by August Li
He turned to the others. “What is it?”
“Salah al-Din Al Ayouby Citadel,” Flicker said. “Built in the twelfth century—by your reckoning—to protect the city from the Crusaders.”
“I have some connection to this place,” Janan said, knowing it was true. He couldn’t explain it but looking at the castle built on the hill in the center of the city swelled his heart with pride.
“I doubt that,” Flicker said. “It hasn’t served as anything but a monument and a museum for quite some time.”
“That could be something,” Isra said. “Janan, you seem to know a great deal about history. You’re clearly a scholar. Perhaps you worked in this place, helped to preserve the story of what happened here. That would make sense.”
It did make sense, and at the periphery of his thoughts, Janan sensed dozens of stories floating by. He knew about the Crusades, the battles, the great men who had defended their faith on both sides, the tragedy of how similar their philosophies were though they chose to fight….
“It will probably be open in a few hours,” Isra said. “Should we wait and go inside?”
Janan stared at the citadel for a while longer, and then he looked back up the road. Without his mind to rely on, he had to trust his heart, his instincts, and they told him to continue on. “We should keep walking.”
Since a number of people already milled about—many of them likely tourists waiting to tour the citadel—Janan resisted the urge to take Isra’s hand and reminded himself that no matter what else happened, he had this man. They had each other. That thought comforted him when his imagination carried him away and he contemplated what they might face.
Whatever it was, they would face it together.
As if he knew Janan needed him, Isra looked up and caught Janan’s gaze. When he smiled, it was like the sun rising over the hills in the desert, and it reminded Janan that this darkness he was mired in couldn’t last. No matter what, the sun had to rise eventually. He could wait. He had to.
“We’ll keep walking.” Isra drank from his water skin and then took his place beside Janan, letting him lead the way.
Strangely, Janan knew where he wanted to go, though he had no idea why he wanted to go there. On the outskirts of the old town lay New Cairo City, and at its center, Katameya Heights. Despite the clear intentions of those who’d built the development, it clashed against the burnished ancient city with its new construction, Western-style condominiums, and golf courses so green the grass seemed painted. As they ascended, walking sidewalks so smooth they would’ve felt like fine sand beneath Janan’s bare feet, devices sprayed rainbows of water over the swards of grass in front of the buildings. Hotels with men in suits waiting to hold doors sat in front of lakes of water too clear and blue to be natural. The flowers lining the walkways to the mansions were uniform in size, too perfect for nature and less appealing because of it. There was even an artificial smell hanging over this alien world that looked down on the rest of Cairo: expensive perfume, chlorine, and something vegetal yet artificial.
But to Janan, it was familiar.
How?
He closed his eyes against the images of bubbly yellow wine in slender cups, deviled eggs topped with caviar, white trousers and argyle sweater vests. People who’d heard of Byron and Shelley but quoted their words for accolades and with no understanding of the meaning.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods….
That was not this place. Here the paths were measured out and perfectly straight. People were not expected to stray from them.
“Janan, are you all right?” Isra sounded worried. He knew they had no business here. “I think we might’ve gotten lost.”
They’d reached the pinnacle of a verdant hill. On one side of the road was a small park—palm trees, a burbling fountain, and a staggering view of the city, a dull golden labyrinth spread below them. On the other, properties—villas set behind a tall hedge, everything shaded and moist… and a sturdy gate presided over by a group of uniformed men in a kiosk.
Though he knew it would sound ridiculous, Janan said, “I feel like we need to be here.”
He expected argument, but Flicker said, “I… feel the same. Something is waiting for us here, or we must wait for something. We might as well have a seat over there, where we can look down upon all of Cairo. I expect we will be asked to leave before long.”
Janan looked to the kiosk. The men inside had definitely noticed them.
“But if we need to stay, I’ll see to it,” the arafrit continued. “For now, let’s sit. Let’s sit so we can watch the road.”
They went to the bench on the far side of the fountain. The taste of chemically treated water was heavy on the air.
Isra shook his head. “I expect those guards will object to us lighting a fire. Shame.” He rubbed his belly. “After a walk of seven hours or more, I wouldn’t mind at least boiling up some lentils.”
He fell silent, and the three of them sat. The Bedouins had taught Janan to gauge the passage of time by the position of the sun, and he watched as midmorning came and went, and then midday. No call to prayers went out. Nothing broke the monotony but the rhythmic hiss and spurt of the sprinklers on the laws across the street—not even the sound of insects. For the first time, Janan realized he’d been awake all night, and he eyed the shade of a copse of trees, thinking to spread his burnoose and lie down as he normally did. His eyes were closing by themselves, and the grass looked so cool and cushiony.
A high-pitched screech jolted Janan awake, and he bolted up from where he’d slumped against Isra. The gate to the community across the street stood open. Apparently a sleek black car—a Jaguar—had just exited. Judging by the black streaks on the road, it had made a sharp turn to pull up alongside the small park.
The window rolled down, and a woman in a champagne-colored hajib sat behind the wheel. For a few minutes she stared at them with her coral-painted lips gaping. “Sh-sheikh Mu’awiyah?”
All of them—even Flicker—looked around as if the sheikh might emerge from the bushes behind them. When he didn’t, they sat staring dumfounded at the woman. At least Janan did. Flicker studied one of his rings, and Isra paused in lighting his pipe to stand and move in front of Janan.
After a few moments, the woman seemed to gather herself. She put on the car’s flashers and exited the vehicle, wearing a burgundy pantsuit that looked custom-made for her slender body. By the time she reached them, her confusion seemed to return, and she looked about like the rest of them had before saying, “Glory to God, it is you, sir!”
It took a while for Janan to realize she was looking at him. “What… me?”
“Sir?”
“Oh honestly.” Flicker moved to stand at Janan’s side. He looked at the woman—thankfully with the shemagh still covering his face, or she might’ve screamed—and said, “Let’s approach this reasonably. Tell us your name.”
“I-I’m Sehrish, personal assistant to the sheikh. We’ve been working together for almost six years, since you returned to Egypt from your studies and sabbaticals abroad. Sir, I have to ask: Where in God’s name have you been?”
“You….” Janan shook his head. This woman looked familiar, but he was certain he’d never met her, spoken to her, before. Her Arabic was perfect, but without the local flavor and accented in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. “You think I am this man, Sheikh Mu’awiyah?”
Sehrish pressed the back of her hand to Janan’s forehead as if checking for a fever. “Who do you think you are?”
Flicker laughed musically. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
She looked from Flicker to Isra and back. “Sir, who are these men? Have they… hurt you in some way?”
“What? Never,” Isra said. “We’ve been helping Janan, er… helping him try to regain his memories. It seems we might’ve succeeded.”
“You don’t remember who you are?” Sehrish asked Janan.
“Can you help me?” As he looked into
her dark eyes, accented with the subtlest lines of kohl, he realized he trusted her… trusted her as much as he trusted Isra. For now he chose not to analyze that too closely. “Can you?”
“Yes, I can. Come. Get into the car and I’ll take you home. It’s long overdue.”
Chapter Eleven
BY THE time Sehrish pulled into a wide, sloped drive and drove into a garage that opened as if by magic, Isra was itching to get out of the car, his nerves firing at being confined. Even though the garage was enormous—it held four cars with room for twice as many—the sense of claustrophobia didn’t subside. Janan was busy looking around, touching the shelves on the walls, the stainless steel refrigerator, the tools and devices that glimmered on their meticulously arranged hooks.
“These things… are mine?” he asked.
“Of course,” Sehrish said. “This is your home. Why don’t we go inside and get out of the heat? Surely you’re hungry. You and your friends can refresh yourselves, and then we can talk about… this.”
Isra was glad when he agreed, because despite the shock of the situation, his stomach was growling. As he followed Sehrish and Janan up the three concrete steps that led into the house, he wondered what kind of food she might serve. Would they be like the tiny gilded things served at the Western-style restaurants? He hoped not. He needed something more than a few artful bites in a pool of colored sauce. Would Sehrish sit down and eat with the men?
They entered the foyer, and Isra breathed a sigh of relief at the light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the front wall. The villa wasn’t what he’d expected when they pulled up. It was spacious, but it didn’t contain the gold-plated furnishings and crystal chandeliers Isra anticipated. The open floor plan was long and rectangular, narrower at the front where a pair of plush leather chairs sat in front of the arched windows, looking small and alone in the empty space. At the far opposite end stood an open kitchen with a large island and sparkling stainless steel appliances. Between was enough room for everyone in Isra’s tribe to dance—them and all their distant relatives. Several sets of double doors on the wall opposite the garage offered views of a large deck ringed with red stone columns and festooned with lights. It held a fire pit, dozens of padded lounge chairs, a wet bar, a hot tub, and two long dining tables beneath a vine-covered trellis. Palm trees and flowers grew from elaborate planters, and beyond them, a huge field of grass that looked too soft and green to be real, more like a lush carpet. Steps led to a large pool surrounded with more lounge chairs and potted plants, and in the distance, Isra caught a faint glimpse of the manicured slopes of a golf course.
As Flicker looked around, he seemed a dark blot against the pale plaster walls with their faint impression of beige leaves, creamy marble, and polished wood floors. “A little Spartan, isn’t it?”
Sehrish moved toward the kitchen at the opposite end of the villa. “The sheikh prefers it that way. He’s never been fond of clutter or useless knickknacks.” She chuckled. “Though the library upstairs is the exception.”
“So only one person lives here?” Isra could hardly believe it.
“The sheikh owns this home,” she explained as she opened the huge refrigerator. “He spends… spent little of his time here, however. All of you must forgive me. I dismissed most of the staff weeks ago, as there seemed no need to retain them. That includes the chef, so I am afraid you’re stuck with what I’m able to prepare. And that’s sandwiches.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Isra said. No matter how bizarre the circumstances, he could at least show common courtesy.
“Shall we eat on the terrace?” she asked without acknowledging him.
Everyone waited for Janan.
“Uh, yes. Why not?”
“Very good, sir.” She sliced small, round loaves of bread, cut tomatoes, and arranged a variety of sliced meats and cheeses on a platter. In another bowl, she prepared a salad with spinach, herbs, and olives, and finally she placed melon slices and berries in a second bowl. She took four green glass bottles from another drawer of the refrigerator.
Isra didn’t know what was proper, but he knew she couldn’t carry all that herself. A little apprehensively, he went to the counter where the feast waited and picked up the platter of meats and bowl of salad. “Please, let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”
She arched a brow. “Aren’t you enlightened.”
“You have no idea,” Flicker said.
They ate on the deck, and after his body’s needs were met, Isra found it easier to contemplate this unexpected turn their path had taken. He looked at the field of grass and sparkling blue pool as Sehrish went inside for coffee and biscuits. It wasn’t exactly an ostentatious palace, but it was far more than the Bedouin could offer Janan. And looking at him in his padded chair, drinking effervescent water from a crystal goblet, Isra had to admit he belonged here, seemed completely natural in this environment with his aristocratic good looks and elegant bearing. So did Flicker, who had done away with his most startling pieces of jewelry, like the chains across his face, and somehow made his eyes—though still the orange of an open flame—look more human with round pupils. He appeared a decadent desert prince, or maybe a brigand from some romantic tale.
Isra should be happy they’d soon have answers about Janan’s past, but he couldn’t help thinking that he was the only one who didn’t belong here. He never would. He didn’t think he could learn to understand a life like this as Janan had learned to live in the desert. Worse yet, how could Janan give this up—all these riches and almost certainly the power that went with them—to return to the desert and no more possessions than he could carry?
Probably because of Flicker and the advantages he offered to Isra, Isra had never feared much… beyond the discovery of his secrets. He didn’t worry about finding food or water because he knew how to harvest all the desert offered. He knew how to take care of himself and rarely feared harm or even death. But sitting here surrounded by the scent of flowers that could never thrive by natural means, he was terrified because he felt certain that when he left this villa, he would be going alone. Janan was back where he belonged, and Isra would need to go where he was meant to go.
Strange—being alone, the idea of a lifetime of it, had never bothered him. But then, the desert didn’t know it needed rain until God granted it and the barren land exploded in flowers as if to show its gratitude.
Sehrish returned with a carafe and a platter holding cups, saucers, a pitcher of cream, and various cakes and cookies. She filled each of their cups and then sat down, taking a frosted pink confection for herself. She seemed to be bracing herself to say something, and when she finally spoke, she eased into the subject. “So you have been in the desert all these months, living among the Bedouin?”
“That’s right,” Janan said. “It’s… it became my home. One that I learned to love.”
“But I don’t understand how you ended up all the way in…. Where was it? Qena? What were you doing there, and why did you never try to contact me or come home? Why did you not try to contact your family?”
Janan told the story of his time in Qena and what had happened since he’d met Isra. He explained how he remembered broad aspects of life and his personality, but nothing specific. He hadn’t known he had any family, and searching had not provided any evidence to the contrary. He told her of the flashes of images he sometimes experienced and how they seemed to be wrenched from his mind almost as soon as they formed.
“You must understand,” he said to her, “for what seems to me the entirety of my life, short though it may be, I have been a Bedouin. Being told that this is mine”—he stared down at the silver sugar spoon he held—“it seems ridiculous. Unbelievable. Probably how you might feel if you were to awake one morning and be told you’d been Queen of England all along.”
“Does nothing around you seem familiar?” she asked, an edge of desperation creeping into her voice.
He looked around, gazing for many moments at the
sward of emerald sloping up to the palm trees at the edge of the golf course. “I don’t even know what to make of this. What exactly did I do here?”
She sighed. “Sir, your family is the sixth wealthiest in all of Egypt, and you’re the oldest son. You’re the head of a very lucrative and powerful group of corporations, as well as the patriarch of an ancient and revered line.”
“Well, at least we know what might motivate someone to place a curse on our wayward sheikh,” Flicker said.
“Curse? What are you talking about?” Sehrish had no issue talking back to a man, Isra noticed.
“He means only that misfortune has befallen Janan, and we’ve been trying to discover the source,” Isra hurried to say.
“No, that isn’t what I mean at all,” Flicker said. “We’ll gain nothing by circling around this subject and trying to pretend it’s something other than what it is. I realize it’s difficult for your people to accept what you cannot understand and cannot control—you’d rather make up silly stories to explain it—but I am not willing to waste my time, even though I have it in abundance compared to all of you. Our Janan, whatever you want to call him, is the victim of a curse. As in, a magical spell executed by a powerful sorcerer or other practitioner. You can prop him up on a fancy chair and dress him in expensive clothes, but unless we find the person responsible and break this curse, he’ll wander through this expensive home with an empty head and an emptier heart, no good to himself or anyone else.”
“Nonsense.” Sehrish balled up her cloth napkin and tossed it onto the table. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish with this foolishness, but I’m an educated woman, and I won’t be manipulated by superstition. In case you didn’t know, I’m also the sheikh’s personal bodyguard, so I won’t be intimidated. What we need to do is get him to a hospital so a doctor can check for a head injury or some other physical cause for this amnesia. Magic, honestly.”