront of Botros’ table and stared right through him and his family, who sat by the window in front of the pier. The man watched the passing boats as he ate.
“We have a Saudi in the house,” Botros’ father whispered to Mariam. “Everybody watch your wallets.” Everyone at the table laughed, though no one turned to look at the Saudi
to draw attention to their making fun of him.
Botros ate as much as he could trying to clear out the restaurant on his father’s orders. “Let them know they made a huge mistake letting us into an all you can eat restaurant,” he told them. Mariam stopped at two plates. Botros and his mother stopped at three and waited for Ramy and his father to finish. They were both on their fifth plates. Botros’ stomach hurt. He had eaten too much and the smell of food around him made him sick. With half-closed eyes, he watched the Saudi as he finished his food. The Saudi threw his head back from a small burp, pushed his plate in front of him, and took out a cigarette and lit it.
The Asian staff stared at him and yelled amongst themselves in a language Botros couldn’t understand. A middle-aged waiter nodded at his staff and walked towards the Saudi.
“Sir,” he said, “This family restaurant. You in no smoke zone. You want smoke, walk to smoke zone,” he pointed at the other side of the restaurant.
The Saudi stared him in his eyes for a long, long moment, with the cigarette between his fingers. He put the cigarette in his mouth, looked away from the Asian towards the boats, and took a drag.
“Sir, big fine sir. You smoke in no smoke zone, big fine.”
The Saudi leaned forward with the cigarette in his mouth. “How much?”
“Five thousand pound sir. Big fine.”
The Saudi pulled a suitcase from underneath him, opened it on his lap, pulled out the cash and rested it on the table in five small stacks, then mounted them into one. The Asian looked at it, picked it up, counted it. He nodded, “Thank you sir,” and walked away.
Everyone in the restaurant saw it. Botros’ father stopped eating, stared at the Saudi, then put the spoon to his face and ate even faster. Everyone except Botros, who was too sick to process what had happened, sat in awe. Mariam turned to her father.
“Baba,” she whispered, “is he a monster?”
“Yes Marmar,” he whispered back. “He is.”
Botros vomited on the bus home that night. His father slapped him on the backside of his head. “You threw up my money,” he said. Botros couldn’t tell if he was joking.
A face like the moon Page 5