Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  The streets of Zamalek were darker than downtown. People who could afford to live there needed their sleep. Aos had goose bumps, like one gets from a stiff wind in cold weather. There was no wind except the heavy breathing of people who demonstrated the physical symptoms of fear: hearts in a horse race against each other, beating faster the longer it took for Naguib to show himself. Fear of failure. Fear the documents wouldn’t materialize. Fear the names wouldn’t match, the copies would look tampered with, or Naguib, realizing there was no money, or not the sum he was promised, would release the documents into the river like fish.

  “Salaam,” said Naguib from the shadows. He called their attention by rapping his leather folio against the bench on which he sat. His presence might’ve startled them had the folio not been so slim and his voice so languid; as it was, Naguib was more strange than scary—an abstruse man who’d arrived early to sit by himself in the dark. He rose with some trouble and tottered when he finally stood up. He leaned against a parked car to steady himself. Either Naguib didn’t know or didn’t care how that made him look. Weak, tired. Possibly drunk. He tucked the folio under his arm as if that were his only concern. Protecting it was protecting Geb. The good doctor approached with foreboding: gazing down the road, up at the windows, out at the river. He eyed Hana for a time, but didn’t impugn her presence. He wasn’t in a position to remonstrate. Naguib stopped a little more than arm’s length away. He said fifty thousand Egyptian pounds was God’s apology for His error in judgment; Geb ought not to be sick. “The brown envelope goes here,” said Naguib, extending his hand.

  Aos found it odd that Naguib wanted the money presented so specifically. Odder still that Naguib couldn’t see the regret displayed plainly on Charlie’s face. Anybody with eyes could see there wasn’t money.

  “There’s no money,” said Charlie. “I mean, less than you’re expecting. Two-fifths, to be exact. Twenty thousand.” He showed the notes, which weren’t stuffed in a brown envelope; the best he could do was a bag. Not just any bag, though. A brown paper bag. Hopefully that would suffice. “So you know, I intend to pay. The rest, I mean. When I have it. Please, I’m not a rich man. I will pay more when I can. Soon, I promise you.”

  Naguib’s face evolved before them. Confusion. Anger. Finally, he wore the look of a cornered animal. “Soon Geb will be dead.” He tightened his grip on the folio. Aos couldn’t help but think back to their meeting at the hospital: Naguib clutching the picture frame with the same yearning to keep hold.

  A penitent Charlie stared at his shoes while a distraught Naguib stared ambiguously into the air, giving him a glazed look. “Ahem,” said Hana after the autonomous staring contests had gone on for too long. Their eyes, called her way, fell harshly; apparently Charlie and Naguib loathed to be interrupted even when they weren’t doing anything. “About those papers,” said Hana, gesturing to the folio. “Is twenty enough or isn’t it?”

  Naguib scowled. “Are you sure you don’t have fifty thousand?”

  Aos had observed this phenomenon before. People asking questions to which they already had answers, often more than once. Clients were especially prone to such behavior. My case has been rejected? Are you sure? Are you certain? The coping mechanism had practical implications. It increased by a few seconds the time a person had to absorb the pain of the truth. More time would spread the pain a little thinner.

  “I don’t have fifty thousand!” said Charlie for the last time; his tone said he was finished apologizing. “But I will pay. Didn’t I say that? That I would pay?”

  “And I said Geb would be dead! Do you not understand what dead means? You can’t pay the dead to come back!” Naguib turned around and walked away, though would never escape at his pace; it was as if snails carried him.

  “Come back,” said Hana. She followed Naguib, who plodded off with his folio.

  Not knowing what Hana wanted distressed the hell out of Aos. He knew what everyone else wanted. Naguib wanted money. Aos wanted his boring life back. Charlie wanted his love to go away. What did Hana want? To know what it felt like to steal something?

  Before Aos could express his concern, Charlie set off to help Hana procure the folio. Naguib’s errant despair made it easier. It was a bad time to be so moved that he couldn’t walk normally. Hana sped ahead, blocking Naguib’s path; then Charlie approached Naguib from the side. “Please,” said Charlie, taking hold of the folio. Two fingers resting lightly on the nearest edge. “Be reasonable. Take the money. Twenty thousand is still a lot. More than these papers are worth, considering they’re just photocopies.” A tug-of-war erupted when Charlie’s two fingers became his whole hand. “No!” said Naguib, who jerked the folio the way a dog jerks a rope. “Geb,” he said, tugging. Charlie so clearly controlled the situation that intervening on his behalf would’ve been a shameful use of force. Aos didn’t want to feel more guilty than he felt watching the folio slip from Naguib’s hands into Charlie’s. One final tug was all it took. Naguib fell or maybe sat down. Was he giving up? Was he letting Geb die? He lay down on the road. A day’s worth of sun leaked from the hot tar. “My son is sick. Please, the money. Fifty thousand. You said you’d pay.” Naguib put his hand up for the whole payment. Charlie gave him the portion he’d brought and tried to explain that two-fifths of the promised sum was much better than the zero fifths he’d otherwise be getting. Plus, the papers were of no value to Naguib. He couldn’t sell them to anyone else. Why keep the papers? That wouldn’t help Geb. That wouldn’t help anybody.

  Naguib held the money in the air above his face. He counted the notes. He counted them again, to be sure. “No.” He threw the notes in the air. They descended erratically. One note even ascended to head height before descending again. Naguib moaned when it returned to him, alighting like a bird on his chest. He crumpled the note and threw the ball down the riverbank. “You have no idea!” said Naguib. He made no further attempt to mask his state. He was inebriated. When he sat up, he fell back again. He didn’t slur exactly, but some of his words grew tails. “What if my boss asks about my quota on the copy machine? I’ve run through my week’s quota in one day. To make the perfect copy! Like an original print! Have you ever made an original print with a copy machine that doesn’t work properly? What original print is this badly crinkled?” Naguib waved his hand in the air to illustrate crinkling. “And my boss, he sees me with papers in my hand. What am I supposed to do? I can’t throw them away. What if he looks in the bin? The questions he’ll ask! The accusations he’ll make with his eyes! He already accuses me of something every day. What is the thing that I’ve done? In his mind, I’ve done something. I’ve done something grave. I don’t know what it is. Even on the best days when all my work is finished and the patients are out of the waiting room and I am stuck organizing files. Stuck from my wife and my son. He says I’m lazy. He says that late at night when I’m still working. Is he still working? Or just watching me fail to meet some imagined standard? So he can threaten me? And accuse me of a crime? What crime, I don’t know!” The terrified look on Naguib’s face proved he was a good father. He’d risked everything to help Geb. “People now everywhere in Cairo—you must understand, it’s not just me—in all parts of the city, are suspected of grave crimes against the government. So what if the government is gone? Not really gone, for the Supreme Council is comprised of the same men! Please, the money! The money you said you would pay!”

  Aos wanted to scream now that Geb would die. Geb would’ve died anyway, but now Aos bore part of the blame. And Naguib would suffer more for having come close, in his mind, to saving him. What if Aos screamed? What if one of the dark windows above, in the array of dark windows that filled the buildings that lined the street, brightened? And a head appeared? The head would call the police, who would call the army; the army would come in trucks and take them for “questioning.” God’s just punishment would be turning a blind eye to whatever came next.

  “Are my pills in the folio?” asked Naguib. Though he looked to know the answe
r. “Can I have them, please?”

  “What pills?” asked Charlie.

  “Please, the pills.” Naguib climbed to his knees. He eyed, then leaped for the folio. The movement was sudden and stupid. He lay prone after that with his face on the tar. He wept and said the name of his son over and over. “Please. I will die if Geb dies. Please, I will die.”

  Aos wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and said prayers as reparations for his crimes and other crimes committed by other people. He prayed for Naguib to stand up, for Geb to get better, for Hana to go back to America. He prayed Charlie would come to his senses. What would Charlie do with normal senses? Would he repent for his lie? Would he call his brother to borrow money? God willing. Then Geb would live, Dalia would leave, and Aos would have what he wanted. His dull life appeared in his mind like the ghost of a dead love. He almost reached for her.

  All of a sudden, a piercing whistle sounded from up the street. It was the noise a parent makes when calling to and also scolding a child for disappearing in a public space. Fingers jammed deep in the mouth, air blown steadily. When Aos turned, he saw a uniformed man walking toward them. “Oh, no,” said Aos. “No, no.” The figure smoked a cigarette and carried a club. A rifle was strung over his back. Aos couldn’t see the gun, but could see the strapping. In truth, the club made him more nervous. A long black stick. “As-salamu alaikum,” said the soldier when he was close enough to talk without shouting. He wore the smile of a man who’d stumbled upon a profitable opportunity: foreigners out after curfew. “Don’t move. If you move, I’ll have to . . .” The soldier gestured to his radio, which connected him to an army of like-minded men. Aos, Hana, and Charlie were thus outnumbered by a factor of at least a thousand. Naguib, given his state, didn’t count in their favor. He looked as if he’d fallen asleep. “You know,” said the soldier, moving closer, “there is curfew. You know curfew?”

  The word meant different things to different people. To mothers of young children, whose offspring lacked agency, curfew had a more literal meaning. It meant don’t go out after dark. It was disruptive, but not debilitating. It forced loud children to play inside. To mothers of older children, who were almost certainly protesters—young men and women who’d moved out or didn’t abide strict rules—it meant no sleep and sore eyes from nights spent staring at mobile phones, ever waiting to learn their children were safe. Fathers obeyed or disobeyed curfew according to politics they’d developed or, more likely, inherited from their parents. If they disobeyed curfew, it was usually to smoke shisha on the corner with their friends. To protesters, curfew was a crime against the cause of freedom and justice and was to be disobeyed at all costs. To Charlie, curfew was little more than an intangible thing he could fear. He’d once defined the word with a dictionary in a failed attempt to dissuade Aos from protesting. A regulation requiring people to remain indoors between specified hours, typically at night. The definition had offended Aos at the time, but seemed fitting at this juncture; indoors would’ve been a fine place to hide from the soldier. Aos hated being the kind of person who wanted to hide. Choosing not to was a constant battle. Why couldn’t he be brave by nature? Nature never failed. Nature never changed its mind.

  “We were just leaving,” said Charlie. “It was nice meeting you.”

  Right away the soldier began jabbing people. He jabbed Naguib in the ribs with his foot, presumably to check if he was still alive. The groaning sound was, according to the soldier, “good news for you.” Then he jabbed Charlie in the shoulder with his club. Charlie stepped back to soften the blow, which seemed to please the soldier. Who didn’t like being all-powerful? Aos received the next jab, though his was much harder on account of being “from here.” The soldier said Aos ought to know better. Aos absorbed the impact without moving, which caused the soldier to jab with increasing vitriol until Aos finally stepped back. The soldier celebrated his victory with another jab. “I think I have seen you before. You’re like every boy in the square. You’re a tough guy. You have an attitude. I correct that with my . . .” He waved his club in Aos’ face. Hana’s face, too. The soldier’s threat wasn’t prejudiced. “Whoop,” he whispered. Hana, who looked surprised that curfew applied to her, pushed away the soldier’s club. “What’s this?” asked the soldier, laughing. A woman who resisted was a joke. “And what is that?” He reached for the folio, which Charlie had given her. Hana was meant to determine if the papers looked right. Her position at the UNHCR made her uniquely qualified to judge their authenticity.

  “Used tampons,” said Hana, dodging the soldier’s hand. “Dead rats.”

  The soldier’s face turned red when he reached for the folio a second time.

  “Don’t touch me,” said Hana, dodging his hand again.

  “Give him the folio!” pleaded Aos. He knew what Hana didn’t want to know. Her liberties hadn’t traveled with her from America. The soldier would touch or take what pleased him. Withholding the folio would only make it worse.

  Charlie tried to intervene, but the soldier clubbed him on the arm where there was no muscle or fat as padding: the side of his elbow joint, where bone lay naked under thin layers of skin. It sounded like a rock falling on a softer rock. The impact turned Charlie into another man. He was still. He was quiet.

  The soldier laughed and reached for the folio a third time, lazily. Hana slapped his hand instead of just dodging it. The slap made sense using pure, unadulterated logic. The old method wasn’t working; only a fool would continue trying it. Aos’ logic had, however, been contaminated by certain realities. One such reality was the soldier before them. The soldier was serving in an army that had become a government. His actions, no matter how rash, were beyond law. It was no surprise, then, when he grabbed Hana by the hair. Or when he pulled her away from her companions. Or when he wrapped his arm around her like a snake and began squeezing the air from her lungs. Aos and Charlie lurched forward, but the soldier commanded them to stay back. He threatened injury, imprisonment, even death. His threat was nonverbal. The soldier just touched his radio with the butt of his club.

  Hana tried to free herself by stomping on the soldier’s foot. His boots were stiff leather with steel toes, but that didn’t discourage her. Hana tried to bend the metal and perhaps even lop off a few toes by stomping repeatedly with all her strength. But the metal toe was designed to endure far worse than Hana’s futile effort. The soldier must’ve known that and let Hana wear herself out. “Let go,” said Hana after she couldn’t stomp anymore or hardly even breathe. “Not yet,” said the soldier. His nonchalance threw gas on a dying fire. Hana used the last of her strength to throw her head back like a battering ram. The soldier’s height protected fragile targets such as his larynx or his nose. Her head landed square on his chest, causing no damage except perhaps to his ego. The soldier had been hit again by a woman. “Garbuu3a,” he said. Hopping desert rodent. You fucking bitch.

  What created such a man? Not God, thought Aos. Though something nearly as omnipotent. The Egyptian Armed Forces, in which all men had to serve. Aos had only been exempt because he lacked male siblings. The Ministry of Defense wouldn’t deprive families of their first and only sons lest they be called a plague to Egypt. As a result, Aos had never learned ruthlessness. Instead he’d watched his friends disappear into an architecture of ideas—about honor, about duty—only to appear later as changed men. Nervous, depressed, lonely. Not wanting to kill, but able to. Estranged by way of their sadness. They wouldn’t talk to Aos because he’d not served. He’d become no more than a woman to them.

  Aos, perched on the balls of his feet, stared at the soldier’s radio. His impertinent gaze broadcast a question. How do you plan on using that device without freeing your hand? Short of growing a third hand, the soldier had two choices: drop his club or release his prisoner. A soldier’s quandary. No soldier would drop his club or free his prisoner. No Egyptian soldier, at least. Egypt started history and survived the wrath of time by the strength and will of its military. That military fought valian
tly to the last man. Thus even their losses were honored. Such history must’ve informed the soldier’s decision to tighten his grip. Fuck the radio. He didn’t need it. The soldier’s arm was a vise powered by what must’ve been thousands of push-ups doled out as punishment for not making his bed correctly. Stop, mouthed Hana, but no sound escaped from her throat. Her body lacked the air that would’ve otherwise given it voice. Life, too. Her eyes dilated. The soldier loosened his grip at the last second and laughed when Hana breathed the most desperate breath. The fear of death had made her docile.