by Ahmed Mourad
First checking to see whether one of the other employees was giving him the wink, he took the cigarette with wary good grace. The man sparked his gold lighter and Ahmed cupped the flame, looking at the silver ring that bore the letter ‘G’ in roman script. He looked foreign, in his fifties, his good looks recalling the one and only Yanni, the Greek who exercised a monopoly over the role of barman in Egyptian films from the fifties. Neat and elegant, he wore a double-breasted suit that although old-fashioned looked as good on him as the latest model. With his blue eyes, thin moustache, slender body and distinguished, greying temples he looked like he had escaped from an old Arabic film reel; perhaps a high-school friend of the iconic actor and director Stephan Rosti, son of the Austrian ambassador to Cairo and a half-Italian nightclub dancer. But the man’s Arabic was pristine: he was as Egyptian as fuul sandwiches.
‘Will you accept a million pounds to spend the night with me?’ he said.
Ahmed upended the table, rearranged his face with a dozen blows then, snatching up the bottle in front of him and breaking it over his head, kicked him fifty or so times in the belly.
‘Not for all the money in the world, you filthy son of a dog!’
Then, crooking a finger at the bouncer, he said, ‘Take him away.’
The bystanders burst out in rapturous applause.
All this mayhem passed through Ahmed’s mind in no more than a couple of seconds. A voice brought him back to earth.
‘Where are you from, Ahmed?’
It was none other than the man he had just dreamed of beating up.
‘From Sayyida Zeinab, near Qadari Street.’
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
Ahmed was not overly delighted with the question.
‘Not yet.’
‘You’re obviously a decent young man.’
He did not much care for this statement either.
‘Are you waiting for someone to have your picture taken with?’
‘It’s you I’ve been waiting for.’
‘Me?’
The man nodded without looking at him.
‘I saw you last time, photographing Galal Mursi.’
A red brick from the workshops of Hajj Abdel Latif Abu Tajin, located in the village of Toukh el-Tanbasha, Birkat el-Sabaa District, Menoufiya Province, slid slowly down Ahmed Kamal’s oesophagus and came to a halt at the entrance to his stomach. Thick sweat carpeted his brow and a burning heat sprang up behind his ears, the pulsing blood turning them red as raw liver. Ahmed tried swallowing to dislodge the brick.
‘Galal Mursi? He’s a customer here? I didn’t realise I’d photographed him.’
‘Why do you want to mess an old man about, Ahmed?’
A cement block came to rest on top of the brick.
‘I’m still new here and I don’t remember the person you’re talking about, sir.’
‘You were resting the camera on the bar.’
Ahmed tried to bring his guts under control as they screamed, ‘Who are you?’
‘I don’t believe I know you, sir,’ he managed.
‘It’s not important who I am, Ahmed.’ The man extinguished his cigarette and crossed his legs, a peculiar smile on his face. ‘Do you know why I come here, Ahmed?’
Ahmed shook his head.
‘I come here to watch people.’
Ahmed continued to stare at the man and made no comment.
‘Everyone here has their own story. So do you.’
For an instant Ahmed imagined that the man would now take out his wallet and flash an identity card bearing a golden eagle with the words ‘Colonel So-and-so, State Security’ printed in flowery Ottoman script. ‘Come with me,’ he would say in a voice from the movies.
‘Could I ask who you are, sir?’
‘It’s not important. The point is that I’ve been coming here for some time and last week was the first time I saw you. You’re not like the other people here, Ahmed. When I saw you photographing Galal Mursi I knew there was something different about you. There’s something between you two. If you want to know who I am then first tell me why you were photographing him. And don’t deny it because I’m sure I saw you.’
The red brick descended into Ahmed’s digestive tract.
‘I only did it because I read his paper and it was the first time I’d seen him.’
‘You took his photo because of that?’
‘Well, sure, why not? I didn’t have any special reason.’
‘You got a shock when you saw him here, didn’t you?’
‘Look, he and his paper are separate things. It’s a matter of personal freedom.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Well …’
‘You’re scared to admit that you’re angry at the guy and you photographed him to get him into trouble.’
The red brick chose that moment to start pressing down on Ahmed’s bladder and liquefying guts. Sweat spread over his forehead as a 220-volt current passed through his body and the hair on his head and hands stood up.
‘You’re making a big deal out of this, sir. All this because I took a customer’s picture? I am a photographer, at the end of the day; it’s my job. And anyway, I deleted the pictures at the time.’
Inside, Ahmed was panting heavily and waiting for the response from this devil who had sprung from the pit in his coal-black robe, throwing out question after question and giving Ahmed no time to absorb what was happening.
He fondled his smooth-shaven chin. ‘Why so worried? I’m just chatting to you. Have something to drink; it’s on me.’
Ahmed did his best to appear calm. ‘Can’t I first know who I’m speaking to?’
‘Isn’t Sally beautiful!’ The man was looking over at Sally, who had begun to slowly rotate her hips and sway forward like a white viper.
Ahmed was speechless. The man clearly didn’t want to talk about himself.
‘So have you photographed her before, Ahmed?’
‘Sure.’
‘By herself?’
‘No, with the customers.’
‘Haven’t you ever dreamt of being with her?’
Ahmed had reached his limit and his response was agitated: ‘No!’
‘All those pictures you’ve taken of her and you never once photographed her because you wanted to? You’re not being honest with me, Ahmed. A photographer such as yourself would never fail to notice a body that lovely.’
Ahmed stood up and tried to keep his voice even. ‘I do apologise, sir, but I have to get back to work.’
He held out his hand but the other man did not take it. He looked at Ahmed with a mocking smile and winked.
‘I’ll be seeing you, Ahmed.’
Ahmed withdrew quietly. His mind was filled with conflicting theories about this aged creature who had dealt him a swift kick in the ribs then departed with the silence of a wolf who has consumed his prey. Returning to the clamour of the main room, he tried to ignore the shadowy area where the bastard was sitting, but no sooner did the memory of the last ten minutes drop from his mind than it resurfaced like an indelible stain.
‘Captain! Hey, captain! Snapper!’
How Ahmed loathed that word. The call came from Fathi el-Assal’s table.
‘Come here, friend! What’s wrong with you? Fast asleep or something?’
It was a drunk rich kid of medium build with a well groomed moustache and long hooked nose from which his voice emerged, dripping arrogance.
‘Come here.’
Ahmed tried to stay cool as he approached the table crammed with glasses and plates of food. He was used to the manners of the regulars, especially at this late hour when their masks of dignity fell away, and he made do with clenching his lower jaw, which caused a ball of rage to pop out above his temple.
‘Sir called?’
The man gave an unpleasant smile. ‘Hard of hearing, are you?’
Frowning, Ahmed replied through gritted teeth, ‘No, ya basha, it’s just noisy in here. I couldn’t hear you. I’m at your s
ervice. A picture?’
Turning his body to face him, the man held out a small piece of paper folded around a twenty-pound note and gripped between his first two fingers. He grinned and winked at Ahmed, who took the paper and opened it. The man seized Ahmed’s hand in a powerful grip.
‘Did I tell you to open it?’
Ahmed leant forward. ‘What’s inside this piece of paper? I don’t get it.’
Crooking his finger, the man signalled for him to come closer. ‘See the table over there on the right?’
The fumes from his mouth would have been enough to light an oil burner and boil a kettle. Ahmed turned his head but the man pressed down on his hand.
‘Don’t look! It’s the table behind you to the right.’
Ahmed had caught sight of a smiling young woman sitting with three companions.
‘What about it?’ he asked.
‘The girl on the left: give her this piece of paper.’
Ahmed got his first glimpse of how the Qasr el-Nil Bridge must feel.
‘May I know what’s on this piece of paper?’
In a low voice the man answered with cold displeasure, ‘There’s a couple of guys in China who didn’t catch that. Could you raise your voice a little? What’s up with you, pal? I’m telling you: Deliver. This. Piece. Of. Paper. It’s the girl sitting over there dressed in black. Is there a problem? What’s it to you what’s on it?’
Without hesitating Ahmed opened the paper: a ten-digit number beneath which was written ‘Open Bluetooth’, and at the bottom, ‘Habib Amin’.
Trying not to stir up the storm, Ahmed opened Habib Amin’s hand and gave him back the paper.
‘I’m not into this kind of thing. Find someone else to deliver it for you.’ He turned and left the table.
Habib got to his feet, sparks flying from his eyes. ‘Take it, my friend! You’re turning down the job? Retiring, are you?’
A glowing lump of charcoal shifted inside Ahmed’s chest. ‘I didn’t take it in the first place. Who told you I was a pimp?’
Habib’s voice grew more high-pitched. ‘Come here and take it! How dare you talk to me like that?’
‘The same as I’d talk to anyone else. Why don’t you drop it? You’re making a fool of yourself.’
Heads turned towards the noise and two or three people at the table stood up, Fathi el-Assal at their head. Habib hurled a glass at the floor and it shattered.
‘Animal! Son of a whore! Don’t you know who you’re talking to?’
The nerves in Ahmed’s left hand twitched. ‘You’re insulting me? I’m cleaner than you, and your parents too!’
Habib came closer and the guests at the table surrounded him. ‘You’ve got no manners and I’m going to have you locked up.’
Ahmed lost control of his temper and his left hand started to shake. ‘Who are you going to lock up? You think you’ll get away with this?’
Fathi el-Assal approached Ahmed and pulled him by the hand. ‘What’s with you, friend? Talk nicely now.’
Ahmed irritably freed his hand as the floor manager came over, gripping him hard by the shoulder and directing his words to Fathi el-Assal.
‘Is everything all right, ya basha? Is someone bothering you?’
‘That kid’s got no manners,’ said Habib, clutching his mobile phone. ‘He’ll be spending the night at the police station.’
‘Then he’ll sleep at the station,’ said the floor manager. ‘But would you mind if we spoke outside?’
Ahmed broke in, ‘But, sir, the guy wanted me to pimp for him. That doesn’t bother you?’
‘You’re still being rude?’ said Fathi.
‘The kid’s garbage. I’ll teach him who I am,’ added Habib.
‘I’m garbage, scumbag?’
The floor manager shoved Ahmed in the chest.
‘What’s wrong with you, Ahmed? Don’t you know the basha? Take yourself outside until I call for you.’
Just as the bouncer appeared and made his way towards the source of the commotion the band stopped playing and Sally withdrew in a temper to eavesdrop on the argument from behind the curtains.
‘Get me the manager,’ Fathi said to the floor manager. ‘Go on! I’m not going to sit back and watch while some donkey he employs insults my guests.’
Ahmed tucked his chin into his neck. An electric current shot through his knees and he felt a tingling sensation in his face.
‘I’m a donkey, you ass?’
Habib was beside himself. ‘A dog and a scumbag too,’ he said, following it up with a ringing slap to Ahmed’s temple that sent Ahmed’s glasses, and what was left of his dignity, flying.
The details of what happened after his spectacles were removed from his face were hazy: Ahmed felt like he was fighting amid the ocean waves. He was unaware of his hand, which flew out wildly and unexpectedly trying to bury itself in the face of Habib, who stepped back to let the undirected blow lodge in Sayyid Qadari’s fist.
The second bouncer held him round his middle. ‘Whoa there, Ahmed, cool it! This isn’t the way. Come along outside. Cool it.’
‘Son of a dog,’ raged Ahmed, screaming and waving his hands. ‘I won’t leave you be! By the Holy Book, I’ll show you!’
Habib was gazing at him with a victorious smile. ‘Run along to Mummy now, friend. Don’t make me screw you with a phone call.’
‘You screw me, you piece of garbage?’
Gouda walked in.
‘Ahmed, what’s going on?
‘Leave me be, Gouda. That dirty bastard tried to make a pimp of me and when I refused I got hit. He hit me in the face, Gouda!’
‘OK, just come outside. Calm down, now. Calm down.’
Gouda bent down and picked up the glasses whose right lens had gone flying moments before. Habib had sat down and, laying his cigarette aside, began to clap his hands in the air for Sally’s band to resume playing. The floor manager leaned over him and embarked on a placatory oration along the following lines:
‘Ya basha, he’s still new. Blame me, if you like. The kid’s hard up and he’s not used to the job. Whatever you want, sir. I’ll give him hell, but he’s an orphan, as God is my witness. By the way, sir, the girl over there was asking about you. Would you like me to pass on any message? Certainly. Goodness, sir, she wouldn’t need any persuading to come over here, are you serious? Just calm Fathi bey down, sir. We don’t want his mood to be spoiled today, what with it being Madam Nani’s birthday.’
‘Get me the manager!’ shouted Fathi.
In an instant the floor manager had circled the table and reached the spot where Fathi el-Assal sat.
‘There’s really no need, ya basha. The kid will be punished and his wage deducted. If you want us to get rid of him then off he goes, but the important thing is for you to forget about him and leave it to me. Tonight’s programme hasn’t even begun yet and you should enjoy yourself. By the way, Sally has a little present for you to give to Madam Nani.’
He winked at Sally then signalled to the band, who began to play once more.
Fathi turned his face away.
‘Do you know who Habib Amin is? Do you know whose son he is? His father could close down El-Haram Street and everything in it, including this casino, with a single phone call.
‘Sir, Habib bey needs no introductions.’
‘So it’s fine for my guests to be insulted? And by whom? A little nobody of a snapper! Is he working with Gouda? Where is Gouda? He pockets fifty pounds a time on top of what we pay for pictures, only for his loser of a sidekick to treat us like dirt. I’ll be having words with your manager.’
‘Please, ya basha, I’ll take responsibility. We hold you in great esteem here, please don’t embarrass me. Habib bey can have anything he wants; he’ll really enjoy himself here. The bill for tonight is on the house. Please, sir, let it go. You grace us with your presence.’
Fathi fell into conversation with Nani, deliberately ignoring the floor manager to make him aware of the extent of his displeasure at what
had happened. The latter quietly left the table, signalling to a waiter to join him at once.
‘Bring them everything. Anything they ask for they get. Understand?’
Fathi got up and went over to Habib. Drawing back a chair, he sat down beside him.
‘Hey there, sunshine. Don’t ruin your mood.’
‘He’s a filthy little beggar. I didn’t want to pursue it because of Nani’s birthday.’
‘I’ll deal with him, but not right now,’ said Fathi. ‘What happened, anyway?’
‘I wanted him to deliver a note. I gave him twenty pounds but it wasn’t good enough for him. He’s greedy, you can tell.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘That piece of garbage has really spoiled my mood.’
‘See, these kids are resentful little bastards. They look at what you’re holding. You know how it is: the dregs of society without a bite to eat.’
‘I wish the country could be swept clean of the trash that’s holding it back. A generation of shit.’
‘This country will never be clean; they deserve everything they get. So tell me: what has Sharif Pasha done for us about the licences and that other business?’
Habib chuckled.
‘In two days time you can consider that land yours, a full month before it’s legally declared an urban area with development rights and before they connect it to the water and electricity networks. Why are you worried? Consider the licences done. As for the other thing, it’ll take a bit more time, but in the next couple of days there’ll be a big campaign against Nutrimental. The TV and the papers won’t let it go. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘What about the elections? Does your dad need votes?’
‘We might need a few votes from you in one or two districts.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘It’s window-dressing, you know how it is.’
Fathi was watching a table behind Habib.