In a Perfect World

by Trish Doller

  “They pray so much.”

  “I say prayers in the morning when I wake up and at night before bed, and we always say grace before dinner,” she says. “If you count the moments when I am thankful for something good that happens or offer a prayer to ease someone’s misfortune, it all adds up.”

  “Except your prayers are private.”

  “True, but this is what Islam requires,” Mom says. “I’m sure there are plenty of Muslims who have trouble waking up for this prayer the same way you hate getting up early on Sunday morning for Mass.”

  It’s not that I don’t believe her, but the noon bells in Sandusky are more pleasant than the adhan. “I hope this means we’ll eventually be able to sleep through it.”

  She ruffles my hair. “Me too. I’m tired.”

  When the call to prayer ends, we go back to bed, and when the real morning comes, Mr. Elhadad arrives to take us to Mom’s new clinic. During the drive, she asks him about the neighborhood where the clinic is located.

  “Manshiyat Nasr is called Garbage City,” he says. “The people who live there—the Zabbaleen—collect the garbage from around Cairo and take it back to Manshiyat Nasr to sort out the recyclables. There is no running water there, no sewage system, and the electricity is almost nonexistent.”

  His description makes the place sound terrible, but he could not have prepared us enough for what we actually encounter. The neighborhood is a tightly packed warren of crumbling brick apartment buildings, and the mostly dirt streets are lined with bags of garbage. The air—which already stinks of Cairo smog—carries the sharp, sour stench of rotting food, and it takes all my willpower not to pull my shirt up over my nose. The children playing in the street, however, don’t seem bothered.

  We pass trucks stacked precariously high with bales of flattened water bottles, long-dead cars with smashed-out windows, and alleys filled with mountains of cardboard. Amid the garbage are wandering goats and vendor stalls selling fruits and vegetables. I don’t think this was what Dad had in mind when he suggested we go in search of a market.

  “It is easy to put this place out of our heads,” Mr. Elhadad says, turning the car into a narrow street lined with shops. Overhead the buildings rise up ten stories and taller. Some of the balconies are strung with clotheslines pinned with drying laundry, while others have colorful fabrics creating privacy screens. “But it is a good reminder to be grateful for the blessings in our lives.”

  Dad shoots an I told you so glance over his shoulder at Mom, who sticks out her tongue at him, then smiles.

  The clinic is at the end of a block, in a one-story building as dilapidated as the others, but someone has applied a fresh coat of blue paint over the stucco. My mother unlocks the front door. Inside the clinic is bright and clean with a small reception room, an even smaller office, and a couple of examination rooms. The space is ready. It’s just waiting for equipment and staff. For Mom.

  “How is this tiny place going to meet the needs of so many people?” Dad wonders aloud.

  “It’s not,” she says. “But some is better than none.”

  The door opens behind us and a girl barely older than me comes in with a curly-haired baby on her hip. She says something in Arabic, gesturing at the baby. Mr. Elhadad responds, shaking his head. I don’t understand their words, but I gather that he’s telling her the clinic is not yet open.

  “Wait,” Mom says. “What’s wrong? What does she need?”

  “She says her daughter has sickness in her eye,” Mr. Elhadad translates. “I believe she means infection.”

  My mom fishes a packet of peel-open latex exam gloves from her tote bag. As she pulls on the gloves, she speaks to the young woman in Arabic. I know Mom well enough to know she is asking permission to examine the baby, which is verified when the baby’s mother nods her assent.

  “She has conjunctivitis,” Mom says in English. “She needs clean water, fresh toweling for compresses . . . I don’t know how she is going to manage that in these conditions and I don’t have the resources to help her today, but . . . okay, I’m going to need everyone to step outside so she and I can speak privately.”

  “What if you don’t know the right words?” Dad asks.

  “I’ll improvise,” she says. “This is personal. Between women.”

  As we wait outside, my dad buys a little of everything—oranges, tomatoes, a head of cabbage, broccoli, lemons, bananas, even a rutabaga—from a wrinkled old lady behind a wooden market stall that looks like it’s one strong gust of wind away from toppling over. Mr. Elhadad watches, his mouth turned down in disapproval, as Dad doesn’t bother trying to haggle. He probably gives the woman more than the asking price, too.

  Mom comes out of the clinic with the young woman, who is smiling and saying shokran over and over.

  “Did you get it all sorted out?” Dad asks.

  “I did.” Mom doesn’t elaborate, but she is smiling too.

  On the ride back to the apartment, I can’t stop thinking about the girl in Manshiyat Nasr. I am fully aware that girls my age get pregnant all the time, but it’s never happened inside my realm of experience. Most girls I know are still trying to figure out how to talk to boys, so the idea of being a married teenager—at least I assume she is married—with a baby boggles my mind. I can’t help but wonder if she ever wishes for a life beyond Garbage City. Or maybe the Egyptian dream is different from the American dream. It’s possible she has everything she wants.

  The sun is high and the heat is suffocating by the time we arrived back at the apartment. In the elevator, I ask Mom what happened with the girl at the clinic.

  “I gave her an unopened package of tissues from my bag and showed her the proper way to clean away the discharge,” she says. “Then I told her as best I could, using gestures when necessary, that if she didn’t have access to clean water, she should put a couple drops of breast milk in the baby’s eye instead.”

  “Seriously?”

  My mother nods. “It contains good bacteria, the kind that could help speed the healing process. It’s a homeopathic thing and not proven science, but it’s clean and, in this situation, better than using a questionable water source.”

  “You are so hard-core, Mom.”

  “This job . . .” She blows out a long breath and leans her head against Dad’s shoulder. “It’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I try to respond to Hannah’s e-mail, but I am not sure how to explain that Cairo is both better and worse than I imagined. The heat is like living under a blanket. The dust of the city sneaks in through every crack, every day. And it is never, ever quiet. I am not comfortable here—we’ve been in Egypt less than a handful of days, and my bedroom is the only place that even feels remotely “at home” even though everything in it still has that fresh-out-of-the-box smell.

  My pink Kelleys Island stone sits on the nightstand beside a picture of Hannah, Owen, and me after Owen’s conference final game. His dirty-blond hair was damp with sweat from playing almost the entire game and we were all holding up number one fingers. I am in a strange middle place tonight because my time in Cairo has only just started, but the picture makes me long for home. My fingers fly over the keyboard.

  H—

  I’ve attached some pictures of my room and the view from our apartment and when I have more time, I’ll try to tell you about Cairo. You can see how gorgeous it is where we live, but not every part of the city is like this. And this is not home. I miss you guys so much. Even if it’s breaking the rules, tell Owen hi for me, okay?

  . . . and back,

  —C

  “Hey, Caroline.” Dad’s voice comes from the other side of my bedroom door. “Adam is here to help finish the furniture. We’re coming in.”

  Before I can tell my dad that I need a minute to change, he barges in. My red Liverpool tank top and denim cutoffs would be totally appropriate at home, but here I’m all bare arms and legs in front of Adam. And when I look at him, he is sta
ring at me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments and I see something raw there. Unguarded.

  Adam Elhadad is checking me out.

  His gaze drops as color rises in his face. He is not boy-next-door cute like Owen. The dark scruff along his jaw makes Adam seem older, more handsome than cute. His attention is flattering. Fluttering. Flustering. And I have no idea how to process this. I scoop up some other clothes and escape to the bathroom.

  Could I be attracted to a boy like Adam Elhadad? Is that even allowed? Would my parents be okay with that? Would I be okay with that? Even after I’m covered by a blue floral tunic dress and rolled-up jeans, I don’t have the answers. Avoiding my room, I tell Mom I’m going for a walk in the neighborhood.

  “Do you have your phone?”

  We stopped to buy mobile phones on the way back from Manshiyat Nasr because our US plans don’t provide coverage in Egypt. The only people programmed into my new phone are my parents, Hannah, Owen (even though I’m not supposed to have him in there), and Mr. Elhadad. I pat my back pocket. “Got it.”

  “Be careful.”

  For the longest time, I stand in the vestibule, unsure of which direction to go. Masoud sits beside the elevator, puffing on a hookah pipe. His snowy beard makes him look old enough to be someone’s grandfather, and he watches me with dark, judgmental eyes. Like he’s just waiting for me to do something wrong.

  There is a movie theater down the road, but I don’t know if the films are in English or in Arabic, or how to ask for a ticket if the person behind the glass doesn’t speak my language. The Nile looks cool and inviting, and I think maybe I could walk along the waterfront.

  Back home in Sandusky, one of the best spots along the shoreline is Jackson Street Pier. Mostly it’s a parking lot for the ferries that go to Kelleys, South Bass, and Pelee Islands, but just before sunset the locals start circling in their cars, jockeying for the good spaces to open up at the end of the pier. When the weather was nice, Owen and I would ride our bikes and feed stale popcorn to the gulls. If we took his car, he would cue up “our” playlist into the stereo and, invariably, we’d be making out before the sun even went down. Overwhelmed by the nostalgia, I text him: I miss you.

  As soon as I hit send, I wish I could take it back. Owen doesn’t deserve to be jerked around just because I am afraid to take my first solo step in Cairo. Tucking my phone away, I head down the sidewalk in the direction of the theater. At the very least, I can see what movies are playing.

  “Hello there.” An Egyptian man falls into step beside me. He is in his late twenties with slicked-back dark hair, invasive cologne that makes my nose twitch, and a Manchester United jersey. I look down at his hands to see if he has flyers or something he’s trying to sell me, but his hands are empty. Why is he talking to me? What does he want? “I think blond girls are very sexy.”

  My pulse ratchets up a notch and I glance around, looking for a friendly face—or maybe an escape route. I want him to leave me alone, but I am afraid of what might happen if I tell him so.

  “You are beautiful like honey.” He’s so far into my personal space that I can feel his hot, smoky breath against my face. “Sweet.”

  What if this was what Grandma Irene meant when she talked about kidnapping? I think about running, but I have no idea which direction to run other than back toward the apartment. I don’t want this creeper to know where I live.

  “I’m meeting my boyfriend.” My voice shakes and I hate having to lie. Girls shouldn’t need boyfriends—fake or otherwise—to get guys to leave them alone, but I am almost to the theater, and trying to deflect him is not working. What if he follows me into the building?

  “If you were my girlfriend, I would not permit you to go out in the streets dressed in such a revealing way.” His tone has gone cold. “Have you no respect for yourself, provoking men like this?”

  My top covers me from my neck to below my backside, my jeans are not tight, I am wearing no makeup, and my hair is tied up in a messy bun. More of his skin is showing than mine, but I’m the provocative one? And how did I go so fast from sexy to lacking self-respect? My fear turns to anger.

  “Go away.” I put as much force as possible behind my words. “Leave me alone.”

  The movie theater is right here, my imaginary boyfriend waiting for me inside, but this man has killed my desire to be out in public. I spin around on the sidewalk and run as fast as I can. I glance back to see if he is following, but he just stands where he is, shouting at me in Arabic. The language sounds ugly coming from his mouth and makes me feel as if I am the one who has done something wrong.

  I don’t wait for the elevator, instead sprinting past Masoud, up the stairs by twos, and rushing into the apartment. Only when the door is firmly closed behind me do I feel safe.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks as the afternoon adhan begins. Even with the windows closed and the air-conditioning on, there is no escaping the call to prayer. I can’t help wondering if the man down in the street will stop to pray, wondering if his god approves of harassing women.

  “I want to go home.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some guy hit on me,” I say. “And when I asked him to leave me alone, he basically accused me of dressing like a whore.”

  “This happens often in Cairo.” Adam stands in the doorway of my room. “Some Egyptian men believe foreign women dress . . . I do not know the correct word . . . in such a way to attract attention.”

  “Nothing about this”—I motion toward my own body, but he glances away quickly, looking out the balcony doors—“is meant to attract attention. What am I supposed to do? Cover myself up like those ladies who only have their eyes showing?”

  Adam’s gaze swings back, meeting mine for a second. “It would not matter if you did. There are men who would harass the niqabi for wearing makeup on their eyes.”

  “That is so sexist.”

  He nods, but his shoulders lift a little at the same time. “My mother has been harassed, my sister even worse. There is not much that can be done. You must try to ignore it.”

  “That’s easy to say when no one is questioning your self-respect.” The anger in my voice earns me a sharp look from Mom and I wish I could reel back my words. I don’t understand how Egyptians just let this kind of thing happen, but Adam isn’t to blame for what happened to me. It’s not his fault that harassment is an issue in his country.

  “I am sorry.” He sounds sincere. “The furniture is finished, so I should go. My father will be looking forward to your call if you should need him.”

  CHAPTER 6

  It’s about a week later when Mr. Elhadad knocks on our front door. Dad’s back in the United States for work and Mom has spent the week training her staff, preparing the clinic for opening, and nagging me to get out of the apartment. After seven days of self-imposed exile, even cat videos are starting to lose their appeal and I am reluctantly ready for a day out with my personal driver.

  Except when I pull open the door, Adam is standing in the hallway with damp curls and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Where’s your dad?” I ask.

  Just yesterday I was crunching my way through a bowl of Fruit Rings—the Egyptian equivalent of the American brand—when Mom issued her ultimatum.

  “I am not going to let you spend the whole year hiding out in the apartment,” she said. “Either you call Mr. Elhadad or I will.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” Mom cut me off before I could point out the dangers, like creepy guys, the insane traffic that might run over me, or the fact that I know only one Arabic word. “Ahmed will be with you.”

  “Hanging out with someone else’s dad,” I muttered into my cereal bowl. “That should be fun.”

  Mom gave me her Dr. Rebecca Kelly Hulk Smash look—not unlike the one she gave the rental agent—and any other protests I might have had went down my throat with a mouthful of cereal. “I’m making the call.”

  She dialed Mr. Elhadad, who
se enthusiasm boomed so loudly down the phone line I could hear him across the kitchen. “Tomorrow I will take her to the pyramids,” he said. “It will be good fun. I will arrange a guide.”

  Disconnecting the call, my mom said, “I understand that Cairo can be a scary place—I go out into the city every day—but you have been given an opportunity most kids don’t get. I won’t let you waste it.”

  Now opportunity stands before me, looking less than thrilled to be here. “My father woke with a fever,” Adam explains. “He sent me in his place.”

  “Is that okay?” I ask. “What about your job?”

  He does his little shrug-nod combination, as if it’s not actually okay but there is nothing he can do about it. “Someone will be happy to take my shift.”

  The space between his dark eyebrows is creased with worry, though. Am I putting his livelihood on the line?

  “I can go another day,” I offer. “When your dad is feeling better.”

  “My father’s business is more important than my job. Today will be fine.”

  His dad’s car is parked outside the building and Adam opens the door for me. It’s strange to be sitting in the back, especially when there are only two of us in the car, but he seems intent on keeping as much space between us as possible. I don’t know if it’s a Muslim thing or an Adam Elhadad thing, but it makes me feel pretentious. As we stop-and-start through traffic over the Abbas Bridge into Giza, I pull out my phone to check the score of the Liverpool friendly summer game against a team from Australia.

  Like most kids back home, I started playing recreational league soccer out at Osborn Park when I was five. Everyone gets a T-shirt and every team has at least one little kid (on my very first team it was Hannah) who spends more time picking clovers out of the grass than actually learning the game. But it wasn’t until I started dating Owen that I had a favorite professional team. His uncle Sean spent a college semester in England and sent back a Liverpool supporter’s scarf as a gift for his nephew. I first liked the team because of Owen’s obsession, but as I followed along for three years, they grew on me. Even when they’re losing. Which they are right now.