by Ahmed Mourad
‘Habib, where’s the girl you were flirting with?’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s one over there who’s giggling like mad at you.’
Habib turned. ‘She’s that one on the left.’
Fathi signalled to her to come over, then got up and met her half way. Gently circling her waist, he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hala.’
‘Do you know what you’re doing, Hala?’
She bit her lip mischievously. ‘Whatever can you mean? I don’t understand.’
Fathi extracted ten hundred-pound notes from his pocket and stuffed them in the bag she was carrying.
‘Listen. I want you to make Habib bey forget his own name. And when you’re finished with him you’ll get the same again, OK?’
Hala grinned and said nothing. She closed her bag, hovered next to Habib until he invited her to sit down, and feigned interest in his conversation. Having brought two heads together in sin, Fathi moved off to where Nani was sitting.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I cheered him up.’
‘It was really horrible, to be honest,’ said Nani. ‘How could that boy behave like that? Are you going to let him get away with it?’
‘I don’t want to make a big deal out of it because tonight’s your birthday, but I’ll be speaking to the manager later.’
‘Habib isn’t upset?’
‘He’s a little out of sorts but that girl will cheer him up. She looks like a smart one; a proper little minx.’
‘And how did you find that out, I’d like to know?’ Nani asked coquettishly.
‘I’m an expert, Nani. I see a chick and I can tell everything about her.’
‘So what did you say when you saw me?’
‘I said, “If that little mare escapes my clutches I’ll never look at a woman again.”’
‘Is that what you said when you saw your wife?’
‘Ah, now that’s the only time I’ve been fooled!’
Just then, Gouda rushed up to the table and, leaning forward, tried to kiss Fathi’s head.
‘Forgive me, ya basha.’
‘I don’t think so, Gouda. This time I’m not letting it pass. You must be joking. I’m not going to keep quiet about that kid.’
‘I swear by whatever you believe in, his mother burnt to death last week. Make me responsible.’
‘I don’t care if his mother was picked up for prostitution. Doesn’t he know who he’s talking to? I don’t get treated like that, not by some nobody!’
‘He’s just an ignorant kid. Blame me instead. It’s my fault. He’s still wet behind the ears. You won’t see his ugly mug around here again, just please calm Habib bey down. You have no idea how dear you are to me, sir. Money can’t buy affection like that.’
‘Enough, enough! Don’t give me a headache!’
‘God bless us with your presence, ya basha. I owe you one.’
Outside, Hassan and Sayyid were encircling Ahmed in an effort to keep him away from the casino and douse his fury when Gouda came out, hugged him and led him away from the main room.
‘Hey, Ahmed, pull yourself together. Don’t do this.’
Ahmed was weeping, holding the lens from his glasses and trying to put it back in place.
‘So you’re happy with what happened?’ he said.
‘No, of course not. It’s a godless, whoreson world, but I need you to calm down so we can talk. Let’s go for a walk. I’m not going back to the main room tonight.’
‘No, you go back. I want to walk by myself for a bit.’
‘I’m not leaving you. Screw the work. Goodness, you’re dearer to me than anything, Ahmed.’ He gave his cheek a damp kiss. ‘But I’m going to have to give you a piece of my mind, Ahmed. These people are very wealthy and very powerful and when they’re out of it, they’re not really aware of their actions. So you have to stay calm. Our work’s difficult and it requires diplomacy. Now I know he’s a sorry excuse for a human being but you must be patient. It’s our livelihood.’
‘Anything except my dignity, Gouda. My father never raised a hand to me his whole life. To hell with a living that comes like that.’
‘Never mind. You lot come from a generation that has never seen war or felt true humiliation. In ’67 when I was captured … I’ve told you this one, haven’t I? As I said, they treated us like you wouldn’t believe. They set their dogs to chase after us and shot at us. I put up with it in order to stay alive, Ahmed. Anyway, Fathi el-Assal has been good to me and to the club as a whole. He’s a really good guy, it’s just that you don’t know him yet. He’s a sweetie.’
Ahmed was in no sort of mood to hear tales of Gouda in Wonderland, particularly not those of Gouda and the Queen of Hearts or Soap Bubble Island. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
‘Gouda, I’m begging you. I’m tired and I don’t need this.’
The tears poured from his eyes once again. The unaccustomed humiliation made his chest tighten and he found it hard to breathe. For a few moments he thought of the deaths of his father and mother; he thought of Aya, of Hossam’s final glance towards him, and of everything that made him sad, as though it had all taken place an hour ago.
Then he thought of Ghada, and for a moment felt as though she had been there in the casino and seen him stripped naked, even feeling ashamed of the coarse words and insults he had uttered in his rage as though she had heard them. As though he knew her. At that moment he felt that he loved her very much and yearned for all he had lost. He stormed and raged about, screaming and swearing, then grew calm; silent but unquiet.
When he returned to himself he was sitting at a wooden table in the El-Arees koshari restaurant before a stainless steel water cup, a bowl of koshari, a bottle of pepper sauce and Gouda.
‘Come on: say bismillah and dig in.’
‘I’ve got no appetite, Gouda.’
‘Eat some, for my sake.’
‘I can’t forget what happened. No one’s ever treated me so badly. I’m from a good home, Gouda. Don’t forget: in order to work in a place like this I’ve had to become some snapper paid in pennies.’
Ahmed felt like he had hurled a stone in Gouda’s face, especially when the latter looked at him with a reproachful smile.
‘I didn’t mean it, Gouda. I was just trying to say that I’ve been brought up properly. My father was an artist, may God bless his soul. He sent me to a good school and I’ve got a bachelor degree in commerce. True, it might be worthless in this country but what am I supposed to do: go and work for 170 pounds? What about the trade my father taught me? Even my sister won’t give me a break. She keeps going on about sin and how all my money is haram. Well, I know it is, but I can’t find anywhere to sleep except this place, and anyway, isn’t it a sin that she’s stopped speaking to me since the last time I saw her? It’s not like I turned up my nose at better things. I’m worn out, Gouda; exhausted. That bastard didn’t strike me in the face. He struck me in the heart. He brought up every bad thing that’s ever marked me. How can I stay silent?’
His eyes filled with tears again.
‘I can’t go on at a place like that. I won’t spend my whole life photographing whores and drunkards. I’m sorry, Gouda, but it’s the truth. You yourself can’t face up to it. We take pictures of bad people in a bad place.’
‘C’mon, Ahmed! This isn’t something to get into fights over!’
‘No, Gouda. Anything but my dignity …’
‘Ahmed, I agree with you that our job involves humiliation, but it’s our livelihood, our life.’
‘Your life, Gouda?’
‘Yes, it is, and I’m not ashamed of it. If anyone asked me I’d tell them what I did and where.’
‘So you’re happy with your lot?’
‘Praise be to God! Who’s got work these days? Besides, I’ve faced worse situations than this and coped. It’s for a crust of bread, Ahmed. It’s what time teaches us.’
‘I’m
not like you. You’ve got yourself used to it. You’ve come to accept it and you regard it as a blessing. I see you when someone lays into you: keeping quiet, laughing, shrugging it off. I’m not like that, Gouda. I can’t be like you.’
His words were as heavy as lead, even for someone with Gouda’s open face, habituated to shamelessness. He realised that Ahmed was right, that he had touched on the wound itself, but he resolved nevertheless to defend his position to the bitter end.
‘You don’t understand a thing and you never will. Our Lord sent us these people for a reason. We don’t participate in what they do, we just take pictures. We don’t pour their booze or undress their women for them. They aren’t our responsibility. So there’s a little tension or bad manners. What of it? They’re drunks, and at the end of the day don’t we skin them and take our due? Every trade has its hardships, and anyway, your generation is spoiled. You don’t know that what you’ve got is a blessing. Life’s a piece of cake compared to the old days. You haven’t seen war or death. You should kiss your hand on both sides in gratitude that there are people like that around to take care of you and help you out. On my honour, Fathi el-Assal once gave me five hundred pounds and I hadn’t even taken a single photograph of him, and Habib Amin might be a bit charmless but he’s a good fellow, and generous. You know who his dad is: Sherif Amin, a heavyweight. The kind that receives compliments but never doles them out. Sorry, but it’s his right. One of the ruling classes and full of himself. We have to put up with him. There are others beside you who have been sitting at home since they graduated, unable to find work, and anyway, Ahmed, we’re no match for these guys and the problems they could cause us. They go right to the top and they’ve got very, very long arms. What can we do? I know your dignity comes before anything but they’re the hands that feed us. If we want to survive then we have to sway with the wind, as the legendary Sayyid Darwish once sang. Or would you rather be with your friends sitting around at home? Wake up! Open your eyes! Your motto should be Welcome to Egypt.’
‘So, you reckon that I should stay quiet and kiss my hand in gratitude for my blessings?’
‘No, I’m telling you that there are lots of people who would love to be in your position. You’ll soon forget all about it and adapt and your mind will be more open.’
‘It won’t happen, Gouda. You don’t see yourself when some loser of a customer raises his voice at you. Haven’t you ever felt that you don’t deserve that? Would you be happy for your wife to see you like that? I don’t know why you don’t see what I see. It’s like we’re working in two different places!’
‘All I see is that life has taught me to be tough.’
‘Tough or silent? Happy with your situation, with the blessing of demeaning yourself for scumbags and crooks who throw as much as you’ll ever earn in your life at the feet of Sally, the town bike? Or is she a tour bus?!’
‘You’re quite right. What will you do then?’
‘I can’t go on.’
‘Fine, and your accommodation?’
‘I’ll find a way. I’ve got this friend; I’ll go and live with him until I can sort myself out.’
They left the restaurant together and walked along in silence until they drew up to the casino. In a final attempt to dissuade Ahmed, Gouda said, ‘I’m older than you, Ahmed, and I’ve seen more of the world than you. You’re still green. Listen to what I say: don’t boot the blessing that’s between your hands. Try and forget about it and calm down. There’s no call for all this. If I told you everything that had happened in my life you’d bid the world goodbye. You know, once when I was in the secret service during the war a high-ranking officer tried throwing his weight around with me. Guess what? I walked away and held my tongue and two days later he came to apologise, this is after I’d taken his shit, because he’d found out I was a close friend of President Abdel Nasser. You don’t realise …’
‘That’s enough, Gouda!’ Ahmed exploded like the lid of a pressure cooker. ‘You’ve forgotten yourself. You don’t notice that everyone around you is laughing at you. Wake up out of that dream world you keep yourself in, and us with you. Come back to earth! Enough stories: I’m tired of you fleeing into fantasy. You’re Gouda, not Raafat el-Hagan. Is there anything you haven’t done? If you’re such a hero why are you working here and humiliating yourself? This one treats you badly, that one feels sorry for you: it’s like you’re a beggar. Don’t you wish you could be treated with respect for once? Don’t you wish people wouldn’t laugh behind your back and wait for you to turn up so they can amuse themselves at your expense? They’re using you. Wake up, man! They’re using you!’
Ahmed had done this many a time: with his sister, his father and his mother, even his closest friends. It was a basic Aquarian trait: violent agitation, then an explosion that swept away anyone who tried to calm him down. Sometimes his anger had no cause, and it was followed by profound remorse and a sense of guilt that only heightened his rage at the person standing before him.
Gouda bowed his head earthwards. He did not speak or shout. He did not defend himself. It was as though he had been waiting for somebody to say ‘You’re a liar’ to his face. He knew that he was, just as he knew that he didn’t necessarily have to feel that he knew this.
He had been deceiving himself more than leading others astray. He smiled and shook his head. His smile ignited Ahmed’s anger.
‘Now you’re going to get angry with me too? I know what I’m saying is upsetting but I’m worried about you. If you’re upset then you haven’t understood me. I am embarrassed for you. Should I laugh along with them at you? I tried, but I can’t do it. I think of you as a father.’
‘I’ll never be upset with you, Ahmed. You’re the son I never had.’
They had arrived at the casino.
‘I’m sorry. I mean it: I’m sorry I lost my temper with you and said stupid things. When I get worked up I become blind. Don’t be cross, please.’
‘I’m just happy it came from you. If I’d wanted anybody to talk to me like that it would have been you.’
‘Gouda, I’ve done you wrong.’
‘It’s nothing. I’m not upset. Come inside with me.’
‘I’m not going in now.’
‘Where will you go now?’
‘I’ll wander about a bit. I need some air and I’m not going to get any sleep.’
‘As you like. I’ll speak to Mohsin and sort out this problem with him. He’s a good guy.’
‘It won’t make a difference.’
‘Until we have a plan or even somewhere for you to live, then …’
Ahmed sensed that Gouda was right about the accommodation, but he was too embarrassed to admit that he needed a couple of days to set his affairs in order, so he simply nodded his head and let El-Haram Street enfold him. He had no idea where his feet were taking him, like a body in a coffin screaming at the pallbearers, ‘You idiots!’
7
9 a.m.
‘Hello? Hi there, Omar, how are you? Are you at work? Great. Listen: remember the thing you told me? To do with the job, man … Yeah, exactly. Well, would I be able to come and work for you? Sure, call me back, but on your mother’s life make it quick … What do you mean two or three days? Try and sort it out now … No, not over the telephone; I’ll tell you when I see you. That’s it for now: I’m calling from the street … Sure. Oh, there’s something else. Try and find me a place nearby, even a room will do … No, I’m not staying with you: your mum snores … No, of course I’d be comfortable, it’s like my own home. I was joking! But try and get me something near you so I can feel more at ease.’
Outside the gallery on the kerb across the street an ancient taxi stopped and Ghada got out. She failed to notice the lurking presence that had been settled on the bench waiting for her to appear since five o’clock that morning. He began tracking her with his eyes: arranging the exhibits, opening the computer, putting a final touch here and there then adopting that pose by the window, like a statue gazing towards
him.
He rose from his place and went to the phone booth.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Ahmed replaced the receiver without answering Ghada, who had arrived early, after looking at himself and finding that he was in a state unfit even for unblocking drains. Each hair on his head was standing on end, glasses with one lens, a shirt crumpled as though a train had run over it – and on top of it all, the stench of stale sweat. He had to hang up.
There was a flower shop five minutes away. He went there and bought a small bunch of roses. He solicited the assistance of the son of the doorman at the building next to the gallery, having bribed him with a couple of pounds, made him promise to deliver the roses to Ghada and handed him a small card that he had purchased, on which he wrote: ‘Good morning! Ahmed Kamal.’
Taking precautionary measures, he changed his position and watched events unfold from a distance.
The slim, dark-skinned youngster stopped at the gallery door and questioned one of her colleagues. She pointed out Ghada, who came over and said a few words, then took the roses and read the card while the boy attempted a retreat. She stopped him and asked him something, after which he pointed to the street, trying to locate the sender.
The rat! Hadn’t he taken the money? The little traitor! The double agent, standing there gesturing at her with his hand raised, trying to describe the height of the sender. He twiddled his forefinger (skinny) then pointed to his eyes (glasses). No end to the treachery!
The turncoat took his leave. How Ahmed wished he had a sniper’s rifle as he followed the demon’s progress, capering innocently back to his building like any normal child.
Ghada looked at the roses, then at the card, and returned to the window, fixing her gaze on the street and searching for anybody watching her or following her movements. Her hand clutched a flower plucked from the bouquet and her fingers toyed with it. She did not notice the bedraggled figure that slipped away, glancing behind him every five metres until he disappeared from view.
8
Night’s cloak descended rapidly. Though faded and full of dust, it was enough to lend an air of mystery to Cairo’s noisy streets.