by Ahmed Mourad
He walked until he reached the gallery where the girl worked. Placing his camera bag next to him on a bench across the street from the store, he took out his lunch and began to eat, hoping she might appear. Then she crossed the store window. She was so serene, so beautiful! The smile that dimpled her cheeks, the way she walked …
He watched her walk up to the telephone, when an idea struck him, causing him to get to his feet and pull out his Menatel phone card. From the phone box by the bench he placed a call to the number written at the bottom of the gallery’s sign.
The dial tone throbbed in his ear, his heart trembled and the adrenaline, pumped out by his pituitary gland and spreading through every inch of his body, left him bright-eyed and breathing rapidly. He coughed twice to clear his throat and eyed his target. She was standing beside the telephone as though she hadn’t heard it. Another woman approached and lifted the receiver.
‘Gallery Creation. Hello? Hello?’
But Ahmed had hung up before the second ‘hello’. His breathing slowed a little and he returned to the bench. He got up again, put in the card and dialled the number. He removed the card without completing the call. He inserted it again. The dial tone sounded. Although she was sitting right next to the phone she didn’t move.
‘Gallery Creation, hello?’
It was the second girl.
‘Ah … hello. Good morning,’ said Ahmed. ‘Gallery Creation?’
‘Yes, sir. Good morning. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Umm. My name is Engineer Kamal Ibrahim, and, well the fact is, I wanted to know your opening hours. You see, I came once but the gallery was closed.’
‘We are open every day except Friday, from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., and we take a half an hour break from 5 to 5.30. Are you one of our clients, sir?’
‘No. I came and looked at a few things once, but not for very long. I was helped by this girl, but to be honest I can’t remember her name. She showed me some very nice catalogues. Petite, a little birthmark, I think. But I’ve completely forgotten her name, unfortunately.’
‘You must have met Ghada.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, is she there? Could I speak to her? Just to ask her about a few items. She might remember me.’
‘Certainly. Please hold for a few moments.’
She pressed the torture button that transmits monotonous music for the amusement of the waiting caller while Ahmed’s forehead dripped with sweat and his heart thumped like an asphalt compactor. He had no idea what he would say.
The girl walked up to Ghada and started explaining the situation to her. Ghada put her hand to her ear then picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘…’
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning. Miss Ghada?’
‘Yes. To whom am I speaking?’
‘It’s Kamal Ibrahim, the one who came to the store about a month and a half ago and spoke with you.’
‘Welcome, sir. If you could just jog my memory a little.’
‘I don’t expect you’ll remember me but I was looking for a few items for my flat.’
‘Did you see or reserve anything, sir?’
‘To be honest I didn’t reserve anything but I saw some very nice items. Oh yes, I wanted to ask if you would mind me sending my son Ahmed to take a look. I always like to get his opinion. Are you there every day?’
‘Every day until five, except Fridays.’
‘So he’ll ask for you when he comes, then.’
‘At your service, sir. Any time.’
‘Thank you, Miss Ghada. Or should that be Mrs Ghada?’
‘Miss Ghada.’
‘Thank you so much. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Her name is Ghada. She’s single and leaves work at five.
Ahmed was acutely aware of what the secret services were missing out on by not employing him. As he went on his way he knew, deep within himself, that he was destined to meet the one who had so bewitched his senses.
6
Before evening had fallen, Ahmed was on his way to the island neighbourhood of Manial, where Omar worked in a branch of Kodak Express. Omar was a childhood friend, a neighbour from Sayyida Zeinab and one of that loyal breed who will dance up a storm at your wedding, sweating hard, untucking their shirt and giving their all; the kind that would explode with joy to be of service to you. An IT graduate and computer whizz-kid, Ahmed turned to him whenever time and circumstance gave him the chance to vent his cares and sorrows and distract himself with a digital audio-visual archive largely composed of pornographic films.
Ahmed took great pleasure in his company and his sense of humour, which helped him forget his troubles. He loved his tubbiness, his kindness, his extraordinary spectacles, his face that had never known a frown and his raucous laughter.
They embraced warmly. By now, Ahmed was used to losing a rib in each such encounter, along with picking up a faint tremor and a few cuts and bruises. Omar requested permission from the store’s owner and accompanied Ahmed to the Nile promenade in Manial, the pair having picked up their usual ice cream sandwich from La Reine patisserie, as they had done since they were boys.
‘Hey, you clown, what’s all this stuff going on with you? And where did you think I was? Couldn’t you have talked to me?’
‘It all happened so quickly. It was like in the movies. I didn’t even think to talk to myself let alone anyone else.’
‘Fine, and what about Aya? Is that it, then?’
‘So you’ve heard. Is there anything I can do?’
‘You? No. I, however, could call her and make her understand that you’re upset, or even get Mum to pay her a visit. You know how much she loves my mother; she practically raised her.’
‘She won’t meet you, as you well know, and I don’t want your mother to get dragged into this. That animal she’s with might make trouble for her. The guy’s a scumbag; I know him and I don’t want to have to give him a beating.’
‘And what’s this job you’re doing? Why didn’t you speak to me when you left the hotel and Salim?’
‘It just happened.’
‘Anyway, I’ve got a solution. Mr Waheed who runs the Kodak studio is opening another branch in the street behind ours. I’ll speak to him for you. He’s a really great guy and he never refuses a favour.’
‘Great, but what about accommodation? If I leave Paris I won’t be able to stay in that room.’
‘You’ll stay with me.’
‘At home with your mum? Never.’
‘Not in my home. Just let me take care of it; don’t bother your head.’
‘You shouldn’t worry yourself over me. Look after yourself. Now then, have you got anything on the go yourself?’
‘Plenty of girls, man. But who’s up for it? That’s the question.’
‘Girls are, of course!’
They burst out laughing, something they indulged a lot less in with the passage of time. They unburdened themselves of their secrets until the clock showed half past six.
‘Right, that’s enough from you. Get yourself back to work because I’m already late and I’ve got to go and see Gouda. He’ll be arriving any minute.’
‘And that Gouda as well: he’s a real card. How do you stop yourself laughing when you’re with him?’
‘But he’s a good man and he likes me. Listen, though, if I bring you some pictures on a CD can you print them for me without anyone seeing them?’
‘Well, it depends, to be honest. If there are hotties in them then I’m at your service.’
‘Seriously, though, could you print them for me yourself?’
‘Of course. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?’
‘Great, I’ll call you before I come over.’
They parted with the promise to meet again soon.
On his way to work Ahmed passed a man selling newspapers, which were spread out over the pavement beside the Faten Hamama Cinema. His eye caught the headline on the front page of Freedom and he bought
a copy.
In the middle of the page was a picture of a smiling Khaled Askar, his droopy eyebrows expressive of humility and lending his features an air of extreme piety, as though he were weeping through sheer devotion. Beneath it a screaming red headline said:
‘Preacher Khaled Askar opens fire on Amr Hamid!’ Then, in smaller black font the words of Khaled Askar himself: ‘Amr Hamid is an unqualified preacher … He hasn’t memorised a word of the Quran … He stays in five-star hotels and then defends the common man … I once confronted him with my opinion of him but he turned his back on me and fled … The time has come to blacklist him at our airports.’
On the right hand side of the page was a large picture of Qamar, the actress, squeezing a pillow between her bare legs and wearing a nightdress a wife wouldn’t wear for her husband at the weekend. Underneath was written: ‘The Tower of Pleasure: Qamar’s new film.’ In the article that followed he read: ‘Director Akram Waheed has chosen up-and-coming actress Qamar to play the role of a sex-starved housewife who turns to the residents of her building to slake her thirst. In other news, there have been intensive discussions between Qamar and a foreign production company over her participation in a historical epic about Saladin. Qamar practises yoga to stay slim and says she is expecting some good news at the end of this month …’
A vehicle suddenly sped past almost clipping Ahmed as he stepped off the kerb, absorbed in the paper. Having received a torrent of abuse from the microbus driver who had almost turned him to mincemeat, he snapped shut the paper in fright, gathered his wits about him and hurried on his way to Casino Paris.
There was something unusual about the place that night.
It was past midnight and the centre of the room was occupied by a table long enough to accommodate about fifteen people and laden with enough food to end the famine in Somalia.
‘Who’s coming tonight, Gouda?’
‘It’s Fathi el-Assal, the biggest supplier of foodstuffs in the country.’
‘The one from the Assal Group?’
‘Yep. You know, the wife of the man you’re going to see used to chase after me. She wore her shoes out, Ahmed. She was a beauty: figure like a supermodel, hair to the waist and a body as soft as jelly. I was the one who said no. God keep me away from all that, my friend. She’s older now, sure, but she’s still got it. The mature chickens are the plumpest, not all skin and bones like your generation. Right, remember the earthquake in ’92? I was with her at the flat and I was ready to do the deed, but I’m a God-fearing fellow. “She desired him and he her, but that he saw the evidence of his Lord,” as it says in the Book. Anyway, in the secret service they warned me that her husband wasn’t quite right, that he wasn’t quite straight in his dealings, and you know me: under surveillance twenty-four seven. Look here: your phone’s been monitored since you got here. I told them to leave it because you’re with me, but you’ve got to keep your eyes open, young Ahmed. Ah, I’m fond of you and that’s the truth.’
Ahmed tried to control his facial muscles to stop himself exploding with laughter.
‘Gouda, where would we be without you? But what’s with this guy who’s coming tonight; why isn’t he straight?’
‘He has a finger in every pie. He’s the one who raises and lowers prices. He’s got more farms than you could count, livestock and land and all good things. He deals in beef and chicken, eggs, oil, sugar, flour and dairy products, and that’s not the half of it: he’s also the biggest importer of honey and glucose and supplies every pastry and sweet outlet in Egypt. And the business he does subcontracting is even greater. He’s got three grown sons, titans like himself, and they all come here. Each one runs a factory: it’s an empire, Ahmed, and on top of it all he’s a relative of Abdel Aziz el-Assal, the minister. He’s the hand that feeds us all, in other words.
‘So what brings him here?’
‘The same thing that brings everybody else. He turns up with a different woman every month like the king from A Thousand and One Nights. He wants to have a nice time: drink, play the host and pay. Sometimes he brings well-to-do types like himself to do business: tycoons and traders. He’s got a lot of friends, because he’s a smooth talker and he’s popular. He sprays cash around.
‘Does he mind being photographed?’
‘It doesn’t bother him. He treats us all with respect and he lets himself be photographed, but only by yours truly, because I’ve known him for a while.’
At that moment heads turned like a field of sunflowers as Fathi el-Assal entered the main room.
He appeared amid an entourage of friends and flunkeys laden with provisions and their supplies of bottles, hailing this fellow as he passed, patting that woman’s shoulder and lifting his hand to salute the person at the back who couldn’t reach him. Even the folk singer Saad Siddiq tempered the volume of his cacophonous dance tune and gave him a suitably deferential welcome on behalf of himself and the band over the loudspeakers.
Fathi was heavily built and stout, with fleshy wattles crammed beneath his chin, and he wore a light beige suit with a brown tie. On his brow and beneath his eyes was the dark discolouration of kidney disease, and what little remained of the hair on the sides of his head he dyed, giving his broad bald patch dotted with liver spots the appearance of a desert highway. He sported a ring on the little finger of his right hand, which clutched a carefully rolled cigarette.
After five minutes of uproar the room returned to its former state, everyone going back to the business that had brought them there. The glasses began to clink once more.
Fathi el-Assal was positioned exactly halfway down the table and at his side sat Nadia, a beautiful woman and voracious smoker seemingly in her thirties, known to her friends as Nani. She was voluptuous, her white flesh bulging from every opening in her glittering black dress, and from the way he was holding her hand and fondling her waist she appeared to be his girlfriend.
Their close friends were drawn up on her left and his right and all about them were men and women, glasses of booze, cackles and wisecracks, and Gouda, snapping away recklessly. Every now and again Fathi would signal to him to photograph one group or another and when he was done Gouda would hand the film to Ahmed who was standing at a distance taking pictures of the rest of the room, and he would go and develop it to keep Gouda happy.
And so it went until the clock read half past two, when the floor manager came over followed by two waiters carrying a large chocolate cake on which was written in cream, Nani – Happy Birthday to you – Sanna hilwa ya gamil. There were multicoloured party poppers and balloons, and as Nani puffed at the candles, Fathi brought out a dark blue box inside which nestled a diamond necklace. Nani let out a shriek when she saw it and hopped around like a little girl, then turned her back towards Fathi and raised her wavy hair so that he could fasten the fat stones about her alabaster neck.
Sally’s number began, and Fathi began to fidget like a man with scabies, shedding rolls of cash like a king. He was competing with himself and winning, throwing down thirty thousand or more as though he were flinging gravel into the sea.
Sally danced for his honour, his cash and his table.
It had nearly gone half past three by the time Galal Mursi entered the room. He seemed in a hurry, dapper and smiling and bearing a box wrapped in red paper that had all the markings of an expensive gift. He made straight for the el-Assal table, and the man himself rose and hugged him like a seal cuddling its cub. Galal kissed Nani’s hand and gave her the gift. Her face lit up,
‘Merci, Galal. It’s très gentil of you.’
Fathi and Galal stood to one side and exchanged a few words before Galal let out a loud laugh and bid his host farewell, departing as hastily as he had arrived. Gouda indicated to Ahmed that he should come and stand behind him.
‘Stay here, Ahmed, and keep your eye on Fathi el-Assal. Go over if he gives you the sign, and if he asks after me tell him that I’m checking on the pictures, OK? I’ll be in the developing studio.’
‘
OK, ya basha.’
Gouda took a couple of steps then turned.
‘Ahmed, don’t take any pictures unless he tells you.’
‘Right you are, Gouda.’
Gouda disappeared and Ahmed returned to the main room, wandering around smiling at the tables and taking a picture here and there and going over the phone call to Ghada in his head, eager to meet and speak with her. Her serene face captivated him and he thought of her whenever he could drag his mind from the whirlpool of work.
He was finally roused from his reverie by the sound of tapping fingers coming from a table that lay at the furthest point of the room away from Fathi el-Assal’s gathering.
A man sat alone in the shadows.
Ahmed walked over, bolting his usual smile into place and raising his camera, inwardly bemused by this character who was asking to be photographed alone. He glanced left and right but there was no young woman approaching the table, or popping up from beneath it, come to that.
‘A picture, ya basha?’
The man’s mouth was busy with the cigarette he was lighting and he paused before replying.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ahmed Kamal, ya basha.’
He waved to an empty chair next to him.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Ahmed?’
Ahmed pulled the chair back and set his camera down on the floor between his feet, then sat down next to this strange man. He thought of the scenes from the film The Yacoubian Building in which the homosexual newspaper editor played by Khaled el-Sawi seduces the simple soldier.
The man opened a brass box and took out a thin piece of paper, packing in tobacco with a surgeon’s attention to detail, then rolling it up and proffering it to Ahmed. It was the first time Ahmed had ever smoked a genuine rolled cigarette, discounting the few times he had tried the cone-like spliffs stuffed with an unidentifiable vegetable matter that might well have been spinach (plus a little hash) constructed by his friend Omar. Try, don’t ask, was his motto.