Vertigo

by Ahmed Mourad

  ‘You’re clearly very fond of ice cream.’

  ‘I know how to appreciate it.’

  ‘What about vanilla, then? How highly do you rate it?’

  He lifted his face to the ceiling as if pondering some weighty matter. ‘With or without chopped nuts?’

  ‘With chopped nuts, raisins and hazlenuts.’

  ‘When I get the flavour I want …’ he began, then broke off to scratch his nose, just as she raised herself on tiptoe in anticipation of his reply, ‘it’s a blank cheque.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  She slid from his grasp like a bar of soap and took a gulp from his glass on her way to the door. She turned. ‘You haven’t shown me where you sleep. No, let me find out for myself.’

  She climbed the stairs as he sat down to pour himself another glass and get himself in the mood for a bowl of vanilla with chopped nuts. His mobile phone rang, the words ‘private number’ blinking on the screen.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good evening, Ayman bey. This is the secretary speaking. Othman bey Abdel Raziq would like to speak to you.’

  ‘OK.’

  There was a brief pause then Othman’s rasping voice came down the line.

  ‘Ayman basha. Good evening.’

  His voice seemed slightly muffled but bore an enigmatic tone that set Ayman on his guard.

  ‘Good evening, Othman.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve called at an unsuitable moment, but I have some bad news.’

  ‘What is it, Othman? Has something happened to the basha?’

  ‘The basha is fine, sir. I’m calling in a personal capacity: what I have to say is between you and me. You know how highly I regard you, sir.’

  Ayman started to look extremely concerned. He went to talk beside the window.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s been a leak about some business involving you.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Overseas deals. You understand me, of course.’

  Ayman fell silent.

  ‘Ayman basha?’ said Othman. ‘Are you there, sir?’

  Ayman needed no further explanations.

  ‘Where did they leak to?’

  ‘The press.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything today. Which newspaper?’

  ‘It hasn’t come out yet, but we’re aware of the leak and we’re trying to locate the source. We’ve got copies of documents, but the originals—’

  Ayman cut him short. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘About four days. I wanted to warn you. If there’s anything you can do, sir, then do it: there are other names involved besides you, and it’s almost certainly going to come out. The individual who leaked the information has been watching your movements closely. There are no pictures, but there are documents. Someone’s been leaking them from within the company.’

  ‘Thank you, Othman. Thank you.’

  He hung up and made for the door.

  ‘Karam!’ he said into the speakerphone. ‘Get up here at once!’

  Sally was sitting on the vast bed in the luxurious bedroom wearing a black négligée and summoning all her powers to give the impression of a bride on her wedding night. She was waiting there for Ayman when she heard footsteps coming closer. She adjusted the position of her legs, checked her bosom was in place and had turned away from the door in simulated indifference when she heard a discreet cough.

  ‘Madam Sally?’

  She turned to find the majordomo standing there. She shot upright, grabbing a pillow and holding it nervously across her chest.

  ‘Where’s Ayman?’ she said.

  ‘Ayman basha apologises. Circumstances have compelled him to leave.’

  Confusion spread across Sally’s face. ‘He’ll be late?’

  ‘You may go home now and he will call you,’ he said with a sympathetic expression. ‘He left this for you.’

  The majordomo handed her a black velvet box of middling size and left her. For five minutes she stayed frozen in place, her only reaction a whispered, ‘Son of a dog!’

  Then she opened the box he had left for her. Inside lay a diamond ring of at least one carat. She tried it out on her hand before getting up, putting on her clothes and leaving the villa. Outside was a second vehicle, this time a BMW, ready to take her home, where Karim Abbas was waiting for her.

  It was a quarter past one in The League of Arab Nations Street. Despite the late hour, the neighbourhood of Mohandiseen was alive. There was a profusion of luxury cars bearing the yellow plates of the Suez and Safaga customs offices, women wearing the khimar, men in the starched white robes of the Gulf Arab male, clinging jeans and exposed midriffs. Young men hung out on street corners next to food outlets and juice stalls, cars raced one another down the middle of the street, and the restaurants and cafés that required advance bookings were packed.

  The car carrying Sally approached Syria Street. Sally was sitting in the back, inspecting the ring. She removed it and put it back in the box. Once outside her palatial building, she hurried out of the car and took the lift to the sixth floor.

  Her apartment was opulent, crammed with furniture and lavishly appointed. A fountain stood in the centre and the walls were filled with huge photographic self-portraits, one of which showed her dancing onstage in some western country.

  She went inside, where Madiha her PA was waiting for her. Sally handed her the bag and took off her shoes.

  ‘Where’s Karim?’

  ‘He’s sitting with guests inside.’

  ‘Call him.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Sally went to the bedroom and in less than two minutes she was joined by Karim, who was wearing a yellow tracksuit. Sally was perched on the dressing table.

  ‘You came back early.’

  ‘That’s how it panned out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. He suddenly made his excuses.’

  ‘Before or afterwards?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I was ready to go and this guy comes up to me on the bed, hands me this ring and apologises to me on his behalf.’

  Karim reached out and took the box from the dressing table. He opened it.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing. I went home.’

  Karim examined the ring intently before closing the box and tucking it beneath his arm. ‘Something important must have come up. He’ll call again. Anyway: a ring for free! It doesn’t get better than that.’

  Sally appreciated Ayman Wasfi’s gift, but his sudden disappearance had planted a hidden sense of humiliation within her, a wound to her feminine pride, and it made her snap back, ‘I won’t go!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Karim.

  ‘I mean I’m not going there again. He has to realise that Sally doesn’t put up with that kind of thing.’

  ‘Ayman’s not some john from the Paris. You’re forgetting yourself. And your failure of a night got you a diamond. Just imagine if you’d got on the scoresheet!’

  ‘It makes no difference. I’ll wear the ring on my toe so he can see just how much I care about his present.’

  ‘It makes a big difference. A guy like Ayman Wasfi is an ocean: he can raise you up with him. Forget the ring: it’s peanuts. Ayman Wasfi’s a Green Card. He can open doors that are closed to us.’

  ‘No doors are closed to me any more.’

  ‘Yeah, but what if something happens?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that video of yours that sold more copies than Titanic.’

  His answer silenced her. She did not need to hear any more about the nightmare that had transformed the course of her life for the better! It had been the dentist’s injection that stings in order to soothe. However, she could not bear the memory of her seclusion and having to stay out of the limelight; the agony of the scandal. Thousands of eyes had pierced through her like arrows and only the blessing of forgetfulness had saved her; the same blessing that helps a wife forget her dead husband and re
marry mere months later, as if he had never existed.

  ‘This week you’ve got some filming for the Star Story show. They called today to check the dates. Ramadan’s getting close and there are still five episodes of your drama series left to finish. In the evenings you’ve got to do the rounds of the cinemas for the new film. Khaled el-Samaki called me: Mohammed Saad’s film is definitely coming out next week. He’s got you an open-topped car because of those crazy kids from last time who were going to lift up the car with us inside. We’ve got a very tough two weeks coming up: I need you fresh.’

  ‘Is there anything in the papers?’

  ‘They’re writing awful stuff about the film. Sons of whores: nothing’s good enough for them. The music video’s doing great: the channels are playing it one after another every five minutes. Oh yes. Good thing I remembered: Sheikh Zafir’s office called. There’s a celebration coming up. The man’s invited you to stay at his private palace for a week.’

  ‘I’m getting dressed. I’ll go and see el-Samaki. Coming?’

  ‘No, you go,’ he answered, gently kneading her shoulders. ‘I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll drop by.’

  Kissing her neck, he left her gazing at herself in the mirror. Something unnatural was coming over her: a cloud of gloom and a sudden sense of irritation and nervousness made her scream, ‘Madiha! Come and dress me!’

  22

  Five days later

  The hands of the clock in the studio in Manial pointed to half past five. A small girl exited the photography room with her mother, and behind her, Ahmed, who tousled her hair as she left.

  Omar was working on a picture and Ahmed was just heading his way when an unregistered number flashed up on his mobile phone.

  Alaa’s voice came down the line.

  ‘Ahmed? It’s Alaa.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m fine: nothing’s wrong. We need to meet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Remember the first time I met you?’

  Ahmed understood that he meant the café in Downtown.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Tomorrow at seven. OK?’

  ‘Seven.’

  Omar got up and went over to Ahmed, who had stayed standing and gazing through the glass at the street outside.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Dreaming of tomorrow, lover boy?’

  ‘Alaa called.’

  Suddenly Omar was interested. ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll meet him tomorrow at seven o’clock, after I’ve seen Ghada.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘There’s no need. Alaa’s voice didn’t sound right. I’m worried something’s up with him.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to sit around twiddling my thumbs?’

  ‘Your presence won’t help me. Keep your distance: if something happens you know what to do. I’ll leave the key with you.’

  ‘Fine. In my opinion you should tell him to drop the whole business. They’re going to get us if we carry on like this. You’re wrong to even meet him, Ahmed.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I’m the one who asked for his help.’

  ‘Sure, but your pictures were enough on their own. Why bring in politics and big names and the rest of it? In the beginning you said we’d be having fun, not fixing the country; it seems to me that this has got out of control and if anything happens we’ll be dragged along like we’re roped up to it. No one will be able to help us.’

  ‘He can’t back out now.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s just a matter of time. They’ll catch up with him.’

  ‘So I should leave him just as he’s starting to get something done?’

  ‘The guy’s got a death wish. He sees the pictures, fastens his articles to them and publishes the lot, and now the newspaper’s been shut down before anything’s appeared. They’ll be looking for whoever had a go at Galal and they must have found something there.’

  ‘So whoever tells the truth these days has to be afraid?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning tomorrow you meet your lovely lady and then you go to the café and explain everything to Alaa and give him back the key. We don’t want any trouble, in other words: he goes his way and we go ours.’

  Ahmed gave no response. He pondered fearfully, imagining horrors, the horrors of those who dabble in the illicit. What were these feelings that assailed him? He felt a strange longing for his sister Aya. Despite everything, she was the only family he had left, and despite everything, he called her. Her telephone was off. He caught a taxi and went to see her.

  Outside the flat he examined an area where the paint was lighter than the rest of the door: the place the sign bearing his father’s name had been. He rang the bell and waited until Aya opened the door. Through the niqab he saw her eyes.

  ‘How are you, Aya?’

  ‘Praise be to God. Come in.’

  She went inside and closed the door, Ahmed following her into the sitting room where she removed the niqab. The flat had changed considerably, no longer the home that had seen them grow up, but an alien, depressing place. The walls were green and the large candelabra in the sitting room had been replaced with a sixty-watt neon strip light that reminded him of his trip to see Gouda in the morgue. A large quantity of boxes and metal cans were scattered throughout the room.

  Ahmed took a seat while Aya shut the door.

  ‘One second: I have a guest.’

  The door hadn’t been closed properly, and through the gap Ahmed saw a young woman leave the bedroom and hand Aya some money. Thanking her, Aya escorted her to the door and returned.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Ahmed.

  ‘A friend of mine.’

  ‘She was giving you money.’

  ‘Yes, she was loaning it to me.’

  ‘And thanking you too! What’s in these boxes?’

  ‘Cheese.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, cheese?’

  ‘Mahmoud’s working in cheese and bastirma.’

  ‘And the clothes shop in Moski?’

  ‘He left it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The people there turned out to be dishonest. Their financial dealings were suspect. Cheese is an honest trade: free from suspicion.’

  ‘And incense too,’ said Ahmed sarcastically. ‘I’ve heard there are huge profits to be made.’

  Aya reproached him with a glance.

  ‘Like the casino, you mean?’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I left the casino for good.’

  ‘Thank God. I prayed for you a lot. Where do you work now?’

  ‘At Kodak Express in Manial.’

  ‘There is no god but God! God forgive you! I thought I told you to keep away from wickedness!’

  ‘The Kodak Express is haram as well?’

  ‘Any reproduction of God’s creation is haram. Sculpture, drawing, photography: it makes no difference, they’re all haram.’

  ‘OK, so you won’t be needing photographs for your ID card any more?’

  ‘Only when absolutely necessary.’

  ‘And it’s haram for people to take pictures of their children too? It’s haram for someone to remember how he was when he was young and show his kids?’

  ‘You’re free to think of it how you like.’

  ‘Great. Anyway, I didn’t come here to fight. I missed you and thought I’d come and see you. How’s Mahmoud?’

  ‘He’s well.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Aya hesitated.

  ‘He’s sleeping somewhere else tonight.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘No. With Samah.’

  ‘Samah who?’

  ‘His wife Samah.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mahmoud got married.’

  ‘The bastard!’

  Aya made no comment. In other circumstances she would have eaten him alive for uttering a single word against Mahmoud.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Did h
e hurt you? Why didn’t you call? Why?’

  ‘It’s no big deal. I’m not upset. Besides, your phone’s been off for ages.’

  Ahmed remembered that he had destroyed the SIM card.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A fortnight ago.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s Samah: Samah Sayyid, remember her? She was at school with me.’

  ‘Your friend, no less! And then?’

  ‘He saw her when she came to visit me once and asked me about her. A demon lover had possessed her and wanted to make her his wife. Someone with knowledge of these things had to marry her before the jinn would leave. He asked me for permission. She’s a good girl; I’m fine with it.’

  She was unconvincing.

  ‘As easy as that! Aya, I just want to ask you one question: do you believe what you’ve just told me? Are you happy like this: surrounded by boxes of cheese and bastirma and living in this fantasy world of jinn and demon lovers?’

  Aya did not reply. She continued to look at him in silence. ‘Shut up!’ her eyes implored. ‘There’s no need to rub salt on the wound.’

  He stood up and began to pace the room like a madman as she stared into space. At last she spoke. ‘It’s his right, Ahmed. I’m happy with it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Shame on you! He took our parents’ flat and now he throws you into some cheese warehouse like a dog. I don’t know what you’re thinking. If you were uneducated I wouldn’t be blaming you.’

  ‘There’s no point in talking. It’s the will of God and that’s an end of it.’

  ‘I should shut up, then?’

  ‘That’s right, Ahmed.’

  Ahmed got up and went to the door.

  ‘I certainly will. I don’t know why something has to happen every time I think of visiting you or calling. I’m scared to speak to you any more. I’m frightened to know anything about you. Is this Kamal’s daughter, Aya, Daddy’s mischievous little girl? You’ve become somebody else. You’re not the sister I grew up with—’

  ‘There’s no need for this, Ahmed,’ she broke in. ‘Stop it.’