Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  The party was brought to an early and rather abrupt end by two strange sounds in sequence: a door being thrown open, then slamming shut again. Nothing had ever troubled Hana more than a room full of people not shoving cake into their cake holes. The social few glanced nervously at each other; the rest glanced nervously at their plates. “I got two calls,” said Margret, steamrolling into the kitchen like a coal-powered train. Hana had never seen her look overwhelmed. Apparently nobody else had, either. People ran the gamut from shaken to scared. “One from the Ministry of the Interior and another from the US embassy. Protesters marched on both this morning. Threw rocks, burned flags. Nothing unusual. But plainclothes officers in the crowd reported demonstrators have organized a march on this street later this afternoon. What’s on this street besides our building?” Margret let her implication sink in. “We’re going to evacuate. Get your work, take it with you.”

  Hearsay had taught Hana that plainclothes officers were the worst of the worst of the worst. They infiltrated Tahrir by shedding their uniforms. They spied and attacked when commanded and swarmed by surprise, arresting the most vulnerable: women, whom they’d strip down to their underwear to embarrass; old men; injured men. Anyone who tripped while fleeing. They’d drag their prisoners away for interrogation. They’d ask women if they were virgins and men if they were terrorists. Then force confessions by threat of torture in the form of rape and further beating. Confessions came in high pitch or low moan, depending on the prisoners’ degree of resistance and therefore the degree of force used against them. We’re not virgins! We are terrorists! Followed by imprisonment for crimes committed against God and government. They said God was government. In addition to being famous for disguising their cowardice as rage, these impostors were also known as propaganda police—men who would dress down and say anything.

  “Did anybody hear what I said?” asked Margret. “We’re evacuating.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Go! Right now!”

  Nobody even breathed.

  Margret’s pink face alerted the room to the weather. A storm was coming. “Don’t make me . . .”

  Someone threw his cake in the sink and said, “Shit.”

  Someone else said, “Are we really evacuating?”

  Margret asked if anyone had ever—really, ever—heard her tell a joke. Then Margret engaged the staff in a staring contest and slayed the room. Whoever threw his cake in the sink said, “Shit,” again, but at a lower volume with the digraph drawn out—“Shhhhit”—so that he sounded utterly defeated and depressed. Hana knew without looking that it was Joseph. He hated working from home. He hated his neighbors. More accurately, he hated his neighbor’s children. The children didn’t attend school or seem to have friends or even relatives to visit. “They’re always home,” Joseph had bemoaned on more than one occasion. “Fighting, wrestling, laughing, and hitting the wall with their fists.” By way of contrast, he remarked once how his own child had been “quiet.” Hana discovered later that “quiet” meant “stillborn.” Yezin whispered that the unbearable strain of the death had killed Joseph’s marriage, and that Hana should never mention it. Joseph’s sorrow wasn’t buried very deep.

  The staff oozed like syrup from the kitchen to an open area full of filing cabinets and copy machines. Normally people went here to get slightly high on the smell of toner. Now they continued past, down the hall, out the exit. Hana dodged the exodus by hiding in the supply closet. Hiding was the only way to finish her forgery without witnesses. No more witnesses, anyway. The idea relaxed her, despite the fear of protesters swarming the office, breaking the windows, burning it down. Would protesters really march all the way from downtown? An hour’s drive, normally? And a day’s walk? Even if they did come, Hana would be gone by the time they arrived. How long would it take to forge a yellow card, then write and file the documents required to show it was real? A few hours, at most. Nobody could do a day’s walk in a few hours. Especially not a group of people marching in the heat and traffic and smog. A day’s walk would take several days in those conditions.

  The closet door swung open just as Hana was beginning to trust her solitude. Fucking Joseph again! “Great minds do think alike,” he said, pushing in. “I can’t work from home. It would drive me insane. The noise is like . . .” He imitated kids chattering. The sound was so precise that Joseph seemed to get on his own nerves. Yezin appeared, too, seconds later. He pushed in the same way. “Ya ilahi,” he said, shutting the door behind him softly but decisively. Then he flicked on the light. “I can’t believe there’s enough room in here for all of us.” He smiled even though what he said was barely true. The plastic smell of new pens and rolled tape, and the indescribable smell of a room that had never been occupied for more than a few seconds—as if the carpet were still new after ten years—gave way to the smell of stale cake on hot breath. Hana wished both Joseph and Yezin would leave. Not that she believed wishing so would make it happen. There just wasn’t anything else she could do. She couldn’t push them out. The door was shut. Even if the door were open, pushing them would just start a fight. An argument, at least. It depended on how hard she pushed and whether they fell over. Either way, not a good way to stay hidden. Margret would hear Joseph’s cry of surprise. She would stomp down the hall, shouting wildly, What are you doing? Why are you here?

  “Put your hand on the knob,” whispered Hana.

  “What?” whispered Joseph.

  “In case Margret tries to open the door. Put your hand on the knob. That way she’ll think the door is locked.”

  “This door doesn’t have a lock,” whispered Joseph.

  “Just do it! Or let me do it!”

  Joseph gripped the knob so tightly his face turned red. He didn’t move or change back to his normal color for almost twenty minutes. It was both impressive and a little sad to see a man dedicated to such distressing work.

  At last, Yezin said, “I have a feeling we’re safe.” They were all bone-weary from breathing one another’s hot breath. Joseph was even worse off with one noodle arm from holding the door. When he opened it, room temperature felt like air-conditioning. They all took deep breaths. Then Yezin leaned out of the closet and cautiously looked both ways down the hall. He gave the all clear—3ala mahlak, meaning “in haste there is regret, so go slowly.” Yezin went and Joseph followed him. “Protesters can’t march this far,” said Joseph, as if there were no chance in hell the protesters would take buses. As if that convenient thought would keep him safe. Hana, the sloth of the group, hung back. Her idea was to be alone for a second to remember what she was doing and why she was doing it. The solitude didn’t turn out to be constructive. It made her think, which made her doubt. That made her terribly afraid again. Hana fled the closet in a rush.

  The slick metal slide of cabinets opening as two men perused documents was an assault on the sanctity of what had become a quiet place. Hana proceeded with her plan despite them. Two potential witnesses minding their own business was a lot better than an office full of prying eyes. Nevertheless, Hana discovered choosing a name was just as hard as it had been. Harder, in fact. With an elevated heart rate and sticky fingers from cake and, strangely, the same nervous feeling of standing close to the microwave. It was as if the whole office had somehow become irradiated. Hana consulted with Charlie to mitigate the responsibility of finally making a choice. She called him on her mobile from the women’s bathroom. With only two men left in the building, the women’s bathroom was the safest place.

  “I need a name,” whispered Hana into her phone. The phone was so cheaply manufactured that Hana expected, any day now, that it would fall apart from the pressure of being held. “The same one you’re going to put on the testimony.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Hana?”

  “Oh my God. Yes. Hana.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m forging a yellow card!” she said at a slightly higher volume. Her guilt r
ose from the dead. Hana almost wished she’d be caught, fired, shamed, and sent home. She missed Ishtar.

  “Hm. How about Salih? For her surname.”

  “And a given one?”

  Charlie paused as if he’d been waiting his whole life to say her name, but it pained him now to say it. “Farah,” he said finally. “It’s Arabic for ‘joy.’ That’s the goal, isn’t it? To give her some?”

  The logic wasn’t exactly sound, but it was comforting. It also covered Hana’s guilt with something more palatable. Pride, maybe. She’d accomplished more in one minute using a toilet as a desk than she had in more than a month using an actual table. Now Dalia, who deserved to leave, would get to. “Farah Salih,” said Hana with leery satisfaction. How long would the good feeling last? “The card will be ready tonight.” She hung up, exited the bathroom, and found Dalia’s old files. She shredded everything except the two-by-two photo of a woman not smiling. For the first time, Hana really looked at the picture. Just stared at it and tried to imagine what Dalia thought when the flash had blinded her. Sadness? Anger? Hope? Hana wrote the name Farah Salih on the blank yellow card and affixed the old photo with two staples. To the UNHCR, the woman known as Dalia had officially ceased to exist.

  2

  Mum was the word on Friday’s near riot in the yard. There was no way to control the story if word got out. Interns asking questions like “What exactly happened?” would lead to Sabah and Michael asking questions like “Why didn’t you call us?” There was no telling where that would lead. Mum was also the word on whether Aos was on board with Charlie’s plan now that Hana had agreed to forge the yellow card. Aos had tried all morning to deflect Charlie’s entreaties, which were conveyed primarily through eye contact—Please, help and I need you—but eventually capitulated. More to protect himself than to serve his friend. Aos’ myriad opinions on the Egyptian judicial system, the police, and the prison complex had been distilled into a single decree: avoid them at all costs. If that meant seeing Charlie through the mess he’d created, then so be it. The consequences of Charlie’s capture were too great to ignore. Police would cast a wide net in search of coconspirators. Dalia for being the object of the plot; Hana for being the vehicle; Aos for not reporting it. Sabah and Michael, too. They weren’t aware of the scheme, much less involved; but if the police could be trusted to do anything, it was to cook up false charges. Perhaps even the interns would be interrogated.

  The question became how to tell Charlie that he’d capitulated without arousing suspicion in the office that something was up. A rumor mill was the last thing Aos needed. The interns were scurrying about, which precluded any kind of privacy. Sabah was also causing problems. She’d been staring at Aos’ broken nose and black eyes all morning, even after he’d excused them as blows from the protests. She kept checking in and saying things like “Do you . . . want anything? Water? Tylenol? Just to talk?” To escape, Aos finally came up with the idea of inviting Charlie to lunch. He scorned the interns by saying it was a lunch meeting. The information to be discussed was beyond their pay grade. The unpaid interns seemed not to understand the joke, but nevertheless accepted its premise. Aos scorned Sabah and Michael by asking them to come discuss the budget. Sabah and Michael hated the budget with vitriol. Michael had once called it a cruel bitch. “Fine,” said Aos. “Don’t come.” He was pleased that he’d tricked everybody. When he realized how much he’d enjoyed tricking them, he felt awful. More awful knowing his trick was meant to stave off danger they didn’t even know they were in.

  Aos and Charlie ate at Taboula, a Lebanese restaurant located in Garden City just past the Canadian embassy. The embassy was demarcated not by a sign but a red maple leaf emblazoned into a gray wall. They sat at a round table in the back of the restaurant, where nonsmokers were relegated, and discussed the menu before venturing on to a tougher subject. Charlie insisted on splitting dishes: “That way no one will feel food envy or regret for ordering the wrong dish.” Aos didn’t feel much like sharing, but felt even less keen on saying that. Knowing Charlie, he would’ve taken some imagined offense. When the appetizers came—a salad and a plate of labneh—Charlie said, “Please, eat.” Then rotated the tabletop, which was somehow disconnected from the supporting pedestal. Aos stabbed the salad with his fork and cut a small piece of labneh before rotating the table back to Charlie, who attacked the salad and cheese without restraint.

  Mum was still the word on the topic Aos had come to discuss, even though the menus had been taken away. Aos found it surprisingly difficult to say, I’ve capitulated. I’m willing to help. Maybe because Charlie wasn’t astute enough to infer why. Aos would have to tell him: If your ship sinks, I sink with it! Not because I want to! Because you tied me to the side of your boat! Deep water appeared in Aos’ mind. At the bottom, in the silt, lay a police van. If you’re caught—and let’s be honest, you’re useless without me; utterly sloppy and impatient—we’re both going to jail. Not that we’ll suffer the same! You, the American, will get a beating; but I’ll disappear after a long, inhuman imprisonment. What Egyptian didn’t know the stories? Thirty inmates crammed into a five-by-five-meter cell. A single en suite toilet that wasn’t private and rarely worked, so that inmates came to accept their foul as an immutable companion. Daily beatings with electrical wires. Daily mocking, which must’ve been even worse. It was said that inmates were hung naked from their shoulders in a room. Guards came to laugh, point, jostle. More evil was the Manwar, a place in the infamous Tora prison where inmates were stripped and sexually assaulted with pipes and hoses. Broken bones and anal fissures killed some men and injured the rest in ways that could never heal. The crimes had been recorded in letters; the letters had been smuggled out of Tora and prisons like it for years.

  It was much easier to get mad at Charlie than stay mad long enough to administer a tongue-lashing. It was in Aos’ nature to excuse the errant behavior of his friends. The more he cared, the harder he tried to excuse them. Didn’t Charlie want to save the woman he loved? Not to see that love returned, but to send his love away? That she might be happy? Aos’ desire to forgive wasn’t exactly altruistic; he just found it easier than holding a grudge. To brood on others’ faults, to hope for and perhaps even expect others to change—not only was it exhausting, but it generated bitterness. Wasn’t it better to let things go? The strategy wasn’t foolproof. Certain people were beyond forgiving: Mubarak and his cronies, for the despair they’d wrought in Egypt and in the lives of Egyptians abroad who’d left and hoped one day to come back; and the disturbed musician who’d shot his father. Aos knew he’d bear those grudges for life.

  Just as Aos was about to say he’d capitulated, loud arguing erupted on the other side of the restaurant. A headwaiter quarreled with a smoking patron who wanted more coals glowing hot red for his shisha. It was an absurd request. The hot coals were already piled high. Any more coals would’ve rolled off, fallen on the carpet, and started a fire.

  “What are they arguing about?” asked Charlie, enthralled by the fracas.

  “Never mind.” Aos hated translating nonessential conversations. If Charlie wanted to know so badly, he should’ve spent more time learning Arabic and less time complaining about the emphatic consonants. “It’s not important. What is important, and I pray you hear what I’m saying, now that I’ve decided to say it, is this: I know someone who can make Dalia sick on paper using whatever name you provide. The doctor isn’t an insidious connection. He’s an acquaintance—just barely an acquaintance—who reached out a few days ago for help I couldn’t offer. He begged a hundred thousand Egyptian pounds. Not a fortune to those who have one, but a fortune to those who don’t. You, better than anyone, know my salary. I will give you his name and the name of the hospital where he works under two conditions. First, you pay what he asks. He has a good reason for the whole sum. Second, never again do you put your friends, your employees, the office, and our work in such jeopardy. This is a onetime offer. Next time I call the police.” Aos knew he’d never call
the police, but Charlie didn’t necessarily know that. God willing, the threat would never be tested.

  “Fine,” said Charlie as if he would’ve accepted any terms Aos had proffered. Charlie bowed his head slightly. He didn’t look ashamed; more grief stricken. It made sense. Dalia had never been so close to leaving Egypt.

  The rest of their food arrived by hand of a young waiter. Perhaps the headwaiter’s son. Some kofta on a stick and lamb cubed in yogurt. The young waiter brought water with no ice. He brought juice with a layer of foam bubbling and pulp bobbing on top. The juice was warm because it had just been squeezed from oranges that had, until then, been resting on the counter. Aos had seen the young waiter pluck the oranges from the bowl as if they’d grown there. The young waiter was quiet and distracted after placing the food and the drinks. He didn’t leave the vicinity of their table; indeed, he leaned against one of the empty chairs. The young waiter watched the headwaiter carry hot coals toward the smoking patron. The young waiter’s shoulders slumped. Had the headwaiter really acquiesced? Aos’ heart sank to witness reason’s failing: the headwaiter stacking hot coals on top of hot coals. Only his delicate and ingenious positioning saved the tower from collapse.

  * * *

  After agreeing to Aos’ terms, Charlie received in return Naguib’s name and place of employment. Hallacare, in Shubra. A neighborhood still east of the Nile but north of downtown and therefore beyond walking. The next day Aos and Charlie “went to lunch” again. “The budget is smaller than we thought,” Aos said to Michael and Sabah. “We have a lot more to discuss. Come if you want to help stretch the money.” Michael and Sabah impolitely declined. They said they were lawyers, not accountants. Aos felt guilty for tricking them again. It was too easy. “Okay,” said Aos. “There’s tea on the stove for the clients. Just turn on the burner when you need it. It’s already prepared. The tea helps the clients relax, which helps the interns conduct their interviews. Please don’t forget how much the tea means. Also, Sabah! Don’t forget to sit in on the interviews. The interns are crap at Arabic. I mean, they try hard. But you know. They’re crap.” Then Aos and Charlie taxied to Shubra. A short call the night before to Naguib’s office had set the time. God willing, noon. Or thereabouts. Not because Naguib was willy-nilly about when to meet. It was hard to say on account of the deluge of patients always descending upon him. When Aos and Charlie arrived at Hallacare, Aos led the march toward the door. He was drawn by his own anxiousness. He could see his anxious face in the glass. The nearer he got, the more anxious he appeared. Aos tried to relax by not looking at his warped reflection. The glass on the door wasn’t perfectly flat. He looked unlike himself in such a way that he couldn’t identify the difference except to say there was one. What a relief to finally reach the door and open it. In the waiting room patients coughed, sneezed, and slept while sitting up. A girl played a game by herself on the floor with a plastic ball. The game was to drop the ball and see if she could catch it before it hit the floor. Every time the ball fell, it made a rapping sound. Rap, rap.