by Trish Doller
Below us the city keeps moving noisily forward. “Hey.”
“Thinking about going for a walk,” he says. “Wanna come?”
I’d really rather not do anything at all, but my dad’s time in Cairo is not unlimited. “Yeah, okay.”
Mom believes that talking about your feelings is healthy, which is probably true, but one of the things I love best about Dad is that he knows when not to talk. His philosophy is that sometimes the only way to get over feeling like shit is to feel like shit.
We cross the road and walk south along the river. No one hassles me when I’m with Dad. A couple of guys stare too long and he growls at them like a dog, making me laugh. By the time we reach the southern tip of the island about twenty minutes later, I’m feeling . . . not exactly good, but not quite so bad.
“I was doing some reading up on our island,” Dad says. “And down here at this end is one of the last remaining nilometers, used in ancient times to measure the yearly flood levels. Let’s check it out.”
The nilometer looks kind of like a church steeple without a church, sitting on top of a low stone building in the middle of a landscaped, green park at the very tip of the island. There are no tourists around and Dad offers the caretaker a small baksheesh to let us go inside, where a series of stone steps lead down into an empty well. Running up the middle of the structure is a stone pillar with markings carved at intervals. The whole thing reminds me of one of those M.C. Escher optical illusion drawings where the stairs seem to go two directions at once.
“The water levels were measured in cubits,” Dad says. “Twelve or thirteen cubits meant hunger and suffering. Basically, drought conditions. Fourteen to sixteen was an indication that it would be a happy, abundant year. Eighteen or more was a flood disaster.”
The caretaker takes us down the stairs to the bottom of the empty well. Above us, the steeple-like top lets in the light. The man holds up three fingers. “Three tunnels bring water into the nilometer,” he says. “Now closed up. No more.”
Dad explains that dams and reservoirs control the flooding now, minimizing the risk of disaster. The nilometer is pretty impressive in terms of ancient technology and architecture. It’s beautiful and has lasted for more than a thousand years, but watching my dad geek out over this stuff is more entertaining than the actual building.
Afterward we stand on the terrace, looking down the Nile as cruise boats, fishing skiffs, and feluccas drift past.
“So did you bring me here as some sort of metaphorical life lesson?” I ask.
He laughs. “Nope. I just wanted to spend some time with my girl. But if you’re desperate, how about this: Sometimes life gives you an eighteen-cubit flood of unfairness and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“Did you just dad-pun me?”
“Hey, I thought that was a pretty good one.”
I shoulder bump him, smiling in spite of myself. “Keep telling yourself that, Kelly.”
On our way home, we pass a footbridge that crosses the narrow canal between the island and the rest of the city. We cross, and when we reach the other side, I discover we’re only a few blocks from Coptic Cairo. I tell him about how Adam took me to the Hanging Church. “Do you want to go?”
“Let’s save that for our next wander,” Dad says. “I need to buy some flowers before your mom gets home from work. We’re having a date night. Without you.”
“ ‘Date night’ kind of implies that.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“Maybe you could have Masoud babysit,” I say, which makes him crack up laughing.
The bowab is waiting for us when we get home. He gets up from his little stool when he sees us coming and presents me with a birdcage. Inside is a green bird with a rosy-colored face and bright, lively eyes. “Min alshshab,” the bowab says, pushing both his disapproval and the cage at me. “Min alshshab.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s saying?” I ask Dad. “Or why I am now in possession of a bird?”
“Maybe shab means bird.”
Masoud shoves a crumpled paper bag at me, then presses the button to bring down the elevator. As the three of us stand in awkward silence, waiting for it to come, the bowab eyes me with disdain. I think if he had his Quran, he’d shake it at me again.
“Shokran,” I say when the elevator doors open, but not even politeness and a smile can crack the old nut.
Once the doors are closed, I open the paper bag to find bird pellets, food and water dishes, a couple of wooden toys, and a note: “No goats at al-Gomaa today.”
I touch the paper to my lips, trying to keep from smiling. Failing to keep from smiling.
“It’s from Elhadad, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“A lovebird.”
“Yep.”
“You know”—Dad rubs the back of his head—“your mom and I . . . well, it’s our job to protect you from the hard knocks this world can dish out. But maybe this isn’t something we can protect you from. Maybe we need to let you and Adam figure things out for yourselves.”
“It’s too late for that,” I say. “But thanks.”
The lovebird’s new home is on top of my dresser, where she (he?) has an elevated view of the room. After I hang the toys and fill the dishes with food and water, I look up shab on the Internet. It means “young man.” Min alshshab. From the young man. Masoud’s disapproval makes sense. A gift from the young man who should not be buying me gifts.
I send the young man a text. I like birds better than goats.
CHAPTER 25
Mr. Elhadad is back in action the next day, driving my family to a summer open house at my new school. It’s located in a suburb of Cairo that looks relatively young. Out here, beyond Mokattam, there are villas with their own yards and new apartment buildings in various states of incompleteness. The school campus is modern and professionally landscaped with palms and immature shade trees, and we are greeted by the administrative team at the front door before being ushered into the auditorium.
“Pretty swanky place.” Dad fiddles with the shirt button at his wrist. Salty language and tattoos are standard issue among the guys on his boat, and my dad doesn’t care what conclusions people draw about him based on his ink. But he says he never wants Mom and me to be judged by his life choices. “I feel like we might be dragging down the property value.”
According to the school’s website, most of the students are Egyptian and the rest of us are the children of ambassadors, corporate CEOs, and expatriates from around the world. Even though my parents can afford the tuition, we’re definitely not on the upper end of the socioeconomic scale.
There are about a hundred students in the senior class—a little more than at my small school in Ohio—and a few turn to look in our direction. I wonder if they’ve all known each other for years or if some of them are new like me.
The director gives a standard-issue welcome speech before sending us off to tour the campus. The classrooms are pretty much the same as any other classroom, but the teachers are as multicultural as the student body, which is different for me. My old school was predominantly white, predominantly Catholic.
Mom introduces herself to each of my teachers and proudly tells the soccer coach that I started on varsity as a freshman. She knows I have to try out for this team, but that doesn’t stop her from giving him the full rundown on my high school career. I kick a ball to my dad. He traps it with his knee and sends it back, giving it enough lift for me to head it. We mess around like this until Mom is done bragging.
“I’m surprised you don’t keep my soccer résumé in your purse,” I tease as we cross the field back to the main building.
“He’ll remember who you are,” Mom says.
“Yeah, the American girl with the pushy mother.”
Dad snickers, making her laugh. “Maybe I got a little carried away,” she admits. “I’m allowed to be proud of you.”
“And your mom’s memorized those stats for just such an occasi
on,” he points out to me with a wink. “Don’t pee in her Wheaties.”
The whole student body regroups in the canteen for a buffet luncheon, a spread that’s a mix of traditional Egyptian foods and “American” standards like fried chicken, sausage rigatoni, and french fries. As I dish a little koshary onto my plate, my thoughts drift to Adam. I wonder if he likes his new job. I wonder if he knows he’ll make bank on tips, especially if he remembers to smile. I hope he’s happy.
We share a table with a United States ambassador and his family, including a daughter in third grade and his son, Ethan, who will be a senior like me. Ethan’s light brown hair is tall and swoopy on top, and his khakis are rolled at the ankles in a deliberately messy way. He looks like he’s come from a photo shoot and his smile says he knows he’s good-looking.
“How long have you been in Cairo?” Ethan asks as our parents exchange greetings and launch into small talk.
“About six weeks.”
“Where do you live?”
“We’re in Manial.”
His eyebrows pull together as if I’d just told him we live on the moon. “Huh. That’s different.”
When we were scouting places to live in Cairo, we checked out villas and apartments in Maadi and Zamalek, where many expatriates live, and Garden City, where the embassies are located. All of them boasted quiet, leafy streets and lots of things to do, as well as proximity to other expatriates. But the rents were out of our reach, and Dad didn’t really want to live anywhere that was heavily populated with Americans. I don’t tell Ethan this, though.
“Our apartment is right across the street from the Nile,” I explain. “My mom fell in love with the view.”
“This is our last year,” he says. “My dad’s appointment ends right around the time I graduate and I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s hot as balls—”
“Ethan, language,” his mother says, her voice low and soft. He rolls his eyes and forges on. “There’s nothing to do and everyone hates us because we’re American.”
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone who hates me.” I play innocent, even though I’m pretty sure Adam’s mother is not my biggest fan. Or the tongue-clicking woman on the metro. Or Bahar. Or Masoud. (Okay, maybe I have met several people who hate me.) Except after the words leave my mouth, I realize it sounds like I’m flirting with Ethan.
He cocks his head and aims a sly grin at me. “I can see why.”
His smoothness seems practiced, as if he tries on smiles every morning until he finds the one he thinks will be most devastating. Even without Adam as a comparison, Ethan Caldwell is totally not my type.
“A bunch of us are going sandboarding at the dunes at Fayoum next weekend,” he says. “Do you want to come?”
The point of Mom’s elbow against my arm encourages me to say yes. Last winter I went snowboarding with my friends. None of us had ever tried it before, so we did a lot of crash-landing in the snow. If sandboarding is anything like snowboarding, I’m already really good at falling down. “That sounds like fun.”
Ethan programs my number into his phone, then excuses himself to go talk to a table full of his friends. My phone beeps with an inbound text. Now you have my number. Use it any time.
I head to the dessert table, stepping up beside a tall girl about my age with dark skin and natural black curls spiraling down her back. “Any idea what’s good?”
“Dude.” She smiles. “Dessert. It’s all good.”
“True.” I laugh, choosing a bowl of om ali—the Egyptian equivalent of bread pudding. Grandma Rose is the wizard of bread pudding, so I might be setting myself up for disappointment, but it’s one of my all-time favorite foods.
“I’m Vivian. Senior. Originally from upstate New York.” She gestures toward a table where her parents are talking with another family. “My dad works for a global management consulting firm, which is basically biz babble for helping companies make more money.”
“I’m Caroline,” I tell her as Vivian selects an Egyptian dessert that looks like pudding sprinkled with pistachios. “A new senior from Ohio. My mom runs a OneVision clinic in Manshiyat Nasr.”
“So what’s your thing?” she asks as I follow her outside. Some of the little kids have migrated to the playground, while the older ones sit at outdoor tables. We find an empty table. “Mine’s volleyball.”
“Soccer.”
“Competition for positions on that team is tough,” she says, and a new worry opens up in my head. I hope Aya and I will hear back from the Daffodils soon.
Vivian and I compare class schedules for the fall—we have only English in common—and talk about the colleges we’re considering. “My dream school is NYU,” she says. “I’m looking at Cornell and Skidmore, too.”
“I like Kenyon, Denison, and Case Western in Ohio,” I say. “But my mom went to medical school at Fordham. My dad was living in the Bronx at the time and she met him while she was there, so I think they can both see me going to Fordham.”
“Can you see yourself going to Fordham?”
“After a year in Cairo, I feel like New York City will probably be a piece of cake.”
“True,” Vivian says. “Can’t hurt to apply.”
“Are you going sandboarding next weekend?”
“I wasn’t invited.” She hesitates a moment, then lowers her voice. “I’m not saying the kids here are racist, but it can be kind of cliquish along ethnic lines, and Ethan Caldwell tends to hang with his own, you know?”
“Really? I thought because the school is so diverse—I guess that’s kind of naive, huh?”
Vivian nods. “Seems like the more money a person’s family has, the less tolerant they are. And that applies all across the board.”
“That sucks.”
“Yep.”
“What if I invited you?” I ask.
“If you ditch me when we get there, you don’t get a second chance.”
“Based solely on first impressions, I’m about a hundred percent certain I’d rather hang out with you than Ethan.”
“Of course you would.” Vivian cocks her head and flashes a very Ethan-like grin as she aims finger guns at me, cracking me up. Then, in her normal voice, she says, “So I guess I’m going sandboarding.”
We swap phone numbers before going back inside to track down our parents. My mom is with Ambassador Caldwell, and both of them have their cell phones pressed to their ears. Mom is worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Dad, who’s standing beside Mr. Elhadad.
The room has gone unnaturally quiet.
“A couple of humanitarian aid outposts in the Sinai, including a OneVision clinic, were attacked by a group claiming allegiance to the Islamic State,” my dad says. “The ambassador doesn’t think we have cause to worry here in Cairo—his own kids are staying put for now—but your mom is on the phone with OneVision.”
“Oh my God. Was anyone hurt?”
“That’s what we’re waiting to find out.”
My eyes travel around the room. Some of the people look worried, others angry. Someone’s father—a white man—wonders aloud why Muslims don’t police themselves. Accusing eyes turn toward the Muslims in the room and the air feels combustible.
“Thank you,” Mom says into her phone, drawing my attention back to her. “No one from OneVision was killed,” she tells us. “But the other organizations lost several staff members and patients.”
Ethan shakes his head. “This place sucks.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why kill people who are trying to help?”
“ISIS wants foreigners and all their influence out,” Dad says.
“They oppose anyone who does not follow the law as they see it,” Mr. Elhadad says. “Even Muslims. Terrorists make no exceptions for anyone who does not believe exactly as they do.”
I think about asking him why Muslims don’t come together to stop this from happening,
but I think I already know what he would say. Too many people here in Cairo—and probably in all of Egypt and the other predominantly Muslim countries—are just trying to make ends meet. Their days are full and their wallets are not. And if the Egyptian government can’t bring running water to every tap and electricity to every building, can they finance a war? Or maybe I’m wrong and these governments can afford war. Maybe not all Muslim governments see the Islamic State as a threat. Maybe some even sympathize with their aims. It’s complicated, and I feel sad, fortunate, and a little bit ashamed that if things go wrong, my family has the option to just walk away.
CHAPTER 26
Dad and I spend nearly every day of the following week exploring Cairo. Monday, we cross the footbridge into Coptic Cairo, where I show him the Hanging Church and introduce him to karkadeh. We visit Tahrir Square on Tuesday to see the graffiti and I start to feel a little more seasoned. People stare at us, but no one dares say a word. My dad might have a lion heart, but he also has tiger fists. His father taught him and Uncle Mike that they should never start a fight but also never be afraid to finish one. According to the stories they tell when they’re together, Dad and Uncle Mike finished their fair share of fights when they were young but now, not so much. It’s comforting to know there isn’t much that scares my dad.
Midweek we ride Line 1 of the metro to its southern terminus in Helwan and get off the train. It is just as noisy and dirty as the rest of Cairo, but as we look for a place to stop for a cold drink, we come to the entrance of a large Japanese garden.
“Didn’t expect this,” Dad says. “Should we check it out?”
Admission is two Egyptian pounds—the equivalent of about a quarter—so we go inside. The park is filled with bamboo trees, pagoda-style huts, meandering stone canals crisscrossed by Japanese bridges, and a pond surrounded by dozens of sitting Buddhas. Like a lot of things in Egypt, neglect has tarnished the park’s shine, but it’s still peaceful and beautiful. We stay for a couple of hours, taking pictures of some kids climbing all over a jolly-faced Buddha, watching Egyptian families pedal across a man-made lake in little foot-powered boats, and discovering a set of “hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil” monkeys carved into the rock of the pond.