Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  “I heard there were tickets!” shouted Dalia over the ruckus. She wasn’t less fucked than Ali, just less evidently fucked. Her pain hid well in her doggedness. “I knew it wasn’t true. I don’t know why I came. The cab cost fifty pounds. That’s two times the fair price. I know because I asked before I got in. The man said the rate changed after we started. I tried to negotiate.” Dalia showed the wet spot where the driver had spit on her. “So I hit him in the face with my money. Next time I must remember to use something else.” Her story would’ve been sadder had she cried or even laughed at the end; as it was, Dalia just asked if there was any tea left. There wasn’t. The cups on Aos’ tray had all been drunk or spilled. Hana’s tray, too, had been emptied. While attempting to tuck the tray under her arm, Hana dropped it. The tray clanged on the ground. They all startled except Dalia. Her blank face troubled Aos more than anything else he’d seen that night. She looked absent of life, hope, love, even fear—like her own recumbent effigy propped curiously in the standing position.

  * * *

  By midnight, the yard had cleared.

  “Why do we call it the yard?” asked Aos, sitting on the steps leading from the yard to the hallway behind him. The hall led to the office, which led nowhere apparently. “It’s just a cement rectangle.”

  “One day I’ll plant grass,” said Charlie as if he knew that wouldn’t happen but couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it might look like and how it might smell. The futile longing imbued his voice with grief. “And erect benches.” He’d taken pains over the years to improve the office and the yard as much as the budget allowed. The screen door had always been Charlie’s proudest achievement. It was important to him that clients could see into and out of the office. That they had somewhere to go where they needn’t feel trapped.

  Hana collected the clothes dropped in the yard by Aos’ assailant, which had been scattered by the feet of the crowd. “Why take the suitcase,” she asked, “but leave behind everything he cared enough about to pack on short notice?” Clothes weren’t the only valuables on display. Amid the scattering was a swimming cap, a harmonica, a black leather belt, a prayer rug, and photos held together by a brown rubber band. Aos dared not look at the photos. They contained the identity of whoever whacked him. He didn’t want to know. He already knew it was someone he recognized, trusted, and liked. Knowing who exactly would only complicate his opinion.

  “How’s your . . . ?” Charlie gestured to Aos’ face.

  Aos let his finger glide along the bridge of his nose. The bridge felt askew and the slight pressure caused his face to ache and his eyes to water. “Not in need of medical attention,” joked Aos. He remembered what he suspected Charlie was also remembering. The night, a few months back, that he’d spent at the Egyptian Museum. “I don’t need medical attention,” he’d wheezed in the morning upon his return, burned up with a bad haircut. His chest had hurt from being kicked so many times. He’d barely been able to breathe. Charlie finally coerced him into a taxi after shouting for ten minutes that he’d be fired otherwise. Aos had wept on the way to the hospital and punched the back of the seat.

  “Look,” said Hana. “Tap shoes.”

  The shoes were rolled in a pair of jeans, but the heal taps poked out. Aos realized then who’d clobbered him. Ghassan, who loved tap; who’d once tapped so hard and so long that he’d split the wood floor he’d been dancing on. The wood floor was just fiberboard pressed in the dirt. That didn’t make Ghassan less proud; he was a fast tapper. One of the documents Aos had translated for Ghassan’s resettlement petition was an acceptance letter to a dance studio Ghassan had never attended. We welcome you, Ghassan Sadiq. Followed by details regarding the date he was meant to begin and the nature of his scholarship. While the document, in context of his resettlement petition, should’ve indicated loss and proved that Ghassan had drive, passion, and talent—he would’ve been an asset to any community—in evaluative terms, the document served only to substantiate Ghassan’s identity. His drives, passions, and talents mattered so little that, for all intents and purposes, they ceased to exist.

  Aos was suddenly ashamed that Hana was the one picking up Ghassan’s clothing. He stood up to help her. Charlie, too. The gathering of items was a grim and sodden affair. Ghassan had been in such a rush that some of his garb was still wet from recent washing. “Collect the wet clothes separately,” said Aos. Afterward they watched the damp spots on the pavement fade away. With the spots went the last proof of the night’s happenings.

  “By the way . . . ” Hana approached Aos as if she meant to start a conversation, but stood there awhile before saying anything more. It was as if she were condensing a long speech into an essential point, a kind of singularity in which meaning was infinitely dense. “I’m Hana,” she said finally. She offered her hand to Aos the same way he’d offered tea to his clients. There was a particular misery in knowing what you had to give would never be enough.

  “I know who you are.” Her hand wasn’t as clammy as Aos had expected. “Though I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. Forgive me for being rude. I’d hoped Charlie was planning something that would never pass.” A few meters away, Charlie swept discarded cups into a mound. He told Aos not to talk about him as if he weren’t there. “Your presence suggests my hope is in vain. Tell me, please. Are you forging a yellow card?” While technically a question, Aos’ voice indicated he was troubled by an answer that he’d absorbed like a sponge from the air. But Charlie, pining for surety, didn’t breathe until Hana nodded.

  PART III

  * * *

  THE PAYOFF

  1

  Sunday in Cairo was the same as Monday in Dearborn, except made worse by an awesome and terrifying responsibility. Hana needed to pilfer a yellow card. Summoning the courage to pilfer it took several hours, but the theft itself took only seconds. There was yet no relief to be found. The card was made new and strange by its blankness. No number. No address. No name. What name would Hana choose? “Amira, Sanaa, Fatima,” she whispered in search of an alias that fit Dalia’s nature as well as or better than the name bestowed upon her at birth. “Habiba, Maryam, Mona.” Hana grew less satisfied as the list gained names. “Rabi’a, Sabeen, Uzma.” She tried writing the names in both Latin and Arabic scripts on a legal pad. Seeing the black ink tangle on lined paper didn’t help. The decision was wrought with too much significance. A name indicated origin, affected the personality, and caused the owner to turn when they heard it. Such a decision would live at least as long as Dalia. Perhaps much longer. If Dalia had children, for example, and didn’t impart her real name lest it spill from ear to ear all the way back to Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Then Hana’s choice would live forever in the memories of those who loved Dalia but didn’t call her that. They’d pass her alias down the line with her story: Your grandma saved your grandpa’s life. She survived the war in Iraq by sheer fortitude. We wouldn’t be here without her. Remember her name. It’s . . .

  Out of nowhere, a man cleared his throat. “Ahem.” Hana froze. Her forgery-in-progress lay bare on her desk. The card was totally blank. Shit, thought Hana. A blank card was a smoking gun. Especially considering its location. The card rested next to a pen with no cap, which rested next to a long list of names. Hana felt stupid for writing them all down. The dots begged connecting and would point like arrows at her guilty-looking face. Why hadn’t she closed her door? Oh, right. Closed doors weren’t allowed in the office except during resettlement interviews. “Not allowed!” said Margret every time she found a door closed for another reason. Margret said closed doors inhibited synergy, curtailed the natural light, and prevented the air-con from working properly. Hana regretted not testing the rule by closing her door partway. A grubby paw would’ve had to push the door open before prying eyes fell on her desk. Thus alerting Hana to the meddler’s presence half a second before the hacking sound of his phlegm dislodging. She could’ve used that half second to jumble the evidence presently condemning her. Calm down, thoug
ht Hana. Look up! Look up right now! Damn you, Hana! Look up!

  Joseph, framed by the doorway, exhibited as two-dimensional: an ominous picture of a man wearing a bloodred bow tie and an appropriately dead-looking stare. Hana was surprised when he blinked and more surprised still when he spoke. “You look tired,” said Joseph, becoming himself by stepping into the room. Suddenly Hana’s office felt a little crowded. “Not tired in a bad way. Not old or haggard. That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” Hana couldn’t shake the feeling that Joseph wanted something. Why didn’t he say what it was? Hey, Hana . . . uh, pardon me, but . . . do you have a second? I came to discuss . . .

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I’m the tired one. Do I look tired? Or old? According to my knees, I am old. And haggard. It’s the weather, I think. My joints tend to swell in the heat. That never used to happen. What used to happen was I’d wake up feeling fine and I’d feel fine all day and I’d go to bed feeling fine with my life.”

  “You’re not old. You are a bit odd.”

  And menacing. Hana couldn’t pin down exactly why, except to say that she wanted to get the fuck away from him.

  “I’m tired and you look stunning. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not that my appreciation for you or your work has anything to do with how you look. I barely see you.” He said that as if it made him sad. Or perhaps suspicious. What was Hana doing with all her time?

  “How do I look?”

  “Tired.” Joseph sat down in a chair, clearly exhausted in his own right. The weather couldn’t have been the only reason. Work must’ve had some effect. The sheer number of resettlement cases was mind-numbing. Not to mention the revolution. Joseph had made comments before indicating how much it troubled him. He worried that a group of soldiers would take up loitering on his street. Or protesters, mistaking him for some kind of Western diplomat, would throw rocks at his car. “I came to see you for a reason.” The longer he paused, the more serious his demeanor became. Eventually his brow furrowed. Oh shit, thought Hana. He sees the yellow card. He’s looking at it right now through the side of his eyes. “But I can’t remember what it was. I think stress has a negative effect on the memory.”

  “Are you stressed?” asked Hana. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because asking questions—at least, the right questions—would prevent Joseph from remembering the subject he’d come to discuss. Did it involve the yellow card that had mysteriously gone missing? Hana wanted to rest her arm over it, but feared that would only draw Joseph’s eye.

  “Well, that depends. Is being worried the same as being stressed?”

  “Biologically speaking?” It was, Hana thought, the perfect response: answering a question with another question. More still, a question with no satisfying answer. A question like that could murder any conversation. Joseph might even think the abrupt end was his own fault. He ought not to be so candid. It wasn’t as if they were close friends who’d gotten drunk at a bar. God willing, the awkwardness would be so bad that even Joseph would notice it. Perhaps then he’d leave.

  Joseph thwarted Hana by settling into his chair. “I’m worried I’ll never leave Egypt. I’m worried I’ll die here of lung cancer at forty. Just living in Cairo—just breathing the air—is like smoking twenty cigarettes a day. According to the World Health Organization, that’s a fact. I’ve never smoked and I’m still near dead from smoking. It’s not fair. I’m worried my family and friends won’t realize I’m dead for months, at which point they’ll mourn out of obligation and not actual sadness. Isn’t that what happens when you’re gone for so long? Don’t loved ones find closer people to care about?”

  Hana tried not to indulge such a frightening idea. Of course, she couldn’t help herself. She imagined Omran trading Dalia for someone closer to him. A neighbor, maybe. Or someone he’d met at the store. The vision, like a Russian nesting doll, contained diminutive versions of itself: Omran had found an American who was liberal enough to accept his affection; Omran had found an American; Omran had fallen in love. The last string connecting Dalia to her past life would thus sever itself. It was only a matter of time. The string, named Omran, would still send money, but only as recompense. The money would subside with his guilt, leaving Dalia in Egypt with no income and no way to escape.

  “Do you also have a list?” asked Joseph as if he didn’t want to be the only one confessing worries. “It’s actually pretty liberating to put it out there.”

  How quickly the tables had turned. Hana’s question without a satisfying answer had been volleyed back as a question with no answer at all. Hana couldn’t deny having a list without declaring herself an automaton, with no heart. Nor could she admit having a list without incriminating herself. Yes, I have one. But my list is always changing. Right now I’m worried that I’ll get caught forging Dalia’s yellow card. What if you caught me? Would you tell Margret? Whom would she tell? The embassy? My worries only get bigger from there. How would I be punished? What country would have jurisdiction? The crime being tangled: committed in Egypt, against the United States, by way of the United Nations. What if I’m not extradited? What if I never go home? No, Hana couldn’t answer Joseph’s question honestly. Or dishonestly, for that matter. She’d never been a good liar. Nor could Hana explicitly not answer it. That would only beg Joseph to wonder why. She must be hiding something. Hana took the only course of action left to take. She pretended to consider Joseph’s question with the hope that he’d grow so bored of waiting that he’d be utterly compelled to leave. I’m late for . . . something, he’d say. But Joseph never grew bored and as such never said that. Instead he grew alert and austere. The startling about-face could mean only one thing: Joseph had seen the yellow card. Oh, God, thought Hana. It’s right there. He’s looking straight at it.

  “The party!” cried Joseph as if those two words caused him indescribable pain. “That’s what I came here to tell you about! There’s a whole goddamn room of people waiting for us!” He pressed his hand against his forehead as if he’d been shot and his brain were falling out. “Margret sent me to fetch you and I just . . . forgot!” Hana discovered the only thing worse than feeling like a traitor was feeling like a tennis ball. “We need to go! Right away! It’s your one-month anniversary! And you’re missing it!” Joseph rose from his chair in such a rush that he spilled his coffee. The steaming liquid fell on his pants and also the floor. He winced in pain. He couldn’t do anything besides wait for the pain to subside. “Please hurry,” said Joseph as soon as the coffee stopped burning him. “We’re very late.” He rubbed the coffee into the carpet with his shoe as if that would make the dark spot disappear. “Jesus Christ. I’ve made it worse.” The dark spot had spread out without fading. Joseph turned away from the stain he’d created and led the way to the door.

  * * *

  Nobody Hana loved was at her party. The best she could muster was respect. She respected Yezin for being a happy man. Or at least appearing happy. It was quite the trick. She respected Joseph for his bow tie collection. Wearing bow ties required bravery or obliviousness, which had its own kind of value. Hadn’t Joseph’s obliviousness just saved Hana from getting caught? Most of all she respected Noha and Fadwa. They were intimidating, prickly, unapologetic. Bumping into Noha solicited a whoops and not a sorry; bumping into Fadwa solicited an actual grimace and sometimes even a clicking sound. Hana craved their friendship so much she couldn’t imagine ever having it. She smiled in their direction but otherwise kept her distance. The entire office was in attendance, except for a few local employees who’d left to pick up their children from school. Margret wasn’t there yet, but had sent word—via the whiteboard nailed to the wall by her door—that she was coming soon. Her door had been closed when Joseph had dragged Hana past. It was both startling and curious. Why would Margret break her own rule in front of everybody?

  “Excuse me,” said Joseph, much calmer now that Margret would never know that he’d failed t
o bring Hana on time. “I need to reheat my coffee. Pardon me. Don’t mind me. Coming through.” He opened the microwave, inserted his cup, and pressed the power button. His addiction to the bitter nectar presented itself in the rapt way he watched the cup rotate on the tray. Hana fidgeted while Joseph bathed in the toxic yellow light emitted from the window. The uneasy feeling was Ishtar’s fault. From an early age, Ishtar had installed in Hana a fear: that microwave radiation could cook a woman’s eggs from up to ten feet away. “Those eggs are my grandchildren,” Ishtar would say, and not as a joke. She deserved grandchildren. She wanted them badly. Finally the microwave beeped and the yellow light disappeared. “Ah,” said Joseph, grabbing his cup. He breathed the steam and seemed to have some kind of religious experience. The desperate look on his face proved to Hana beyond the most exacting doubt that he wasn’t dangerous. He’d never been dangerous. Poor Joseph had no chance in hell of connecting any dots whatsoever. He was too bothered generally by the state of his life. So declared the sweat ring on his shirt collar. Hana felt sick knowing the lies she’d told and must continue to tell by her silence. Taking the yellow card was peanuts in comparison to filling it out, which was peanuts in comparison to attaching the testimony. Her heart punched her from the inside when she imagined who’d read the testimony upon its submission. An elaborate, visceral fiction presented as a tragedy that occurred in the real world. Who would fall victim to that lie? Hopefully not Joseph. His heart was already fragile from years spent neglecting its want. What if Dalia’s fake case was the one that pushed him over the edge? Hana saw it happening eventually. One day Joseph would just go home.