Tarek and I found chairs near Leila and Tamer and sat down. Desultory spurts of small talk did little to disguise the tension. Everyone seemed to be waiting for a signal from the Pasha, who sat, unapproachable, at one end of the room.
Suddenly Tarek tugged at my elbow. ‘Look, here comes Grandfather. What’s he doing here?’
I looked towards the door. Kamal Zeitouni was being ushered in by Fangali. Still a large man, his hair and moustache were completely white and he leaned on a cane. Tarek stood up and went to the door to greet him. Kamal looked over the boy’s shoulder and his sharp eyes picked me out. He took Tarek’s arm and plodded across the room to shake hands with the Pasha. My uncle’s greeting was cordial but reserved. Kamal’s presence, welcome or otherwise, had clearly been expected.
I stood up and waited for my ex-father-in-law to turn to me. Then I sat down again. It occurred to me that he might choose to snub me. But he turned in my direction and I stood up again awkwardly.
‘Hello, Gihan. Well, well, it’s been a long time.’
‘Yes, it has. How are you, Uncle Kamal?’ I still addressed him as I did when he had been my father-in-law, out of habit.
‘Can’t complain, can’t complain.’
He made his way stiffly to a chair. Tarek tucked the cane out of the way and came back to his seat next to me.
The Pasha coughed. The instant hush that followed betrayed the fact that everyone had been waiting for a signal.
‘Well, you all know why we’re here. We need to consider an offer for the house. Kamal Zeitouni is here to represent the buyer and to answer any questions we might have.’
Clearly there were questions, but the younger generation deferred to the older. I wanted to know who the buyer was but didn’t dare be the first to speak up. Zakariah was the first to ask a question.
‘Does he want to buy the house as such, or is he just buying the land to demolish the house and build on the lot? And if so, what will he build? A house for his personal use? A hotel?’
‘This area of Garden City is not zoned for high rises, because of the embassies around. The current intention of the buyer is to renovate the house for his own personal use. If, however, remodeling proves to be impractical –’ Kamal started.
‘The house is perfectly sound structurally,’ Nabil interrupted. ‘Besides, it’s been declared a national heritage, so it can’t be torn down. Whoever buys it must expect to renovate it.’
There was a moment of silence. My first reaction was to welcome this news, but then I realized this would inevitably drive down the price of the house by limiting potential buyers to those who would be ready to go to the very considerable expense and trouble of renovating and preserving the house for their personal use.
Finally Zakariah asked the question I was most curious about. ‘Who’s the buyer?’
‘Emir Bandar of Saudi Arabia.’
There was a murmur. The identity of the buyer was apparently news.
I tried to imagine Prince Bandar and Khadija living here. Perhaps this very study, with its gold silk paneling and its heavy green velvet draperies, would serve as their video-viewing room. They would put up a giant wall-to-wall screen, and wall-to-wall sofas. The antiquated, drafty bathrooms would be redone in gilt and mirrors. I somehow couldn’t imagine the Bandars in these rooms with their soaring ceilings, elaborate moldings and garlanded Cupids on the cornices.
Nabil asked the question that seemed to be on everybody’s mind. ‘How much is he offering?’
Kamal specified the sum, in dollars. I tried to calculate my share. I divided by eight, because under the Shari’a the two sisters each inherited half a share, the seven brothers a whole. But I would not inherit all of Papa’s one-eighth. As a woman, and sole heir, I had to share part of my inheritance with my male relatives: these near-strangers, my cousins.
‘The point to consider,’ Kamal continued, ‘is that the condition of the house is deteriorating rapidly. Buyers for a house like this are few and far between. This good an offer may not be repeated.’
‘That’s nonsense. Property values are going through the roof in Cairo. It’s the best investment imaginable. And this is a unique piece of prime real estate, in the most desirable residential area in the city. Not to mention that all this marble and woodwork couldn’t be reproduced today at any price.’
I wondered if Zakariah was speaking for himself or for the Pasha, who sat, sphinx-like, on the sofa.
‘True,’ Kamal conceded, ‘but the demand for a property like this holds up only as long as there is stability. No one can be sure of anything today. Even the rumor of instability can scare off foreign investors. It’s happened before.’
‘We can afford to wait. A few more years won’t make a difference.’
Everyone understood the reference to ‘a few more years’. The Pasha was in his eighties. He had already outlived all but two of his brothers and one sister.
‘Allah grants long life to those he wills,’ Nabil pointed out. ‘But I think we have to consider the younger generation. Our children now have to think of their own youngsters. Tying up money indefinitely, when it is needed now, isn’t fair to them.’ He looked around for support.
There was a general murmur of assent from the cousins. The silence that ensued stretched uncomfortably. No one had brought up the most sensitive issue. If the house were sold during the Pasha’s lifetime, where would he live? Presumably he could buy himself a villa or a luxury apartment, but I could not imagine the Pasha living anywhere but in the Cairo House.
Finally the Pasha, as if rousing himself, broke the silence. ‘I think it’s time everyone took a turn at having their say.’ Although he had the most at stake, he sounded detached, above the fray. ‘Zakariah?’
‘I’m for turning down the offer.’
‘Nabil?’
‘I think we should accept it.’
‘Sharif? I assume you’re speaking for your brothers and sisters as Adel’s heirs?’
‘Yes, Sir. I think we should accept.’
The Pasha called on each of the cousins, and I knew my turn would come. I felt a knot of tension form in my chest, the way it always did when I had to make a decision. Things never came to me in black or white, the way they had seemed to come, so easily, to Papa. I wished he were here, now, to guide me.
The Pasha had run down the list and turned to Nazli.
‘Where does Zohra stand on this?’
‘Mama said she couldn’t reach a decision. It was too difficult for her. She wants us to decide for ourselves, as her heirs. Tamer can speak for all of us.’
‘I had a question that I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to bring up.’ Tamer seemed embarrassed but determined. ‘Personally I would be willing to wait a few more years. But what I’m concerned about, and I’m sure I’m not the only one, is what happens, Allah willing after a long life, when you are no longer with us, Sir. You have no children. But you do have a long-time companion living with you in the house.’
‘Make your point.’
‘Might she not claim to be your common-law wife, and refuse to vacate the house?’
I was in awe of Tamer’s boldness; it would not have surprised me if he had been turned into a pillar of salt by a look from the Pasha. There was a murmur of assent. Tamer had clearly voiced a concern that no one else had the nerve to bring up: a potential claim by Lamia El-Salem.
‘A common-law wife has no rights under the Shari’a,’ Nabil objected.
‘But it could tie up the inheritance in legal disputes. That’s a point to consider,’ Kamal Zeitouni countered. ‘It’s very discouraging for a buyer to have to deal with so many heirs. Already there must be about twenty! In a few years, it’s inevitable, there will be even more. Reaching a consensus, getting everyone to sign at once, will be a daunting task. If, on top of that, there are complications – I mean claims, unfounded or otherwise, to settle – it could discourage many buyers. Far better to settle this now, while at least some of the original owners ar
e here.’
Zakariah turned to his oldest brother. ‘I think we need to hear from you now.’
‘Not yet. It was Gihan’s turn, as Shamel’s heir.’
I felt a tightness in my chest, the way I used to do as a schoolgirl when I knew it was my turn next to be called upon by the teacher. I could tell that everyone, including the Pasha, thought they knew where I stood. Living abroad, I was assumed to have severed any sentimental attachments I might have. It did not occur to anyone that, precisely because I had been uprooted, I needed to know that the house would be here for me to come home to. Because my past and present were irreconcilable, I needed to be able to touch base, to reconnect to my old self. The house was my link to the past, to Papa; it was part of Tarek’s heritage. I made up my mind. It would all be gone, soon enough. The Pasha would be gone, and after him the house, and one day soon I would only be able to drive past, and it would be flying a foreign flag. It would happen soon enough anyway.
‘Gihan?’ the Pasha prodded gently. ‘Go ahead, Gigi.’
‘I don’t see why we should hurry.’ My voice was even lower than usual, and I cleared my throat and spoke up. ‘A few years from now – why not wait?’
A flicker of surprise passed over the Pasha’s inscrutable face. Kamal Zeitouni’s eyes narrowed, the way they had so many years ago, at my wedding, when I had crossed him for the first time. There was another silence. Finally the Pasha spoke.
‘This seems to be the situation: some, even most, of you feel that we should accept this offer from Prince Bandar; some feel that we can afford to wait. For myself, I wish to live out the little that’s left of my days in the house in which I was born.’ A pause. ‘But there is a possible compromise.’ Another pause. ‘It might be possible to sell the house now, but on the basis of an agreement that I have the use of it for the duration of my lifetime, after which it becomes Emir Bandar’s free and clear.’
‘You’re thinking of some kind of usufruct or lease-back agreement?’ Kamal Zeitouni rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know that he’ll agree to that.’
‘He may be amenable to the idea. From what I understood, he didn’t seem to have any immediate plans for using the house. We can get the lawyers together and work out the details. But that should satisfy all parties, I think, as well as lay to rest any concerns about possible claims or disputes.’
He looked around. ‘Well, I guess that’s all. Thank you all very much for coming. Kamal and I will be in touch, and we’ll keep you informed.’
Kamal Zeitouni heaved himself up with the help of his cane. Tarek walked him to the door and out to his car while I joined the line filing past the Pasha to take leave. My uncle remained seated, and had a word with each of us as we bent over to kiss him.
‘Give Zohra my love, Nazli, tell her I’ll be calling her tonight. Good-bye, Nabil. Is your rheumatism worse, Zakariah? Do you want me to call my specialist? Goodbye, Tamer. Good-bye, Sharif, my best to your mother. Good-bye, Gigi dear. Come for lunch again soon, bring Tarek. Oh, you’re leaving on Thursday? Already? Well, have a good trip, and don’t be gone as long next time.’ He rumpled my hair, a gesture he had not had for me since before I left for France.
I waited out in the hall for Tarek to come back. Looking up at the second floor gallery, I thought I caught a glimpse of a wisp of black veil disappearing behind a door. Lamia El-Salem must be aware, by now, of all that had transpired, through one or the other of the eavesdropping domestics.
‘Yes, I saw her too.’ It was Tamer who had come up behind me. ‘Oh well, someone had to bring that up.’
‘I hope this idea of the Pasha’s works. It’s brilliant. I didn’t think he would ever agree to sell the house in his lifetime.’
‘If you think about it, it’s in his interest to sell the house and get his share now. He has no children, no wife. When he goes, his inheritance is divided up among his brothers. This way, he goes on living in the house, but he gets his share in his lifetime, and can do what he wants with it. Spend it, will it to anyone he wants or give it outright as a gift. To anyone.’
‘I see. So, Uncle Nabil-?’
‘Was playing the devil’s advocate. Never underestimate the Pasha. He always has something up his sleeve.’
I smiled. We stood there awkwardly, looking at each other; one of those moments when a hand’s breadth of space between two people feels intolerable, and yet – at that moment, in that place – is as impossible to bridge as the length of a room. Tamer was the first to break away and clatter down the stone steps of the front door.
On the way home in the car I suddenly thought of Jeanne Calment.
‘What’s so funny, Mummy?’
‘Oh, it’s just that I thought of this Frenchwoman who is the oldest living woman in the world – over a hundred. Jeanne Calment. You never heard of her? Well, anyway, years ago, when she was a mere eighty or so, this lawyer in her town bought her house. He took over the mortgage payments, on the understanding that she could continue living in it until she died. Well, the irony is, he died, and she’s still living.’
24
The Accident
Loose ends. Some would have to be left dangling. Question marks. The matter of the house was out of my hands. But Tarek? Why did I ever think that I could come back, after all these years, and claim him like lost luggage? I had to resign myself to leaving without him, with no guarantee that he would join me soon. He would make up his own mind. Tarek was not me, at his age. He would not necessarily do what he was expected to do.
Loose ends. Saying goodbye. Last night Leila had a small farewell dinner for me. Afterwards I had more trouble than ever falling asleep, but it didn’t matter any more. Tomorrow I would be leaving, and I knew that once I was back in the States, I would rediscover that effortless, opaque loss of consciousness that eluded me here. I had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep through the night, like downing a tall drink in one long draft.
‘Tomorrow I am leaving.’ I repeated it to myself, but some part of me refused to accept it.
That morning, very early, I went riding with Tarek at the Pyramids. Afterwards, when I dropped him off at his father’s, he hugged me painfully hard, the way growing boys do before they know their own strength. It gave me hope. I drove away before he could see me cry.
That afternoon I went to Tante Zohra to say goodbye. I knew I wouldn’t see her again.
In the evening I washed my hair; I set out my clothes and the few presents for Luc, the souvenirs for friends. But I didn’t pack right away. I took my pocketbook and emptied it out. I switched the Egyptian pounds for dollars, setting aside the Egyptian money in an envelope to give to Ibrahim. I packed my American passport, my credit cards, health insurance card, telephone card, my driver’s license – so many cards I have not needed in Egypt, where I carried cash and an I.D. card. In the States there is another stack of cards waiting for me in my desk drawer along with my checkbooks: ATM, library, department store, AAA, car insurance. I switched address books.
My flight would leave at eight in the morning, like most flights to the States from Cairo. This meant I would have to be at the airport at six. Ibrahim had instructions to knock at the door of the apartment at five thirty. He would have a taxi waiting. I set the alarm clock for five, but it would hardly be worth going to bed.
Loose ends. Tamer. I looked at my watch. Eight p.m. I looked at the phone. I walked to the bedroom and tried to start packing. I went back to the phone. I knew I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I called him.
‘Gigi? Hey! What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘It’s my last night.’
‘You’re leaving? So soon?’
‘Won’t you come to say goodbye?’
‘I can’t. I’m expecting a notary to come over this evening to sign some urgent papers and an overseas phone call I can’t miss. Why don’t you come over?’
‘I won’t have time. I have to pack, to get ready. I’m taking the early morning flight.’
‘It s
till gives us a couple of hours. Come.’
I hesitated, but his tone, uncharacteristically urgent, made up my mind. ‘All right, I’ll try.’
Speeding along the Sixth of October Bridge I glanced repeatedly at the time. It was so late, there was almost no point in doing this.
I saw a bus grinding up the Zamalek on-ramp to my right, ponderously swinging its tail behind it. I started to accelerate in order to pass between the bus and the large white van on my left. I had plenty of time. Suddenly out of nowhere a figure sprang into the gap between the bus and the van. A woman in black had jumped off the slow-moving bus and crossed in front of it. I slammed on the brakes even as I saw the van close in on me. The car rocked as the van side-swiped the left rear door. I fought down the lump of fright in my throat and looked in the rear-view mirror at the capacity-filled van. There was no point in stopping in the middle of the fast-moving traffic on the bridge. No one carried insurance in Egypt anyway.
I drove on as the realization sunk in that I had barely missed running down a human being. The sprightly old woman in black had simply hopped onto the narrow shoulder of the bridge and walked away, indifferent to the collision she had caused. The stupidity of her action made me furious. Even if it were not my fault, had she so much as slipped and fallen – I tried not to think about it. The old crone had shot me a malevolent look from kohl-blackened eyes. Something about her triggered a memory. Om Khalil! That’s who it was! No, surely Om Khalil couldn’t be alive still. Or could she?
I felt a tightness in my chest, a sort of dread, as if the accident had been a warning. It was remarkable, come to think of it, that I had so far avoided having an accident driving in Cairo. But now it seemed as if I had been put on notice that my beginner’s luck had run out; my diplomatic immunity had been lifted.
I checked the gas gauge. It was running low. I pulled into a gas station. It would give me a chance to compose myself as well as refueling. The attendant came up with a smile and a windshield wiper.
The Cairo House Page 25