Live from Cairo

by Ian Bassingthwaighte

  “Possible?”

  “Yes.”

  Together they approached Charlie’s desk. There was a faint breathing sound. Hana thought Charlie’s brain had probably just shut off to avoid processing whatever resided inside. He was like one of those myotonic goats that fainted every time they were scared. Charlie had fainted on what looked like a testimony. In the header, Hana saw the name she’d spent hours trying and failing to think up. Farah, meaning “joy.” The name Charlie had produced so effortlessly, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to say that one word.

  “Is that the testimony?” Hana couldn’t stop herself from touching it.

  “I have to warn you. It reads . . .”

  Hana shoved Charlie’s floppy arm aside to extract the papers. Then she read the testimony the way the desert drinks water when it rains:

  Case Number: 243/2011

  Name: Farah Salih

  Mobile: +20 – – – –

  E-mail: – – – – @hotmail.com

  Family: Dead and/or missing

  (prepared with the help of the Refugee Relief Project)

  Introduction

  My name is Farah Salih. I am from Baghdad, Iraq. (See Attachment 2, UNHCR Yellow Card.) Though I fled Baghdad to escape danger and can never return for the same reason. Where would I return to? My home is knocked down or occupied by militants! I live in Egypt now. It is better, but not much better. I am not a citizen. I can’t work or own property. There are other reasons, too, that are more difficult to list. I mean history, which is really a story, which is really the path I took to get here. Importantly, not the path I chose. Much less the path I wanted. It all began with a death. My daughter, who was born in . . .

  Hana folded what remained of the testimony into a neat, impossible-to-read rectangle. Every word was trapped inside the fold. “What’s this?” she asked, jabbing Charlie in the back. Hana’s finger plunged repeatedly until she hit a nerve. Charlie sat up with gusto. His hair went everywhere. He looked as if he’d walked through a wind tunnel. “Ouch,” he said, trying to rub the spot. It was a few inches beyond his reach. Charlie turned, probably to glare at Hana for jabbing him. But his eyes never got that far. They stopped at the bare spot on the wall. It took him a while to remember what used to be there. “What happened to the map?”

  A forlorn Aos presented the map as a huge paper ball. He tried to explain what the map had taught him and how frustrating the lesson had been. The world was small; the borders were impervious.

  The story annoyed Charlie more than anything else. He said he knew Aos would never leave and therefore didn’t need somewhere to go. And the map! The map, said Charlie, was expensive. It was printed on cotton and linen fiber. Like some money. More important, the map had symbolic value. It allowed clients to touch places they’d only dreamed about. That was why America, Canada, Australia, and most of Europe lacked the bright colors exhibited by other countries. Thousands of fingers had rubbed away the ink.

  “Stop talking about the damn map!” Hana flung the testimony. The folded papers landed squarely in Charlie’s lap. “Whoever reads that will ask questions. ‘What lawyer wrote this crap?’ It is crap, by the way! The tone is way off! It’s barely a legal document! ‘What UNHCR employee conducted the interview?’ A fake interview, by the way! ‘Where did the medical documents come from?’ Forged documents, by the way!” Suddenly Hana felt like one of those myotonic goats. She needed to sit down before she fell over. There was nowhere to sit except the floor, unless she wanted to grab a chair from the adjoining room. Hana thought she’d pass out before she got there. As a last resort, she sat right where she’d been standing. “What if the UNHCR calls Naguib? What if he says the documents aren’t real? What if he says they were stolen?” For the first time, it occurred to Hana that Naguib might have been conscious enough to observe the murder. Maybe he was at the police station right now reporting it. Aos had, after all, insisted on escorting Naguib back to his home. “He needs to sleep!” Aos had shouted. At the time it had seemed like a perplexing but nevertheless tender gesture. Now it seemed like a terrible mistake. Wasn’t the bed a good place to sober up and start recalling things?

  Aos flattened the crumpled map with his hands, as if, given enough time and pressure, the fibers would relinquish their wrinkles. But the map refused to flatten. Aos tried using thumbtacks to pin down the rogue corners, but that didn’t pan out. He just stabbed himself in the hand several times. Aos was so incensed by the map’s unwillingness to return to its former state that he crumpled it again and threw the giant ball across the room. The surface-area-to-weight ratio must’ve been pretty high; the ball hung ever so slightly at the peak of its arc.

  “Naguib won’t talk,” said Charlie, sounding sure and somehow heartbroken at the same time. “He can’t report our crime without also confessing his own. Is he not complicit in the forgery? Will he not rot in jail with the rest of us?” The supposition, like a gift from on high, seemed to rejuvenate Charlie. He asked if anyone had seen the folio. He searched for it by flinging papers everywhere. He finally found the folio on his chair. He’d been sitting on it. “Please,” said Charlie, expelling his duress in a sigh. “We have what we need. The rest is just paperwork. I’ll rewrite the testimony. I’ll fill it with meaningless legalese. It will be formal and boring. I swear to you. This is just a draft. I was just . . . after what happened . . . I just . . .”

  9

  The hinges whined before Aos could watch Hana punch Charlie in the face. Aos sensed that she wanted to. It would’ve achieved some kind of equilibrium had it gone off that way. Charlie was, after all, the last person in the room without black eyes and a nasally timbre to his voice. Punching him in the nose would’ve fixed that. But the hinges caused Charlie to freeze and Hana to uncurl her fists. Looking utterly horrified, they turned toward the source of the sound: the hall, which behaved like an amplifier such that the hinges’ cry was made both plaintive and soul crushing. Who the fuck opened the door? Like his colleagues, Aos wanted to know. Badly. He just wasn’t as afraid as them. He almost craved punishment. That the footsteps belonged to a soldier. That the soldier, being magically informed of the night’s happenings, would storm in and beat Aos to death with his club. Aos shut his eyes to await his comeuppance. He saw God. He saw his father waiting for him.

  “Hello?” said a voice that sounded like Michael’s, but only if Michael were gasping for breath and in desperate need of some water. Aos held out hope that it was yet a soldier. Perhaps an English-born Egyptian from a military family who came home to serve in the army. Not because he was proud, but because he was shamed by his parents. “Is anyone here? Hello?” The panic evident in the voice gave way to the rushing sound of feet beating the floor. Nobody reacted when the footsteps came to a halt. Aos opened his eyes only because he was still alive to open them. He was disappointed to see Michael. It was a weird feeling. The man’s normally red face was much redder from sprinting some unknown distance. He looked back down the hall as if he was waiting for someone. Sabah, also red in the face, appeared moments later. She rested her head on Michael’s shoulder. They both looked utterly asthmatic. “They’re planting grass in the dust bowl,” said Michael, keeling over to catch his breath. Sabah keeled with him, though not quite so far. It appeared she was in slightly better shape. Perhaps because she took a walk every afternoon while Michael just brooded at his desk. “I mean it. Actual grass. They’re planting it.” The dust bowl was what Michael called Tahrir. He called it that because the traffic circle was made of nothing but dirt. The dirt was kicked up by protesters, passing vehicles, donkeys, whirlwinds, occasional car accidents, and stray dogs that were either fighting or fucking. It was hard to tell the difference, so wild was their yapping either way.

  “What do you mean grass?” said Aos as if his only sanctuary was under threat: Tahrir, the place he went to escape uncertainty. His life could be torn asunder at any time. If Charlie ever grew tired and left Egypt, for example. If funding cuts precluded k
eeping a full-time translator on staff. If the new “government” clamped down on nonprofits and shut down the Refugee Relief Project. Where would Aos live? How would he make money? In Tahrir, these questions actually had answers. You live here. And fuck money.

  “Grass!” said Michael. Clearly he hadn’t slept the night before. Or even closed his eyes. His hair, like Charlie’s, stood at weird angles. “The green stuff. Grass. You know grass?” Then, a few seconds later: “I don’t understand why you don’t understand what I’m saying! I’m speaking English! Isn’t it your job to know that language? Isn’t that why Charlie hired you?” Weirdly, Michael’s tone wasn’t condescending; it was as if Aos’ question had actually boggled him.

  “You idiot!” shouted Aos. Not because Michael was actually an idiot, but because Aos—miffed that Michael knew something about Tahrir that he didn’t—just felt like calling him one. What was Michael doing in the square? Why had Sabah taken him? When she could’ve taken him to the movies? Or out to dinner? Or back to her apartment? “I’m not asking what grass is. I’m asking how they’re planting it. Are they throwing seeds on the ground or are they laying sod?” It seemed to Aos that the army’s method declared their intent: whether they were trying to improve the city over time or, more likely, hoping to end the revolution overnight by some nefarious means involving sod. He didn’t understand exactly what those means were, except to say they were nefarious. The quickness of it bothered him. As if it was some kind of trick. Some sleight of hand. “Seeds or sod? Tell me! I need to know!”

  Hana’s sneeze was all it took to divert Michael’s attention from Aos’ shouting. Michael’s eyes widened as he watched Hana wipe a small drop of blood from her nose. It was as if he’d not realized she was there until that moment and was startled to find a stranger in their midst. New faces weren’t so odd during working hours, but considering the office was closed and would be closed until at least 10:00 a.m. and, also, the severity of Hana’s facial bruising—well, Aos understood why Michael was so nonplussed. What Aos couldn’t understand was why it had taken Michael so long to register her presence. Maybe his one-track mind genuinely had only one track. “Who’s she?” Michael asked both Charlie and Aos, though he didn’t actually make any noise; he mouthed the question while furtively nodding in Hana’s direction. It was unsubtle. He might as well have made a cardboard sign and waved it around in the air: WHO IS THAT WOMAN? WHY IS SHE HERE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER FACE?

  For the first time that morning, Aos assessed the damage. Hana’s bruised eyes were connected by a bruised nose. She looked like a raccoon. Brave, possibly rabid. The bruising had gotten much worse since she’d rolled the soldier. In his head, Aos thanked Hana for rolling him. He knew he couldn’t have done it himself. He’d been too busy painting the road with the blood. It was all Aos had been able to think about at the time. Getting rid of the shimmer. In a way, he owed Hana his life. She’d protected him at the expense of her own innocence. That meant something to Aos, even if he couldn’t tell her right now that it did; he tried telling her anyway by thinking it hard enough and praying Hana would know.

  “Fuck the grass!” shouted Charlie at the two who’d come to report it. His tone said far more than his words. You’re interrupting what doesn’t concern you! and Why are you here, anyway? and Go home, damn it! At best, it came off as dismissive. At worst it was actively hostile.

  Michael, as was his nature, retreated from what was (or could’ve easily become) an argument. Sabah looked disgusted that she loved such a meek thing. Nevertheless, she loved him. That much was made clear by the way Sabah squeezed Michael’s shoulder before shoving him aside. “You have no idea how much the grass matters!” said Sabah with barefaced contempt. It pleased and also surprised Aos. He’d never thought of Sabah as especially opinionated. His misguided and swollen-headed prejudice heaped regret on top of his guilt. Why were they not friends? Why hadn’t they been friends for years? Why didn’t they go to the square together and shout loudly for the dissolution of the impending autocracy? Wasn’t that the real goal of the military council? Not to maintain government until such time that it could be passed back to a civilian authority, but to rig the system such that the military would stay in power indefinitely? Aos had been dreaming for weeks that Egypt’s constitution had been classified. Every night he woke up in the same cold sweat.

  “You think I have no idea?” asked Charlie as if he was aghast that such a thing could be said about him. Wasn’t he informed about everything that mattered? Or else, everything that mattered to him? His love. His plot. “You have no idea! All you see is Tahrir! Tahrir, Tahrir, Tahrir! It’s just a traffic circle!”

  Aos couldn’t bring himself to watch this other place he loved—the office where his uncertain life could be put to some use—devolve into nothingness. Instead he watched the ceiling fan fail to cool the room. The blades moved so slowly that they didn’t appear to blend together. It was as if the electricity had somehow been turned on only partway. Where was the missing energy, the life of Egypt itself, the power that began, in a way, with the sun? The sun had made the Earth, which had made the Nile. The dam in Aswan converted that stubborn river’s persistence into a reliable source of electricity. At least, it used to be reliable. Not anymore. Not since the Supreme Council took power.

  “It’s sabotage!” said Sabah. “Why else lay sod? So tomorrow the army can erect signs that say, ‘Don’t step on the grass.’ On symbolic land! Our one place to gather! No walking, no sitting, no tents! What do you think is going to happen?” Sabah looked at Charlie as if he ought to answer; Charlie looked out the window. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Don’t walk on the grass means ‘Don’t congregate.’ Get it? The grass is a barrier between the people and their ambition to live in a free Egypt. Their right to gather and shout loudly about the changes they wish to see in their lifetimes. How clever of the Supreme Council! And I thought they were only good at shooting rubber bullets into people’s eyes. Watch. Just watch. I’m telling you. Tomorrow the soldiers, wearing their stupid red berets, will walk along the brick wall marking the perimeter of the circle and they’ll shoo away people who get too close. This time the people will abide. The grass is new. The grass is beautiful. The army, they’ll say—grudgingly, but still they’ll say it!—is improving the city. ‘Maybe we should give them a chance.’ The apathetic and tired protesters will go home first and fail to congregate. After that it will be ten times harder to mobilize. What then? A million protesters in Tahrir are replaced by one gardener working part-time without benefits. The revolution dies in a flowerbed and the people coo at the beauty of it.”

  Sabah turned around and ran back outside as if she’d only come for reinforcements. Michael ran after her shouting, “No, Sabah! Don’t!” Aos ran after Michael. Hana ran after him. By the sound of it, Charlie was also running and shouting. To come back, to sit down, to start working. “Please, don’t go to the square!”

  10

  To make way for the water trucks, a battery of soldiers shouted for pedestrians and protesters alike to get out of the road. They shoved people who didn’t move fast enough. Charlie, Michael, and Hana were separated from Sabah and Aos in a skirmish that spawned from the undue physicality. One brazen protester had the gumption to return from where he’d been pushed. It was impossible to see what became of him. First there was a rush of soldiers. Then a rush of protesters to defend the one among them that had been singled out. The hissing sound of a gas canister acted as an accelerant to the chaos. People shouting the fiery and ever-urgent word—Yallah! Yallah! Yallah!—damn near caused a stampede. The die-hard protesters ran away from the gas, but not to safety. They ran the rest of the way to Tahrir, which was no more than a block away. Why would they run there? Tahrir, being a traffic circle, was wide-open and prone to being surrounded. To Charlie’s surprise and dismay, the diehards included both Sabah and Aos. They’d gone like bees in a line to await the arrival of the water trucks. Presumably to stop the freshly planted lawn from being
watered. The sod would fail to take root and die later from thirst.

  The more cautious protesters and pedestrians inadvertently caught in the fray, who wanted to be safe but didn’t necessarily want to leave the vicinity, filtered into several colonial buildings surrounding the square. Charlie, Hana, and Michael were swept into one such building, up the old colonial stairs, and finally, near the top, into an old colonial apartment with high colonial ceilings. Once upon a time, some rich British diplomat must’ve held fancy soirees in those rooms. The rooms held just enough of their former beauty to let one imagine how good the soirees must’ve looked and how provincial they must’ve tasted. With champagne and shisha and jokes at the expense of the rabble. Charlie preferred the current shabbiness over the grandeur he saw in his mind. The people living there now weren’t nearly so wealthy as those who’d lived there in the past. That was an improvement, wasn’t it? The residents of the apartment were three men who looked to be in their early twenties. “Welcome,” said the one who’d originally opened the door. “Please, yallah. Hurry. Please. Come in. Everybody.” According to the many textbooks on the table and the many tinfoil containers of mostly eaten koshari, he and the other two residents were students. They were preparing for some kind of exam. They must’ve been preparing for days. Such was their desire to achieve a high score, a good job, a way out. Soon the apartment was filled to capacity with people who’d run from the gas. The students, after greeting everybody, immediately turned back to their work. Charlie admired their ability to stay focused. To keep going no matter what.

  It was well known that people living in the buildings surrounding the square had a kind of open-door policy at dire times. Protesters and pedestrians alike, fleeing goons in all the garb they came—police garb, riot-police garb, army garb, dressed-down pedestrian garb—had, in the early days of the revolution, just ducked into the entryways of the buildings surrounding the square. This to escape being captured or to avoid breathing gas. The residents were glad to invite them inside. If not glad, then at least willing. As if it was their duty as residents living so close to the square to shelter people from danger. That was why so many of the famous photographs of the giant crowds covering every inch of Tahrir and spilling beyond its boundaries—at its peak, Tahrir was buried under the feet of more than a million people—were taken from the vantage of such apartments. Not because so many photographers had conveniently been living there, but because so many had been invited inside. Photographers were especially welcome to hide because they were so tyrannized. Goons just loved whacking the press. Especially freelancers. The young men and women with cameras but no credentials, who were hoping to begin their careers.