Cairo Stories

by Anne-Marie Drosso

  After hanging up abruptly I spent a long time awake in bed, mad at Jack and regretting calling him, and feeling sheepish that fifteen years of a reasonably happy marriage had not taught me to refrain from uttering the nonsense I sometimes uttered, whenever we were not on the same wavelength. While I lay in bed, trying to reason myself out of – though, in effect, into – my negative state of mind, the cab driver’s story kept flitting through my mind.

  * * *

  A call on his mobile had put the cab driver in a jubilant mood, judging by how effervescently he replied to the caller. Then he told me the news that, just a few minutes earlier, his wife had been taken to hospital to give birth to their fourth child. ‘My sister,’ he said, which was a somewhat unusual form of address, in the circumstances, ‘My wife is my cousin, but more than that, she is my soul. We’ve been married for fourteen years. I’d do anything for her. And I’m certain that she would do anything for me. Her happiness is my happiness. She understands me better than I understand myself, and she knows how to take me. She’s my life. We don’t have much, but we are happy. Our three girls are fine girls. In good health, thank God. My wife would like to have a boy now, but I tell her, “Why a boy?” In this day and age, a girl is just as good. Today, a girl can be a doctor, an engineer, even a minister. My sister, I would be as happy with a girl as with a boy. But my wife wants a boy. All I want is her good health. I cannot conceive of life without her.’

  He wasn’t driving me very far, only from the Marriott to the Hilton. Since it was Friday noontime – prayer time – the streets were almost empty. By the time the driver had told me all this, we were nearing the Hilton. I had already set aside, in the outer pocket of my handbag, a ten-pound note for the fare – reasonably generous for the distance, but certainly not enough for the very special occasion I had just heard about. As I opened the cab door, ‘Should I tip him more generously or not?’ flashed through my mind, but so did the question, ‘Is this a made-up, well-rehearsed story he tells women customers he suspects of being feminists?’ In the end, I only gave him the ten pounds, partly because I didn’t know how much more to give.

  True or not, it was a nice story. So, no sooner had I gotten out of the taxi than I was angry with myself for not having given the man a more substantial tip. My friends waiting at the Hilton decided that his account had an authentic ring. ‘The man should be interviewed on TV as the exemplary husband,’ a recently divorced friend exclaimed. ‘He’s got the right angle on things.’

  * * *

  It’s curious how much one can make out of a seemingly insignificant occurrence. On the eve of my return to London, awake in my hotel room, thinking about the driver’s marital bliss, I spent a long time ruminating about my deficiencies in the art of making marriage truly good. And I resolved to turn over a new leaf and become more giving, more forgiving and more considerate in the hope that Jack would some day talk about me the way that driver had talked about his wife. Instead of thinking of the work I had come to do – a review of projects on cultural heritage preservation – and of the report I had to write, I agonized over my botched telephone conversation with Jack, conjuring up ways to make amends.

  Next day, walking down the economy-class aisle (consulting work no longer puts you in business class, which I’m all for in principle but less so in practice), I felt blue at the prospect of lunch and dinner without Jack. However, I was so tired that I was certain I could fall asleep even in a cramped seat, as long as the people next to me were quiet and didn’t strike up a conversation. The kind of conversation I dread most during my frequent flights to the Middle East is when, hearing that I grew up in Egypt, people bombard me with all sorts of questions about the region, assuming that I know the answers. As if growing up there qualifies me to answer these impossible questions, such as why women are choosing to wear the hijab, or whether the anti-American sentiments there reflect economic problems, or whether Islamism is the consequence of failed nationalism. ‘I’m a restorer, a restorer of buildings,’ I want to say. ‘My work involves the past, not the present.’ But I usually let myself be drawn into talking, feeling compelled to say something, no matter how hollow.

  The couple next to me looked as grim as I must have that morning. A youngish couple who seemed, fortunately, in no mood for small talk. He sounded Australian and she American. They were arguing with one another over whose fault it was that their one piece of hand luggage was so full that its handle was ripping. The husband was saying that they had gotten carried away at the Khan El Khalili and had bought far too many knick-knacks; the wife maintained they should have bought another suitcase, as they had done on their previous visit to Egypt. We smiled at one another in a perfunctory way, making it clear that none of us expected, or wanted, to socialise.

  I’d brought along the Egyptian Gazette to read. The crime section invariably grabs my attention, particularly the so-called ‘confessions’ by apprehended criminals.

  While I usually enjoy watching a movie on the plane, however mediocre, that morning I was determined to sleep as much as I could.

  The couple – married, I concluded, since both the man and the woman wore wedding rings – continued to argue, still about their Cairene purchases. The woman complained of being pressured by her husband when they were looking at carpets in the Khan El Khalili and of being unable, therefore, to make up her mind; and now she regretted having passed up a carpet that would have been perfect for their living-room. The husband retorted that she need have no regrets as the carpets at that shop were overpriced, and why would she have wanted to buy a carpet from a store that ripped you off?

  ‘Because I like their carpets,’ the woman said heatedly. ‘So what, if they were slightly more expensive than elsewhere? They were affordable. Much cheaper than anything comparable we can find in London.’

  It was not the first time I had experienced people close to me in a plane discussing personal matters so loudly. Perhaps flying uninhibits people and nervousness makes them forget themselves.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ the husband said.

  ‘So, what is the point?’ the woman asked, obviously unwilling to let go.

  ‘I don’t like to be ripped off,’ he said, then added, ‘Do you? – Do you?’

  ‘But what about pleasing me?’ she said in a tone that could only stifle any wish on his part to please her.

  ‘Why do you have to turn everything into a test, whether or not I take you into account enough?’ he answered calmly.

  Apparently ready for this, she shot back: ‘Because I would and do consider your preferences. I never, never interfere when you’re considering buying something. Do you remember how we spent more than an hour looking at old maps downtown? I’ve no interest in maps whatsoever but you do, and I was more than happy to let you take your time.’

  ‘Oh, come now. Did this carpet really mean that much to you?’ The husband had lost some of his composure.

  And on and on the discussion went. I lost interest and closed my eyes. Then I heard nothing. I evidently fell asleep. I was woken by the pilot’s announcement: ‘Unexpected turbulence over Greece’ was the tail end of what I heard. However accustomed I am to flying, turbulence always frightens me. And the turbulence that morning was unusually strong – the plane was shaking so vigorously that the flight attendants abandoned their trolleys and sat down. For a second, the shaking seemed to abate, but then the plane dropped significantly, with a terrifying sensation of falling – and the woman beside me whispered, ‘Oh, my God!’ I couldn’t help looking at her: she was clasping her husband’s hand, her head resting against his shoulder. I quickly looked away. I wished I could have held her hand, or anybody’s hand. ‘Where are you, Jack?’ I thought, and then, stupid as it was, I began promising myself and Jack and the Gods out there, that I would never again make a fuss about silly matters. Never. The shaking began again. A man sitting on the other side of the aisle quietly exclaimed ‘Damn it!’ when his coffee cup spilled on the book he seemed to be still reading.
‘How can he read?’ I asked myself. The shaking grew so bad that I had to force myself to breathe deeply. That is what Jack would have told me to do. Strange thoughts entered my mind, the strangest being that, if Jack and I had had children, we might have felt towards each other the way that driver felt towards his wife. I heard the pilot tell us to make sure our belts were well fastened, for he was expecting yet more turbulence. His voice sounded stern.

  ‘Honey, I’m sorry I made a fuss about that carpet,’ the woman next to me said softly to her husband.

  Whatever it was he then whispered back made her say, ‘You’re so sweet.’

  From the corner of my eye, I could see him gently stroking her hair. Still nestled against him and, still clasping his hand, she had closed her eyes. Every time the plane shook particularly badly, the woman said, ‘Oh, my God!’ and the man said reassuringly, ‘It’s alright,’ or ‘Don’t worry.’ At some point he told her with an apparent certitude that had a calming effect on me too, ‘Sweetie, planes don’t crash as a result of turbulence,’ and she asked, ‘Really?’, and he said, ‘Really!’

  When the turbulence finally stopped – the ten minutes it lasted felt like an eternity – I smiled at the couple, and they smiled back.

  ‘A bit rough,’ the man said in a way that suggested he had been tense too, which made me want to tell the woman, ‘Forget about the carpet. Your husband’s a gem.’ There was no need though; she was looking at him with a tenderness that would keep them happy for quite a while now.

  The rest of the flight was uneventful. Unable to go back to sleep, I watched the American version of Shall We Dance. Much inferior to the original Japanese film, it was perfect viewing for my mood – a mood that told me ‘love and be loving to Jack, for this is all that ultimately matters.’ The couple next to me watched, holding hands.

  After we disembarked I found myself walking behind them. The handle of their hand luggage had completely broken, which made carrying it awkward. It had no wheels. When the woman told the man, ‘Well, what did I tell you?’ he gave her an exasperated look. Still under the influence of our unsettling experience and still full of good intentions, I had to bite my tongue not to say to them, ‘Hey, remember the turbulence!’

  Later that evening, when Jack called me to say that he would be a little later than expected because their client wanted to discuss setting up another business, I burst out ‘Jack, must you be late tonight, of all nights?’

  The turbulence didn’t seem to have had, in my case either, too radical an effect, although, after that hasty remark, I did try to be nicer to Jack, ending the call by saying as pleasantly as I could, ‘See you darling, when you’re done. Take your time.’

  Later, waiting for Jack, it occurred to me that I was unlikely now ever to tell him the cab driver’s story; that I would remember that story long after the substance of the report I was to start writing in the morning had evaporated from my mind; and that Jack and I would, most probably, spend much of what was left of the evening – once he got home – talking about our work. As I could see where this train of thought was taking me, I told myself – without, however, much conviction – that we were fortunate we enjoyed talking to each other about our work as much as we did.

  Next on the List?

  After the church service the congregation would gather in the churchyard, unless the day was unusually hot or a khamsin was blowing. A much-esteemed member of the congregation – esteemed for the money he had, not for his piousness or benevolence – was an elderly, small and rotund, ruddy gentleman who had a pronounced tendency to blush scarlet at the slightest annoyance. This man never lingered much in the churchyard; yet he made his presence felt by barking orders to his entourage, a wife, brothers and sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nephews and nieces, grandchildren, as well as great-nephews and great-nieces. An almost perpetual look of amusement on his wife’s face suggested that she did not take him too seriously. But everyone else in his entourage seemed on edge.

  The rotund gentleman – the smallest of the men in his retinue – was evidently looked on as the family patriarch, though he was not the eldest. Not that the other men in the family were nobodies; but they could not match the fortune he had amassed through fair and, some hinted, foul means. So everybody, even the more recalcitrant members of the family, ultimately deferred to him. He was not wholly objectionable. He was smart and vivacious, could be very witty and even generous occasionally; he was not mean, he was just unabashedly egotistic. For that reason, and because of all the money he had – enough money to do things on his own terms and buy people off as he pleased – many found him insufferable.

  Ordering people about, talking with vehemence and much gesticulation, and nodding his head in all directions in acknowledgement of greetings, the gentleman would cross the churchyard very slowly. Once on the pavement he would stop. To beggars, he gave sparingly. With snack vendors, he drove hard bargains, after which he would look for his car – a big old American car – and would invariably curse the driver for parking it in the wrong spot, no matter where it was parked. Sometimes those walking closest to him would hear him tell his wife, if she happened to be close by, ‘Oh! I wish we were alone. I wish I didn’t have to put up with all these people,’ to which she usually replied, ‘Come now, don’t get overwrought: you know full well that you love having a large following.’

  As might be expected, he had his favourites of the moment – both amongst the adults and the children, and did not hide his preferences very well, although he put on a show of fairness. On Sundays, just before climbing into his car, he routinely gave some pocket money to his grandchildren, great-nephews and great-nieces, making a point of apportioning the money equally, though according to their respective ages. The older ones got more than the younger ones. To the older boys he usually gave the most, on the basis that they needed more money to take their girlfriends out, although he sometimes favoured the older girls, telling them, ‘I know you girls! You like to spend money on making yourselves look pretty.’

  For people like this elderly gentleman, the early sixties were a tumultuous time in Egypt. As far as rich people were concerned, Nasser – Egypt’s young, handsome and charismatic leader – was a dangerous man on the rampage, as shown by his escalating attacks on their wealth and privileges. At the time this story was unfolding, the government had already begun confiscating private property. ‘Nationalisation’ and ‘sequestration’ were the order of the day. For the rich, these were naturally much dreaded words. The regime kept them in suspense: whose turn would it be next?

  This political turn of events was giving the elderly gentleman at the centre of this story even more reasons to get red in the face, display irritation and boss people around. The fact that he and his peers were losing their possessions, as well as overall control of the country, seemed to make him keener than ever to control his entourage and assert his authority.

  Grandchildren, great-nephews and great-nieces saw him at his worst during that turbulent period. Never particularly popular with them, despite the money he gave them, his popularity sank to even lower levels as his temper flared up more and more frequently and his imperiousness touched new heights.

  One of his great-nephews, a lanky adolescent, had come to dislike him with a passion. The boy was the son of one of the rich man’s many nieces. In the rich man’s opinion, and, to be fair, the opinion of just about every family member, this young woman had committed a folly by marrying an outsider, a Jew rumoured to be a member of the Communist party at the time of the marriage. The marriage had been short-lived, exactly as the rich uncle had predicted. The outsider had left wife, son and country and gone to Paris.

  This had all happened before 1956, before the Jewish exodus from Egypt. To his wife the husband had said that he was leaving because her family was making his life miserable, which they were. To friends, however, he had apparently said that he was leaving because the signs were that Egypt and Israel would come to blows: he was uneasy living in Egypt w
ith that possibility looming. Once in Paris he had tried to stay in touch with his son, but was led to understand by members of his wife’s family that the boy would be better off left alone. Complying with their wishes, he disappeared altogether from the scene.

  ‘Good riddance,’ the rich man had told the family and even the young wife, inconsolable and penniless. Her husband had had a job but no money, another reason why her family had disapproved of the marriage. His leaving had made her dependent on her father, an inveterate gambler who had squandered much of his inheritance and was subsisting on a tiny pension in addition to the meagre rental income from a small building he owned in Abdeen, one of Cairo’s old and dilapidated neighbourhoods. In the end the young woman had had to work, teaching French at a couple of schools and tutoring on the side. Every so often her rich uncle, as well as other well-off uncles and aunts, would give her some money, which she accepted without any show of protest.

  Thus the boy had grown up in modest, though by no means uncomfortable, circumstances. He hardly ever thought of his father. He identified so little with his Jewish lineage that when the tone at school, especially in his social science classes, became anti-Zionist, often bordering on anti-Jewish, he felt relatively unconcerned. Sometimes, though, he did wonder how his school friends would react were they ever to find out about his Jewish father. They were under the impression that he was of Syro-Lebanese origins, on both his father’s side and his mother’s side. The rare times he gave the matter any thought, it angered him that this absent father of his could still end up being a liability in his life.