by Ahmed Mourad
‘Fine, then show me something.’
‘I can’t, Ahmed. These secrets haven’t been made public. I’d get in a world of trouble.’
He was obsessed with tools, and screwdrivers and pincers were everywhere one looked alongside piles of photographic paper, tubs of developer and so many yellowing photographs hung up with bulldog clips that one could scarcely make out the colour of the walls. Most of the pictures were black and white, and included a considerable number showing Gouda in his youth, sporting the Persol glasses he still wore. There were pictures of singers and dancers, and for each one Gouda had a story. Every dancer had fallen passionately in love with him, and he had left them all for another; every singer had been a friend, to whom he had lent money and invited to supper, desperately badgering Gouda to take the picture that would open the doors to glory and fame. He once told Ahmed that Adawiya, the song that made Mohammed Rushdi famous, was his own composition, that he had suggested the song Lovers’ Embraces to Abdel Halim Hafiz, and that the legendary singer Umm Kulthoum had said to him, ‘Gouda, my boy, I want your opinion on a tune. Tell me whether it’s any good,’ to which Gouda had replied, ‘Your wish is my command, dear lady.’
Standing beside some photographs of individuals Ahmed had never seen before he said, ‘These are friends I can’t tell you about, because it’s secret service business.’
Like Alice in Wonderland he would plunge into his fantastical yarns, insensible to the constraints of time and unable to estimate his own age. He was a dear friend of the first president of the country, Mohammed Naguib, and personal photographer to Abdel Nasser and Sadat, while King Farouk had known him by name. He would recount the same story two or three times, varying each telling, and forget he had already told it. They were entertaining stories and Ahmed could not resist them. He would hold back his laughter as he shook his head with the amazement of one who believes every word.
Gouda switched off the lights, without illuminating the red lamp as happens in the movies, because he was developing colour prints. He took careful hold of the negative and placed it under the magnifier, turning the gold dealer’s two pictures into ten: portraits and landscapes, close-ups and long range, and one mounted in a heart-shaped frame. Next, having turned out a quantity of portrait shots of the woman on her own, he made his way back to the customer, who had forgotten that he had ever been photographed in the first place. He had placed the pictures in display sleeves inscribed with the name of the establishment, which he showed to the man and his companion. The dealer pulled out a roll of hundreds bound with an elastic band that could have paid off Egypt’s national debt, peeled off four notes and stuffed them in Gouda’s pocket. The woman whispered that he should give more generously and he freed a couple more notes from their prison. Then she took the pictures and removed the ones where she appeared alone. Taking the rest, he held them beneath the table and ripped them to shreds.
‘The guy’s tearing up the pictures!’ Ahmed exclaimed.
‘I know.’
‘Doesn’t he like them?’
‘No, he likes them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He just wants to see himself with her: capture a happy moment then forget it. The guy’s married with children your age.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. The lady with him is a regular here. Every few days she brings another lamb to the slaughter and she gets her commission. And every few days he brings a new girl, gets photographed with her and rips up the pictures. What would you say if I told you that I once handed him a picture, which he paid for and tore up, then an hour later I printed out the same picture and gave it to him again, and he again paid for it and tore it up?’
‘In a few moments you will meet the Star of Egypt … the Queen of Oriental Dance … The incomparable … Saaaaaaally!’
It was the cry of the compere, and the band, seated in readiness, struck up the Umm Kulthoum classic You’re My Life.
Ahmed moved back, leaning his head against the wall. He lit a cigarette but extinguished it after a couple of drags.
The band spent nearly five minutes playing the intro to the song, repeating it over and over until one of them went pale and another started wheezing. They were eventually relieved by Sally emerging stage right, tracked from behind by a circle of light. She was wearing a glittering gold outfit that stirred up all the most combustible passions in the soul of man, and her chestnut hair flew out behind her when she turned, swivelling and dipping her head forward and drawing every head in the place after her like a magnet before a horde of iron filings. Most came closer to the dance floor, pulled towards her as if by an invisible cord. Out came their expensive camera phones as they started capturing that peerless moment when Sally slowly bent over to reveal a bosom that could suckle all the infants of Downtown and Abdeen put together. Every man who met her gaze or received a wink believed that she danced for him alone.
Karim Abbas, meanwhile, circled behind the tables like a patrol car, watching the tables like the hunter of the mountain buffalo and selecting his prey. His eye fell on a dapper and diminutive bank vault who was sitting at one of the tables facing the dance floor. The man took a wad of notes from his suit and counted out twenty hundreds, pressing them into the hand of one of the waiters before tucking another fifty into his pocket. He whispered in his ear for him to hurry. The waiter went behind the bar and, having subtracted his personal fee, made him a banknote necklace that he brought back to the man, who had begun his swaying approach to the stage. As soon as she saw him Sally went over, like a giraffe approaching the edge of its enclosure to be fed by the visitors. He danced beside her for a while then placed the necklace around her neck. Gouda’s flash bounced twice off his damp forehead, once as he was grasping the dancer’s hand and again as he decorated her with the necklace, while Abbas looked over at the floor manager – who gave him the thumbs up to signal that the room was free of the vice squad – and gave Sally the sign that the coast was clear. She advanced on the man by the stage who had given her the necklace and resting her left leg on his thigh, proceeded to dance, pressing her hennaed fingers into his nerves, thrumming on his pituitary gland until he extracted bundles of notes from the breast of his jacket and began tossing them beneath her one after the other. Stung into action, a second customer on the other side of the room took two joined rolls from his ample suit, fashioning a circle of banknotes on the floor and calling her over to dance inside them. Abandoning the first man, she went over to the second and danced inside his circle. Gouda took a couple of shots of them à la votre, a phrase used when the photographer gambles on the customer buying his pictures without first asking his permission. Ahmed had yet to summon up the courage to take this step.
The days passed, routine and repetitive, thousands of pounds pouring onto the floor in a relentless torrent to be crushed beneath the dancer’s feet, then swept up in plastic dustpans with the spoils divided among the victors.
How Ahmed longed to get hold of one of these dustpans! How many times had he imagined taking possession of the yield of just one day!
Scented sweat, the stench of boozy breath, glances and phone numbers passed back and forth, dodgy deals and discordant laughter, long nights and short days, a gloomy room without a fan, shots of dead, lustreless eyes and smoke that could blind you for a month: Ahmed was getting nothing from this. He only endured it because he had no choice.
He did his best to avoid the provocative characters; he had no patience for confrontation and unlike Gouda he would not allow himself to get involved. Gouda would abase himself and come up unflustered, smiling at the obscenity of it all so long as a many-coloured note had been pressed into his hand. He received threats and rude gestures like an FM radio: he had no choice but to listen.
The sun had reached the centre of the sky when Ahmed made his habitual excursion to answer the demands of his stomach, taking his camera (otherwise known as his sole remaining relative) with him. He headed for Sayyida Zeinab Square
, passing the spot that always made him pause on these little expeditions: the view from Mourad Street close by University Bridge. He snapped a quick picture or two then resumed the almost weekly journey to see his sister.
5
Muffled noises bearing the trace of Quranic verses and aborted screams emanated from the flat formerly owned by Kamal Ibrahim and currently the property of Mahmoud Hasib. Ahmed was brought to a standstill for a full minute as he tried to work out what was going on, before stabbing the doorbell savagely with his finger. The sounds fell silent and a voice bellowed,
‘Didn’t I say the bell should be disconnected?’
Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of Allah …’
The door had been opened by an unfamiliar girl wearing a niqab.
‘Aya?’ he asked.
‘Sister Aya is inside. Who shall I say it is?’
‘Ahmed. Her brother.’
The girl left and Aya arrived.
‘Peace be upon you. Come in, Ahmed. Go straight into the room ahead of you because Mahmoud has guests.
Ahmed passed the room where Mahmoud was sitting with his guests but was unable to see any of them clearly through the frosted glass. He took a seat in Aya’s room and tugged at her hand.
‘What’s going on in there?’
‘What’s it to you? They’re Mahmoud’s guests.’
‘I heard a scream when I was outside.’
Aya closed the door and returned to his side.
‘They’ve brought a girl with them who has been afflicted by Our Lord. He’s trying to help her, God forgive you.’
‘How exactly is he helping her?’
‘She’s been possessed by a diabolical creature, God protect us: an infidel jinn.’
‘It’s you two that are possessed. What’s happened to you, Aya? It wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t educated. And anyway, since when does Mr Computer Engineer conduct exorcisms?’
‘Keep your voice down; people will hear you. Don’t embarrass me.’
‘What’s all this backwardness, Aya? Where are you two headed with this?’
‘Jinn are mentioned in the Quran and so is possession. Anyway, Mahmoud cures them with the Quran: he isn’t a sorcerer.’
‘Since when did he become an expert?’
‘Our Lord opened a door for Mahmoud and gave him the gifts of second sight and healing hands. It’s all for the glory of God, anyway. We don’t receive a fee for it.’
‘That guy doesn’t know a thing. Do you know how this will end? You seem to have forgotten that this is your father and mother’s flat. You want to turn it into a clinic for jinn and demons? You went to university; you know things. You’re not some peasant trotting after buffalo to swallow all this David Copperfield rubbish.’
‘Ahmed, please don’t talk to me that way, and anyway, you …’
At just that moment Ahmed wasn’t looking at Aya, but at a rectangular patch of a lighter colour than the surrounding wall, where his parents’ wedding photo had hung.
‘Where’s the picture that was here?’
‘It’s around.’
‘Who removed it? Mahmoud?’
‘I’m the one who removed it; don’t bring Mahmoud into it.’
Just then Mahmoud opened the door to the room, his beard grown longer and bushier.
‘Peace be upon you. Aya, is it polite to have raised voices when we have guests? How are you, Ahmed?’
‘You’re referring to me, of course.’
‘Your voice can be heard at the end of the street, Ahmed. I’ve got guests.’
‘You can’t do this sort of thing in my father’s flat, Mahmoud Hasib!’
‘It’s my house, by God, and I’m free to do as I like in it!’
Ahmed turned to Aya. ‘You agree with him, of course?’
‘Ahmed, you have to read a little about your religion. Religion isn’t just prayer and fasting.’
‘It isn’t jinn and demons either, Aya. Where are my parents’ pictures?’
‘On top of the cupboard in the big box.’
Ahmed irritably pulled over a chair, propped it against the cupboard and climbed up. The piles of pictures covered by dust took him aback. They had once filled the flat, scenes from every stage of his and his sister’s childhood: shots of his father carrying him on his shoulders, a picture of the whole family together, one of Aya still in a swaddling cloth, others of Aya at the seaside, another showing a pigtailed Aya sitting on a white cane chair with her legs crossed, and finally the framed print of the weeping child that used to be so popular in middle-class homes in the seventies. Next to them lay an African woodcarving of an elephant and certificates and documents that had once been important, but no longer. They were memories recorded by his father and were now all that remained of his presence and his hard-fought journey through life.
Ahmed brushed off the dust.
‘Pictures are haram, right?’
‘If you did some reading,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you’d know that jinn take up residence in pictures. They’re all unclean.’
Ahmed threw him a piercing look that silenced him, then looked over at Aya who was making herself small in a corner.
‘It’s like that, is it, Aya? I’m leaving!’
‘Ahmed, please wait and try to understand. Mahmoud didn’t mean it like that, but it’s the truth. Photography is haram and there are lots of sayings of the Prophet that tell us to abstain from it. And look, I didn’t throw the pictures out, I just put them away.’
‘What? People might worship pictures? And who are these jinn living in our pictures? My girl, this was your father’s work. He raised you with this stuff and now it’s home to demons?’
As he spoke these words he headed for the door, shoving Mahmoud in the shoulder. Stopping in front of the room where the guests sat, he opened the door to reveal three men of rural appearance and a beautiful woman in her twenties, her face damp with sweat, lying motionless against the shoulder of an old woman while her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. He looked at them for a moment then went out to the front door. Mahmoud ran into the bedroom and returned with a white envelope.
‘Ahmed, wait!’
He held out the envelope.
Ahmed looked at Aya, who lowered the niqab over her face as she approached the door so he could not read her expression.
‘What’s that?’
‘Aya doesn’t hide anything from me. I won’t let so much as a penny of haram money in my home. See to your own expenses!’
Ahmed knew what was in the envelope. He took it and added it to the pile of photographs so numerous he was having difficulty carrying them, then gave Aya a final, expressionless look, and left.
Ahmed walked until exhaustion overtook him and caught a taxi from Giza Square to the casino. He could only think about one thing: the memory of the yearly trip to Alexandria that brought the entire family together, with his father fondly playing with Aya, the ice cream and sweet crispy biscuit discs called friska, running along the shore, riding hired bicycles and playing in the arcades at the seaside resort of Agami. Everything had been as untroubled as a gentle wave, as his sister’s smile as she sat astride their father’s shoulders, her hand raised joyfully to the sea.
‘Where have you been, Ahmed?’
Arriving at the casino, Ahmed had gone to his room and placed the pictures next to his mattress. He had hung the picture of his father and mother on the wall and dozed until Gouda made an entrance
‘Nowhere special, Gouda, I was visiting my sister and brought back a few old pictures of my mum and dad from her place.’
‘Why are they covered with dust?’
‘They were packed away, that’s all.’
‘You don’t look so happy. What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing, Gouda. I’m fine. What time is it?’
‘Quarter to ten. The main room’s started to fill up.’
‘Five minutes and I’ll be with you.�
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‘Sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?’
‘Later, Gouda, later.’
On that day the main room grew crowded earlier than usual. It was a Thursday, the Devil’s feast day, as they say, and the start of the weekend.
The tables were full and stacked with drinks and plates that groaned with food. All about was noise and laughter, the aroma of mingled perfumes, cigarette smoke, clinging clothes into which crept stealthy hands, stolen kisses and hungry looks.
‘Who’s that, Gouda?’ Ahmed was pointing at a man he had never seen come to the casino before.
‘Where is he sitting?’
‘The third row of tables on the left.’
‘That’s Galal Mursi from the Freedom newspaper.
Ahmed devoured him with his eyes: a gleaming bald spot, age approaching fifty, wide eyes that seemed rimmed with kohl and radiant white teeth. He took in the sharp nose, slender fingers with long nails, hair jet-black from a recent dye job, the benzene lighter that he nervously opened and closed, and the cigarette, as permanent a fixture between his fingers as a birth defect.
‘Is this his first time here?’ he asked Gouda.
‘No, he’s been coming here since for ever, but he only turns up once in a while.’
‘And who is that woman sitting with him?’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions. She’s no different to any of the others who come here.’
‘He’s not what you would expect. Anyone who’d seen his paper would never imagine that was him.’
‘People are one thing in here and something else outside. This place is like a toilet where a guy does things he’d be ashamed to do in public. He can take off his clothes, sing in front of the mirror, make nasty smells; as he likes. All that matters is that he leaves satisfied.’
‘Shall I see if he wants his picture taken?’
‘Forget it. You stay clear of that one in particular; he could get the entire place closed down. He doesn’t like to be photographed, but he’s still generous with us.’ As he spoke, Galal Mursi’s eyes met those of Gouda, who waved to him.