Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  Maybe chess wasn’t such a good idea. It bothered Charlie to see Tim in Cairo having a fine time. Worse still, a fine time at El Horreya. Dirty and crowded insofar as café bars were concerned, but lovely in secret ways. Like how some tables had missing tiles with coins glued in their place. Charlie had laughed, cheered, bemoaned, and even fought at these tables. He’d fought one night when a drunk Egyptian suggested the drunk American was cheating at chess. Charlie had laughed. Not with intent to offend, but still an offense had been rendered. He endured a swift whipping. So swift the man had felt bad and, after apologizing, bought Charlie a beer. Such incidents gave Charlie a rich history in this beloved place. He belonged here more than he belonged anywhere else in the world. Why did Tim have to bring that other world into El Horreya? “I wish you hadn’t come,” said Charlie suddenly. He gestured to the room, but also beyond it. The walls touched the sidewalk, which touched the street. From there you could reach all of Egypt. “To be honest, I wish you’d laid over in a different city. I have a life here that doesn’t involve anything or anyone from Montana.” Tim didn’t react. As if the cryptic bastard had finally lost his hearing. It was only fair given how many guns he’d shot in his life. How many at people? “I wish you hadn’t . . .” Charlie wondered how many times he’d end up saying that.

  “I heard you.” Tim raised his arm in the air until more beer came. That took several minutes. By then, Tim’s arm had drained of blood. He grimaced at the waiter when he came. “There’s no condensation on the bottle,” said Tim, more or less to himself. “It’s not cold.” He drank it anyway. Then he stole Charlie’s beer and drank that, too. Finally, Tim leaned back in his chair until the wood creaked. When he leaned too far and nearly fell, Aos put his foot on the front leg of the chair, applied pressure, and guided the chair back to the floor. There was a loud bang. Tim didn’t flinch—or couldn’t flinch. Not after what he’d seen. Not after what he’d done. “I forgot to tell you,” said Tim. “Why I really came.”

  “You told me in that phony e-mail,” said Charlie, displeased to discover he remembered it. In training, my commander asked me what I should carry to war. “My armor,” I said. “My map.” He laughed the way a hyena laughs before killing something. “Bring the memory of the people you love,” he said. “And the fear of losing them. That fear will keep you alive.” Tim had gone on to write about Dad, Karen, the kids. Charlie was listed implicitly. The fear of losing people Tim loved, or had once loved, had thrust him down the rabbit hole. It took several years of war to reach the bottom. The bottom was the same as the top. He was the same man except more confused and depressed. He wanted to go home. He also never wanted to go home again. Finally, he needed to see Charlie. His conviction wasn’t paired with any logic; his reason was unclear, except to say that his anger had become his mourning. He was tired of hating his face.

  “The truth comes out,” said Tim.

  “What truth?” asked Charlie.

  “You think I’m phony.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  Charlie turned to Aos for some kind of support. Maybe a wry smile indicating that such drunken talk couldn’t possibly mean anything. But Aos was busy playing chess against himself. He gave both sides the same dedicated attention.

  “Karen said I shouldn’t come,” said Tim. He’d never been one to endure even a short silence. “She said you were a lost cause. That our past was an abyss, not a harbor. Just so you know, she grew up in New England. That’s why she uses so many boat metaphors.” Tim inspected his mobile phone; his finger pecked the screen as if there were no service. Each time with more force. “I never told her I was shot in the leg. On leave, she felt the scar. We were having sex. She didn’t mention it. I saw in her eyes that we wouldn’t have that fight until I left the army. But I don’t know how to be a civilian anymore. I don’t know what to do with my life.”

  The look on Tim’s face—not ugly, just different—affected Charlie more than he cared to admit. He imagined what a good brother would say: I’m sorry and I love you and Drink up. But saying those things earnestly required Charlie to be something he hadn’t been in years. Why pretend? How would that help? Instead he turned back to Aos, who was still playing chess against himself. More like speed chess, which was unusual. “Are you ready to go? Curfew in like . . .” Charlie showed his watch, but Aos wouldn’t look up from his game. It was neck and neck, a real standoff. Charlie, anxious to escape his own cruelty, tapped Aos on the shoulder. Firmly, but not hard. The prodding thrust Aos so abruptly from his focused state that he accidentally knocked over his beer. He picked the bottle up before any liquid spilled. Foam poured from the top and beer spilled that way and covered the board.

  * * *

  Charlie, Tim, and Aos waited on the platform for the train. The Cairene metro was cleaner and usually swifter than the New York or Parisian equivalent. Also more fun because the rules of engagement were off in the Cairo underground. People rushed to board and disembark train cars through the same doors at the same time. This caused free-for-alls at larger stations. Too many people wanted off and too many wanted on. They met between the hydraulic doors of each car and battled. Old women threw elbows. Businessmen used briefcases as shields. Schoolboys hip-checked each other out of the way, while girls in fluorescent head scarves ducked between fat men trying to suck in their stomachs. When the train came and the hydraulic doors slid open, Charlie put his hands on his brother’s back and pushed him into the swarm.

  “I’m bumping into people,” said Tim. “Stop pushing me.”

  “We can’t wait,” said Charlie. “We’ll miss the train. If we miss the train . . .”

  “Hurry up,” said Aos, who was somehow already inside the carriage.

  “There are children here!” said Tim.

  “Throw them aside.” Charlie considered forcing a laugh, but decided he didn’t care if Tim thought he was joking.

  Tim made it onto the train just as the doors shut, but Charlie—worried his arms would get stuck in the door and his body would be dragged rag doll through the tunnel, whipping in the wind—stepped back. The train was jam-packed. Both Aos and Tim were pressed up against the interior glass panels. Aos smiled as the train departed and tried to wave, but his arm was stuck by his side. Tim shut his eyes and leaned his head against the glass. Charlie thought he looked exhausted and, if such a thing could be inferred from a man’s countenance, afraid to die. The train shot down the black tunnel, and the sound of metal rubbing metal faded away. Then a new crowd lined up for the next train. Their mirth aggravated Charlie’s abominable mood. Why weren’t they concerned about curfew? Nobody who was concerned about curfew would chat without restraint and carry themselves with such lightness and ease. Everybody in the station, save Charlie, had that kind of levity. Why? He knew curfew wasn’t enforced citywide. Not even downtown, really. At least not every night. Tonight? Probably not. The whole city would stay awake and go to restaurants and sit on the corniche or walk along the corniche while smoking cigarettes and holding hands. Taxi drivers wouldn’t stop driving and the all-night traffic would stay all night. So what curfew, really, except the one threatened on TV? Nevertheless, Charlie experienced the anguish of wondering if he’d be caught outside after dark.

  When the next train arrived a few minutes later, Charlie shoved aboard before the first person stepped off. An old man clicked his tongue angrily. People swarmed and the old man was lost in the crowd somewhere. Charlie felt no shame after he disappeared. The door shut and the train shot down a dark tube. Charlie knew he wasn’t just underground, but also underwater. Then appeared the bright lights of the next station, the Opera House. Then another tunnel and another station. El Dokki, his stop. Dokki meant “harbor,” where houseboats—barely floating boxes covered in gardens and tiny yellow lights—were moored in a line running north along the west bank of the Nile. Charlie lived a few blocks in from the river, but loved walking past the houseboats and breathing the slightly cooler air by the water. He felt less aff
ection for the mosquitoes, but had long ago resigned himself to their companionship.

  Charlie stepped out of the train. Aos waited by the stairs, back planted on the wall between two sets of empty benches. “Where’s Tim?” asked Charlie as the train behind him departed for the next station.

  “What?” said Aos over the sound of metal rubbing metal.

  “Tim,” said Charlie after the train became a rush of air.

  “He walked back to the Sheraton.”

  “Without saying good-bye?” It was, in a way, a relief. Charlie had avoided what would’ve surely been a strained farewell: questions about when, even if, they’d finish the fight they’d been having; whether to embrace or shake hands or part the same way they’d met, without touching; and most important, any metaphysical questions about what it all meant in the end. There was no end; therefore, no meaning. In addition to being a relief, it was also more than a little sad. Charlie had been robbed of the opportunity to surprise himself. What if he’d gotten off the train only to discover his heart had transformed in the long black tunnel under the deep, muddy river? What if seeing Tim lean against the wall of the subway station, bummed on the way back to war, had dislodged something? A feeling? A memory? How would’ve Charlie reacted? What might’ve he said?

  “Tim insisted he knew the way,” said Aos. “And that he needed to pack. I thought you’d be mad if I stopped him. Not that I could’ve stopped him. He had that look in his eyes. Like he’d absolutely made up his mind. He was leaving.”

  Charlie and Aos climbed the stairs, walked down a hallway, and climbed more stairs into the stink of the city. “Curfew started twenty minutes ago,” said Charlie at street level. The more energy he spent worrying about curfew, the less energy he had to think about Tim. And Omran. And Dalia. And the yellow card. And how he couldn’t stop failing people. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to run home. It’s not far. I need the exercise.”

  Aos made a point of watching people walk by. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, slipping into the stream of pedestrians. He slipped out a few paces later and turned back. He wore the look of a man who’d just thought of something. “There’s nothing wrong with reunion. You might even get something out of it. A brother, for example. Nephews you can spoil with stories of your adventures. That kind of thing.” Aos casually rejoined the stream and was gone before Charlie could oppose the remark.

  * * *

  That night Charlie lay prone on his couch with his head hung over the edge of the cushion so that he could breathe and also see his dog, a short-haired pooch of unknown origin. One day Charlie had left his door open and the pooch had wandered in. He didn’t have the heart to send her away, so instead gave her a name. Ruby was curled on the floor in such a way that Charlie couldn’t tell which side was the head and which was the butt. He rolled supine to escape the mystery. Then reluctantly took hold of the phone. He called Dalia first. Get the worst out of the way! was a philosophy his father had drilled into him at an early age. While Charlie hated his father on principle—the man said he feared God, but rarely abided Him—many of his lessons had stuck. Get the worst out of the way, quick is painless, less is more. Not to mention stop running your mouth. When Dalia picked up, he minded all these philosophies at once: “Your case has been rejected.” The pain of admitting his failure was eclipsed by the pain of not hearing Dalia react. “Hello?” said Charlie after a few seconds. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlie had long imagined another version of this call. In that version he said, “Guess what? Your petition has been approved. It’ll be a few more . . . well, months. It’s hard to say for sure. Like, before you travel. There’s a security-clearance procedure. Not that you should have any trouble. Anybody with eyes will see you’re an asset, not a threat.” In that version Dalia dropped the phone and cried out and picked up the phone again and finally exhaled her despair. To be rid of it! In that version Charlie said, “This is great” and “I’m really happy.” The half-truth would be the only truth he’d ever tell Dalia. He’d keep the nausea and sadness to himself, with the hope that his desire, lacking an object, would die. That his heart would swell from sending his love to be happy, even if that happiness didn’t include him. That even if his heart didn’t swell, and he sulked in jealous anguish, it wouldn’t matter. She would already be gone. Charlie would have no chance to fuck up her life anymore. That version struck Charlie now as far-fetched. He felt stupid and sorry for having imagined it.

  “I wish I had better news. Really, I thought—”

  “I understand,” said Dalia, as if God had trained her to expect bad news; perhaps she’d never imagined another outcome. “I should go. It’s late. I’m tired.”

  Charlie knew then what he’d always suspected. Hearts don’t break; they simply continue. His heart beat on like an old industrial engine. For a second, he was even glad Dalia would stay. The gladness burned away like tissue paper when he noticed it, revealing a new and upsetting fear. Charlie didn’t trust himself. Not with Dalia stuck in Cairo for the long term. Wasn’t it only a matter of time before his longing found a way to escape? “You don’t need to be alone,” he’d tell Dalia one day when she sounded especially sad or cynical. “Just say the word. I’m here for you.” Would she tell Omran? Would Omran come to Egypt and kill Charlie with his bare hands? Such punishment didn’t lack appeal; dead Charlie would feel no guilt.

  Dalia returned the phone to its cradle so quietly that Charlie didn’t realize she’d hung up. The dial tone, like an alarm, accosted him. A better lawyer would’ve known whether to call back now or wait until tomorrow. Charlie’s judgment was clouded by pain, which was clouded by whiskey. The smartest thing he could do was the opposite of what he wanted. He wanted to call now and tell her everything. In that way, it was decided. He’d call tomorrow and tell her only what she needed to know. God willing, Dalia would be ready to talk. Or shout. Or demand answers to formidable questions. What now? Where do I go? How do I live? Charlie wouldn’t have any satisfying answers prepared. He couldn’t prepare what didn’t exist. His gut wrenched just thinking about the several platitudes he’d be forced to offer. We’ll figure something out! It will be okay! I promise!

  To pass the time until then, Charlie watched Ruby. He still couldn’t tell which side was the head and which was the butt. The mystery nearly drove him mad. Charlie grabbed the phone again. Wasn’t it his job to spread the bad news like a plague on Omran? He dialed half the number before deciding not to dial the rest. What would he say to him? I’m sorry? I tried? Maybe it was better to call Omran in the morning before he called Dalia. By then, maybe Dalia would’ve told Omran herself. “My petition has been denied,” she’d say. “Stay where you are. Be safe. Earn money.” Charlie could hear Dalia saying these things without meaning them; he could hear Omran moaning. “Fuck!” shouted Charlie at the phone. Ruby, a nervous pooch, cowered under the coffee table. Her tail ricocheted between the wooden legs. A rapid tapping. “I’m sorry,” said Charlie, petting her. “Good girl.” Ruby wasn’t the most forgiving dog and slinked away to the bedroom. Springs compressed when she lay on the bed. The sound recalled the screen door, which recalled the office; that recalled every client Charlie had ever failed to help. Their multitude pinned him to the couch. He wouldn’t get up for water. He wouldn’t get up to piss.

  Dark, vindictive hours passed languidly. Charlie thought he was going insane from the solitude and lack of sleep. He went so far as to hold his eyes shut with his fingers. Morning arrived what felt like years later. The sun was still way off, but the call to prayer said the date had changed. Charlie, who was done self-flagellating for the moment, got up to piss his whiskey. Then he reheated yesterday’s stale coffee and poured bourbon in the pot to freshen it. He fed, walked, and watered Ruby. He only walked her to the corner store and back because she kept sitting down. Ruby was getting old. Her joints were swollen. “My dear,” said Charlie when they reached the stairs leading back inside. The stairs were much h
arder for her to go up than to go down. He carried her. Once inside, Charlie put Ruby back to bed. Right away she slipped into a dream about yearning. Her paws moved as if she were chasing something. Charlie watched her paws until they stopped. He was glad to see Ruby get what she wanted. Her tongue fell out of her mouth. Charlie’s mood continued to improve after that. He paced for a while. He even did a little cleaning. He stacked the books on his coffee table in descending order of size, making a pyramid. A lovely and stable shape. Then, after Charlie couldn’t think of more ways to delay, he called Omran. He pressed what felt like a million buttons before the ringing started. Each ring increased his desire to time travel, to go back and redo Dalia’s case. Not that he could do much to change the outcome. Charlie had done everything right, to the letter. All his work was to the letter. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed to break more rules. Maybe he needed to break every rule ever written. Nobody would care. Nobody would even notice.

  “Hello?” Omran’s voice sounded the same as always, if worn a little thin; Dalia, it seemed, had said nothing.

  Charlie wanted to throw up knowing it was now his curse to share the bad news. “It’s Charlie.”

  “Salaam, Charlie!” It was kind, the way Omran said the name. He had a way of making Charlie sound more important than he was, more influential. Better at his job. Better at his life. “How is Dalia? When is she coming? I talked to her earlier, but she said there was no news. Tell me she’s playing a trick. I can’t tell with her. Not always. Not anymore. Sometimes I wonder if she’s . . .”

  Charlie considered that word for a long time—trick, both its definition and etymology. A maneuver intended to deceive or cheat. An optical illusion. From the Old North French and the Vulgar Latin, which Charlie knew from his one-semester stint as a linguist. But no dictionary mentioned the sadness with which Omran used that word.