Sarai

by Lilya Myers

  Saib’s nose singled out the scent that would have drawn people to the cart before it exploded. The smell grew stronger as he hurried in the opposite direction, putting distance between himself and anyone who might recognize him, particularly his brother. A pleasant aroma; one that captivated the senses with a delectable and enticing fragrance. Shawarma was a popular food cooked on portable spits throughout the city. Marinated slabs of beef, layered on a vertical spit, spinning slowly for hours over a propane flame was a favored treat during Ramadan. The cart chef would shave off thin slices of meat onto a small bun and slather it with a sesame seed paste called tahini. His stomach began to growl, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since morning.

  In the shadows nearby, another figure had been taking in the scene. To him, the stench of burning flesh was familiar and not so unpleasant. The observer emerged from the shadows and blended into the crowd, moving away from the turmoil.

  CHAPTER 4

  ALTHOUGH HE HAD many other shops across Cairo, Nahab had turned his attention to the one at the marketplace near Giza when he was not out of town on business.

  From a comfortable chair out of the sun, he’d watch men ride by on bicycles, balancing their weight against the caged chickens spanning a width of four feet over their back tire. It reminded him of the days he made the long bumpy ride from the Delta to Cairo with his father. Eventually, their small donkey-drawn cart would arrive in Cairo, where they’d sell everything they brought that day. As long as Nahab was with his father, they did. In sha-a-lah, with the help of their god, they would have enough to bring to market the next day. His family’s small farm raised chickens for their eggs and a crop of okra and other vegetables. His mother and sisters would collect the eggs and pick the vegetables to sell the next day.

  Nahab was a natural born salesman and very smart. He had a head for business at a very young age, too. It didn’t take him long to make their family business quite profitable. What would take his father all day to sell only took him half the time. Nahab often stayed behind in Cairo and found a way home late at night. He was an observer of people. Watching what things interested them was a learning process he indulged in. It helped him to select which handmade goods from locals sold well so he could bargain down the price and buy to resell for a profit. On hot summer nights, he would string necklaces of fresh jasmine to sell to passersby in cars. The enticing scent overpowered the stench of the city.

  Nahab had goals that he would never reach on the farm. He held to both modern and ancient traditions, but mostly, money was the key to obtaining the desires of his heart. After secondary school, he was accepted to the American University in Cairo. With the money he had saved and scholarships, he made his way through college. Even before he earned a business degree, Nahab was running a successful and very profitable import/export business that carried a broad spectrum of products.

  It was early morning and a city bulging at its seams was coming to life. The thought of sitting at the Gezira Sporting Club right now with a cool drink was tempting. Situated in Zamalek, an upscale area of Cairo, the Gezira Sporting Club was traditionally aristocratic. All 150 manicured acres, carved out of botanical gardens, were home to a long list of sporting activities. The club had catered to the elite for nearly a hundred years. There were times for Gezira but not today.

  Instead, he decided to spend the day in one of his shops in Giza, located on the west bank of the Nile. Giza was noted for monuments dating back to its ancient history. The shop was one way for Nahab to function in the modern world while holding onto the culture of the past. It amused him to see the procession out on the street. Donkeys and camels plodding through traffic was a normal sight as were the cars and trucks turning frantically to avoid the near collisions their counterparts caused. The four-legged transportation kicked up dust, while the rest added to the thick brown smog hanging in the air over the expansive metropolis. The sun shimmered through the brown haze over a mirage-like image that appeared to rise out of the sand in the desert. The Pyramids.

  Ancients.

  Tradition. All must be preserved.

  A teenage boy had been lurking around the marketplace lately. Nahab spotted him on a few occasions in the past. Several of the shopkeepers had identified him as one of Aswad’s bastard sons, Kafele. He knew that there were three boys but he had never met Kafele. Nahab recognized Aswad’s other two sons by sight. While he was growing up and traveling into Cairo with his father, Nahab had dealt with them many times. He wasn’t privileged then like they were. Their home was situated on a large compound nearby, where they lived in luxury. He wondered why it appeared that this boy was purposefully killing time in the streets. There were rumors. The rumors piqued the curious mind in Nahab. His own probing produced some information about the boy, but there was much more to learn.

  Kafele was a teenager. He had never stolen. A loner always. Until recently. That day, Nahab saw him tagging along with a group who were known for stealing. Little thieves. Street boys whose fathers were off making more babies with other wives. Nahab observed the boy and decided that soon they would no longer be strangers. It was a good reason to spend more time in Giza. Pocketing opportunity now to use later was one of Nahab’s strongest suits. Nahab had also done a lot of digging into the life of the boy’s father, the notorious Aswad.

  He took note that it wasn’t until recently that Kafele had begun running with a group of young teenagers, known by the shopkeepers as little hoodlums. They sometimes stole from Nahab when he wasn’t looking, but mostly they stole food from the vendors, whatever they could resell. Kafele was still a shy and timid boy but only he knew that it was a condition resulting from years of abuse. His new circle of friends didn’t question why. They were simply determined to change it. And if he failed their test, he’d become their patsy. Gradually, Kafele saw how their contempt and defiance had the power to influence the way the world treated them. He desperately wanted that power. Needed it.

  Nahab observed the early, subtle changes in the boy. He had gotten a good sense of Kafele’s personality. It was time they met.

  Kafele was about to slip a piece of fruit into his pocket when the fruit vendor wasn’t looking. This was his maiden voyage, his initiation into the brotherhood of thieves; a life seemingly normal compared to the one he lived on the compound with his father. His success depended upon his acceptance by these delinquents. A large woven carpet hanging in an adjacent shop blocked the boy’s view of the big man focused on him a relatively short distance away.

  Kafele was a handsome boy. His dark wavy hair and deep chocolate eyes enhanced the other features that made up his good looks. The pairing of his mother and Aswad produced, by far, the most attractive of Aswad’s sons.

  Kafele kept his eyes on the shopkeeper, afraid to look anywhere else. Nahab stood up. He was quite tall for the average Egyptian. It was obvious that he didn’t get his physical attributes from sitting in a chair all day. His broad shoulders and his toned muscular frame filled the doorway of his shop.

  “Walid! Ta-wa-qaf !” Nahab said firmly.

  Kafele stopped as he was commanded and froze, his arm still extended into the box and his hand still on the piece of fruit. He had failed his initiation. The first thing the boys had taught him was to grab and run. He didn’t. The fear his father had instilled in him was still in control. Kafele didn’t move a muscle, not even to draw back his hand or turn his head to see where the voice came from. Nahab had taken only four long strides to reach the boy as the shopkeeper’s attention turned to them. He planted one big hand firmly on Kafele’s shoulder. Before the man could start yelling, Nahab handed him fifty piastres, five times what the piece of fruit would have cost. The look on Nahab’s face was warning enough to keep the shopkeeper from bickering for more.

  All hope of making a run for it now was useless. His friends had probably been watching. He’d never be accepted into their circle after this. Nahab led him by the shoulder to his shop and gestured for him to sit on the carpet near a chair.
Kafele was obedient. Younger boys looking to make a few piastres, merely pennies, looked in the shop as they passed by. Nahab waved at a nine-year-old boy, an errand runner and son of one of the shopkeepers. He handed the boy some money, telling him to return promptly with a couple of Egyptian sodas.

  Nahab sat in his chair just a foot away from Kafele. He handed one of the sodas to Kafele and set his own on the side table next to him. Clasping his hands together, he leaned forward so his elbows rested on his thighs. This closed the space between them even more.

  Kafele eyed the man warily. Will he tell my father? That will get me a beating and more. What does he want from me? He didn’t want to think what would happen if he tried to run now.

  Nahab broke the silence between them. His voice was deep and menacing. Kafele wondered what he expected for saving him from the shopkeeper.

  Perhaps he sent word to my father. Or maybe he’s crazy like my father.

  “Why did you try to steal that fruit?” Nahab asked.

  There was no point in lying. “The other boys…they…they would be my friends if I could do it.”

  “Why did you choose them to be your friends?”

  Strangely, the questioning relaxed Kafele. There was something about the man that Kafele found more interesting than frightening. “They’re strong. They can run fast. They’re not afraid,” Kafele answered.

  “I see. So you think that stealing will make them, make you, as strong as me? Hmmf. Maybe they can run fast but do you not think they can run fast because they are afraid? How fast can they be when they are not afraid?” Nahab caught Kafele watching the flex of his arm muscles each time he lifted the soda bottle to his lips.

  The conversation sparked Kafele’s own curiosities. He sized up the man. “How did you get so strong?” Kafele asked boldly.

  Nahab was waiting for that door to open. Once it did, he walked right through it. He began by telling the boy about exercise, strength, and being able to fight. He went on in great detail, holding Kafele’s attention captive. The boy was intrigued with this subject. He liked thinking about a time when he might become so strong that he could beat the man who had terrorized him for far too long. It was the silent shame he carried. He couldn’t tell anyone what his father had done to him for years.

  Kafele hung on every word, which stroked Nahab’s ego. Strength was vital for more than intimidation, he reflected to himself. Nahab continued, placing importance on endurance, strength, and power. These were traits that kept him ahead of the ones who didn’t practice them.

  “Come. I want to show you something,” Nahab said.

  Nahab pushed his imposing bulk and height out of the chair. He had no doubt that Kafele would follow. They stepped outside the shop so Nahab could pull down the door that would seal his wares from big and small thieving hands. Cairo had plenty of both. He snapped the padlock on the door and headed down the alleyway. Kafele stayed several paces behind in the event he had to run. Nahab sensed his trepidation and entered first.

  What Kafele saw inside made his eyes go big and round.

  The single, large room was filled with weight benches, racks of dumbbells, and a variety of other strength equipment. There was even a professional punching bag in one corner. Kafele just stood there in awe, the desired effect Nahab had intended

  There was a stack of tall mirrors against one wall. Kafele asked, “What are the mirrors for?”

  “I once used them to check my squat technique and some other lifting routines.”

  “So why did you take them down?”

  “It was like watching someone else do a workout. I felt like I was putting more effort into looking at the person in the mirror than improving my own performance. All your concentration should go into what you feel, not see. Do you want me to show you how to do some curls?” Nahab asked, taking three great strides over to a weight rack.

  “You will?” Kafele asked, even though he didn’t know what a curl was.

  For the next hour, Nahab won over Kafele’s confidence as he showed him different exercises with the lighter weights. The whole time they were there, they never once talked about what happened earlier in the day. This was an exciting new world for Kafele. The best day of his life was cut short when Nahab abruptly announced that it was time to go. Kafele’s expression made it evident that he didn’t want to leave.

  “Maybe I will see you again,” Nahab said flatly. Without another word, he locked up and walked off in a direction away from his shop.

  The boy stood there wondering what he might have said or done wrong.

  CHAPTER 5

  NAHAB MADE HIMSELF scarce for several days after that. He was sure that Kafele would return. Kafele came to his shop each day until, at last, Nahab thought he had stayed away long enough. It was Nahab who spotted Kafele before the boy saw him. He smiled to himself and waited in his chair for Kafele to come to him. As anxious as Kafele was to talk to Nahab again, his courage waxed and waned as quickly as his chest rose and fell with every breath. Finally, he slowly walked into Nahab’s shop and stood waiting for the big man to acknowledge him. Nahab sat in his chair with a newspaper in his hands. He waited a few moments before looking up. “So. You are back.”

  “No. I…I mean, yes. Shokran. Thank you for…for what you did, saving me from a lot of trouble.” Trouble didn’t come close to describing what his father would have done to him if word got back about what he was really doing in the afternoons. Retribution would have been swift and harsh.

  “Afwan,” Nahab said as he gave the newspaper a quick snap and returned to his reading.

  Kafele continued to stand there. “Here,” said Kafele as he placed fifty piastres on the man’s table. “I must pay you what I owe you. The money you paid the man for the fruit.”

  Nahab waited a few moments before looking back up at him. “You said thank you. I said you’re welcome. You owed me nothing more. Is there something else?”

  Kafele summoned up every ounce of daring that had been stolen from him by his father. “Will you teach me to be strong? I mean, I want to learn –”

  Nahab settled the paper in his lap and eyed the boy. Without another word between them, Nahab stood up slowly and walked out of the small shop. Kafele was confused and just stood there.

  “Well, are you coming or do you just plan to stand there and look like that farmer’s jackass?” Nahab pointed to a burro that had been parked by the street chewing on a stalk of barley straw. When Kafele looked back, he realized that Nahab had locked up the shop and was already walking in direction of his gym. It was the second best day of his life.

  Kafele, the youngest of Aswad’s sons, was given the least attention by his half-brothers and too much at the hands of his father. It was a sick and ugly secret. As he grew into his teens, the detachment from his family grew wider and his temperament became more caustic. The marketplace and the time he got to spend with Nahab were his only escape from the abuse by his father until the novelty of his innocence was gone. Aswad thought nothing about where the teenage boy spent his days or who he was becoming. There was someone who had come along and gained Kafele’s trust. Someone to whom Kafele confided. Someone who instilled in him a confidence and fearlessness he had never known before. Aswad was too absorbed in his own indulgences to notice the permutations in the personality of his youngest son.

  Kafele’s attitude had shifted and his body along with it. With Nahab’s coaching and training, Kafele was developing the strength and physique of a Greek God. It was this badge of manhood that helped to mask the old wound of humiliation. The changes in Kafele weren’t lost on Aswad. Kafele’s contempt and resistance might push him to lash out in a way that would be damaging to Aswad, so he abruptly stopped the assaults on Kafele. The boy was becoming unmanageable, but the shame his father had imposed on him all those years was still too great to disclose and Aswad was confident that he wouldn’t.

  His father’s exploits with the young Sudanese girls were no secret. When Aswad would try to engage Kafele in conv
ersations about his encounters the inferences only served to trip the wire on the explosive temper Kafele had developed. And when provoked, that temper would cause even his father to back down. Unlike his older brother, Saib, Kafele did not control his temper for anyone. Less so for Aswad. He gave the impression of being a loose cannon. That would make him an undependable candidate in handling some of his father’s dirty work. Kafele liked that Aswad saw it that way. He wanted Aswad to keep thinking that.

  Aswad was busy moving the chess pieces and keeping close tabs on his conspirators. But if he wanted any of his sons for some special task, he was unyielding. He knew what buttons to push. Money was key for one, maybe for two of his sons. It seemed to keep Saib satisfied, mostly.

  Manipulating Omar was usually accomplished with a handful of cash and a healthy portion of control through shame. Kafele didn’t seem to care about the money at all. For a long time, he responded well to a good dose of degradation and humiliation. But then something began to change.

  ***

  Kafele attended an English school that was about ten miles from his father’s compound. A driver was responsible for getting him to school and picking him up. Instead of being taken home, he would have the driver drop him off in the market area several streets from where he lived. He told his father that he was meeting with friends to play soccer because he knew it was the one thing that Aswad would approve. Kafele had other objectives.