Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “Would you rather lie down?” she asked.

  “No, no,” he replied. “Just give me a moment.”

  “You probably have a broken rib,” Rania said.

  “Or several.” He tried to smile through the pain.

  Rania went about preparing a simple lunch, all the while keeping an eye on him. She poured him a glass of sweet lime juice. “Drink this … the sugar will give you a little strength.” Quickly, she warmed up a chicken stew she had made the night before and fresh bread straight from the brick oven.

  While he ate, she cleaned the morning dishes, trying to find ways to look at him, occasionally glancing at him from underneath her eyelashes. He didn’t look like a thug, she thought. He seemed polite and considerate.

  “So who are you?” Rania asked.

  “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

  “You do.” Rania looked at him. Her heart began beating faster. He had olive brown eyes that smiled and twinkled.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Beirut,” the stranger answered.

  “Your name?”

  “Rabih.”

  “What are you doing in Cairo?”

  “I … uh … was in the Hejaz,” Rabih stammered.

  “The Hejaz is a big place. What were you doing there?”

  “I was … ,” Rabih started and then stopped. “I, uh … was doing a little work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I am an architect.”

  “What do you build?” she asked. “Houses?”

  Rabih nodded.

  “So what were you building in the Hejaz?” Rania asked innocently. “Surely not houses … it’s the middle of the desert.”

  He shrugged.

  “Those two men who came in this morning spoke Turkish. Why were they after you?”

  “They probably wanted to talk to me,” Rabih said carefully.

  “Talk? Do you really think they wanted to ‘talk’ to you? You must take me for a fool!” she exploded. “You come in here, half dead, beaten up, bloody, falling over my bar, and a few minutes later these thugs show up looking for you and you want me to believe they wanted to ‘talk’ to you?”

  Rabih sat silently.

  “Well if you won’t give me an explanation, then get out … right now!” she ordered, standing up and pointing at the door. “I don’t need the headache of harboring a criminal in my café. I have enough problems as it is.”

  “I am not a criminal,” Rabih said quietly.

  “Well then how did you get this way? You are seriously wounded and Allah knows how it happened, but you won’t even see a doctor …”

  Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the back door.

  Rania’s heart jumped. Rabih looked at her anxiously.

  “Quickly! Can you get to the cellar by yourself?” she whispered. “Meen? Who is it?” she shouted, running to the door.

  “Rania!” a muffled male voice sounded through the wooden door.

  Rabih stumbled as he got up, crashing to the floor with a big thud.

  “Rania! Are you in there?” the voice sounded.

  “Hurry!” Rania quickly helped him up and he shuffled and hopped as quickly as he could, weaving his way through the kitchen back to his hiding place.

  “Coming!” she said. “Meen?” she asked again, once she saw Rabih entering the cellar.

  “Rania, it me! Salah! Open up!”

  Rania quickly fixed her hair, smoothed down her dress and apron, and opened the door.

  “Marhaba, Salah!” she said, smiling brightly. “Your mother went home a while ago for lunch.”

  “I’m not looking for my mother,” Salah said. “I need to get home.”

  Rania looked at him questioningly.

  “Rania … it’s a long story,” Salah began, “that I will explain to you someday, but right now I need to get home.”

  “Of course,” Rania reached for the key ring she kept in her apron pocket. “I’ll let you out the front door.”

  “No!” Salah said and caught her arm.

  Rania looked at his hand gripping her arm and back up at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Salah apologized immediately.

  “Look, Rania, I’m in a bit of trouble,” Salah admitted. “I can’t use the streets. Magdi tells me there’s a tunnel under this kitchen …”

  “What tunnel?” Rania looked astonished.

  “Under this kitchen … ,” Salah repeated.

  “I don’t know of any tunnel.”

  “Rania, there has to be,” Salah insisted. “Magdi knows the tunnels of this souk like the back of his hand. Perhaps the entrance is in the café?”

  “Salah, there is no tunnel either here or in the café,” Rania insisted.

  Salah began to look around the kitchen. He looked on the floor, bending down to touch around the stones. He went to the wall where Rania kept spices and began to touch some of the bricks. He approached the back wall that opened to the cellar where Rabih was hiding.

  “Salah! What are you doing?” Rania quickly went and stood in front of him.

  Salah gently moved her out of the way. “There has to be a way …” He continued to touch the wall. “What is behind this?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Rania …” Salah raised his eyebrows.

  “Nothing really,” Rania lied, “just an old cellar.”

  “That’s where the tunnel must be,” Salah said. “How do you get in?”

  Rania didn’t know what to do. She knew Salah, of course. His mother came to the café every day. But she didn’t know how he would react to seeing a wounded man on the floor of her cellar.

  Suddenly, the brick wall opened slightly. Salah jumped back. A pair of hands pulled the wall back exposing the cellar. Rabih stood in the archway.

  “Ahlan, Boss!” he said to Salah. “Good to see you!”

  “What the … ?” Salah’s eyes widened.

  “Can’t mistake that voice,” Rabih said.

  Salah took a step toward Rabih and hugged him, leaving Rania looking shocked. Rabih grimaced with pain.

  “Salah … be careful! He’s hurt.”

  Salah and Rabih turned to her, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Salah was smiling, whereas Rabih tried to smile.

  “Shoo hayda? What’s going on here?” Rania exclaimed. “You two know each other?

  “My friend!” Salah pointed a finger at Rabih.

  “My boss!” Rabih pointed a finger at Salah.

  “What?” Salah looked at him. “I’m not your friend anymore?” he joked.

  Rabih smiled shyly and looked down at his shoes. “Boss and friend,” he conceded, before Salah engulfed him in another bear hug.

  “Ohhhh!” Rabih groaned in his arms.

  “I am glad to see you alive, brother.” Salah gave Rabih a gentle punch in the arm.

  “And I you.” Rabih sighed, holding his side.

  Rania turned, shaking her head. “I don’t understand what is going on.”

  “Rania, Rania!” Salah said, leaving Rabih and walking over to put a soothing arm around her shoulders.

  Rania continued shaking her head. “This is all too much for me. Rabih shows up this morning, bleeding, injured, looking like he’s been shot or stabbed or something, then these two other men show up looking for him … now you, looking for a tunnel …” She looked worried. “And then it turns out that you two know each other.”

  “Wait!” Salah stopped her. “What do you mean, two other men?”

  “I mean what I said,” Rania looked at him. “Two men came in this morning looking for Rabih just after he stumbled in here. Turks.”

  “Ahmed Jemmal’s men,” Salah muttered under his breath.

  Suddenly, Rabih groaned loudly, crying in pain as he slid down the wall, falling on the ground and holding his left side.

  Salah immediately ran to him.

  “Let me take a look,” he said to Rabih. “Rania, put his head in your lap.” Rania obeyed, sitti
ng down on her heels and gently taking Rabih’s head and placing it on her thighs. Rabih looked up at her gratefully before his eyes rolled back in his head. Rania began to caress his head trying to calm the pain. Salah tore off Rabih’s vest to look at his chest. There was a wound, crusted with blood, on his left side and huge bruises everywhere. Salah touched around the bruises and Rabih screamed with pain.

  “He’s wounded here too,” Salah said, looking at the tear in his pants. “By Allah! This is a bullet wound!”

  “We have to get him help!” Rania said.

  Salah nodded, sitting back on his haunches.

  “Salah!” Rania insisted. “We have to get him a doctor!”

  “We can’t take him to a doctor,” Salah replied, his forehead creasing with worry.

  “Why not?” Rania shouted, incredulous.

  “Because how will we explain these wounds without attracting the attention of the local Egyptian authorities?” Salah asked.

  “What we need is an English military doctor,” he said. “Problem is, how do we get him to the English barracks? The Turks are probably watching us.”

  “But there’s no one outside,” Rania said.

  “You might not see them, Rania,” Salah told her, “but you can be sure they are watching.”

  “What are we going to do?” Rania asked.

  Salah stroked his chin.

  Rania looked down at Rabih. His face was contorted with pain and he was moaning softly. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered tenderly.

  “At the very least, we need to clean him up,” Salah said. “We need to put him in a bed. We can’t leave him on the floor.”

  “Take him upstairs,” Rania said. “We can put him in the small bedroom next to mine. There is a single bed in there.”

  “Come on, brother.” Salah gently took Rabih in his arms. Rabih groaned.

  Slowly Salah lifted him off the floor and put his arm around his waist, hoisting him up. Rabih winced. “I know, brother,” Salah muttered. “A’afwan. I know you have a couple of broken ribs.”

  Suddenly, there was a soft knocking on the front door of the café. “Now what?” Rania rolled her eyes. “Can’t they read the ‘Closed’ sign?”

  “You’d better go deal with that,” Salah said as he began to climb the stairs with Rabih.

  Rania looked through the multicolored striped linen curtain that covered the glass panel of the door. It was Fatmeh.

  “Marhaba, Rania,” Fatmeh said.

  “Ahlan, habibti!” Rania replied. “Khair? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” Fatmeh replied.

  There were a few moments of silence while Rania waited for Fatmeh to say something.

  “Did you need anything?” Rania asked.

  “Yes … actually, I was wondering if you found my notebook,” Fatmeh stuttered.

  “Yes!” Rania said. “I did! When I was clearing up after lunch, I found it on the floor.” Now, what did I do with it? she asked herself as she walked back into the café.

  “Rania …” Fatmeh hesitated.

  Rania stopped and looked round.

  “Did you open the notebook?”

  “I did,” Rania said, “because I didn’t know who it belonged to.”

  “Then you read some of it?”

  “Well … I did, but very little,” Rania assured her. “You’re very talented, Fatmeh.”

  “I … uh … thank you, but …”

  The sound of an abrupt, loud thud followed by a long, muffled cry sounded throughout the café.

  Rania looked up toward the ceiling. Fatmeh did too, but didn’t say anything. Moments later came the sound of another groan and heavy footsteps on the floor above.

  Rania noticed the spatter of blood near the stairs. She looked up and saw Fatmeh look at the same spatter.

  “Is everything all right here?” Fatmeh asked gently.

  “What? Yes, yes! Everything is fine,” Rania replied.

  “Can I help? My father is a doctor and I studied to be a nurse.”

  “Really?” Rania said. She went to the bottom of the stairs. “Salah!” she called out.

  “Salah?” Fatmeh asked, surprised. “Salah Masri? What is he doing upstairs?”

  “Salah! It’s only Fatmeh! Come downstairs!” Rania shouted.

  Salah came downstairs holding his forehead.

  “What happened?” Rania asked.

  “I hit my head against the doorframe,” Salah admitted, dropping his hand from his forehead.

  “Good afternoon, Fatmeh.”

  The younger woman returned his greeting with a shy smile.

  “Salah, Fatmeh is a nurse,” Rania quickly explained.

  “Well, I’m not really a nurse,” Fatmeh said, “I was studying to be a nurse, but then I got married … and my husband, well, he didn’t want me to continue.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Salah said. “Listen, Fatmeh, a friend of mine is hurt … he’s upstairs … he really needs to see a doctor, but for now he can’t move. Can you help him, please?” he pleaded.

  “I …” Fatmeh took a step back. “I don’t know. How badly is he hurt?”

  “Rania, please show Fatmeh upstairs and I’m really sorry but I have to go. Fatmeh, I’m sorry … thank you … I’ll explain it all to you.”

  Fatmeh nodded. “But what about that bruise above your eye?” she asked. “It’s turning purple.”

  “I’ll live.” Salah smiled. “Please do what you can for Rabih.” He walked to the cellar and into the tunnel Magdi had told him about and headed home.

  The small, windowless room was dark and stuffy and stank of sweat and animal waste. The walls were dirty, as was the straw on the mud floor. The only sound was that of rats and vermin scurrying around trying to find food or shelter. The door opened and light from the hallway revealed a body lying in a corner.

  “Wake him up, Sergeant Celik!” Colonel Omer Erdogan snapped.

  While Erdogan stood in the doorway, the sergeant walked in with a bucket of water and emptied it over the figure. “Get up!” He kicked the soaking body.

  The figure groaned and turned over. Sergeant Celik kicked again. “Get … up!” he said again, enunciating his words.

  The figure still didn’t move. Sergeant Celik looked at his superior. Erdogan nodded. The Sergeant walked out and came back with another bucket of water and doused the figure again. He left the room again and returned with a small wooden chair. He pulled the limp body off the floor and sat it in the chair, tying the hands at the back and the feet to the chair legs. He adjusted a gaslight strung up on a rope just above the figure’s head and lit it. The light revealed the bruised, beaten face of Nassim Alamuddin.

  “Where is Salah Masri?” Captain Omer Erdogan hovered over the boy’s face.

  Nassim’s head hung to one side.

  “Douse the little bastard.”

  The sergeant overturned another bucket of water. Nassim began coughing and spluttering. Slowly, he opened one eye; the other one was black and purple and so swollen that he couldn’t open it.

  “Give me Masri, boy!” Erdogan said. “Where is he hiding?”

  Nassim looked around in a daze at the two men in front of him.

  “Salah Masri!” the captain brought his face down to Nassim’s. “Rabih Farhat?”

  “Who?” Nassim murmured.

  “Don’t lie to me! You know who they are!”

  “I don’t,” Nassim groaned.

  “But I know you know Masri.”

  “Please …”

  “You live in the El-Khalili souk, don’t you?” Erdogan said, pacing with a riding crop in his hand.

  Nassim nodded.

  “Then you must know him, Mr. Alamuddin,” Erdogan insisted. “Masri is not someone you forget.”

  Nassim shook his head. “There are many people in the souk.”

  “You are a filthy swine and a liar!” Erdogan shouted and cracked the riding crop across the boy’s chest.

  Nassim whimpered
in pain.

  “You were twice seen talking to him.”

  Nassim’s head hung to his side again.

  “Now, once and for all, tell me where he is or you will pay for it with your life!”

  Nassim remained silent, saliva dripping from the side of his mouth.

  “Tell me!” Erdogan said ominously. And suddenly, without warning, he took out his pistol and a shot rang out. Nassim screamed with pain. Erdogan had put a bullet in his leg.

  “Stop screaming!” Erdogan aimed his gun at the young boy again. Nassim began to whimper.

  “Bring the needles!” he ordered. “I’m tired of waiting.”

  Sergeant Celik left the room.

  “Now … you will tell me where Salah Masri is, or I will lift your fingernails off one by one. Your fingers will be left raw.”

  Nassim groaned in agony.

  The sergeant came back with a box.

  “Stick him,” Erdogan ordered his subordinate.

  Sergeant Celik opened the box and took out a long, slim, steel needle. He forcefully pried one of Nassim’s fingers from the chair’s arm and stuck the needle under his finger, pushing it into the nail bed. Nassim screamed from the pain and fainted.

  “I don’t think we’ll get any more from him right now, Sir.” Sergeant Celik looked up at Erdogan.

  Omer Erdogan snorted. He struck his riding crop against the wall. “Son of a bitch!” he swore and spat. “Masri has the luck of the devil.”

  Erdogan swept past Sergeant Celik and walked down a hallway and up a flight of stairs to his office. He took off his black fez and threw it down on the desk. Pulling off his gloves, he flung them along with his riding crop on the chair. He put his sword on the chair and the pistol on his desk. He loosened the top buttons of his green Army jacket and his belt and sat down at the desk.

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and quickly scribbled a note:

  Put café under round-the-clock surveillance. Woman to be watched very carefully.

  He put it in an envelope and sealed it. He pressed a button on his desk and moments later Sergeant Celik appeared.

  “Sir!”

  “Get this to our man in the El-Khalili immediately.”

  Salah made his way back to his house through the tunnel that ran below all the houses in the alley. I wonder why our house is linked to Rania’s Café, he thought, as he slowly made his way through, matches in hand, picking his way through the puddles and mud and the rats that scampered off squealing when he approached. God I hate rats! He scrunched up his nose as he saw their tails disappearing into holes in the walls on either side. Suddenly, the tunnel ended. Now what? Salah thought. He looked up, feeling the ceiling just above his head.