by Maha Akhtar
She was standing in the kitchen, rolling out some bread, when she heard the little jingle of bells from the front door. Someone’s early, she thought, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron and going to investigate.
“Oh my God!” she cried.
A man lay slumped over the bar. He had a nasty wound on the side of his head, his clothes were torn, and blood and sweat poured off of him. His hair was matted to his head and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he’d been shot or stabbed or both.
Rania ran to him. “Who are you? What happened?”
“Please,” the man groaned, “please help me. They’re after me. They’re going to kill me.”
“Who?” Rania asked, trying to look at his wounds.
“Two men … ,” the man managed to say before groaning in agony. “Please …”
Rania didn’t know what to do. She looked at the man hesitantly and then quickly walked to the door to look outside. She saw two men in pinstripe suits coming up the alleyway. They certainly didn’t look like they belonged in the El-Khalili. Stepping back inside, she shut the door and locked it. She only had light linen curtains covering the door and they were old and threadbare and didn’t give much privacy.
“Can you walk?” she asked the man, who was still draped over the bar.
He shook his head.
“You have to. Come on,” Rania said, gently taking one of his arms and putting it around her shoulders so she could support him.
The man winced in pain.
“I’m sorry,” Rania said. “But we don’t have much time. I fear the men who are looking for you will be here any moment. They must have seen you come in.”
The man nodded and put most of his weight on Rania. As quickly as she could, she helped him toward the kitchen. At the back of the kitchen was a secret cellar, a cave like room that was unused. It was impossible to tell it was there because there was no door. To enter it, one had to push a particular brick and the wall swung open. When Rania first saw it, she had been astounded. When her husband had shown her, Rania had stood in front of it, eyes wide. “It’s like Aladdin’s cave,” she’d said, walking in cautiously. “But what are all these bottles?”
As it turned out, her husband’s uncle had a side business selling black market liquor. He kept whiskey, gin, and brandy that he bought from various smugglers, which was why the room was lined with shelving full of bottles. Rania had never known what to do with it, and so it had remained a cellar along with all the liquor they had inherited. She never told anyone about the liquor, using a little now and then to help calm some frayed nerves.
“Come on! Inside! Lie down,” she told him, gently lowering him to the packed earthen floor.
Closing the wall, Rania rushed back to the bar, shedding her bloodstained apron along the way and stuffing it into a basket. She quickly grabbed another one and put it on. She pulled out a bucket of water and a mop from behind the bar, dipped a large cloth in the soapy water, and wiped down the bloodstained bar. She was mopping the floor when there was a knock on the door and she saw the two men through the curtains.
“Yes,” she answered haughtily, standing in the doorway, mop in hand, looking the two men up and down. “The café is not open yet.”
“We’re not here for coffee, Madame,” one of them said, as he tried to peer behind her.
“Madame,” the second one said quietly but forcefully, holding the door open with his hand, “we would like to take a look inside.”
“Why? This is a café. If you are not here for food or beverage, then you have no business entering this establishment.”
“We are looking for someone,” the man said, pushing the door open and moving Rania out of the way. “A man,” he said, walking in and lighting a cigarette.
“As you can see, there is no one here,” Rania said. “Only me. And now would you please leave, I have to finish cleaning the café before my customers arrive.” And with that, she dipped the mop back into the bucket of water and purposely slapped it down on the floor so that some of the soapy liquid splashed onto the man’s pants. Annoyed, he looked down at his pants and back up at her.
“And you have seen no one this morning?” he asked, looking at her through narrowed eyes.
“No,” Rania said defiantly, holding his stare as she leaned her palms on the top of the mop.
The man pursed his lips and nodded.
“Nice machine,” he said admiring the copper machine behind the bar.
“Thank you.”
“Come,” he said to his partner in Turkish, “we will get nothing from her.”
“Thank you for your time, Madame,” the man tipped his hat in salutation. He took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it, stamping it into the wooden floor. “Oh!” he said, sarcastically. “So sorry about that.”
And with that they both walked out.
“Bastard!” Rania muttered under her breath. She quickly finished cleaning the floor and took one last look at the bar to make sure she hadn’t missed anything in case one of her regular customers came in early.
What on earth is going on? Who is this man in my cellar? And who are those men?
She ran up the stairs that led to the apartment above the café and pulled a couple of sheets from a closet, grabbed a cushion from her bed, and ran back downstairs. The man was exactly where she had left him, curled up in a ball. She knelt down next to him and lifted his head, placing it on the cushion. “I’ll get you some water,” she said and went to get a jug and a glass.
“Thank you,” he said as he drank deeply, holding the glass out for more.
“You need a doctor to take a look at those wounds,” Rania said, pouring some more cold water for him.
“No!” he cried. “No doctors.”
“Well then at least you’re going to have to clean them. I have some cotton wool and alcohol.”
The man nodded.
“I’ll go get you some. And please stay in here.”
She was in the kitchen when the little bell on the door jingled.
“Marhaba, Rania!” she heard someone greet her.
“Marhaba!” she called back. She quickly looked at herself in a small compact mirror she kept in her apron pocket and walked back out to the café.
It was Fatmeh, a young Muslim woman who had recently gotten married and lived a couple of doors away. Her husband was in construction. Fatmeh was lovely in a petite, doll-like way. She was very fair with big dark eyes fringed with long, thick eyelashes, a small nose, and pink lips. On her upper lip, she had a small black mole that added a dash of sensuality to her otherwise innocent look. Today, as was usual, she was wearing a black abaya and hijab.
“Sabah al-khair ya, Fatmeh,” Rania said, coming out to greet her, tying her apron properly behind her back.
“Saba an nour, Rania,” Fatmeh said, clutching a small notebook in her hand. She sat down at the farmhouse table.
“What will you have this morning?”
“Do you have any fresh orange juice?” Fatmeh asked.
Rania nodded. “What are you writing today?”
“It’s a poem,” Fatmeh answered shyly.
The little bell jingled again.
A woman hidden behind yards of gold tulle and silk that she held between her plump arms walked in. Rania and Fatmeh looked at each other and smiled.
“Marhaba, Madame Yvonne!” Rania placed a glass of orange juice in front of Fatmeh. “Nice to see you. Keefik l yom?”
Madame Yvonne didn’t reply immediately. She peeked out from behind the fabric to make sure she could see where she was going and gently laid the fabric on the farmhouse table, which she considered her regular spot. She hated sitting anywhere else. Sighing deeply, she set down a large bag she had slung over her shoulder. On top, she put the small purse she always carried to hold her keys, money, compact, and lipstick.
“How are you, Madame Yvonne?” Rania asked again.
“Oh mneeha, I suppose,” she grumbled. “At least I’m alive and in dec
ent health, my husband says.”
Rania and Fatmeh exchanged a look. They both wondered about the fabric but didn’t dare ask.
“What will you have this morning, Madame Yvonne?” Rania asked.
“Something to calm my nerves,” Madame Yvonne replied, sitting down on the bench and trying to make sense of the fabric in front of her. “Coffee, I think … the special one today and a narghile.”
Rania smiled.
“Add a little extra hashish today!” Fatmeh whispered, giggling softly.
Rania went back to the kitchen to prepare the narghile she made for Madame Yvonne every morning. While the coals were warming, she went back in front to make the coffee, adding a good swig of brandy before she put it down in front of Madame Yvonne.
Madame Yvonne was in her sixties. She was short and plump and had a large bosom. She was fair skinned, had smallish brown eyes, a long, hooked nose, and thin lips. Her forehead was large and age had given her jowls that made her face look bigger. She dyed her mousy light brown hair a darker shade of golden honey and teased it to make it look as though she had much more than she did. But all this really did was make her head look too big for her body. Together with her large head and large bosom, Madame Yvonne looked a little like a cartoon character. She liked long cotton dresses and was especially fond of wearing yellow.
“I compliment you, Rania!” Madame Yvonne took a sip of the coffee, nodding approvingly. “This is delicious today.”
Rania put the narghile down in front of her. “Here you go! Let’s see if this meets with your approval too.” She grinned at Fatmeh.
Madame Yvonne put the coffee cup down and took a drag of the narghile. Rania waited expectantly. Madame Yvonne nodded. “Not bad, habibti … not bad at all.”
Rania winked at Fatmeh and gave her the thumbs-up sign.
The little bell jingled again. A group of shopkeepers from south of the alleyway came in.
“Marhaba, Rania!” they greeted her cheerfully. “Keefik?”
“Hamdellah!” Rania replied and went to take their order. She was serving them their coffees when she realized that in the confusion of the morning, with the stranger showing up at her doorstep, she had completely forgotten about making fresh bread. Damn!
She ran back to the kitchen and quickly put some wood in the oven, fanning it with an old newspaper to light the flames. The doorbell jingled again. No! Rania sighed. Now who is it? She peeked around the wall and saw Saydeh walking in with a younger woman. Who is that? Rania wondered and quickly went back to rolling out the rounds of bread. Suddenly she heard a sound behind her. She whipped around.
“Please,” the wounded man said softly, peeking out from behind the wall, holding out his jug for more water.
“What are you doing?” Rania hissed. “Get back inside!” she ordered. “I’ll bring you some more water.”
Rania quickly filled the jug. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.
“Rania!” she heard behind her. She was so startled that she let go of the jug. Luckily, the man was holding it or it would have crashed to the floor.
“What’s behind that?” Saydeh asked, taking a step toward her.
“Nothing.” Rania smiled, pushing the wall shut and walking quickly toward the older woman.
“I didn’t even know there was an opening there,” she said, looking over Rania’s shoulder. “It looks like the wall. What’s behind it? Where does it lead?”
“Tante Saydeh!” Rania hugged her, trying to distract her. “You are just the person I need. I am so happy to see you!”
“But what is behind … ?”
“Tante Saydeh,” Rania put her arm around her and herded her toward the middle of the kitchen, “listen, I completely overslept this morning,” she lied, “and I forgot to make the manoushe. Please, can you help me?”
“Oh no! That is terrible, indeed. What can I do?” Saydeh said, immediately distracted.
“Can you quickly make the bread?”
“Yes, I will make it extra special.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Saydeh nodded and began to roll out the dough.
Rania went out into the restaurant and then, remembering she had forgotten to check the wood in the oven, turned back to the kitchen. She saw Saydeh, her ear to pressed to the wall of the hidden cellar, gingerly touching the surface with her fingers, a puzzled look on her face.
“Tante Saydeh!” Rania exclaimed. “The bread! Please!”
“Oh!” Saydeh quickly waddled back to the oven. “Sorry.”
In the meantime, Noura sat looking around her, taking in the new surroundings. Saydeh had introduced her briefly to Madame Yvonne and to Fatmeh, but then disappeared into the kitchen. She sat with her hands in her lap, playing with the little ruffle on the edge of the sleeves of her cotton dress. She wondered how Samar was doing at her parents’ home in Douma. She had had no letters from Wissam’s wife, but then, of course, the war was still going on. Maybe I should have gone to Douma with her? I wonder if I did the right thing coming here by myself?
Noura looked up from her musings and saw Fatmeh looking at her. Noura smiled. Fatmeh smiled back, shyly blushing. She seems sweet, Noura thought. She wanted to talk to her, but she was sitting next to Madame Yvonne at the other side of the table and felt it would be rude to get up and move.
“So … Beirut?” Madame Yvonne said, without looking at Noura. She was busy peering at a needle in her hands, trying to thread it. “Oh haraam!” she muttered, exasperated when she couldn’t. She put her little wire-rimmed glasses back on and looked down at the magazine open in front of her. Suddenly one of the tables behind them exploded with laughter.
“What’s wrong with these people?” Madame Yvonne turned around to give them a dirty look. “Why do they have to be so loud?”
“Madame Yvonne!” one of the men raised his hand to her, “you don’t enjoy our jokes anymore?”
“No, you hooligans!” she responded, looking back and pursing her lips haughtily, “I don’t.”
“Come now, Madame Yvonne …” another one began teasing her.
“Don’t!” she raised her hand without turning around, her gaze centered on the fabric in front of her. “Don’t even think about talking to me today!”
“Can’t they see that I’m trying to concentrate?” she rolled her eyes.
Madame Yvonne licked the thread and tried to thread her needle again. “You’re from Beirut. Saydeh told us when you arrived a few weeks ago,” she continued. “How do you like Cairo?”
“It’s only been a few weeks,” Noura replied politely.
“So, Yvonne,” Saydeh came out and put her arm around Noura, “have you run Noura out of town yet?”
Fatmeh smothered a giggle.
“I heard that, Fatmeh,” Madame Yvonne said, still focused on what she was doing.
Fatmeh looked at her, alarm spreading across her face.
“I have eyes in the back of my head,” Madame Yvonne nodded proudly. “I see everything. Nothing escapes me.”
Saydeh rolled her eyes.
“What are you doing anyway, Yvonne? Squinting away at that needle? What are you making?”
“It’s a new project,” Yvonne said proudly.
“Ahlan wa sahlan!” Rania smiled broadly, walking up to the table. “You must be Noura!”
“Tsharrafna,” Noura stood up. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Welcome to the café,” Rania said enthusiastically.
“It’s very nice,” Noura said, looking around.
“Yes, it’s unusually busy this morning. Normally it’s just the ladies at this table and a few shopkeepers come for a coffee … but today has been a strange day.” Rania’s eyes darted worriedly to the kitchen.
Quickly, she regained her composure.
“What will you have? Some coffee?” She suggested to Noura. “Tante Saydeh?”
“I’ll have another coffee,” Yvonne piped in. Both Noura and Saydeh nodded.
“I’ll be r
ight back.”
Saydeh turned back to Yvonne. “So what’s the new project?”
“I have a wedding to go to,” Yvonne announced.
“Really? Whose?” Saydeh immediately pounced. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“I don’t have to tell you everything.”
“You usually do,” Saydeh said.
“I do not!”
“Tayeb, tayeb,” Saydeh conceded. “So is this a dress for the wedding?”
Yvonne looked at her over her glasses and nodded.
“And you’re making it?” Saydeh asked.
“Why? You think I can’t?”
Saydeh shook her head.
“Khalas, bikaffe mesdames!” Rania said, putting a tray down on the table. “Here’s your coffee, Madame Yvonne, and for you, Noura and Tante Saydeh … and some more orange juice for you Fatmeh … even though you didn’t ask for it.”
“What kind of a dress are you making, Madame Yvonne?” Noura asked.
“This is the design.” Yvonne handed her the magazine.
“This is quite elaborate,” Noura said.
“Of course! It’s French.”
“It’s very beautiful,” Noura added quickly.
“Let’s have a look,” Saydeh peered over Noura’s shoulder with Rania and Fatmeh.
“It is very nice, Madame Yvonne,” Rania said, and Fatmeh nodded approvingly.
“You really think you’re going to be able to make this?” Saydeh asked.
“Of course I will … you will all see.”
“Madame Yvonne, may I take a look to see how you’ve cut the bodice?” Noura asked, looking closely at the pattern.
“Why?”
“Because this bodice is cut on a bias …”
“What do you know about dressmaking?”
Noura backed down.
“Where is Takla this morning?” Saydeh asked.
“I don’t know,” Rania answered. “I haven’t seen her yet.”
“Strange … Takla’s always the first one here.”