by Trish Doller
“Honestly, I’m not really sure how Masses work in this church because I don’t think Coptic Orthodox and Roman Catholic are the same,” I say. “But we sit for Scripture readings and for the homily, and stand and kneel for everything else.”
“Now I must admit I thought all Christians believed the same things.”
“There are more kinds of Christians than I could possibly name,” I say. “And I don’t really know what makes them all different, other than they disagree on parts of the theology.”
“It is the same with Islam.”
“Really?”
“Sunnis and Shiites have different ways of believing and there are other smaller sects,” Adam says. “But all Muslims worship the same God.”
“Same with Christians.”
We stand in silence for a moment and I’m not sure if we’ve bridged a gap or made it wider.
“So I have an idea.” Adam beckons me to follow him to where a small tour group is gathered around a Plexiglas panel in the floor. We stand close enough to hear their guide explain that each end of the church is supported by a tower from an older Roman fortress, and that it’s about eighteen meters to the original ground level.
“The roof,” the guide says, “is made of wood because the weight of a stone roof would have collapsed the church.”
We wait until the group moves on, then look down through the clear panel. I have never been very good with meters-to-feet conversions, but the ground is an uncomfortably long way down. After fifteen hundred years, I’m not sure why the church isn’t sagging in the middle, but it’s pretty amazing it’s survived for so long.
From the Hanging Church we go see the crypt, visit a well said to be where the holy family drank, and stop to take pictures of the remains of the Roman fortress. There are a bunch of churches in the area, but Adam and I agree that two is enough for one day. Instead we wander the narrow alleyways, where vendors have tables filled with religious trinkets and replica icons like the ones inside the Hanging Church. I buy Virgin Mary icons for Hannah’s mom and both my grandmas, as well as a crucifix for Mom. We don’t have one in the apartment yet.
“So, um . . .” I don’t want to assume Adam cleared his whole day for me, but I’m not ready for it to be over, either. I like spending time with him. Like listening to his accent. And I really like looking at his face. “Is there anything else—?”
“Would you—?” Adam says at the same time. We both stop and he clears his throat. “Perhaps you would like to try a coffee or tea before we go?”
“I would. Yes.”
Down one of the labyrinthine alleys we find a tiny coffeehouse with a couple of tables outside and an all-Arabic menu. Adam calls it an ahwa and explains that coffeehouses are popular places to hang out in Egypt.
“Sometimes on Sunday mornings, if I am not working, I will meet my friends to play football,” he says. “Then we go to our favorite ahwa for coffee, maybe a little shisha, and watch English football on TV.”
“Playing soccer would be so great,” I say. “I haven’t played since I left home.”
“My team is only for men.”
Our silence is not the comfortable kind as we claim an empty table. The boundary between us seems mutable. Sometimes it feels as if Adam and I are becoming friends, but other times a wall slams down between us, reminding me that his culture has so many strange-to-me rules. Finally I say, “I wasn’t asking to be invited.”
“I misunderstood,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Desperately wishing we could hit the reset button on this whole conversation, I switch topics. “So, um—coffee?”
“You can choose no sugar, light sugar, or heavy,” Adam says as a waiter comes out to take our order. “Egyptian coffee is bitter with no sugar, so I don’t recommend it.”
“What would you recommend for someone who doesn’t drink coffee?”
He pauses for a beat, as if the idea is incomprehensible. Then, “Will you trust me to order something for you?”
“Yes, of course.”
I listen as Adam speaks, trying to recognize familiar words, but Arabic is so fast and so different from English. Picking up the language is going to take baby steps.
“My mom wants me to learn a little Arabic,” I say after the waiter leaves. “Aside from counting, I really don’t know where to start.”
“The first lesson is this,” Adam says. “Muslims greet one another with as-salāmu alaykum, wishing God’s peace upon the other person. There is endless disagreement over whether non-Muslims should be included in this greeting, so there may be fundamentalists who will not respond to you if you say it. But most people will, if your salaam is said with sincerity.”
“As-salāmu alaykum.”
“Yes. Good. And then I would reply wa’alaykum alsalam, or—if I were of the opinion that I should not be offering God’s peace to a Christian but did not want to be rude—I would simply say wa’alaykum, which means ‘the same to you.’ ”
“Sounds complicated. Maybe it would be easier to just say hello.”
He does the nod-shrug, which seems to be a trademark move for him. “Maybe. In that case you would say marhaban, which is more formal, or ahlan wa sahlan. The most common is simply ahlan.”
I laugh. “Arabic is not going to be easy, is it?”
“English is also not easy.”
“You speak very well.”
“My father believes that understanding English is important,” Adam says. “Most Egyptian schools do not have strong English-language programs, so he taught us himself. I practice more than my mother and sister.”
The waiter returns, carrying two short glasses—one filled with coffee, the other with ice and a red-colored liquid. A lime wedge hangs on the rim of the second glass.
“Karkadeh is my sister’s favorite,” Adam says as the waiter places the red drink in front of me. “It is tea made from boiling the hibiscus. Because the day is hot, I thought you might prefer it to be cold.”
I take a sip. The karkadeh is slightly tart—a little like cranberry juice—and sugary. “This is perfect. Shokran.”
Adam smiles. “Afwan.”
“I have a question not related to language.”
“Okay.”
“How hard is it to wake up for the dawn prayer?”
He leans back in his chair and the sun glints off his curls as he shakes his head. “Fajr is so difficult for me. I set two alarms and still my mother must help me wake.”
“Do you ever go back to sleep?”
“If I must work early—” He stops abruptly and looks a little stricken, as if it’s just hit him again that he’s sacrificed his dream. “Well, now perhaps I can go back to sleep.”
“I don’t think so. Tomorrow I need a driver.”
“Caroline—” His eyes meet mine and I trap my hands between my knees to keep from reaching across the table, to keep from touching him. “This is not necessary. Already my family cannot repay the kindness your family has shown to us.”
“Kindness isn’t a debt.”
“But—”
“Should we hire a new driver?”
He shakes his head, his cheek dimpling as he fights back a smile. “No one’s skills would compare to mine.”
“Well, you’re not wrong about that,” I say, and my own mouth curves in response to his laughter. “So where will you be taking me tomorrow?”
CHAPTER 15
Mom is at the clinic and I’ve already been down to the bakery for bread when Adam arrives for our next outing. He is wearing dark jeans and a blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled. The color looks so good against the warm brown of his skin that the urge to tell him so creeps into my mouth. Instead I say, “Ahlan.”
He opens the car door for me, giving a little bow as he motions me in. “Masā’ al- khair.”
“What does that mean?”
Adam goes to the other side of the car, answering only after he is behind the steering wheel. “It means good afternoon and good evening
.”
“So fancy.” I smile at him in the rearview mirror. “Just like your shirt.”
“I wore it because we have a new customer.” He pulls away from the curb and a horn blares behind us. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I will be providing airport service two times a week for an American expatriate, but it will not interfere with our arrangement.”
“Excellent news. Hopefully you’ll get back to cooking sooner rather than later.”
He nods. “Inshallah.”
I decide not to ask where we are going today, to just let myself be surprised by whatever he has planned. Even though visiting churches wasn’t the most exciting thing to do, yesterday turned out to be just right.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You play soccer with your friends and hang out at the ahwa, but what do girls do for fun?”
“My sister and her friends go to movies and listen to music. Some take ballet lessons or play sports. Aya redesigns the styles she sees in fashion magazines to make them halal—”
“Halal?”
“The opposite of haram,” Adam explains. “In this case, my sister makes the clothes more modest, and then our mother sews them for her.” In the rearview mirror I watch the corner of his mouth tilt up in a grin and he glances up at me. “We also have football teams for women.”
I grin back. “It’s probably good that women don’t play against men. It would be painful for the men when they lose.”
His laugh is clear and strong. “I think you may be right.”
Yesterday’s misunderstanding behind us, I sit back and watch Cairo fly past the window. The sky is hazy with smog and the city looks kind of gray, despite the sun hanging full and bright in the sky. Mom and I have learned that leaving the balcony doors open invites the heavy, polluted air inside, so we open them only early in the morning or well after dark. The rest of the time we keep the air conditioner running. Balconies all over Cairo are hung with drying laundry and it makes me wonder if pollution affects the clothes.
“From here we must walk,” Adam says as he squeezes the sedan into a space that doesn’t seem big enough. When we get out, the front bumper is touching the back bumper of the car just ahead.
“In the United States you would not be allowed to park like that,” I say. “In fact, I’m pretty sure no one would give you a license.”
His cheek dimples as he fails to keep from smiling. “I’m telling you that I am a good driver. Did I not fit the car in the space?”
“You are terrifying.”
“I am terrifying and good.”
I laugh. “I like you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them and the city around us slows to a crawl. Or at least that’s how it feels. Embarrassment in agonizing slow motion.
“I mean—I just—I didn’t mean I like you like you.” The words stumble from my mouth, making the awkward silence between us even worse. “I’ll just shut up now.”
We walk many steps, about half a block, before Adam clears his throat. When he speaks, he doesn’t really sound all that pleased. “I like you, too.”
Part of me wants to do a cartwheel on the dirty Cairo sidewalk—the same part of me that wants to smile (at him) until my cheeks hurt—but I also understand that Adam Elhadad and I liking each other isn’t really supposed to be a thing. Not a friend thing. Definitely not a more-than-a-friend thing. In this moment, the whole idea of wanting to keep men and women apart . . . kind of makes sense. The more time I spend with Adam, the more time I want to spend with him.
“I have been trying to be professional.” He shakes his head. “I have not been trying very hard.”
“It’s my fault. I keep making you take me places.”
“That is my job.”
“You’re really good at picking places.”
“But don’t you see . . . when I am choosing for you, I am thinking of you,” Adam says. “And I should not be doing that.”
“Do you want to take me home?”
His curls bobble as he shakes his head more vigorously. “No.”
“Then let’s not think about it,” I say. “Let’s just have fun.”
• • •
Khan el-Khalili is everything I’d hoped it would be. Crazy. Crowded. Beautiful. Vegetable stalls stand next to silver jewelers, souvenir shops beside rug dealers, spice vendors alongside dress stores. The merchandise spills outside the spaces, into the narrow streets, into a riot of color—a living postcard.
There are more tourists than at al-Gomaa. More women, too. As Adam and I walk the winding alleys, men call out from the shops, trying to grab our attention. Men from the restaurants push paper menus in our faces. Every single one of them claims that what he has on offer is the best. Best food. Best prices. When I look too long at a table piled with little plush camels, the shop guy walks backward in front of me.
“For you I give best price,” he says, holding a camel out in front of me.
“No, thank you.”
“Only fifty pounds.”
Adam laughs and speaks to the man in Arabic. The only thing I can pick out is something that sounds like mish mish.
“Twenty-five,” the shopkeeper replies.
“Would you like to buy the camel for twenty-five pounds?” Adam asks me. “I think that is around three dollars.”
As I hand the man three dollars, it strikes me that even fifty Egyptian pounds—around six US dollars—isn’t very expensive. Is getting the best deal really so important? Especially when I have way more than six dollars in my wallet?
“So why are the vendors so pushy?” I ask Adam as we continue down the alley. “Are they desperate for sales or is that just the way it works here?”
“Both,” he says. “Tourism is Egypt’s largest business, but the revolution, the Russian plane crash in the Sinai, and bombings by the Islamic State all over the world have frightened some of the foreign visitors away. Many Egyptians are poor and must take every opportunity we have.”
Since most of the factories in my hometown closed down or moved abroad, our local economy has relied heavily on tourism. If we lost the amusement park, the hotels and restaurants would lose many of the tourists. The desk clerks and housekeepers, waiters and bartenders, would be out of work. The economy would probably collapse. It’s unlikely to happen, though, and I know it can’t really compare to Egypt—we don’t have children begging in the streets—but I get the gist of what Adam is saying. No one should have to hustle so hard to make such a small amount of money.
“What did you say that made him drop his price?” I say. “Something mish mish?”
“I said fil-mišhmišh, which means that will never happen,” Adam says. “Never will I pay so much for this thing.”
“Fil-mišmišh,” I repeat softly to myself.
“Very good,” he says. “Also, I reminded him that his wares are made in China. Perhaps six dollars is not so much money, but the camel is worth much closer to three.”
“Doesn’t paying more help him?”
“Yes, but haggling is also the Egyptian way.”
We stop at a store that sells only silver jewelry—necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings—where I haggle with the English-speaking shopkeeper over a cuff bracelet covered in hieroglyphs for Hannah. Adam grumbles that I paid too much.
“I thought the price was fair.”
“You are like your father,” he says.
I bump my elbow against his as we walk. “Apparently you are like yours, too.”
At a perfume shop, I let the shop man convince me to try a bit of lotus oil. He rubs it on the inside of my wrist and I bring it to my nose. The scent is lush and sweet and almost tropical, and if Hannah were here, I would turn to her for a second opinion. Even Owen would be able to tell me if the scent was right for me.
As I bring my nose to my wrist a second time, I look at Adam. His eyes—already watching me—go wide, as if my wrist would be his undoing. He gives a quick shake of
his head and develops a very sudden, very intense interest in a hookah pipe. I sniff my wrist again. Maybe he’s wise to play it safe. The scent is definitely tempting.
The evening call to prayer begins as I pay for the oil. Outside, some of the shopkeepers hang signs in the window that say CLOSED FOR 10 MINUTES TO PRAY. The sun hangs low in the sky and it will soon be dark.
“Don’t you need to pray?”
“The true answer is yes,” Adam says. “But I do not want to leave you alone in the souk. So I will try to make it up later.”
“You can do that?”
“It is not the best.” He motions toward all the people around us, still going about their day. “But this is also life in Egypt.”
My phone beeps with an incoming text from my mom. About to close up. Should we try going out for dinner tonight?
I’m at Khan el-Khalili. Come here?
How will I find you?
“Where can we meet my mom if she joins us?” I ask Adam. “Maybe at a restaurant?”
He names a place in the middle of the souk and I text Mom, telling her we will wait for her there.
“I’m sorry if this ruins your plans for the day,” I say.
“Nothing is ruined,” he says. “I was going to suggest a taameya cart, so if you would like to have dinner with your mother, I can return when you are ready to go home.”
“Will you join us?”
“I should not.”
“Adam, it doesn’t make sense for you to hang around by yourself until we’re finished,” I say. “And you need to eat too. Please stay.”
He hesitates and there’s a struggle between his eyebrows over whether he should be Friend Adam or Driver Adam. Finally he says, “For you, I will stay.”
“Thank you.”
“So before your mother texted, my plan was for you to try taameya and then perhaps go see the tanoura dance at Wekalet El Ghouri,” Adam says. “Perhaps she would like to see it too.”
“I don’t know what that even means, but if it’s an Egyptian thing she probably would.”
The lights come up in the shops as Adam and I walk to the restaurant, casting a carnival-like atmosphere over the Khan. I can’t help thinking that walking through the souk, sharing a meal (even street food), and going to a show seems a lot like . . . a date.