Nomad's Dream

by August Li

  “What about your wives?”

  Salih chuckled. “I’m a little tired of them too. Well, the honest answer is they’re tired of me. Some time apart won’t hurt.”

  “Thinking about a new one?” Isra asked.

  “Ha! Can’t afford a new one. Besides, if we should happen upon a suitable girl who’s not too expensive, you need her more than I do! No, I’ll spend a few months celibate, and when I return, my wives will have transformed into princesses from the old tales and we’ll have forgotten every argument we’ve ever had. Wait and see. I’ll have at least one more child by this time next year. You really should start a family. You’re not getting any younger. Or any handsomer.” Salih bumped Isra’s shoulder with his own.

  “Women’s families prefer an older man. Someone with wisdom and patience.” Arguing with Salih was almost as bad as arguing with Flicker, just for different reasons.

  “Then there you are.” Satisfied he’d won, Salih took the pot off the fire to dish out their breakfast. Then he checked the flatbread he’d baked on a hot, smooth stone. “We’ll make some inquiries. The herd’s good this year. We can spare some goats. We’ll get you a pretty one, and when you bring your bride home, we’ll have a huge feast and stuff ourselves with meat for days.”

  “I suppose we can see what happens.”

  “Mm.” Salih nodded with approval as he tucked into his food. “You should go retrieve your camel.”

  By the time they’d eaten, had coffee, and enjoyed a leisurely pipe together, the dawn washed the desert in rose gold, a muted light that softened everything. Isra filled his water skin and packed his essentials into the ibex-skin bag. He’d walked about two miles in the direction of the wadi where Salih had seen his camel when he saw a slight figure on a cliff, long hair stretching out behind him like a banner. He raised his hand, though he knew without a doubt Flicker hadn’t come to help him look for his camel. He looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, Flicker was gone.

  The next morning, as Isra and Salih began the ride to Qena, which would take six days, dozens of sheep and goats herded between their camels, Flicker stood watching them from atop a round boulder. Isra wasn’t sure whether the arafrit’s presence imparted a sense of security or foreboding.

  THE MAN used the sleeve of his jubbah to scrub at his teeth and gums. He hated the way they felt a few hours after he’d eaten or when he first woke up, and the coarse cloth helped. But like so many things, it also frustrated him, because he knew he’d once cleaned his teeth more efficiently. When, where, and how, he couldn’t remember. He also knew that at some point, his hygiene regime hadn’t been limited to going to the bank of the river, scrubbing his single worn garment, and rinsing the stale sweat from his body as best he could with the muddy water.

  His earliest memory was of the suq in town, opening his eyes to its noise and color with his head throbbing and his mouth dry. When he’d stumbled to a stall, his mouth watering at the sight of the fat melons on display, he’d realized he had nothing—no way to feed or support himself.

  For days he’d been too proud to beg as he waited for the inevitable return of his identity, his past.

  That was months ago, or at least he assumed.

  Today was much like any other. Voices woke him early, and of course he was hungry and thirsty. His basest needs commandeered all his attention, as if he were an animal. Worst of all, he knew it hadn’t always been that way. He hadn’t always planned his life around the best times to snatch crusts of bread from café tables or sort through the produce that was piled behind the market stalls before being fed to the donkeys. No, he knew he had once been… more.

  But now….

  The sun had reached its zenith, and he heard the call to prayer. Though he didn’t join the rest of the men, he found a clean spot of grass beneath a tree, used a splash of water from the bottle a tourist had given him to clean his hands, and went through the postures and recitations he knew so well. How he could remember them when he didn’t know his own name escaped him, but now more than ever, this was important. He was a faithful man, and perhaps God would show him mercy, help him in some way.

  He didn’t know if he could survive this much longer, but if that was God’s will….

  When he finished his prayers, he stayed in his place. Autumn approached, but the day was still hot, and the tree provided pleasant shade. The grass was soft. He had nowhere else to be, and though he tried to prevent it, his mind wandered.

  He’d passed the summer in this city, though he had never seen the spring. He knew it existed—he could even picture it—but he could not picture himself existing in it. When he thought about the winter, it wasn’t a desert winter but snowy mountain slopes dotted with chalets. Skiing. He’d been skiing. Or had he just seen it on television, or in a magazine?

  Where would he have watched television? He’d didn’t even own a pair of sandals—just the battered jubbah and a tan checkered shemagh with holes in several places. He pressed his fists into his eyes, the frustration rising as quickly as the temperature. He could smell the snow and evergreens… hot chocolate. Yet he was an Egyptian man. He spoke the local dialect of Arabic, his coloring matched everyone else’s, and he even remembered how to tie the shemagh into a turban in the local style.

  So why did he feel so certain he belonged somewhere else?

  He managed to muffle the cry bubbling up so it came out as a groan, but the sound still startled a trio of old men walking by. One of them shook his head and gave the man a few coins.

  “May God bless you,” the man said as he closed his fist around the coins, surprised by his own voice. He still wasn’t used to the sound.

  “May God have mercy on you” came the reply.

  The man looked down at the coins and smiled. If he waited until the suq was about to close, he could haggle for enough fruit to feed himself for two days. The sudden, fierce desire for a cup of coffee came out of nowhere, and the man bit back a sob.

  He shook his head. “Coffee,” he muttered to himself, staring down at the coins on his palm. “Café… no. Not café au lait. Espresso. That was it. Espresso. Why? Why do I want espresso?”

  A little man with a white beard wandered across the street and stopped in front of the tree. “I’ve told you before about hanging around here.”

  The man looked up. This fellow was called Hakim, and he owned a small shop across the street that sold mostly pots, pans, dishes, and silverware. On some tables out front, he displayed knickknacks to attract the tourists—mainly replicas of ancient relics.

  “Do you know what it is? Espresso?” the man asked Hakim.

  “I know I’ve said you can’t spend the day out here ranting and talking to yourself,” the shopkeeper said. “The children think you’re enthralled by an arafrit, and the tourists don’t like beggars, especially noisy ones. Here.” Hakim passed the man a stack of still-warm flatbread wrapped in a piece of cloth.

  The man took the gift and held it close to his chest, looking up at Hakim. He had to try again. “Are you sure you don’t know me? Know who I might be? Isn’t there… isn’t there someone looking for me? Someone who—” He choked and then cleared his throat. “There must be someone who cares about me… somewhere.”

  Hakim smiled sadly. “I’ve lived here all my life, and my family lived here four generations before that. If you had family or friends in town, I would know. You appeared on these streets overnight, and since then, no one has come looking for you. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more. But now you’ll need to move on, before you get yourself arrested. May God protect you.”

  The man stood. “The other merchants will just drive me away one by one. What am I going to do?”

  “I’m sorry.” Hakim went back to his shop, picked up a broom, and swept sand and dry grass away from his tables.

  With his prized possessions—the bread, the few coins, and the plastic bottle half-full of water—tucked safely under one arm, the man walked. At first he wandered the market area, watc
hing people, considering stalls, and looking through shop windows. He tried to keep to himself, but every few moments someone or something—a man in a business suit, a stand selling fountain pens, a poster advertising a ballet—would ignite a flash in his mind, conjure an image that sparked emotion but no concrete memory, and he would cry out. Then whoever stood nearby would curse at him or chase him off.

  None of them saw beyond his dirty clothing, bare feet, and matted hair. Did they even see him as a man with a heart like their own?

  He continued walking west. The tarmac and cement were hot beneath his soles, but his feet had grown thick and tough. Those first days—the first days he could remember—had been a misery as the street scorched and tore the tender skin of his bare feet. The blisters had wept for days, and he didn’t know how he’d avoided infection.

  Shoes. He must’ve at one time regularly worn shoes.

  What did it matter now? Of all of him, his feet had adapted best.

  Passing through humble neighborhoods, he watched families and children, little boys kicking a ball in an alley and a group of fully veiled women fluttering softly by, hoping they might help him remember his own family. He must’ve come from somewhere, and though he felt the ache to belong, he could attach no faces to the emotion. Hakim would know if he had family anywhere in town.

  Perhaps he was alone and destined to remain that way.

  Maybe he did not matter to a single person in all the world, and he would need to learn to accept that, just as his feet had learned to endure the merciless and cutting ground.

  But that was too enormous to consider. Better to occupy himself with practical matters. At least he’d found the perfect place to sleep, where he had some cover and wouldn’t be beaten, robbed, or beleaguered by the city’s many stray dogs. If he continued walking in this direction, he could reach his secret space in time for the evening prayer.

  The rest he would forget for now, because it would inevitably return to torment him when the sun departed and the expanse of the night sky made him feel even more alone and insignificant. At least no one would be able to hear him crying out as he stumbled along his hellish nocturnal journey.

  Perhaps he’d done something wicked, if God had seen fit to deny him even the reprieve of dreams.

  Chapter Three

  ISRA AND Salih had some distant cousins who lived just outside Qena, two men and their wives who had left behind the nomadic life for one in a long, low house made of concrete blocks. These men acted as intermediaries between the tribe and the townspeople, helping the Bedouin find buyers for their animals and wares and the best prices for the supplies they needed. Isra hobbled the camels and filled their trough from a nearby pump while Salih drove the livestock into the pens set up for that purpose. They’d arrived just in time to share the evening meal with the cousins and their sons, and afterward they sat beneath a corrugated aluminum awning, smoking and discussing the fortunes of various family members.

  “Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a buyer for your animals,” cousin Sayyid said. “It shouldn’t be hard to get a good price for them.”

  “As long as we get enough for the essentials.” Salih flashed his infamous grin. “Tea, lentils, flour, sugar, tobacco.” He raised his glowing pipe. “Oh, and a pretty wife for my brother, lest he become a great-uncle before he sees his own sons born.”

  They laughed, and Sayyid said, “I can make some inquiries.”

  Isra feigned a chuckle. “As if I want some city girl who can’t tell a donkey’s tracks from a camel’s. No, let’s just worry about selling off the sheep and goats.”

  “This poor fool is hoping to fall in love, I suppose,” Salih teased.

  Sayyid responded with a comical expression of exaggerated confusion. “For that to happen, you have to get married first.”

  “Enough of this talk.” Isra waved his hand, brushing aside the tendrils of smoke from Salih’s pipe. “I’ll find a bride in the spring.”

  “As long as I’m invited to the wedding feast,” Sayyid grumbled. “But for now, I’m going to bed. There’s plenty of room in the house for you two to sleep.”

  “We’ll be fine here.” After the flimsy plastic door closed, Salih tapped his pipe to empty the ashes. “It’s hard to believe that in one generation, the breath of the desert can leave a man’s soul. Their lives are their own, but you won’t get me inside that… box for any longer than I have to be.”

  “I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep,” Isra agreed, eyeing the tiny windows. He couldn’t comprehend someone giving up the desert, all its vast goodness and freedom, to remain on this parcel of land. “It’s like trading a kingdom for a cracker box.”

  Salih grunted his assent as they crossed the dusty patch between the modest home and a line of tall palm trees. There, they bedded down with their pouches for pillows and their cloaks for blankets as they always did. Even through the trees, he could see light from the city a few miles to the west, the way it stained the sky and dimmed the stars. As Salih snored, Isra thought of all those people in tiny buildings like this one, packed in tighter than he’d ever permit with the goats, breathing the same rank air day after day, always looking at the same things.

  As his eyes fluttered shut, he thanked God his desert would be waiting for him, and he hoped Sayyid would sell the livestock quickly.

  He expected his dreams to “wake” him, so it surprised him when he lifted his head to the grunts of the camels and the smell of the animal pens. He tried to identify what had caused him to stir, but with the layers of noise here, it was hard to pick anything out. As he sat up and let his eyes adjust, he noticed a dark silhouette coming closer. Though it took the shape of a man, it didn’t move like one, and even though she was three hundred yards away, his good camel, Eada, snorted and spit with agitation. The shape glided closer, and Isra gripped the knife he wore at his hip. Just as he was about to shake Salih awake, the moon poked from behind a cloud, and he managed to identify a very well-dressed man in loose trousers, a knee-length tunic with gold buttons, a belt, heeled boots, gloves of buttery leather, and a turban that covered his face from the eyes down—all of it black.

  Something seemed off—something beyond the extravagant attire—and Isra’s attention went to the ground behind his visitor. Maybe only a Bedouin would notice, especially in the low light, but the man hadn’t left a trail, which was impossible, especially in his riding boots. As if he faced a skittish animal, Isra moved slowly as he got to his feet and stepped closer. He blew out a sigh when he closed the distance enough to see the man’s eyes—shifting gold, like sunlit sand, with vertical slit pupils.

  Isra slid his knife back into its sheath. “You viper. You gave me a fright on purpose. And what in the world are you wearing?”

  Flicker pushed the cloth away to reveal a crooked grin, as well as the delicate chains and jewelry he always wore. “I need to blend in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going into the city?”

  “We?”

  “Of course. Me and you. I have something I’d like you to see.”

  “What? Now?” Isra looked at the sky, but with all the artificial light, he couldn’t discern how long he’d been asleep. “What time is it?”

  “Not even midnight,” Flicker said. “Come. You’re clearly tired, but we can get a strong cup of coffee in Qena. Then on to our destination.”

  “Which is what?” Isra grumbled even as he followed the arafrit across his cousins’ small yard, not daring to think too long about what would happen if they or Salih woke up to this spectacle.

  “Now, now. That would ruin the surprise.”

  BY THE time they made it to the market at Qena’s center, Isra hardly needed the coffee Flicker procured from a Western-style café full of tourists. They sat together at a round table beneath a vine-covered pergola while Isra drank the bitter liquid and ate baklava.

  Isra couldn’t help being on edge. He felt out of place here, where many of the patrons appeared quite wealthy and some w
ere Westerners in their strange clothes. Nor was he accustomed to cities, with the buildings rising up around him like walls. He never stayed long in the suq, and it offered a better view of the sky than this place. Besides, Flicker drew incredulous stares from the other diners. What would happen to Isra if someone decided he was consorting with an evil spirit, bringing it among them? Surely even the Westerners had the sense to see the danger—and that meant they had more sense than Isra.

  “Is this why you dragged me from my bed? For a late-night snack?” Isra waved a hand at his companion. “And you aren’t even eating!”

  “I’m trying to make you comfortable.” Flicker batted his long lashes. “Isn’t it usual for humans to refresh themselves upon waking?”

  Isra glanced around, hoping no one had overheard the arafrit’s strange statement. “I am refreshed now. Thank you.”

  “Then we’ll continue on.” Flicker stood and dropped some pound notes on the table. Isra didn’t bother asking where they’d come from. Then he put his hand between Isra’s shoulder blades and guided him away from the café.

  Soon they’d left the brightly lit streets of shops, restaurants, and clubs behind. The quiet and more natural illumination calmed Isra’s nerves, and he looked at the simple houses they passed, many with bright curtains covering their windows, some with laundry lines stretched between them.

  “This place has a familiar feel,” he told his companion.

  “I suppose that’s not surprising,” Flicker commented idly. “Your people come to Qena to trade frequently, do they not? At least a few times a year?”

  “Yes, though I don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of the city. The cousins usually take care of the sale of the livestock. Salih and I might come for a day, do some shopping, if anything. He enjoys looking at the bits and bobs more than I ever have.”

  “It perplexes me that you aren’t interested in some variety,” Flicker said.