by Maha Akhtar
Just then, the door burst open and a woman came in, looking harassed and unkempt. She was wearing a knee-length green dress and had a white cotton shawl across her shoulders. She was an interesting-looking woman. Her long, dark, very curly hair had one strand of white running through it. Pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck, loose strands fell around her face. Her cheeks were wet and her dark eyes were red and puffy.
“Hamdellah a salame,” Madame Yvonne commented sarcastically. “She’s arrived.”
As Takla approached, the expression on her face was one of fear and worry.
“Takla!” Saydeh jumped up. “What is the matter?”
Takla began crying as Saydeh hugged her and gently led her to the table.
“What has happened?”
“It’s Nassim,” she wailed. “My son … he’s disappeared …”
“Now, now, Takla.” Saydeh made her sit down, “Calm down. Rania, bring her something to drink.”
Rania ran to the bar and poured a glass of cold sweet lime juice and water. She briefly wondered if she should mix in a little gin and decided that a little squirt would go undetected, wouldn’t do Takla any harm, and would indeed calm her down.
“Now drink this and tell us what happened,” Saydeh ordered.
“I don’t know.” Takla hiccupped. “I woke up this morning and as usual I went into the kitchen to make him breakfast. At nine o’clock, I called out to him like I always do. He didn’t answer.” Takla began to cry again.
“He’s probably out with a girl … let him have a little fun … learn something about women,” Yvonne butted in.
“What do you know?” Takla cried. “How would you feel if he were out with your daughter?”
“Enough, Yvonne,” Saydeh said quietly. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
“He’ll come back,” Yvonne insisted. “He’s just being a boy.”
“If only his father was still alive …” Takla wailed. “He doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
“Takla,” Saydeh patted her hand, “I’m sure he’s fine. Let’s not start thinking the worst.”
“But, Saydeh, I’m worried something terrible has happened to him,” Takla said. “His bed hadn’t even been slept in.”
“Don’t worry …”
“How can I not?” Takla cried, leaning her head on the table over her hands, the tears trickling sideways down her face across her nose. “Look what is going on around us. The British are everywhere … and the French and the Turks are still here. Who knows who has done what to my boy?”
“No one has touched a hair on the boy’s head,” Yvonne said, still trying to thread her needle, “except for a woman,” she added, looking up at them.
Fatmeh’s eyes were moist, her tears appearing in solidarity with Takla’s. Rania looked worried, Saydeh annoyed, and Noura confused.
The black telephone on Colonel Erdogan’s dark walnut mahogany desk rang. The door opened and Erdogan strode in with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He grabbed the phone.
“Erdogan here,” he answered. “Yes, Sir,” he clicked his heels and stood at attention. “Sir, we have our best men here … I am working on it … I actually got close to his mother, but she didn’t give me anything … yes, Sir … I have someone here now, one of Masri’s boys … don’t worry, Sir…we will make him talk … he will give us Masri.”
Erdogan put the phone back on its receiver and pressed a button on a small box on his desk. “Captain Celik, come in please.”
“Yes, Sir.” The door opened a few seconds later.
“Where’s the boy?”
“In the basement.”
“Ahmad Pasha’s orders. We’re turning up the pressure. Make the boy sing, Celik.”
Salah was sitting in his office reading the newspaper. Half a world away on the Western Front, the Somme offensive was underway. Hundreds of thousands of lives had already been lost. Verdun was still going and Italy had declared war on Germany.
Suddenly, he heard the door knocker. Two quick short knocks, two long knocks, one short, two long, and one short … Morse for IMP … important. What could it be? He ran down quickly. Just as he got to the first floor landing, he saw a small envelope slide in under the door. It was a telegram. Quickly Salah tore it open.
They’re closing in. Watch your back. RF.
Salah folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He climbed the stairs to his office. RF was Rabih Farhat, his architect. Salah knew the Turks were in Cairo, but how close were they? He’d been extremely careful, but could he have slipped up? He wrung his hands. He always knew that they would at some point tighten the noose.
I’d better go talk to Magdi. See if he or any of the boys have seen anyone suspicious in the souk.
“Salah!” he heard his mother’s voice from the staircase. “Are you here, son?”
Salah rolled his eyes. Not now, he sighed. Taking a deep breath, stealing himself, “Yes, imme,” he answered.
“Salah!” Saydeh came in huffing and puffing, her hand on her heart.
“What is it?” Salah put his hands on her arms.
“Salah … ,” Saydeh started.
The door opened wide and Noura, with a supportive arm around Takla’s shoulders, walked in.
“Tante Takla! Noura!” Salah said, surprised to see his mother’s friend walk in with Noura.
“Come sit down, Takla,” Saydeh went to take Takla’s arm and help her to the sofa. “Noura, would you mind bringing some water?”
“What is the matter, Tante Takla?” Salah sat down next to her.
Takla began to cry. Salah looked questioningly at his mother.
“It’s Nassim.” Saydeh put her arm around Takla.
“What has happened to Nassim?” Salah asked. His heart began to beat faster.
“He’s gone … ,” Takla wailed.
“What do you mean ‘gone?’” Salah asked.
“Apparently, this morning when Takla woke up, he was gone,” Saydeh explained. “His bed had not been slept in.”
“And you have no idea where he could be?” Salah asked, concerned.
Takla shook her head.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Saydeh said.
Takla put her head on Saydeh’s shoulder.
“What do you think, Salah?” Saydeh asked her son. “Isn’t there anything we can do to help Takla? Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”
Salah’s mind was racing. Nassim wouldn’t just disappear like that. He’s too reliable, too responsible. If he’s gone, it means the Turks have him. They’ll start questioning him about what he knows … and they’ll torture him. Salah shuddered. He knew how merciless the Turks were when they wanted information.
“Salah?” his mother’s voice penetrated his thoughts.
“Eh, imme,” he replied, looking at her with a blank look on his face.
“Can’t you do anything?” Saydeh repeated.
Salah didn’t know what to say to his mother. He felt responsible for Nassim. After all, it was Magdi and he who had brought the boy into this. He had to find out what had happened to him. If the Turks had Nassim, Salah didn’t have much time. He might have to go even further underground. But he had to rescue Nassim first.
Salah looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost lunchtime. All the shops were getting ready to close. But he still had a few minutes. If he hurried, he could get to Magdi. Magdi’s eldest son, Hisham, was a good friend of Nassim’s and the two of them had organized a group of their friends who patrolled the souk. Hisham had to know something.
Salah got up and grabbed his headscarf.
“Where are you going?” Saydeh said. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
“I’ll be back, imme.”
“But where are you going?”
“I’m going to Magdi’s.”
“The fruitseller?” Saydeh said, astonished. “Now?”
“Yes! I bought some figs and dates earlier and I forgot to pick them up,” Salah told her.
“But y
ou don’t have to go now,” Saydeh said, still taken aback. “You can go back later this afternoon.”
“No!” Salah said a little too forcefully.
Saydeh looked taken aback and even Takla stopped crying for a moment.
“You never know with Magdi.” Salah realized how hard he must have sounded. “He might sell my fruit to someone else.”
Saydeh did another double take. “Even if he does, son, he has more.”
“I have to go now,” Salah repeated. He kissed his mother’s forehead and quickly walked out.
Covering his head and face with a scarf, Salah rushed down the alley, causing many to shout and shake their fists at him. “Sorry! Sorry!” he kept saying, as he jostled his way through the crowd. “Look out!” Salah shouted at a baker who almost collided with him. “Watch it, you big oaf!” the baker cried as he tried to regain his balance. “You almost cost me my day’s wages.” Most people stood back or stepped off to the side when they saw Salah coming.
Finally he got to Magdi’s fruit stand just as he was covering all the fruit with damp linen cloths to protect it from the afternoon heat.
“Magdi!” Salah shouted from the corner. “Magdi! Stop!”
The fruitseller turned to see Salah running toward him.
“Magdi! I need some figs!” Salah said for the benefit of the other fruitsellers. “My mother is beside herself!”
“Did you think I was going to run out of figs?”
“Magdi,” Salah’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Where’s your son?”
“Which one, brother? I have five.”
“Hisham.”
“He should be at home.” Magdi shrugged. “It is almost time for lunch.”
“I need to know where Hisham is now!” Salah came very close to Magdi’s face, their noses almost touching.
“Tayeb, tayeb!” Magdi replied. “Calm down! What is the matter with you?”
Salah stood back and adjusted his long galabiyya and his headscarf. “Look, Magdi, it’s important. I need to talk to him.”
“Shoo? Khair? What is the matter?” Magdi asked, retying his own headscarf.
“It’s Nassim,” Salah whispered.
“What about Nassim?”
“He has disappeared.”
Magdi nodded, understanding. “Come,” he said, pointing to the back of the stall. He quickly looked around to make sure the street was empty and pulled down the reed shutters. He walked back to the wall and felt under a couple of bricks until he found a lever that he pulled. The wall swung open. Salah had no idea this hidden passageway existed. Magdi walked in and picked up a small oil lantern. He lit it and indicated that Salah follow him. They walked down a long dark corridor, finally coming to what looked like a dead end. But it wasn’t. Again, Magdi felt for a lever that released a door with a big puff of dust. Behind it was a secret room with only two small narrow windows that gave out on to the street above. It was clearly underground and was completely bare except for a straw mattress on the floor and a small table with a lantern and a cup of water.
“We are underneath my house,” Magdi informed him. “Wait here. I will get Hisham. I don’t want his mother to know anything.”
Salah nodded. Several minutes later Magdi came back with Hisham in tow.
“Marhaba, Salah,” Hisham said.
“Where is Nassim, boy?”
Hisham took a deep breath.
“We were at the Queen of the Nile last night,” the eighteen-year-old boy began.
“The nightclub?” Salah said.
Hisham nodded. “Dalida, you know … the belly dancer, was performing.”
Magdi slapped the back of his son’s head. “Just wait until your mother hears about this.”
Hisham grimaced, scratching his head.
“Although I have heard she’s very good,” Magdi interjected.
“She was.”
“Shut up!” Salah growled. “Both of you. Go on Hisham …”
“There were two men there and they didn’t look like they were from here,” Hisham said. “Nassim told me he thought they were Turkish, but we weren’t sure. We tried to get near them, but couldn’t. The room was too full. After Dalida finished, he said he wanted to follow them … said he had a funny feeling about them. I told him I would go with him, but he told me not to. He said he would be back.”
“Go on.”
“But I insisted, and walked with Nassim outside the club, where I heard them speaking in Turkish. They were talking about you, Salah, and someone else, but I didn’t catch the name. They began walking toward the south gate of the souk and Nassim went after them. I followed them at a distance, then I don’t know what happened. Suddenly, they all disappeared; and I felt a hand around my mouth and someone was twisting my arms around me. I think one of them must have hit me. I felt a pain in my head and I don’t know … when I opened my eyes I was still on the street. So I made my way back here.”
Hisham looked at his shoes.
Salah nodded. The Turks were one step behind him.
“I’m sorry, Salah.” Hisham looked at him expectantly.
“You should have said something immediately,” Magdi admonished him.
“What’s done is done. We have to find Nassim and we all need to be careful,” Salah warned.
“What about Nassim?” Hisham asked, tearfully.
“We will find him,” Salah assured him. “Now, I have to get back or else my mother will be out looking for me.” Salah draped his scarf around him. “And I would sooner face the Turks than my angry mother.
“How do I get back to my house?” Salah turned to Magdi. “Safely … ,” he added.
“You’ll have to duck and weave a bit, but if you go out the back door of my house, you can take the small alleyways that will take you to the back of Rania’s Café,” Magdi told him. “There is a tunnel under her kitchen that leads straight into the chandelier shop on the ground floor of your mother’s house. You should still be able to use it.”
Salah nodded, draping his scarf over his head. “Thank Allah this souk is filled with tunnels. Thank you, brother.”
Magdi nodded. “Ma’as-salame.”
Chapter Six
Just past two o’clock, Rania saw the last customer out and locked the door behind him. She turned the little panel on the door that read “closed until 4:30 p.m.,” before peeking through the curtains to see if there were any strangers lurking around, but the street was empty.
What’s this? She noticed a little black notebook on the floor. She picked it up and opened it. It was Fatmeh’s, Rania realized as she leafed through the pages. All these poems … they’re all about love. Oh, they are beautiful. She’s so lovely … so quiet and unassuming. I’m so happy she’s in love with her husband. Rania smiled to herself and put the notebook in her apron pocket for safekeeping and went back to the task at hand.
It had been an incredibly busy morning, what with the regulars, the ladies, not to mention the stranger in the cellar. Well, it’s time he left, Rania thought, wiping her hands on her apron. This is a perfect time for him to go, there’s no one in the streets, she thought as she slowly walked to the back of the kitchen. Who is he? A thief? A killer? What sort of trouble is he in? And what about those wounds? He really needs to see a doctor. Why would he refuse to see one? And who were those men? Clearly they’d been looking for him. She stared at the brick wall for a moment. I’m crazy to have let him stay here. I should have kicked him out after those two men left.
Rania pushed on a brick and the wall creaked open.
“Excuse me!” Rania called out before going in.
When he didn’t reply, she pushed the wall and stuck her head in. He was lying on the floor, wrapped up in the sheets and fast asleep. Gently, she tiptoed over, looking down at him. His head was resting in the crook of his shoulder and his features were relaxed. He was still sweating and his face, hair, and beard were caked with streams of blood. Cleaned up, he was probably a good-looking man. He had short, dark, wavy hair
and a dark beard and moustache. The shirt he was wearing was torn. He had broad shoulders and well-defined arms. His skin looked tanned. The white-ribbed vest he wore under his shirt was terribly stained with dirt and blood, as were his khaki pants. He was still wearing black shoes that looked well worn. She knelt next to him. The alcohol and cotton wool sat untouched but the jug of water was empty. Rania didn’t know what to do. She picked up the jug to get some more water.
Suddenly, his eyes opened. Startled, Rania took a short, sharp breath and leaned backwards, almost losing her balance. The stranger’s hand immediately shot out to grab her. But Rania regained her balance and sat back on her heels. The stranger put his hand back under his head. They looked at each other in silence.
Rania looked down at her fingers, unable to hold the man’s frank and openly appreciative gaze. She could feel the color rising to her cheeks. “I will get you some more water,” she said hurriedly and got to her feet. She heard him groan when she walked away. When she came back, he was sitting with his back to the wall.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
He nodded. “I have not eaten in a few days.”
“I will make you something. There is no one in the café, so you can come outside. Can you stand?”
Slowly, the man tried to get to his feet, but his strength kept failing. He looked at Rania and smiled, embarrassed to ask for her help.
“Come,” she said, “lean on me.” She crouched and put an arm around his waist and he placed his right arm, the least injured of the two, around her shoulders. Slowly, Rania stood up. The man’s face contorted with pain. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He shook his head, telling her silently that it wasn’t she who was hurting him. It was a strange sensation for Rania as she helped him walk. She was, for all intents and purposes, in the arms of a complete stranger, albeit one who was injured and needed help. It had been some time since she had felt strong male arms around her. The man smelled of sweat, blood, and war. Rania breathed through her mouth as they slowly walked through the door into the kitchen, where she helped him sit at the table. As soon as she let him go, he slumped forward with a short, sharp cry, holding his bloody, bruised side.