by Ahmed Mourad
Just before the taxi squeezed into the traffic, Ahmed saw him. He was sitting at a café beside the phone booth, dapper and elegant in a white suit as he smoked a cigarette and smiled at Ahmed. Ahmed sank down into the back seat trying to avoid the attentions of this Lord of the Ring, the ring with the letter G. The taxi took the road to Manial.
A short while later Galal was back in his office at the newspaper. A solitary black raven began to circle over his head in the room, but unlike the raven sent by God to help Cain bury Abel, it found nobody and so was unable to show Galal the trick to hiding one’s shame. Galal was deeply concerned. It was the feeling of knowing a tumour was spreading through your body. He cleared the place of employees and police; he needed to gather his thoughts and plan his next step. He flicked his lighter on and off, as was his habit; the lighter that had been returned to him.
It was nearly a quarter past midnight when the telephone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi there, Galal,’ a voice said.
‘Good evening, ya basha.’
‘See the mess we’re in because of you?’
‘Ya basha, wait. What did I do?’
‘Those dirty pictures of yours. You should hide your face in shame. Pleased with yourself?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘And they’ve turned up now. Tell me: if something happens now how should I deal with you?’
‘I’ll do anything. I’ll start a campaign against photos that are faked using computers. I’ll keep going and eventually whoever’s messing with me will make a mistake.’
‘So we’ve got to wait for him to make a mistake?’
‘I’m sowwy, ya basha.’
‘We made you, Galal. Know what that means? It means that we can send you back to where you came from at any moment. That’s the last thing I’m going to say to you. The basha is very angry. If this matter gets any bigger you need to resign with your dignity intact. Don’t force me to personally take steps against you and give your position to someone who knows how to control himself properly.’
‘Whatever you think best, sir.’
He replaced the receiver and bent over the desk, burying his face in his hands. He knew that his position was weak. He sensed sharp knives lying in wait for his demise. It wouldn’t be pretty. Lifting his head he swept everything on his desk onto the floor. The only thing left was his lighter.
Things were no calmer in Manial.
‘I’m nervous enough as it is. Don’t start playing the resistance fighter with me. Everyone makes mistakes, Che Guevara.’
Omar was circling Ahmed, who lay on his back on the mattress reading a copy of Freedom’s daily edition.
‘And you had to call him from outside the newspaper? I told you the guy had connections and won’t take it lying down. Next time we won’t get away with it. They’ll screw us. Haven’t you heard about what happens in state security? If they arrested Hitler himself they’d hang him up and make him confess that he belonged to a terrorist cell in Imbaba that wanted to overthrow the government.’
‘Don’t you see that the man is protected by the government itself? Do you believe me now? That the man isn’t a noble warrior against oppression and tyranny like he says? He’s simply the façade of something bigger; a filthy liar. But see how I guessed their trick from the start? That business of tapping the phone? Give me some credit.’
‘Listen James Bond, you’ve given him a scare. He’ll be twitching till next year. Now what? If you’re saying he’s got protection from the top then they’ll keep after whoever’s threatening him. Enough, I’m begging you: I can’t take any more.’
‘My friend, did anything actually happen?’
‘I’m going to wait for it to happen, am I? Your words won’t change a thing. We’re not going to change the world.’
‘Omar. Calm down. Did I say I wanted to change the world? I’m just someone who received a gift from God and is making good use of it.’
‘I’m thinking that by now you must realise that this guy is definitely not going to publish the photos from Vertigo.’
‘I’m sure he isn’t.’
‘So what’s the solution?’
Ahmed was inspecting a small box at the bottom left of Freedom’s front page.
‘Alaa Gomaa …’
‘Who?’
‘Listen.’
Ahmed folded the paper and started to read the item written in red font beneath the picture of Alaa Gomaa:
Warning
The independent Freedom newspaper warns against any professional or financial dealings with the journalist Alaa Hussein el-Sayyid Gomaa, known as Alaa Gomaa, on the grounds of his misconduct in publishing fabricated news stories unbefitting to the reputation and honour of the newspaper, which has accustomed its readers to truthful reporting and fact-checking. In light of this, the newspaper has decided to dismiss him and bring the matter before the head of the Journalists’ Union to take the necessary steps. The newspaper absolves itself of responsibility for any literary output or statements issuing from the aforementioned journalist.
Beneath the warning was a line from the Quran:
‘O ye who believe! If a wicked person comes to you with any news, ascertain the truth, lest ye harm people unwittingly, and afterwards become full of repentance for what ye have done.’ [Quran 49:6]1
‘And what are you thinking of doing with him, then?
‘Alaa’s most recent piece was in the last weekly edition. Wait a second, I’ve got a copy.’
Ahmed stood up and rummaged through the contents of the room until he found it under the mattress.
‘He must have written something he shouldn’t have done. Then the paper fires him! Something’s not right. It’s 99.9 percent certain that he was dismissed by someone important.’
Opening the paper Ahmed began hunting through it until he found Alaa’s name at the bottom of an article entitled THE THIRD MAN.
‘Um, here we are. Listen to the last line here. The article’s about Sherif Amin.’
Ahmed started to read in a loud voice: ‘That’s not to mention his son Habib, who opened a tourist resort on the North Coast, and his luxury trips to Europe paid for by the state. All these costs are borne by those on limited income for the amusement of the sons of the powerful, the unemployed by birthright – the birthright of power.’
‘So the guy’s ruffling some feathers. Nice of them just to fire him; the very least they could do, quite literally.’
But Ahmed was not listening to Omar. He was staring at that name: Habib. Habib Amin, son of Sherif Amin.
His mind went back to his last night with Gouda, remembering what he had said as he tried to calm him down: ‘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 gets the compliments and never gives them out. It’s his right.’
Ahmed leapt off the chair and sat down at the computer, browsing through the image files until he found the one belonging to Fathi el-Assal. He rifled through the pictures before finding it: a picture of Habib Amin.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I was a guy who received a gift from God? That’s Habib Amin.’
Ahmed was pointing at the picture that showed Habib, Fathi el-Assal and Nani together.
‘You’re joking!’
‘He’s the guy I had a fight with.’
‘The scumbag who hit you? He looks like a respectable guy, to be honest. Who’s the hottie?’
‘That’s Nani, Fathi el-Assal’s girlfriend.’
‘In her thirties; thirty-seven, but she’s a story … The mature chickens are the plumpest. Look at those arms: milk pudding! And what a chest! Aphrodite, wife of Mazinger, with her two missiles of steel!’
‘Omar. Are you concentrating?’
‘On what?’
‘That’s Habib Amin, son of Sherif Amin, the subject of Alaa Gomaa’s article.’
‘Shit …’
‘It’s not that bad. Open Photoshop, will you?’
‘Tell me: are you going to do to Habib what you did to Galal?’
‘Looks like it. Why not?’
‘My dear fellow: his father is Sherif Amin, not some poxy little newspaper man. If Galal could turn the world on its head, what do you think Sherif will do? He’ll bring in the Americans! We’ll get sent to Abu Ghraib!’
‘You’re a real coward, you know.’
‘I’m a coward? I’m worried about you. If I was a coward I would have left you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Omar sat in front of the screen and opened the pictures of Habib Amin down the ages. The new ones were mostly taken in the company of Fathi el-Assal, while the older ones showed him with various different individuals, including a not insubstantial number with Sally and some of the girls who took up almost permanent residence at the casino. ‘In a couple of days things will have calmed down and we’ll see about Habib. But first we have a very important job to take care of in El-Haram Street tomorrow morning, as well as a few phone calls to make.’
‘Haven’t you given up these phone calls?’
‘This time, you don’t need to worry. It’ll be fine. By the way, is your cousin Hassan still in Saudi Arabia?’
‘Yes. What made you think of him?’
‘He sends letters?’
‘He sent one only last week.’
‘Have you still got it?’
‘It’s at home with my mother. How come you’re missing him so much?’
‘I want the envelope it came in.’
‘What’ll you do with it?’
‘I suspect something. I’ll explain later, but you have to fetch me that letter right now before your mother throws it away. Oh, and can they track me using my mobile phone?’
‘Most likely. The network’s connected to a satellite and they can establish the location of your SIM card using GPS.’
Ahmed took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Give me a piece of paper.’
Omar handed him the paper. Ahmed took it, scribbled down some numbers then removed his phone battery and pulled out the SIM card, snapping it in half.
‘Great! Your work is done. So then: what are we going to go and do in El-Haram tomorrow?’
‘We’re paying a visit to the casino.’
The two spent the night arguing over Ahmed’s next step. Ahmed was captivated by the game of cat and mouse.
Omar created a doctored copy of the envelope: steaming off the stamp and redrawing the postmark on Photoshop, then adding Ahmed’s name and a few of the hastily scribbled lines and signatures of routine bureaucracy to make it look realistic. He also tried to restrain Ahmed, who had begun to construct castles out of his crazed enthusiasm, brick by brick. But he was poor counsel. The whole thing was fascinating: a challenge to Omar’s abilities. Behind every photograph lay a story; many of the faces had been stripped bare, their dark side revealed. There was no spark in their eyes. Omar couldn’t let the chance pass. Surrendering, he spent the whole night making music with the pictures, stropping and whetting them until he had fashioned them into a razor-sharp dagger, a dagger that could pierce and kill.
16
The following morning
Work at the Kodak Express in Manial was intense. The season of photographs for secondary school certificates had begun and Ahmed had his hands full in the studio, rarely venturing out. Customer followed customer, each dreaming of transformation into their favourite pop idols (Tamer Hosny for boys, Nancy Ajram for girls). He handed the pictures to Omar, who coloured the eyes in green or hazel (the hues favoured by girls), erased the acne from faces ravaged by adolescent hormones to leave the skin looking smooth and added a suitable background.
The hour was approaching six, the time for handing the photography suite over to the night shift: Amgad, the office worker who boosted his monthly salary working nights at the studio. A girl came in asking for a picture.
‘Ahmed, wait. Take the lady’s picture before you go so I can finish my meal.’
That was Amgad: always late, stealing a quarter of an hour from Ahmed every day so that he could gather himself after his morning work.
Ahmed looked at his watch.
‘Show her in.’
He paid no attention to the footsteps that entered the room.
‘Good evening.’
‘Evening. Please come in,’ said Ahmed, his back to the door. ‘One minute.’
He inserted the memory stick into the camera and turned to check the posture of the girl who sat waiting for him.
A tsunami of mint mixed with eucalyptus assailed Ahmed’s ribcage, and his brow was suddenly covered by that cold sweat that’s like a windowpane first sprinkled with morning dew then sprayed with the steam nozzle of a clothes iron.
Ghada was sitting before him.
She was beautiful. Not as she had been the first time he saw her: more beautiful. Her features were as harmonious as the petals on a rose and she wore a blue headscarf that framed her glowing face. The ghost of a timid smile peeped out from between her lips. Silence descended over Ahmed like a fisherman’s net, and he did his best to appear unflustered. He didn’t want to spoil his first proper interaction with her.
‘May I have my picture taken?’
‘Certainly.’
He busied himself setting up the lighting around her and photographed her. He photographed her a lot. The camera was ravenous, wanting to record each and every detail of her face. They exchanged only smiles.
‘Will I see you again?’ asked Ahmed.
‘Of course. I’ll come to pick up the pictures,’ Ghada replied from the door.
‘The day after tomorrow?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
She went out, leaving him standing silently by the door for almost ten minutes. The most beautiful ten minutes he had spent since the death of his father. His heart was dancing to the tune of Amr Diab’s ‘My Lover’s Eyes Laughed’ and he began to sing it over in his head.
‘That’s it? All that fuss and bother you made for us and, in the end, three sentences! You were all “I love her!” “I’ll lose my mind!” and “I have to see her!” and quoting Nizar Qabbani and Abdel Halim Hafez at me, and when you do see her you say, “Will I see you again?” and “The day after tomorrow!”
It was Omar, scolding Ahmed for the feeble conversation he had held with Ghada at their first meeting. They were at the studio looking through Ghada’s pictures.
‘The girl’s really lovely. The best thing you’ve done in your life.’
‘But I couldn’t chat to her the first time.’
‘Useless!’
‘If the girl came all the way here then clearly she likes me. I have to give her the chance to make a choice and see me up close. Besides, you’re forgetting that I managed to catch her attention with the letter, just like that. See? She didn’t give me the brush off. Eat your heart out.’
‘My friend, she’ll soon be asking herself, “Who was that locust I went to see?” But she’s clearly well brought up and polite like myself. No better than myself, in fact.’
‘Sure,’ said Ahmed, looking at him in disgust. ‘Anyway, get a move on. We’ve got things to do and time’s tight!’
They left the studio at about a quarter past seven and made their way to El-Haram. There was a great joy in Ahmed’s heart, a joy that masked the tension that had begun to creep through him like a snake in the grass.
The casino’s parking area was not yet full. Hassan the bouncer stood by the door and all was calm.
It was eight o’clock when the fat man approached the door. Hassan Abdo got to his feet, certain that the blimp had mistaken the casino for the El-Haram Hospital.
‘Welcome, friend. What can I do for you?’
‘Good evening. Is Sami around?’
‘Sami? Sami the barman?’
‘Yes. I’ve come on behalf of a friend of his. I’ve got a letter fro
m him.’
‘Inside, on your right.’
Omar thanked him and entered the casino. He asked for Sami and was directed to the bar. Sami was washing glasses.
‘Good evening,’ said Omar.
‘Good evening. Welcome.’
‘I’m here on behalf of Ahmed. Ahmed Kamal.’
Tension and displeasure appeared on Sami’s face. Looking around, he took Omar by the hand and drew him to the edge of the bar away from the other employees.
‘Where is he?’ he whispered in a low voice. ‘Has he done something?’
‘No, Ahmed’s fine. He’s sent me with something for you. What’s happened?’
Sami scowled; he looked like a pirate whose ship had sunk. ‘Yesterday at about midnight the police came and turned the main room upside down. They were asking about Ahmed and Gouda. When they found out that Gouda was dead they turned to Ahmed. Where is he? When was the last time you saw him? They sat us down one by one. They couldn’t believe that he had left here more than a month ago; thought we were hiding him. Gouda’s room got a proper going over: they were searching for something. They also collected up all the mobile phones and took them away. We got them back this morning from the El-Haram Police Station. A few guys and girls who looked dodgy were taken away in the truck as well. It’s because of Galal Mursi. He’s a customer here: that journalist from Freedom? Someone must have photographed something crooked going on and is blackmailing him. That’s what I understood from their questions.’
‘It’s not like that at all. Ahmed got a work contract in Saudi Arabia. God blessed him. A relative sent him an invitation so he caught a flight and now he’s working at an oil company over there. He sent this letter and asked me to deliver it to you.’
Omar took out the letter and handed it to Sami who tore it open and started to read what was inside. Then he examined the envelope. The letter was highly plausible: it began with In the name of God and ended with a request to greet all his co-workers in the casino and wish them well. The main body of the letter contained details about his contract, his accommodation and his substantial salary, and how he prayed five times a day at the Great Mosque in Mecca. The message was clear: Ahmed wasn’t in Egypt; he had gone away and was beyond suspicion.