by Trish Doller
Just before the third stop, she stows her holy book and extends a hand so I can help her to her feet. She gestures at the doors. “Sadat.”
Together we step into a crowd swollen by the crossing of two Cairo subway lines. People push past us as we stand in the middle of the platform, but she holds my arm until Adam arrives. Before she releases me, I place my hand on top of hers and smile. “Shokran.”
She gives me a gentle pat and smiles back, and then she is gone.
CHAPTER 18
The graffiti around Tahrir Square (actually a circle) reminds me of the East Side Gallery in Berlin. My parents took an anniversary trip to Germany and Mom returned with a whole series of photos of the art that has been painted on a long segment of what was once the Berlin Wall. Tahrir feels more immediate and raw but bears a lot of the same themes. Portraits of the people killed during the January 25 revolution. Caricatures of Hosni Mubarak—the president deposed by the revolution—that depict him swinging from a noose. Che Guevara with a long beard and a Muslim prayer cap. There is even one of Barack Obama as the tap of a bloody shower, representing the United States’ support for the Mubarak regime. I don’t understand the revolution enough to grasp the role my own country played, but clearly some Egyptians think it was not a good one.
“The government tries to paint over these works, as if removing the images will remove our memories,” Adam says. “But the artists keep returning.”
I’m snapping a shot of Snow White toting a machine gun when a police officer approaches us. I slip my phone into my bag as he and Adam exchange words. Adam gestures toward me and I recognize a word that sounds like American. Finally he digs into the pocket of his jeans and hands over a couple of bills.
“What just happened?” I ask as the officer walks away.
“He pretended to believe I am your tour guide,” Adam says. “And he said he could make our protection a priority, to keep others from thinking we are trying to incite protest. For a price, of course.”
“And you just paid him like it’s no big deal?”
“What would you have me do?”
I shake my head. “This place is so messed up.”
“And America is perfect?”
“No, but it’s not like this.”
“Just remember, after your country witnessed a revolution in Egypt, we watched what happened in Ferguson,” he says.
“That was one city.”
Adam’s eyebrows lift. “Was it?”
The backlash from Ferguson spread, prompting an entire movement to protect black Americans from police brutality, so no . . . it wasn’t just one city. The corruption here in Egypt isn’t better or worse than back home. It’s just different. But the people’s response to corruption in both countries seems universal. “The whole world’s pretty messed up, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Adam says, then offers me a smile that makes my toes curl. “But there is also kindness everywhere.”
True to the police officer’s well-funded word, no one hassles us as we walk along Mohammed Mahmoud Street, looking at the images on the wall surrounding the American University of Cairo. Adam translates the words scrawled with the images.
Down with Mubarak.
Be afraid of us, government.
Glory to the martyrs.
It is still January Revolution.
“Even though they knew it would be dangerous, my parents brought us to the square so my sister and I could witness history as it was being made. My mother painted Egyptian flags on our cheeks and we danced when the Mubarak regime fell,” Adam says. “Then Morsi, the next president, was removed. Now our leaders seem to be more concerned with eliminating opposition than meeting the demands of the revolution, so I fear we are back where we began. Those who led the uprising are in jail or have fled the country, and I do not think the people can rise up again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
We stop at a tiny bookshop squeezed between a restaurant and a pharmacy, where I buy a photo book of revolution graffiti, including some of the art that’s already been whitewashed away. We sit in the bookshop’s café, sipping coffee and karkadeh, and Adam asks me about Ohio.
“Well, we don’t have nearly as much sand and it’s very green,” I say. “Lots of farms and forests, and my town is right on Lake Erie, which is one of the Great Lakes.”
I search the Internet for pictures of downtown Sandusky and Adam’s eyes widen. “The buildings are so small and the streets so clean. And no traffic.”
“We do get some traffic in the summer when the tourists come to Cedar Point.” I bring up pictures of the amusement park and explain that it holds world records for the roller coasters. I tell him how Sandusky was once a stop on the Underground Railroad and how it was also home to a prison for Confederate officers during the Civil War. After meeting Aya, I put more personal pictures on the new phone, so I show Adam my house, my friends, and Owen.
“He is my ex-boyfriend,” I say. “We’ve known each other since we started school, but we dated for three years.”
Adam sits back in his chair and toys with his coffee glass. He doesn’t look at me and I can feel him pulling away. “That is a long time.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“Were you going to be married?”
“No. And we will be going to different colleges next year, so we would probably have broken up anyway,” I say. “My religion has a lot of the same rules as yours. Some people choose to follow them. Some don’t. As I loudly mentioned at the train station, Owen and I followed the rules.”
Silence sits between us and I pull my lower lip between my teeth, willing Adam to say something. Anything. What if the way I feel about him is all in my head? What if the reason I like him is because he’s the only guy I know in Egypt?
“Do you love him still?” he asks.
I love the way Owen’s smile always felt like sitting in the sun. I love how unapologetic he was about telling groan-worthy jokes. I love that he was a great listener. I love that he always respected my personal boundaries. He was the perfect first boyfriend. But he didn’t break my heart. “He will always be my friend.”
Leaving me no hints as to whether he is satisfied with my answer, Adam digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps a few icons and then hands me the device. On the screen is a picture of him posing with three other guys.
“Bahar is on the left. He studies medicine at Cairo University,” he says. “This one with the beard is his brother, Omar, who works as a baggage handler at the airport. And Magdi, on the right, repairs computers at a shop not far from here.”
Omar is the tallest with tight spiral curls and a scruffy beard. Bahar’s hair is short on the sides, slicked back on top. His eyes are the same dark brown as Omar’s and their brotherhood is obvious. Magdi is the shortest and the most handsome of the three, with hair that’s close-cropped all over and a wide, happy smile.
“They look nice,” I say, giving the phone back. “Are they?”
Adam laughs a little. “Most of the time.” He tucks the phone into his pocket. “Bahar has ambition. He keeps a small book with his life goals, but the list has only things like finish university, get a job, find an apartment, get married. We say, ‘Bahar, why can’t you keep this in your head? Do you think you will forget to finish university without a list?’ ”
“What does he say?”
“That the list is a reminder that anything not on the list is not important.”
“Who can argue with that?”
“Exactly,” he says. “We call Omar rad”—Adam pronounces it like “rod”—“because he is easily satisfied. He sometimes grumbles about politics and wages, but he enjoys his job and now his mother is beginning to talk of finding him a wife. He says okay to that, too.”
“He just goes with the flow, huh?”
Adam cocks his head as he considers. “I like that. Yes. He goes with the flow.�
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“And Magdi?”
“He never has any money because he spends it on clothes and going out to clubs,” he says. “He likes dancing, smoking shisha, playing football, and meeting girls. He is my best friend.”
“Really? I would have guessed Bahar.”
“My mother would be happy if that were true. She thinks Magdi is a troublemaker, but we have been friends the longest time.”
“Can I meet him?”
Adam’s eyebrows pull together and there’s a little line of worry between them. Like maybe he’s jealous. “Perhaps that is not a good idea.”
“Why? He sounds like the friend least likely to freak out to see you with a girl.”
“This is true.” He runs his hand up through his curls and that same worried look passes across his face again. “But he can be very charming.”
“I’m pretty sure I can resist his charms.” I pause to gather a little courage. “And there’s no way I could like him more than I like you.”
Adam’s worry softens, and when he smiles, the boundary between us shifts to a new place that’s both scary and exciting. I have never been a girl who pursues boys—Owen clicked into my life like a puzzle piece—so I’m unsure how to proceed with Adam. I look at our empty glasses. “Should we go?”
I leave money on the table for the drinks and we step out into the hazy sunshine. If I were with Owen, we would hold hands, but I am with Adam, we are in Egypt, and what’s happening between us is too fresh to test in the middle of downtown Cairo. Also, there are way too many eyes watching us.
“You should know that Magdi is a shameless flirt,” he says as we take a side street to the next major road. “Whenever he comes to my home, he flatters my grandmother and makes her giggle.”
The computer shop is a tiny storefront with refurbished laptops for sale in the window. We step inside, where a guy sits behind a worktable, his dark head bent over a motherboard. He looks up and I’m startled by how much more handsome he is than in the picture. Magdi’s eyelashes are deep black and so thick it’s almost like he’s wearing eyeliner. Adam’s worry makes more sense to me now. I doubt his best friend has any trouble meeting girls, because it almost hurts to look at him. He appraises me silently as he stands and comes out from behind the table, then grins at Adam. The two friends greet each other with a hug and exchange words in Arabic.
“What did he say?” I ask Adam.
Magdi grins. “I ask him if he brings this girl for me, but he says not every girl is for me.”
Adam rubs the back of his neck—a boy-bashfulness tell that seems to be universal—as Magdi laughs, clearly pleased to be embarrassing his friend. “Adam tells me Caroline”—he pronounces it care-ooh-leen—“is lovely but he lies. You are much more beautiful.”
“The only thing better than your eyesight is your gift of flattery,” I say, and Magdi doubles over with laughter.
“Her, I like.” He says this to a stone-faced Adam. “Too good for you. She should be with me.”
“You have already too many.”
Magdi winks at me. “I think perhaps you are for him.”
My face is still warm as the afternoon call begins and he locks the door and puts up a sign like the ones in the Khan. CLOSED TEN MINUTES FOR PRAYER. Adam and Magdi excuse themselves to the back room, leaving me alone in the tiny showroom. I take a seat at Magdi’s worktable, and through the doorway I see them as they take turns going into the bathroom to wash, then as they start their prayers. They stand, quietly reciting prayers. Bow. Kneel with their heads to the floor. Even though they are praying together and within my sight, it feels too intimate to watch. I look away and play a silent game on my phone, matching colored fruit as the two guys worship.
Magdi comes out first to reopen the store. “Adam has not yet finished. I think he says extra prayers so I will not steal you away.”
“Fil-mišmišh,” I say, which cracks him up all over again.
Magdi places a hand over his heart, trying not to laugh as he feigns sadness. “I am a broken man.”
Adam emerges from the back room, the ends of his curls damp from washing his face. “We should leave the broken man to his work. If he loses his job, the shops at the mall will surely suffer.”
“We will see you later?” Magdi asks Adam, eyebrows raised as if they’ve already discussed plans for the evening.
“Perhaps.”
“Lovely Caroline,” Magdi says, kissing the back of my hand. My stomach aches from all the laughing this guy has made me do. “When you are finished with Adam, you will find me waiting here.”
CHAPTER 19
I sit in the front seat of the car for the very first time as Adam drives us to the next somewhere. Somewhere he claims I will like and I believe him because he hasn’t been wrong yet. He drives with his left hand and rubs his right hand down his jeans-covered thigh. I want to reach over and hold his restless hand, but I don’t because all of this is totally new to Adam, and I am not entirely comfortable being the “experienced” person in this relationship.
“So you talked with Magdi about me,” I say. “What about Bahar?”
“Bahar reminded me that becoming a chef is my goal and that one day my family will expect me to marry a Muslim girl,” Adam says. “He says at best you distract me and at worst you are a sin.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“The imam at the masjid would say that the devil does not whisper things you do not wish to hear; he tells you a beautiful story that you want to believe.”
“I’m not a devil,” I say. “And I don’t want to be the Western girl who lured the good Muslim boy into the woods. Do you think we should stop this before we even start?”
“No.” He says it quickly and with a certainty that makes me smile.
“Okay, so what do you think?”
“Before you came to Cairo, I had very little interest in girls,” he says. “So why now am I interested? Why do you turn my head?”
“Good questions.”
“At first I think it was because it is impossible not to look at you when you shine like the sun,” he says. “But then—”
“It was Liverpool, wasn’t it?” I deflect with a joke because there is an intensity in his eyes that overwhelms me. Falling in love with Adam would be such a short, easy leap.
He laughs. “If you were a Chelsea fan, I would not have introduced you to koshary.”
“If you were a Chelsea fan, I wouldn’t have let you.”
“This is what draws me to you,” he says. “The things you say make me smile, and you try to understand my language and my culture, even when it frightens you and makes you angry. Since we have met I feel both happy and terrible all of the time.”
“I . . . don’t know what to say to that.”
Adam reaches across the center console and laces his fingers through mine. His palm is a little damp and my heart melts into a puddle. “Never before have I been so confused about what is right or wrong,” he says. “My faith says I should not be with you, but this happiness . . .”
I nod as he trails off. “I feel it too.”
The afternoon sun moves toward the horizon as we drive through the city, beyond Manshiyat Nasr, and up into a low, dun-colored range of hills. Adam keeps hold of my hand and tells me how he used to let Aya play with his hair when they were little. “She would make tiny braids all over my head,” he says. “And Geddo—my grandfather—would be angry, saying it was improper for my hair to be in a girl’s style, even though Aya would take the braids out as soon as she finished the last one.”
“My grandma Irene has old-fashioned ideas about gender roles, too,” I say. “Once I was helping her buy Christmas gifts for my cousins. Henry—who was about five or six at the time—wanted a book about a princess who disguised herself in a black costume to help people in need, but Grandma wouldn’t buy it because the character was a girl. She thinks boys should read books about boys.”
Adam nods. “Geddo also did not approve of Aya playing f
ootball with me, but my parents encouraged us to play together when we were small. It has changed a little bit as we got older, but they still believe we should be treated equally.”
“I feel like having a good relationship with your sister is probably more important than your grandfather’s opinion.”
Adam laughs. “Geddo would have not agreed, but my sister and I do not fight often because we were raised to be friends.”
“Do you get along with your grandma?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “She has taught me everything I know about cooking, even when my grandfather did not approve. I think my father has an open mind today because he did not want to be like his father.”
I tell him about some of Grandma Irene’s missteps when Uncle Mike eloped with a black woman he met in Grenada while on leave from the Marines. “The first time he brought his new wife home, Grandma expressed surprise that Aunt Delphine had graduated from college. I guess Grandma thought everyone in the Caribbean lived in tin shacks or something. She was trying to be nice, but Uncle Mike said he could see her fretting over whether the oil in Aunt Delphine’s hair was going to rub off on her couch. Grandma Irene tries to be better about that stuff now and she adores their kids, but that doesn’t mean she’s not still racist. She would panic if she knew about you.”
“Because to her all Muslims are terrorists?”
“I love her because she is my blood, but sometimes she makes it hard to like her.”
“Geddo was the same for me.”
“I guess we’re stuck with the family we get, huh?”
Near the top of the highest hill we come to a small city with a road running along the edge of a cliff. From this high up we can see all across Cairo, even the pyramids in the distance.
“So this is Mokattam.” He pulls the car off the road. “And just down below is the City of the Dead.”
“What does that mean? Like zombies?”
He laughs. “No, it is el-Arafa—the cemetery—but there are people who live there, making their homes in the tombs and the mausoleums.”