Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  “Does your friend know we’re here?” asked Charlie. “Should we ask for him? Or should we sit down and just hope he notices?”

  Aos thought friend was the wrong word. Acquaintance was also the wrong word, though he’d used it the day before at lunch. Even stranger didn’t seem right. What to call a man he barely knew, didn’t trust, and yet pitied? “That’s him.” Aos gestured with his head to a man in a lab coat by the reception desk. Either time had been cruel to Naguib or he’d mistreated his body. His gut, his hairline, his very alertness—the compulsive way he chewed his lip while scrutinizing the waiting room—indicated a man who’d die young. Stress, depression, heart disease. He acknowledged Aos without waving or even making eye contact. There was just some sense that they’d seen each other. When Naguib called the name of his patient, an older woman stood up. He motioned for her to follow him through the swinging doors. Time passed slowly because Aos and Charlie had to stand. There were no empty chairs, except the one vacated by the older woman. Aos didn’t want to sit there in case she came back. Meanwhile, the girl on the floor failed to catch her ball about a thousand times. Rap, rap. Rap, rap.

  “So, about Naguib,” said Charlie after what couldn’t have been more than two minutes.

  “What about him?”

  “Is he amenable? Like, a good guy? A reasonable person?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “Does he . . . negotiate?”

  The word negotiate licked Aos like a whip. Had Charlie agreed to terms he could not or would choose not to meet? “You said you’d pay the whole sum! You said—”

  “I said what you made me say!” whispered Charlie, though he tried to yell at the same time—a sort of hissing sound. “Really, it amazes me that you think my salary is bigger than yours.” Charlie looked at his watch; he’d finally found it. It was old, but nice. Possibly valuable. A gift, Aos remembered, from his mother. “I can come up with something. I just can’t come up with that.”

  It had never occurred to Aos that Charlie would spend the budget in such a way, without giving preference to himself. Charlie worked harder and longer than anyone else and bore the weight of being the lawyer clients knew and thus contacted in the middle of the night begging for things beyond reach. A passport. A stamp. A plane ticket. A place to live. Even money to pay for medicine, food, and fines from the police. Had those burdens really gone uncompensated for so many years?

  “Oh, God,” said Aos. The budget must’ve been even smaller than he’d imagined. He’d imagined the budget as the hole a pin leaves in the cloth it pierces. “I don’t know whether he’ll negotiate. Like I said. He’s not my friend.”

  Charlie started chewing his nails. He chewed his nails until the old woman who’d gone through the swinging doors came out again. She looked even sicker than before. Sick of not knowing her fate. Sick of waiting. She pushed open the doors with all her grief. The doors swung open, shut, and open the other way. Each oscillation brought a waning view down the hall behind the doors. Aos saw Naguib seeing him. Their faces contained opposite apologies. One for what had passed between them; the other for what was about to pass.

  “Let’s go,” said Aos. He reached the doors even before they’d finished oscillating. Walking through delayed their rest. How to greet Naguib now that he was standing before him? Fondly? How fondly? Aos considered a handshake. He considered a plain verbal greeting, with and without a smile. He considered a kiss on the cheek. Though a kiss implied a certain level of friendliness they decidedly lacked. Aos settled on the plain verbal greeting. Not with a smile, but neither without one. The greeting was said and returned equally. As-salamu alaikum; wa alaikum al-salaam. A few awkward seconds floundered by. Aos glanced at the floor tiles. The tiles appeared dirty but Aos could tell they weren’t. The rubber soles of his shoes stuck nicely to what remained of the wax.

  “Please, my office.” Naguib pointed to the end of the hall. He rubbed his neck as if money were lost in the knots.

  Naguib’s office used to be something else. Some kind of storage room, probably. There were no windows. He took a chair and lit a cigarette before offering Charlie and Aos the same raw comfort. “Shukran,” said Aos. The conversation, conducted in Arabic, was stiff and obligatory. Family, worries, work. Even politics. Naguib asked Aos if he’d heard about the police station. Yes, he’d heard. The station burned yesterday. What about the boy who died under the water truck? No, Aos hadn’t heard. Naguib was sorry to tell him. Soon after the burning, the army ran over a boy standing near the edge of the crowd. Not the whole army, but a uniformed man in a water truck. The boy spread across the sidewalk like warm butter. Was it an accident? Was it a message? Your children are not safe! Naguib said there would be a march tomorrow to honor the boy. He wanted to attend, but wasn’t able to. He would be stuck at work trying to climb an imaginary ladder leading to an imaginary place where he earned more money.

  “Medical documents,” said Charlie out of the blue. He was clearly annoyed by his exclusion from what had become a long conversation. That conversation swerved faster than the army’s water truck. “That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even want to smoke.” He threw the cigarette Naguib had given him, which had never been lit, into the trash. Charlie had never been much of a smoker. He’d always called it a suicidal tendency and didn’t think of himself as quite that depressed.

  Naguib snuffed his cigarette so completely that the butt flattened in the ashtray. He looked absolutely ready to discuss. “You know how much I need?” asked Naguib in English. “Aos told you?”

  Charlie declared his salary a crime against—well, something. Apparently he couldn’t find the right word. The point was that Charlie had worked many years for next to nothing. Not even his own benefit. “I’m not a rich man. I work for no pay. I guess some pay, but so little it’s invisible to the naked eye. You need a microscope to see my paycheck.”

  “A poor lawyer sitting in the office of a poor doctor,” said Naguib. “In a different life, I might find that funny.” Naguib tilted his computer monitor to better see the screen. The monitor was a hulking, microwave-size box that appeared to have time-traveled from the last century. Every time he tilted it one way, it fell back. Aos couldn’t watch the futile adjustments for fear of seeing the screen. What if Naguib was running Windows 98? What if Aos laughed? The way he’d laughed that day on the phone? The day Naguib had unexpectedly called and asked for one hundred thousand Egyptian pounds. It wasn’t funny so much as uncomfortably ludicrous.

  “Is that Geb?” Aos pointed to a frame on the desk. It contained the picture of a healthy boy that had, like the computer, time-traveled. Not sick yet. Waving at the camera. Making a face. Aos imagined a second picture hidden behind the first. That picture was Geb on a gray table with his body cut open under a white light.

  Naguib turned the frame away from his visitors. He asked for a hundred thousand Egyptian pounds. He said he wasn’t a selfish man. He needed the money.

  “I can’t afford that.” Charlie started chewing his nails again. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Please, be reasonable. Do I look rich? Am I dressed well?”

  Naguib glanced at Charlie’s watch, which put an indignant look on both their faces. Aos feared they were nearing an impasse. Pride would get in the way. If not pride, then Charlie’s tunnel vision. He saw only Dalia. What if Naguib were infected by the same narrowness and saw only Geb? Each man’s plight would be subordinated to the other’s. At that point there could be no terms both men would accept.

  “Give a number,” said Aos. “Someone give a number.”

  Charlie and Naguib engaged in a staring contest. Who could appear more in control of his fate? While they were doing that, Aos finally stole a look at the computer monitor. He couldn’t resist the draw of knowing the truth. His worry was confirmed by the teal desktop and gray taskbar—Windows 98, still in use after all these years. The truth brought the awful feeling that nothing was destined to change.


  “A number!” shouted Aos. His shouting was implied by his tone, not declared by his volume. Anyone could be listening. Aos was ever conscious of that.

  Charlie scoffed at the prodding, but eventually bit his lip. A good sign. Aos knew Charlie only bit his lip when he was doing math. How much he had minus how much he needed to survive, arriving at what he could spare. The math was made easier for a man who needed little and wanted nothing except Dalia. He would never satiate that want, so would excise it from his life. Right now. This was it. “Fifty thousand.” Charlie repeated the modest sum as if it contained his life’s work and he was surprised, in a bad way, by its smallness. The words just leaked out of his mouth.

  Naguib sat up in his chair, excited if not exactly impressed. “Aos told me you have a client that needs to appear sick beyond treatment in Egypt. Tell me exactly what you need. Hurry up. Please, I have patients waiting. If they wait for too long, my boss will ask why.”

  Aos exhaled his relief only to discover in its wake a pressing question. Why was Naguib so pleased by the modest sum? The number itself indicated less than the currency in which it was paid. Less still than the conversion rate into whatever currency Naguib needed. Dollars? Euros? Pounds sterling? Fifty thousands was not a lot, all things considered. The answer to Aos’ question presented itself in the way Naguib wrung his hands and gripped the picture of his son. It wasn’t really money that he wanted. Just hope enough to believe, despite the evidence, that Geb could live.

  “I need to prove this woman is terminal.” Charlie slid a Post-it with Dalia’s fake name and associated information across the desk. “I need lab tests, X-rays, and an examination report. I need certified copies with your signature on the bottom. If the UNHCR calls to verify the authenticity of the documents, I need you to verify. It’s easy work. So easy it should cost—well, much less.”

  “I see.” Naguib lit another cigarette and inhaled wildly. “Aplastic anemia,” he said to himself. Then to Charlie: “It’s a blood disorder. The symptoms aren’t visible to the untrained eye, except in later stages. Then only if you’re paying attention. The patient gets very pale. They develop arrhythmia. The gums bleed. We had a fatal case last year. I can switch the names and dates and reprint everything but the death record.” Naguib paused to look at the name on the Post-it.

  “Aplastic anemia,” said Charlie. The words seemed to please him. It was as if they’d changed meaning inside his head. They didn’t connote disease, death, or mourning; they declared that Dalia would leave Egypt. God willing, before Omran showed up and ruined everything. “How long will this take? Not long, I hope. I’m a little tight on—”

  “I have your number.” Naguib stood as if now was a good time for Charlie and Aos to get out, and they did so with the promise that the good doctor would call soon.

  3

  “Hello?” said Omran.

  The buzz of the line gave way to a voice. The background noise—typical garage sounds such as the radio, the hydraulic car lifts, and the invariably disgruntled customer arguing that something was wrong with his bill—faded away. Some function had developed in Omran’s brain that parsed sounds. He heard only what he needed to hear. Right now he needed to hear Dalia.

  “Call me back,” she said.

  Why was the call to Egypt cheaper than the call from there? They both hung up. Then Omran dialed a toll-free number followed by the PIN on the back of his phone card followed by the country code followed by Dalia’s mobile number. His fingers had memorized everything except the PIN, which changed constantly. Every time he bought a new card. He’d tried buying cards of higher value to avoid the abundance of change, but quickly learned to hate spending $50 on a single piece of flimsy plastic. It was somehow easier to spend $10 bills on five separate cards. Hence his trouble remembering the PIN. Finally, the buzz of the line gave way to a voice.

  “Hello? Omran?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Can you hear me?”

  Omran said, “Hello?” and Dalia said, “Hello?” at the same time. They laughed at the delay in order to not let it break them.

  “Any news on the revolution?” he asked. “Were you safe today?”

  Omran let Dalia report her version of occurrences without contradicting her, despite what he’d seen or read in the news. Her lies flowed over him like calm water: “The same old fight.”

  “No protests?”

  “On my side of the Nile? In Imbaba? Where there are no government buildings? No, I think the protesters will, God willing, stay on the other side of the river.”

  “God willing.” Omran fiddled with the TV remote. First, power. Then, mute.

  “Today was a strange day.”

  “For me, too.” Omran couldn’t turn away from the TV. He waited impatiently for Egypt to appear. Heads were currently jabbering about the stock market. Down forty points! No, forty-two points! No, forty-four! Omran had come to accept that catastrophe was always imminent in America.

  “You go first.”

  “Nice try.”

  Missing her felt like pinpricks. Not the good kind resulting from a lover’s touch; the uncomfortable kind resulting from paresthesia, the feeling one gets when awkward positioning inhibits blood from reaching the nerve fibers. It felt as if Omran’s entire body had fallen asleep.

  “I needed vegetables, so I walked to the corner store,” said Dalia. “On the sidewalk I found picture frames. The perfect size and very nice wood. The glass panels were gone, but who needs glass panels? They were lighter and easier to carry without them. I replaced the old frames, which were scratched up. Then I stepped back and looked at the wall. I felt like I was in a museum. Our old life was long gone, a historical artifact. You know that feeling? In a museum? When you can’t touch anything?”

  “Yes,” said Omran. “I know.”

  “You felt even farther away in the nicer frames. I had to put the scratched frames back up.”

  The background noise reappeared when Dalia stopped talking. Faisal was still smooth-talking the customer out of his irate state. There was no saying why the customer was so upset. His car ran flawlessly. There wasn’t, as it turned out, anything wrong with the bill. Maybe Faisal had forgotten to hang an air freshener from the mirror or hadn’t put the driver’s seat in its original position after sliding it all the way back. Faisal had freakishly long legs. His nickname in Rafah had been Spider.

  “Today my papers came,” said Omran. “I paid for rushed service. Not a frivolous expense, if you ask me. You’ll like the passport photo. I look like a movie star.” Bewildered. Depressed. As if the flash had accessed the dark pit where Omran stored his fears. Most of those fears were questions he couldn’t ask Dalia about what their life might look like or how their love might feel. He called these questions his “wonderings” and sought to banish them lest they reach his mouth. They revealed a man’s split heart. Two roads, as it were, in a wood. Omran despised the part of himself that wanted to stay in Boston. The part that wanted to send money until such time as Dalia could come to America through other means. The part that would wait five years or ten years for a chance in hell that they would be reunited in the United States. That part, like cancer, had grown; the longer Omran stayed in America, the easier it became. “I need to see you,” he said. “The sooner, the better. No more than a few days. I just have to buy my ticket.” The truth was, with Faisal’s help, he’d already purchased it. God said all Muslims were brothers; the money wasn’t a loan, but a gift.

  “I told you before! Don’t come. It’s not safe. There’s nothing here for us.”

  The old fight sped like a drunk driver toward Omran. He saw it coming and craved the sound it would make. He craved the fight the same way he craved Dalia. He would see her again, no matter what. Even without her approval. Even if she never forgave him. Even if she never spoke to him again. He would speak to her. He would speak to her until she told him to shut up. Her silence would be broken that way.

  “I will come,” said Omran. “There’s no choice.” His word
s assumed other meanings. That he wouldn’t leave his wife to suffer alone. Not anymore. He was ashamed of leaving her. He was ashamed of waiting so long to come back. Any additional shame would instantly crush Omran to death. How useful was a flat, dead husband five thousand miles away?

  Dalia seemed to decode at least some of that. “None of this is your fault. If anything, I’m the one who’s to blame. I said we shouldn’t leave Baghdad until I finished school. Then after I finished school, I still didn’t want to leave. Remember? The years just sort of passed. And the war started.” Omran tried to interrupt, but Dalia talked over him. “Nevertheless! You seem not to understand what I’m saying. I love you, but don’t come.”

  “I must,” whispered Omran.

  Dalia heard the whisper and, as a result, made several threats. She threatened to leave Omran at the airport until he returned to Boston; if he refused, and somehow made it of his own accord to her apartment, then she’d just bolt her door.