Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  “There’s news,” said Charlie. “Just not good news.”

  “What do you mean, not good?”

  “I mean Dalia’s not coming. Her petition to resettle has been denied. Really, I tried everything. I’m sorry. I tried.”

  The silence went on so long it grew teeth. Charlie wondered if he should keep talking. He could apologize again. He could offer condolences. Dalia had, in a way, just died; she was beyond seeing, wasn’t she? Unless Omran gave up everything good in his life. His job. His chance at American citizenship. His decent future.

  “No,” said Omran finally. “I don’t accept.”

  “You don’t accept?”

  “What you’re saying!”

  “That’s not really how this works, Omran. Look, I’m just the messenger. You know what they say about messengers.” Charlie secretly wished that Omran would flay him alive. Somehow it seemed less painful than finishing the conversation.

  “Oh, God. My God.” Clearly Omran’s radar had been too optimistic. He hadn’t seen or planned for this. Charlie was glad for the company; he hated being the only one to make such a stupid mistake. “I think . . . ,” said Omran as if his thoughts were trying to evade capture. He was panicking. “I have no power. I have no choice.” Then, after a pause: “I will come to Egypt! That is the only way I can see to be with her.” Something in his voice said he was going to weep, or that he’d been weeping all along and was failing now to hide it. “You tell Dalia that I will be there soon. I will also tell her. Bye, I have to go. I have to pray. Then I have to sleep.”

  Once again Charlie had forgotten that morning for him was midnight for Omran. He’d made the mistake so many times it had become a habit. “No, you can’t. Come, I mean. To Egypt. You can pray whenever you want. Or sleep, for that matter. It’s a free country. Your country, I mean. America. Which will be your country if you stay put. Egypt’s not a free country, by the way. There’s no clear route to citizenship. The inflation rate is absurd. The revolution is dying.”

  “I’m going to very soon.”

  “You’re going to what?”

  “Come to Egypt.”

  “You better not!”

  “I’m going to!”

  Charlie had a profound respect and liking for Omran, but never wanted to meet the man. Not now. Not here. If Omran came to Egypt, his life would be ruined. He’d arrive, see his wife, and sit on her couch with a great sigh as his body landed. Together they’d find age, poverty, and a future that wasn’t one. Stuck in Egypt, not citizens, legally barred from owning property or finding work. They’d discover that love wasn’t something they could eat or live inside. They’d work illegally, risking police harassment and fines, even imprisonment. Never earning enough money. Charlie would have to watch them spiral that way into hopelessness. Meanwhile the woman he loved would embrace the man she did, more desperately as time passed.

  “How will you find work?” asked Charlie, agitated by Omran’s stubbornness. “How will you afford children? How will you make a life you can live and not just sit through? Omran, are you listening? Did you hear what I said? Hello, Omran?”

  Omran hung up with less finesse than Dalia, so that Charlie heard the phone whack the cradle. No dial tone had ever made Charlie so sick. He ran to the bathroom. Nothing came out except a hacking sound. That woke Ruby, who peeked in. She was always checking on his welfare. Either by poking him in the crotch with her muzzle or barking loudly in his face. ARE YOU ALIVE? ARE YOU WELL? DO YOU LOVE ME?

  PART II

  * * *

  THE PLAN

  1

  Omran’s plan was to lie in bed with Dalia no matter what. She’d promised him at least one child. Thinking of her promise made him sweat. He was getting old. Gray hairs grappled for control of his brown beard. Dalia said this made him look reliable. He wanted a child, soon. He wanted his wife. Then the phone rang. Hadn’t he just hung up? Ring, ring. Yes, he’d just hung up on Charlie. Ring, ring. His sweaty hand on the phone gave the plastic a sticky feel.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” said Charlie in a dour way. “Maybe you forgot we were talking.”

  What Omran had forgotten was the tea he’d brewed to help him sleep; at least, until the pot’s yowl reminded him. A similar cry had burst from Omran’s mouth during his torture. And the mouths of other captives held in other rooms. A few men in a dank basement. A woman, too. Or a boy. All begging to die. Omran was still learning to endure kindred sounds, which emanated from teapots, engine brakes, and certain trains. The worst offender was the subway grinding to a stop. He stayed above ground for that reason and avoided areas where the T breached the street.

  “What else is there to say?” asked Omran. “Her case is finished.” Suddenly he wondered why Charlie had broken the news in lieu of Dalia. He needed to call her. He needed to know why she’d withheld such vital information and what else she might be withholding. “I’m coming to Egypt to be with the one I have loved my whole life and, I think, even before that.”

  “You’re not listening. You’re not even trying to listen!”

  Omran’s eye socket throbbed on beat with his pulse. The injury had mostly healed, but the area remained sensitive. As if it remembered trauma. Or somehow predicted it. As if his captors’ final torture was the clairvoyance of his wound.

  “I have to go. I have to call Dalia.”

  “Wait! I just met with a woman who works at the UNHCR. A friend on the inside. There are other options. Other ways to get what you deserve. A life, Omran. Far away from war. Any war. Look, there’s no guarantee. There’s never a guarantee. But I’m not giving up. That’s what I’m calling about. That’s what I would’ve said before, if you hadn’t—”

  Omran hung up on Charlie again to call Dalia. Her greeting was plain and languid. “Are you okay?” he asked. Suppressing the urge to yank the truth from Dalia like a rotten tooth was no easy feat. But Omran had practiced the game of waiting. He’d practiced every morning of what felt now like someone else’s life. He’d wait for George to come out from under the bed. The cat’s nose would appear first, cautiously. Then his eyes. When George saw Omran watching, his head would disappear back under the bed. The process would repeat, each time revealing more of George. His ears, his neck. Omran hadn’t understood the ritual, but nevertheless accepted it. George needed to come out in his own way.

  Dalia released the truth after a similar coaxing. Omran played his part by pretending he didn’t know. He could hear Dalia weeping, though she tried to hide the sound by holding the phone away from her face. Her voice and the crying had a distant quality, as if the sounds were tired from their travels. Omran didn’t care so much about the sound he made and cried into the phone with every part of him. He cried until he could think of something to say: “I have always wanted to see the pyramids.” The joke’s tone betrayed the teller’s doubt; it wasn’t funny. “I must come. I must see them.”

  “What?” Dalia’s voice exhibited a sudden drop in temperature. “No, don’t. You better not. There’s nothing here for us.”

  “Nothing?”

  They argued over the meaning of that word.

  “No job, no life.”

  To avoid falling into despair, Omran told himself it didn’t really exist. The word should be cut from the dictionary. People at risk of feeling such a thing would have nothing to call it. The feeling would eventually die from lack of attention.

  “I’d rather be poor than . . .” Omran’s mistake was pausing. He didn’t get to finish his thought. That he’d rather be poor than estranged. He was already poor. America was no picnic.

  “Don’t come.” Dalia seized the pause with such force that her interruption seemed irrevocable. “I’m telling you. It’s not a joke.” The phone line between them was a long wire delaying the transmission of sound by milliseconds, so that in between Dalia’s saying something and Omran’s responding was a brief, almost imperceptible loneliness. “Don’t come,” said Dalia for what felt, to Omran, like the millionth t
ime. Her words were all worn-out. It was just as well. His phone card ran out of money.

  * * *

  Omran had been in Boston since September. The flight had frightened him. He’d only been on a plane once before, as a child; he remembered liking it. Since then his opinion had changed. The turbulence caused the plane to move on strange axes. It swiveled from side to side in the air. Omran cinched his belt so tightly that his legs felt cut from his body. For comfort, he thought of Dalia. That only made things worse. He bore one grudge against her for asking him to leave and another against himself for going. It had been a mistake to go alone. Night chased the plane across the ocean. When he finally landed in Boston, there was a frighteningly loud thump. Several people clapped. Omran couldn’t tell if they were being sarcastic or if they were having fun. The flight attendant said, “The local time is . . . and the weather is . . .” Out the window, rain fell sideways. “We hope you enjoyed the flight.” Omran hadn’t enjoyed the flight but still couldn’t bring himself to leave his seat; it was a strange feeling. He sat there long after the plane had reached the gate. Even the other disabled passengers had disembarked. “Excuse me, sir,” said the flight attendant. “Sir?” Omran felt a poke on his shoulder. Then another poke.

  He finally turned. “I left my wife in Baghdad. Please, I left her.” He asked what time the plane would go back.

  The flight attendant, tired but otherwise cordial, escorted Omran to the jet bridge. “Customs is that way. Just follow the hall.”

  The hall stretched farther than Omran could see or curved in such a way that it appeared to stretch forever. He forgot what to do next and so fished out the paper that told him. Pass immigration. Collect luggage. Pass customs. Go to the exit. Find the social worker.

  Jenny had long hair and a smile as wide as her face. She must’ve been in her early thirties. Omran saw the last hurrah of genuine youth. “As-salamu alaikum,” said Jenny. “Welcome to America.”

  As-salamu alaikum. Peace be upon you. Familiar words that reminded Omran how far he was from home. “Wa alaikum al-salaam,” he said. And unto you peace, for the Qur’an says, When you are greeted with a greeting, greet in return with what is better than it, or return it equally. Indeed, Allah is ever, over all things, an accountant.

  “This way.” Jenny grabbed the larger of Omran’s two bags and dragged it to the parking garage. She seemed like the sort of person who would’ve grabbed the bag even if Omran hadn’t a cane or a limp. Her car smelled like coconut. She played Ella Fitzgerald, “Ringo Beat.” Omran didn’t say he knew the song, but he knew it well. He loved Ella Fitzgerald almost as much as jazz itself, which he loved almost as much as George, whom he loved tremendously. The music gave Omran the feeling that life was good and short. He felt sick and happy. Then just sick because Dalia wasn’t in the backseat telling him to adjust the volume. Her ears had always been more sensitive. “I’m going deaf!” she would’ve whispered, not wanting Jenny to know. “Please, Omran! I’m going deaf!” The love he felt for Dalia was impossible to quantify, except to say it was more than the love he felt for Ella, jazz, George, Baghdad, God, food, water, sex, and freedom combined. He would lose every sense but his sight just to see her.

  The long drive into the city and back out the other side doubled as a kind of orientation. Every refugee was afforded the same volume of pity, to be expressed financially. A place to live, a menial job, and counseling if required. The idea being: gone is the trauma, now on with your life. But Omran had spent his whole life taking care of himself. He felt pride for the past and shame now for needing care. Especially care rendered by someone he didn’t love. Someone he didn’t even know. The pride conjured God’s prophet. In a hadith, Muhammad had said he who has in his heart the weight of an atom of pride shall not enter paradise. It was hard for Omran not to interpret that literally.

  “I think you’ll like your job,” said Jenny. “We placed you with Faisal, who owns a garage in Medford. Repairs, oil changes, rotating tires. That kind of thing. You won’t be building houses or paving streets—your application said you did construction in Baghdad, is that right?—but at least you’ll get to use your hands. Most days I just sit in front of a computer doing this . . .” Jenny tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s not satisfying. The best part of my job is when I get to drive to and from the airport. Really, dragging the bags. You know that feeling? Of doing something with your body? Of breaking a sweat?”

  Omran’s body hadn’t felt like his own since before his torture. His dominion had been lost with his eye. “I will be glad to work with Faisal.” Omran was gladder still to know the name. It was Arab.

  “It’s important to have a community. In truth, I don’t even like taking vacations. I miss my friends too much. Even my family. Isn’t that ridiculous? My father is . . . well, a piece of work.”

  A red light brought the car to a halt. Out the window was a Walgreens. Jenny deftly changed subjects by explaining what Omran could purchase there. Umbrellas, batteries, milk, cereal, shampoo, over-the-counter drugs, behind-the-counter drugs—Jenny snickered and said pharmaceutical companies were the great American racket—and even cat food.

  “I have a cat,” said Omran. He imagined George’s eyes shining at night by the window. Before the window was the edge of the bed and a bump in the covers. Omran wanted to reach out and touch the bump. He wanted to say, Dalia. He wanted to watch the bump roll over, revealing itself as his wife. The shame of leaving her was so great that Omran had to turn away from the Walgreens.

  “There are other stores, too,” said Jenny. “That you might like.”

  The red light turned green. The green light lured the car through the intersection. People and trees and road signs and storefronts flew by. The street changed names several times before the car finally turned down an alley. Omran had always lived in and loved alleys, but this one was unlike the others. There was nowhere to congregate. No balconies; no stoops that weren’t behind fences. It was as if neighbors in this country had no interest in speaking or seeing each other.

  “Welcome to your apartment. It’s not much to look at from the outside. To be honest, it’s not much to look at from the inside, either. But it’s clean and everything works properly. And you can paint the walls if you want. And hang pictures.”

  After parking the car, Jenny lugged Omran’s bags inside. He thanked her excessively. Jenny said she was just doing her job and, besides, was glad to help. Then she gave an exhaustingly thorough tour—not just the location of appliances, which were in plain sight, but their operating instructions, which were self-evident; where to collect his mail; where to leave his trash; where the breaker panel was located. Did Jenny have a meticulous nature or was some training regimen to blame? Omran leaned toward the training regimen. He envisioned a long document outlining how “the social worker” ought to make “the refugee” feel at home. Plug in the toaster. Turn on the toaster. Wait for the toaster to pop. Maybe Omran wasn’t being fair. Maybe there was some psychological benefit, though he couldn’t fathom one. The longer Jenny lingered, the more lonely Omran felt.

  The next day, Omran left his front door wide-open. The idea was to let familiar sounds visit from other alleys. Car horns, people chatting, children playing games in the street. If he was lucky, maybe a donkey would bray. Was it beyond reason to think there might be a donkey in Boston? Nobody had told Omran there wasn’t. He waited patiently for the hee-haw. A surprise rain came instead and soaked the carpet, which took several days to dry. To escape the damp smell, the quiet, the absence growing on the right side of his bed—there was no worse feeling than waking in the morning and reaching out of habit for his wife—Omran spent his time walking through and even beyond his neighborhood. The hypothetical goal was to find a store that sold hats, but the truth was he needed to stay busy. Or get busy. The job with Faisal wouldn’t begin for a week. He walked without any destination in mind, keeping his balance with his cane. The cane, he thought, was a smart invention. The rubber foot especially
, which stuck to everything. The wet sidewalk. The wet paint on the crosswalk. Even the wet tiles at the entrance to most stores. Work started eventually, thank God. The cane’s handle wasn’t nearly so good as its foot; it caused blisters. Omran had to stop walking so far because he couldn’t grip the handle without tearing his scabs. He needed another way to fill his time. Inflating tires, changing oil, checking wiper fluid. Even talking to Faisal. Then, especially talking to him. Faisal became Omran’s brother. Not overnight, but fast enough that both men were slightly embarrassed. Faisal, a Palestinian, was born in Rafah. His habits were tokens of a life Omran recognized. The food he brought for lunch; the times he prayed; the way he spoke English. After all this time, still mistaking b sounds for p sounds and mispronouncing vowels so that biscuit became basket and protein became Britain. When no customers were around, they talked in Arabic for the immense pleasure of speaking poetry and creating the semblance of home.

  They talked a lot about carpets. Once upon a time, as a young man, Faisal had made carpets. They discussed materials, craftsmanship, design. Finally, meaning. A good carpet meant a lot to its owner. When it was prayer time, each man took pride in laying down the one he’d brought to America. Both carpets were symmetrical in design except for the niche at the head end in the shape of a mihrab. Both were pointed due east. In doing so, the garage’s cement floor, scuffed smooth, had color. The call to prayer was a cassette tape Faisal said he’d recorded back home when he was still a young man in love with the idea of living in a sovereign Palestine. He’d held a recorder in the air by the mosque, capturing an old man belting out the adhan. The quality of the recording was poor. It had been played too many times and was so old.

  * * *

  Omran spent all night cutting his phone card into tiny pieces. Snip. Ten minutes later, snip. So on until the sun rose. He couldn’t understand how it had come to this. His marriage was conducted by copper wire in increments of $10. If the UNHCR had it their way, that marriage would be severed entirely. Omran would assimilate into the local culture as a low-paid nobody with no right to reunion. His wife would be banished as a memory. Wasn’t it his fault for trusting the large international apparatus to give a shit? The idea transformed his anger into a bleak feeling, which was decidedly worse. He got dressed slowly and donned both his hat and his coat. It was Omran’s day off, but he still went to work. He needed the money. Badly. More than ever. For a plane ticket, for travel documents, for an emergency fund. What if Omran couldn’t find a job upon arrival in Cairo? Not having the required work permit would bedevil an already improbable search. What if that period of unemployment dragged on for months? Or even years? What if the Egyptian pound continued to slide on the global market? What if a war started? What if he and Dalia needed to flee again? Land routes were not viable. Libya and Sudan were embroiled in their own conflicts, and Israel’s border was impossible to cross without ending up dead in a box. They would have to flee by sea to Italy, Cyprus, or Greece. How much would that cost? How much would that cost a year from now? It was impossible for Omran to know. The only thing he knew was that he needed money. God willing, Faisal wouldn’t mind if Omran showed up. He’d never minded before. Why did Omran worry? He knew Faisal’s heart contained no register. The long walk to work was nevertheless strewn with guilt. Working extra hours didn’t bring in new customers or otherwise increase revenue; it curtailed the bottom line of a modest business, the foundation upon which Faisal had built his life. It was never part of Omran’s plan to be such a burden.