“Money,” said the soldier through Hana’s hair. “This much.” He gestured with two of five fingers holding his club that the stack should be thick enough to interest him. Or disinterest him from foreigners in Zamalek at night, the man they’d left in the road, and the woman they’d stupidly enmeshed in their business. Not to mention the beautiful leather folio. “Money now or you go to the museum.” To prove he was serious, the soldier walloped Hana on the bridge of her nose. He used the same club he’d used to tap his radio, though with more force. A spring opened somewhere inside Hana’s head, allowing the soldier to choke her without squeezing. All he had to do was prevent the blood from draining by holding back her head. Hana gasped, spit, and swallowed her blood to get rid of it. To Aos, the sound of Hana’s choking was even worse than the sound of black sticks falling on the woman he’d left on the bridge. Whup, whup. He ran maniacally at the tangled strangers, legs powered less by anger at this soldier than shame left by many like him. Aos collided with Hana and the soldier at full speed. Their bodies flew away from each other like birds frightened by a gunshot. Each body landed with an appropriately dull thud in the road. There was yet no rest for the weary. A scramble erupted. The scramble grew in intensity the way a spark grows in dry grass. The spark grows wildly. Hana scrambled for air. The soldier scrambled for his gun, his club, his footing. Not to mention, his radio. The radio bounced around on a coiled wire. Aos scrambled faster and found the club first. He gripped the club so hard his knuckles turned white. The soldier barely had enough time to raise his arms in defense before the club fell upon him. Whup, whup.
6
The whupping lasted so long the sound changed. Aos pounded the soldier’s head into something a little softer. Bone mush. Bone soup. Hana stood over the pacified body. Her face was bloody and she held the folio against her chest like a child. She jabbed the soldier in the ribs with her foot the same way he’d once jabbed Naguib. What comes around goes around. Hana cried when that phrase appeared in her head like a road sign she was driving past on the expressway to feeling vindicated. How sick to be in such a rush. “I’m sorry,” whispered Hana to the body. The ducts connecting her nose to her throat had already swollen shut. It sounded as if food were in her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” Hana tucked the folio into her pants and rolled the soldier toward the riverbank. His body had become, pained as she was to admit, evidence. That evidence needed to disappear. Its discovery would drop an early curtain on her life. Not to mention the lives of Mustafa, Charlie, Aos, and the indubitably unconscious Naguib. Their imprisonment or deportation would beget a more pervasive suffering. Naguib’s and Mustafa’s families would join the tangle along with Charlie’s office and Aos’ work. That work—thousands of translated documents—was not without consequence. Tragedies clients told needed to become English tragedies before they could become case files. An obscene number of lives, mostly innocent, would thus unravel if the soldier’s body was found. Knowing that didn’t make it easier to roll him. “I’m sorry,” said Hana again. She repeated her apology every time the soldier’s hands struck the pavement. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Clop. Clop. Clop. From the riverbank, one final push was all it took. The angle of incline conspired with gravity to roll the soldier on Hana’s behalf. His hands clopped a few more times before a modest splash sent ripples into the blackest water she’d ever seen. Once settled, the soldier’s body was close to neutral buoyancy. His face and toes barely sailed above the surface. The weapons that had once given him power now weighed him down. His gun, his club, his radio. The Nile bore that cargo without complaint. A relentless haul befitting the stubborn river, which had survived desert, dam, and drought. Nothing short of God’s will could stop the Nile, or the rubbish contained therein, from reaching the Mediterranean. People had a way of disappearing in the vastness of that sea. Migrants, for the most part. Drowned by the hundreds on ill-fated journeys of hope.
Charlie sat on the curb with his head down and gripped the spot where the soldier had slapped him. The bone on the side of his arm. The soldier had used his club but hadn’t wound up or followed through on his swing. Slap was the more appropriate word; he’d not really hit Charlie. In retrospect, it was a shocking use of restraint. Why forgo the standard pummeling? Wasn’t pain the seed of fear? Wasn’t fear the seed of obedience? The grim error had cost the soldier his life. His blood, pooled on the black tar, was less pronounced than it would’ve been on another surface. It was just a shimmering, like oil in a puddle when it rains. Aos, clearly tormented by the sight, spread the blood so it would dry faster. He used his hands, not his shoes. Hana was aghast only until she realized that hands could be washed in the river without falling in. Not shoes. Not dress shoes with no grip. Not dress shoes with blood on the rubber and the man wearing them perched gravely above the water on a rock. The intimate nature of the spreading appeared to cause Aos no small pain. He sobbed and mumbled in Arabic while coating the road. The vocabulary was too advanced for Hana. Something about God. Something about mercy.
“We need to leave,” said Hana after Aos climbed to and from the water. His arms had disappeared at the elbows and were a different color when they reappeared. “Before . . .” Well, there was no saying. Before the police arrived. Before the army arrived. Before a stranger happened past and called whomever. The sooner they left, the better for everybody. Except leaving speedily required a car, which required Mustafa. Calling him felt worse than rolling the soldier. Wasn’t he a man with a family? Didn’t calling him put them at risk? Yes, thought Hana as she dialed. She stopped dialing before reaching the last digit. Mustafa was a man with a family. Then Hana finished dialing for exactly that reason. She decided, without considering Mustafa’s nature, to warn him away. Leave now! Go quickly! Hana breathed each time the phone rang. Knowing when to breathe made it hurt less. The soldier’s arm had left a tenderness running diagonally across her chest, beginning at her clavicle. The discomfort predicted a long bruise, like a sash worn in mourning.
When Mustafa finally picked up, he said, “So sorry. My daughter was telling me how to spell barnacle. B-A-R-N . . .”
“You need to leave without us,” whispered Hana. Her urgent plea was beyond polite timing. “I’ll explain later. Please go.”
Mustafa scoffed as if she’d blasphemed the holy code of taxi driving. How could he abandon his fare? “God only knows what you mean. I will be there soon. Five minutes.”
He hung up before Hana could beg no and didn’t answer when she called back. “Fuck!” whispered Hana at her phone. There was nothing else to do now but wait. Five minutes was a long time to drive some hundred meters. Except the street was one-way, so Mustafa had to go around. Most streets in Zamalek were one-way. Taxi drivers joked that the only way to go back somewhere you’d been was to start over. That required leaving the island. Mustafa wasn’t that sort of comedian, who told jokes to swindle passengers. But he wasn’t a desperado, either. Mustafa, law-abiding as one could be, wouldn’t drive the wrong way. He’d go around.
Meanwhile Aos unbuttoned his shirt, which was strewn with blood. The unbuttoning was slow and morbid; his hands were rendered almost obsolete by an inescapable shake. When Aos finally got the shirt off, he turned it inside out. Then he tried to put the shirt back on. Aos swore at the bunched sleeves while forcing his arms through. The effort was all for naught. Most of the blood had soaked through the fabric. As a result, the myriad spots had only slightly reduced diameters. There was no hiding them. Aos moaned, yanked the shirt off his back, and crammed it down a storm drain. His arm followed the shirt to ensure it plunged beyond light’s purview. That purview was arm’s length. Yonder that lay a twisting sewer in varying states of decrepitude. What human would ever go down there?
Two headlights appeared suddenly at the south end of the street. Mustafa’s hand waved out the window as if to say, I’m over here. He parked in the only free spot available, loath, as he was, to idle in the middle of the street. No more than thirty meters away. The lights, the wa
ving, the idea of escape—all that must’ve cured Charlie of the soldier’s slap. He shucked off the impotence imbued by the strike. Free of that, he stood up and ran toward the car. “No!” whispered Hana to Charlie’s back. “No!” she said a little louder when he didn’t stop. He still didn’t stop! Hana ran after Charlie to prevent him from destroying Mustafa’s life. The future prosecutor’s case against Mustafa would hinge on whether he was a willing participant. Didn’t sitting in his car make it so? Mustafa would be charged with aiding and abetting criminals. Conspiracy. Fraud. Accessory to murder. Or murder outright. Or treason, for killing a soldier. If only Charlie’s legs weren’t so long. If only he didn’t run so fast toward more suffering.
It was too late by the time Hana arrived. Charlie had already enlisted Mustafa as their wheelman. Mustafa looked happy enough to be of service, and Charlie looked damn pleased to have secured a ride. He nearly ripped off the broken back door when he opened it. Then he leaped into the car the way a fish leaps to freedom after escaping a fisherman’s grip. Yet arriving in the backseat didn’t seem to comfort Charlie. Maybe because the car wasn’t moving yet. “What are you doing, Hana?” Charlie glared at her. “Get in!”
Hana wanted to say no, but Charlie’s desperation assaulted her cogent heart. That heart was wildly powerful. It convinced Hana of things that weren’t true. Or weren’t necessarily true. That more soldiers were on their way. That Mustafa would be caught at the scene of a crime. That the future prosecutor’s case wouldn’t need evidence beyond that. Mustafa would be imprisoned in one of the Great Egyptian Atrocities. It didn’t matter which prison. They were all the same. Wasn’t leaving with Mustafa the only way to keep him safe? The presumed answer to that question forced Hana into the car.
“Where’s Aos?” asked Charlie as if he were the sole missing passenger.
Hana leaned out the window to get a better view of the goings-on. Charlie did the same, but on the other side. Mustafa, too, in the front. An unbelievable sight lay before them. Aos was dragging Naguib down the street. He looked like an ox driving a plow meant for two oxen. Fits and starts. One foot at a time.
“Oh, God!” said Charlie. “Hurry up!”
Aos was long gone in his pulling. He didn’t seem to hear or even feel anything. Not exhaustion. Not anxiety. Not fear. He’d been drained of all that. The only thing he seemed to have left was a tight grip on Naguib’s arms. There was no leaving him.
Mustafa, having recently acquired a sense of urgency, put the car in gear and drove so close to Aos that he nearly ran over him. Of course that didn’t happen. Maybe it wasn’t even possible. Mustafa was too precise in all his movements. He parked where he’d previously not wanted to park: in the middle of the damn road. “God forgive me for breaking the law,” said Mustafa. He got out to help lift Naguib into the backseat. Hana got out to hold open the door. Charlie also got out, but there wasn’t anything for him to do. He paced impatiently. “Oh, God,” he said. “Please hurry.”
Together Aos (by the wrists) and Mustafa (by the ankles) lifted Naguib in the air. He drooped like a puppet lacking his master. Though he was breathing normally. A good sign, thought Hana. Maybe Naguib hadn’t overdosed. Maybe he would be fine in the end. If Aos and Mustafa could just get his tattered ass in the car! The maneuvering was surprisingly complicated. Aos backed into the car through the broken door that Hana held open, then slid so far across the seat that Charlie, who’d rushed to get back inside before the rest of them, was squished against the far door. He emitted a disapproving groan. Then Aos pulled Naguib by the shoulders and Mustafa pushed Naguib by the feet. His tattered ass slipped across Aos’ lap and part of the way onto Charlie’s, whose groan deepened. Hana sealed the mess by slamming the broken door. To ensure it had properly latched, she gave the door a swift kick.
“Yallah!” said Mustafa. He jumped into the driver’s seat while Hana ran around the car and jumped into the passenger’s. She still wasn’t used to sitting up front. It was strange viewing Mustafa from the side and agonizing to see him look so frightened. One minute he was talking to his daughter, the next he was stuffing an unconscious man into his car. He slammed the gas and the car flew up the street toward Sequoia, the nice restaurant on the north end of the island. After just a few seconds Hana could see a few well-dressed pedestrians ambling in a warm yellow light. They smoked so many cigarettes that they looked to be standing in fog.
“Turn here!” said Charlie. “Left! Left!”
“I know where to turn,” said Mustafa. “If I didn’t know where to turn, I wouldn’t be a . . .”
Charlie’s head bashed the window during the turn. The loud whack left a grim silence. Mustafa, who by nature was diametrically opposed to quietness—hadn’t he spent every ride yakking with Hana about life and love and war?—turned on the radio and, as if that weren’t yet enough, flattened the gas pedal. The engine roared and shook the car. SpongeBob SquarePants, dangling from the mirror by a string, swung like a pendulum toward the back of the car. The doll hung at its apex for a time, made weightless by the acceleration, before returning to equilibrium. The car had finally reached its top speed; it wasn’t possible to escape any faster.
Weeks after choosing to care less about things she couldn’t control, such as whether Mustafa’s taxi would careen into a building, Hana discovered the front seat had what the backseat lacked: a seat belt. An ironic laugh died just before leaving her mouth. Her chest hurt. She still couldn’t breathe easily. She could smell blood. She could taste blood. She could feel mostly dried blood in her hair. It was still a little sticky. Hana wrapped the seat belt around her body. Crumbs, which had once clung to the strap, clung now to her fingers. She didn’t care. Or cared less than she would normally. Normally Hana would’ve felt an immediate and intense desire to wash her hands with antibacterial soap. That wasn’t possible right now. For all Hana knew, it would never be possible again. Did they have running water in Tora prison? She rolled down the window and brushed the crumbs into the wind. The folio, exhumed from her pants and held now in the crook of her arm, whipped violently and made a slapping sound. The same sound her hand had made when she’d hit the soldier. Regret blossomed and filled her entire body. How would the night have ended if she hadn’t slapped his hand?
Mustafa rolled up Hana’s window as soon as her arms were back inside. He said he couldn’t hear the radio. He pointed to the radio as if it were the only thing that had ever made any sense. The change in air pressure caused Hana’s ears to pop. That cleared way for the soap opera full of exaggerated laughing sounds. A mother found her child in the kitchen eating—well, something. Hana didn’t know the word but apparently it was funny. Nobody in the car joined in the laughter except Mustafa, who sounded more nervous than amused. As if he had no idea what he’d just done, except to say that it wasn’t good. Not something he should brag about. Not something he should tell to his wife. Streetlights were spotlights looking in, incriminating them. There you are, we know you did it.
Then, out of the blue, Naguib stirred to life. The sharp turns must’ve got his blood pumping and jostled his brain. “The brown . . . sealed . . . envelope,” said Naguib, pulling himself off Charlie and out of Aos’ lap. He leaned the other way, against the broken door. Before Hana could warn him about the precariousness of that spot, he said, “Please, the money. The money you promised to pay.” Hana didn’t think it was possible for the mood to get any worse, but it did. The mention of money drained all hope from Mustafa’s face. Money implied business, which implied all kinds of things.
The one-way street became a two-way bridge to Dokki. Past the traffic circle and the metro stop, and down an alley—irrevocably away from people—Mustafa parked his car. “Hena quayes?” he asked, which meant “Is here good?” but sounded more like “You need to leave” mixed with “Don’t ever call me again.” His voice wasn’t angry so much as totally unnerved. “Hena quayes?” he asked again. Aos, Charlie, and Hana unloaded onto the sidewalk. Naguib, however, didn’t exit so gracefully. He
fell out of the car after leaning against the broken door with too much pressure. The door swung open and Naguib fell out with a surprised cry. He lay in repose in the street. Though he only lay that way for a few seconds. When Naguib sat up, he made the strangest face. The look an animal has immediately before attacking or running away: tense, but ultimately devoid of emotion; instinct had kicked in. Aos hurried over to hold him still. Though Aos was sort of sneaky about it. He made it look as if he were just helping Naguib to his feet. But Hana could see that Aos was gripping him.
“Why is your friend not wearing a shirt?” asked Mustafa. He’d rolled down the window to be heard. Though he didn’t look at his passengers. He looked straight ahead at the road. “And who is the other man? The . . . ?” Mustafa made some loopy gesture indicating drunkenness.
Hana sensed that Mustafa was speaking only to her. Were they not friends? Could she not bring his old soul some rest by saying Naguib was her cousin? Or her lover? Or something? That he was drunk? That he’d gotten sick on Aos’ shirt, which had been thrown in the river to avoid getting any mess in the car? That the money Naguib mentioned was borrowed or lost in a bet? That no business had been conducted? And that despite the blood and the swelling evident on Hana’s face—at least, it felt evident—nobody had been hurt?
“Well?” said Mustafa.
Hana yearned to say everything would be fine in the end, but couldn’t bring herself to tell such a palpable lie. “It’s really important that I pay for your door. Tonight. Right now.” Hana knew she could never see Mustafa again. It would be an inordinate and entirely unnecessary risk to continue their relationship. Hana tried not to think about it lest she change her mind. She just dug in her pocket for the cash she’d picked off the street. The same cash Charlie had offered Naguib. The same cash Naguib had thrown in the air. Or the portion she’d been able to collect while Aos had been washing his arms in the river. The money was evidence, too, like the blood. She couldn’t just leave it there. Hana guessed a few thousand pounds were in a little grubby clump. It was both a pittance and a bonanza: much less than Geb needed, but more than enough for the door.
Live from Cairo Page 27