by Ahmed Mourad
‘Thank God! My blood ran cold. Do you want this letter for anything? There are some people who need to see it.’
‘Not at all: keep it. He told me that he had a lot of respect for you in particular and made me promise to pass on his good wishes.’
‘Ahmed was one of the good guys here, to be honest. Bless him for asking. If he gets in touch with you again, tell him Sami says hello. He doesn’t have a telephone number yet?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. The moment he does I’ll get him to call you.’
Omar took his leave and was moving away to the door when Sami shouted, ‘Captain! Captain!’
Omar turned, suddenly nervous. Sami was brandishing the letter.
‘Just a second!’
There must be some mistake in the letter, Omar said to himself. Some detail that got away and caught the attention of this pirate. He returned to Sami, who gripped his shoulder, his face drawing closer to Omar’s and his shiny gold tooth plain to see.
‘When he calls you, tell him Sami wants a favour. The favour of a lifetime.’
Omar’s shoulder tingled beneath Sami’s hand. ‘Anything. Ask away.’
‘A box of Viagra,’ Sami whispered hoarsely. ‘The genuine article. The stuff here is all knock-off and Tramadol doesn’t do anything any more.’
Omar let out a huge sigh. He hadn’t realised this was mating season for corsairs. He looked at Sami as if to say, ‘You old dog!’ ‘I’ll tell him as soon as he calls me. Is that all? Anything else, chief?’
‘Thank you, my friend. And don’t forget what I told you. It’s got to be genuine.’
Omar left the casino like Raafat el-Hagan leaving the house of Susu Levi and Ephraim Solomon. He walked until he reached Faisal Street, the street that runs parallel to El-Haram Street, and home to the Abu Saud Café.
‘What happened?’ asked Ahmed.
‘They’ve been moving heaven and earth to get you since yesterday. Let’s get out of here.’
The two of them got up and caught a microbus. On the way, Omar told Ahmed what had taken place. Though he tried to keep himself together he seemed shocked.
‘They bought the letter?’
‘How could you ask! That was your friend’s work! I resign: it’s been fun, but enough’s enough. Right?’
‘Sure it’s been fun. Drop us off here, driver.’
‘Get off here? And do what?’
The microbus stopped by the Abbas Bridge. They got down and Ahmed headed for the nearest phone booth.
‘Good evening. Ahmed Mohammed speaking, from the office of the Union of Journalists.’
A female voice answered him. ‘Welcome, sir. Can I be of service?’
‘The boss wants the phone number of a journalist who was working with you. His name is, just a second; ah, yes: Alaa Gomaa. The fellow who made all that trouble. The one from the announcement in your newspaper.’
‘Yes, yes, one second. Do you have a pen and paper, sir?’
‘Go ahead. Uh-huh. Mmm-hmm. Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘Would you like me to put you through to Galal Mursi, sir?’
‘There’s no need. It’s just a routine procedure for the union’s files. Please don’t disturb him. Goodbye.’
Ahmed turned to Omar.
‘Did you get the number?’ Omar handed him the mobile. ‘Here you go. Who’s Ahmed Mohammed?’
‘My friend, half the country’s called Ahmed or Mohammed. There’s bound to be an Ahmed at the union’s office.’
‘Can we just think for a second? Don’t tell me that you’re going to call Alaa Gomaa now.’
Ahmed said nothing. He was indeed dialling the number. Six rings before a sleepy voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Good evening. Alaa?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m a person who has something that concerns Galal Mursi. Would you like me to continue?’
‘What thing?’
‘Not on the phone. Can we meet?’
‘How do I know this isn’t a set-up?’
‘You don’t. Take a risk: you’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll call you. Don’t say a word to anybody. Goodbye.’
Ahmed hung up. He felt uncontrollably excited, while Omar bit his lip and looked nervously about, imagining patrol cars surrounding them on all sides.
‘What? What did he say, you lunatic?’
‘We’re going to meet.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Let me think. I never planned for any of this, Omar. This business is pulling me along. The current’s just too strong: I can’t back out now.
‘And how’s this Alaa Gomaa going to help you? He’s been thrown out on the street and his reputation is ruined. He won’t be able to get anything published.’
‘I want to find out some things about Habib Amin and a few other people. Alaa’s got the information and I’ve got the pictures. We might make a decent double-act, plus any newspaper with a grudge against Galal Mursi would love to get a whiff of something dirty. These pressmen are monsters – they eat each other up – and Galal’s starting to give off a smell. Believe me, these pictures will finish him as a journalist. They can change a lot of things.’
‘I don’t know. Galal and Amin now, and then Fathi el-Assal and Sally. How far do you want to go?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do I get the feeling that a large part of what’s driving you on is revenge, not a love of social justice? You’re doing it because of your hatred for these people. I’m not saying you envy them, but every one of them has contributed to your unhappiness: a two-faced scumbag journalist botches the Vertigo investigation for no reason; a slap from Habib and abuse from Fathi el-Assal. I’m scared that we’ll end up chasing after vengeance like Upper Egyptians on the trail of a blood feud.’
Ahmed gave no answer, smoking in silence as he walked along. Omar was partly right. He didn’t deny that what was inside him was far from being a pure struggle for truth and dignity. He wanted to throw these people into confusion; to swap roles with them and introduce fear into their lives for the first time. He wanted to make them feel as he did: that they were living on the edge.
Half way across the bridge they came to a halt. The Nile looked weak, diminished.
‘So what if I want revenge on these people? They’re hurting me now, but they’ve been hurting this country for a very long time. If my loathing of them makes me take revenge on behalf of others, where’s the problem? People don’t have the time or the wherewithal to wake up and go after what they deserve or to fight for it. People are worried about their next meal.’
‘So you’re the one who’ll fight?’
‘Maybe. Look: you’re scared and so am I, but there’s nothing else we can do. Help me. If I give up trying to uncover the truth about these people my life will never go back to how it was. It will have no flavour; I’ll feel that I have no purpose. Go back to eating, drinking, working and sleeping? What difference would there be between me and everyone walking past you right now? None.’
‘Very persuasive, and you’ll get me into serious trouble. When will you call Alaa?
‘After I meet Ghada tomorrow.’
She came the next day, at exactly six o’clock. She was wearing apple-scented perfume, bewitching as always. She never changed.
When she saw her picture she gave a shy smile and he asked her if his letter had bothered her. ‘Yes,’ she answered, and a freezing lump of ice cream slid down his spine. She smiled again.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’m not used to that approach.’
He asked where he should meet her next and she told him, ‘Fine Arts.’ He didn’t understand.
‘I can only see you one day a week. I’m doing my higher studies and I give a course for children at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Zamalek: “Developing Artistic Talent”. It’s every Monday. You can bring your camera. It’s at ten in the morning.’
‘May I have your phone number?’ asked the humble worshipper.
‘Better we meet at the college,’ replied the princess.
She went out and with her went his soul.
He stayed watching her as she got into a taxi. She smiled at him as she closed the door. The scent of apple lingered in his nostrils for minutes, until it was replaced by another smell, one that could only come from one of three things: a basketful of rotten eggs; a dead donkey lying bloated in the Mansouriya Canal and being gnawed at by pregnant street dogs; or Omar’s stomach after a meal of koshari with garlic.
‘What news?’
‘Have you farted?’
‘Sort of.’
Ahmed left him and hurried inside.
‘Where are you going? Ahmed!’
He had escaped with his life and he gave no answer.
17
The public phone booth in front of the Sheherazade Hotel on the Nile Corniche was quite a distance from Manial, though they did have the Peugeot 128 owned by Omar’s cousin, currently in Saudi Arabia.
Omar had borrowed it from his aunt on the pretext that it would rust if left standing unused and needed to be driven and have its oil changed. She agreed to let him take it for a spin every day until her son returned, but only after issuing dire threats of scalping should the car come to harm.
All of which gave Ahmed the opportunity to contact Alaa from a different location and avoid potential phone taps.
‘Wait!’ said Omar. ‘What if he’s being tapped?’
‘We’ll know.’
‘You’re sure that this way will work?’
‘Of course, I saw it in a film,’ said Ahmed as he dialled the number. ‘It makes perfect sense.’
The phone rang.
‘Hello?’
Ahmed did his best to appear confident.
‘Free today? We spoke yesterday.’
‘I’m free. How will we meet?’
‘You know the Central Bank in Sherif Street? Wait outside the main entrance.’
‘What time?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘You won’t be late?’
‘Wear a white shirt. I’ll see you there. Don’t be late.’
‘Sure.’
Ahmed hung up before the ‘sure’ to lend proceedings an air of mystery.
They spent the time bickering over the details of the coming meeting with Alaa until it was quarter to one in the vibrant financial thoroughfare, which looked like Wall Street after a tsunami of dust had wreaked havoc. The street was peaceful at night and it was easy to spot the dark-skinned man in the white shirt, chewing his fingernails by the main entrance to the bank. Alaa gnawed away for fifteen minutes until he just about reached his elbow. He had been as incapable of kicking the habit as a crocodile was incapable of riding a bike.
His phone rang.
‘Hello?’ he said.
It was Omar, speaking from a phone booth in the alleyway next to the bank.
‘Alaa. There’s an alley just before the bank: Boursa Alley. There’s a café. Move quickly and wait there.’
Before Alaa could answer Omar had replaced the receiver.
Alaa made his way to the alley. Omar watched him, sitting at the café with a shisha before him while in the car Ahmed observed the empty street to his rear in case he was being followed.
That was the plan: lure him to a relatively empty area then sit somewhere noisy like a café with more than one exit, like the Boursa Alley. The café was large and people were scattered around it like stars in a crowded sky. Raucous noise, the bubbling of shisha and loud laughter escaped, noises that seemed dissonant and disconnected from one another in contrast to the harmonous clacking of dominos and backgammon pieces. The smoke carried jokes and wisecracks, cares, secrets and problems far into the sky: the sky of Cairo.
Alaa stayed standing, his eyes searching the crowd until the waiter appeared.
‘Take a seat, ya basha.’
‘Thank you, no. I’m waiting for some people.’
‘There’s a gentleman at the table over there calling you.’ He pointed at the table where Ahmed and Omar were sitting.
Alaa walked over, examining the Laurel and Hardy who had toyed with his nerves for two days. Even before he sat down the question marks began to show on his face.
‘I believe I require an explanation.’
‘Of course,’ said Ahmed. ‘Can I see your ID?’
For five seconds Alaa remained motionless, then he took the card from his old wallet. ‘Here you go.’
Ahmed examined the card. ‘Alaa Hussein el-Sayyid Gomaa. Journalist.’ He handed it back. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Alaa gave an irritable nod.
‘Why were you fired from the paper?’
‘First of all, I wasn’t fired; I resigned.’
‘A good start,’ said Ahmed, taking out a packet of cigarettes and offering one to Alaa.
‘Thanks. I don’t smoke.’
‘Best thing you ever did. Tell me what happened.’
‘Can’t I know who I’m talking to first?’
‘After you answer my question.’
‘A difference of opinion with the editor: an article that I added a sentence to. A bit of information that cost me a lot.’
‘Habib Sherif Amin.’
Ahmed was rolling dice and hoping for a double six.
‘Who are you, exactly?’
‘I told you. I’m someone who has something that will condemn Galal Mursi.’
‘That doesn’t explain why you’re talking to me, though. You’ve got all the papers at your disposal and they’re itching for a scandal. You know about my problem with the union?’
‘That’s just Galal.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Suppose I had stuff on other people.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘People like Habib Amin, for instance.’
‘Explain.’
‘Alaa, you need my help and I need yours. I’ve got incriminating photos of some people. I suppose you could call them the cream of society: members of parliament, businessmen and politicians. A bunch of people with influence; people whose voice is heard. Pictures of people who are enemies on the front page in the morning and are all butter and honey when they meet up at night. Pictures of them with dancers and prostitutes. Pictures nobody wants to see. A private night life, if you like.’
Alaa began to look interested.
‘And where did you get these pictures?’
‘You might say I inherited them from a very dear friend.’
Alaa’s journalistic instinct was ignited and he carried over a chair and drew closer to Ahmed. At that moment a red shisha coal fell on the table with a bang that almost blew the tea into Alaa’s face.
‘Hang on.’
It was Omar, holding the pipe like Poseidon with his trident.
‘Now just a second.’
‘This is my friend Omar. I forgot to introduce you.’
Omar winked at Ahmed and waggled his head in an agitated fashion.
‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’
‘Excuse me, Alaa.’
Omar got up and Ahmed followed him to a distant corner.
‘What are you up to?’
‘What do you mean, “What am I up to?”’
‘I can see you’re about to give him the details.’
‘So what?’
‘How do you know that we can trust him?’
‘First of all, we’re the ones who called him; he didn’t try to get hold of us. Secondly, your enemy’s enemy is your friend. In other words, because Galal threw him out he’ll want the chance to get his own back. And thirdly, he doesn’t know why we want him. He won’t have time to think.’
‘What if he sells us out?’
‘He won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘What would make him throw away information like this? He’d be a fool.’
‘He’ll tell them wh
o gave him the pictures after the first slap, trust me.’
‘That’s supposing he knew where we lived.’
‘He’ll screw us.’
‘Stop whingeing like a divorcé. Did you bring the laptop from Kodak Express?’
‘It’s in the boot with the camera. All right, what if he gives them the number of the car?’
‘Doesn’t that car belong to your cousin, Hassan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you love your aunt very much?’
‘Love isn’t the word, exactly.’
‘Fine, then we get up early tomorrow and file a report of theft. We say that the car was stolen from outside the house yesterday, and tomorrow we find it parked under El-Malik el-Salih Bridge. Come on, the guy’s sitting there waiting.’
He pulled Omar by the arm and they returned to Alaa, who was still suffering from a general sense of bewilderment.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ said Ahmed.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Omar drew close to Alaa’s face, the reek of shisha on his breath.
‘Alaa, if anyone finds out what went down at this meeting, believe me: you don’t want to know what I’ll do. I’m not threatening you, but we know just how dangerous this is. If anything happens, you’re with us. You have to make a choice right now: either you keep going, or you forget you ever saw us. And by the way, we’re not alone. Got that? Not alone.’
Alaa stayed silent, but he wasn’t thinking of a response; he was thinking of fate, which had sent him this pair after his life had ground to a halt. He knew only too well the consequences of Galal Mursi’s anger. He had lost his source of income and been expelled from the world of journalism. He was a pariah, a leper amidst the healthy. People were frightened to approach him, or even help him. If he fell in a ditch, no one would extend a helping hand. But perhaps he might find a hand as leprous as his.
He was in agreement with Ahmed over one basic point: he had nothing to lose not to mention having no family or children. He was perfect for the adventure. Nothing could stop him now he knew about the dirt on Galal.