Shelf Life

by Nadia Wassef

  “When I finish what I need to do,” I responded, rolling down my windows.

  “When the girls are older, their needs will overrule yours.” He switched off the air-conditioning. “They are entitled to smell the sea breeze and eat fresca on the shore. You can’t lock them up in an apartment all summer because of your work.”

  Samir drove Masri (Egyptian) style: straddling two lanes to prevent another car from overtaking him, emitting random bursts of honking to remind the road of his presence. I asked him to pick a lane. He suggested I do the same: focus on bookselling and leave the driving to him. We sped through the twenty-kilometer stretch of 6th October Bridge, continuing down the flyover, crossing the old tram tracks, until we reached Salah Salem Street. Gray clouds hovered above the city we left behind.

  “The wife of the owner of the Baehler building is kicking out the kitsch shop a few doors down. The lease expires in a month and they can’t pay the new rent. It’s a good opportunity for Diwan.” I didn’t respond. “The shoe shiner who comes to the building has just retired and is giving his nephew the patch. Do you want to try him out?”

  “There are no shoes in our house that need shining.”

  “Maybe one day there will be,” quipped Samir, always hopeful. While he believed I was one of the few who could survive without a man, he constantly reminded me of his preference that the interim period between Number One and the onset of a new era with Number Two (whom I hadn’t met yet at the time of this exchange) would be short. He cut off my attempts at silence like a tailor following the lines of his pattern. “He’ll be looking for a part-time job. Can you use him as a night watchman for the Zamalek store? I hear ‘am Abdu’s wife is making him resign because she’s fed up with him staying out all night.” Samir chuckled.

  “I don’t shit where I eat, and neither should you.” I put the radio on, hoping that this would bring an end to Samir’s roster of real estate and employment opportunities. I didn’t like inviting my home life into my business. But given Cairo’s interconnectedness, my attempts at the separation of these worlds were futile. Hind, a silent realist, wasn’t bothered by this diffusion of boundaries. Early on, Abbas, her personal driver, had four of his cousins working in Diwan, a number that grew exponentially over the years. Abbas is still Hind’s driver, and is revered by our children. Samir and I parted ways a few years ago.

  Cairo International Airport rose out of the Sahara on our left. Samir continued down al-Nasr Road, the last stretch of our journey. This was the border of the Cairo I knew and the frontier of the Cairo I didn’t know. The new highways and ring roads challenged my limited sense of direction. Samir, happily aware of his growing indispensability, played up the tactical choices he was making to get me to my destination. As I looked at the endless desert in the distance, I had a familiar thought: in no time at all, this vacant expanse would be unrecognizable. I resented this extension of the city that was sweeping up sand dunes and spilling onto the surrounding desert: gated communities and palatial wedding-cake homes. Around us, suddenly, slabs of gray rose up into view: unfinished government-funded concrete shoeboxes for housing lower- and middle-income families. The green spaces were scraggly and brown. The desert was still asserting itself. My city was in survival mode, as it has been for the last few decades. Mubarak and his revolving cabinets had proved themselves unable to make plans or keep them. They were prone to ugliness, both moral and aesthetic.

  Malls stood at the center of these crises. As Cairo’s affluent classes withdrew to newly designed suburbs, malls emerged to cater to this new influx. The loud advertising of cost-efficient Carrefour market, with its endless shelves of identical produce, threatened the quiet dignity of small family-run shops and stalls. High streets became less essential. The deeper loss was the sense of community that these streets had once engendered. I thought about the relationship the youngest generation, growing up in gated communities and compounds, would have to their surroundings. I can’t imagine cultivating a sense of civic duty and belonging from behind such high walls. I remember fondly how Hind and I as kids would accompany our parents to the different shops and stalls on 26th of July Street in Zamalek. I would watch as modest interactions blossomed into deep affinities. Vendors and customers knew one another, even without knowing one another.

  Closing my eyes, I can still see 26th of July Street perfectly. On one corner of the uneven pavement, Magdy’s stands displayed local and foreign newspapers and magazines held in place by clothespins. With one side of his checkered shirt hanging out of his trousers, Magdy spent mornings delivering papers on his bicycle. In his absence, he trusted that no one would steal from his stand, and no one ever did. The government-owned Al-Ahram Distribution Agency held a monopoly on the supply and distribution of all magazines and newspapers. They swindled Magdy by fudging the dates of returns; he mitigated his losses by spreading them across his clients. When questioned by my mother about our fluctuating monthly bills, Magdy would scratch the side of his nose with his long—but exquisitely filed—fingernail, and then explain that this was the will of government and God. My mother would rebuke him, promise to go elsewhere, and then she would pay the inflated bill. This exchange recurred at the end of every month.

  Umm Hanafi squatted next to Magdy’s stand. She was a proud fellaha with pearls for teeth and a back straighter than a palm tree. She was always clad in a pristine black galabeya, and a flowery head scarf was tucked behind her ears, tied at the nape of her neck. Dangling circular earrings pulled at her earlobes. The three green parallel lines running down her chin confirmed her Bedouin origins. Occasionally, there was a child suckling at her breast. Every morning, she walked for miles to get to Zamalek, woven wicker tray swaying on her head, to sell dozens of freshly baked loaves of baladi bread. Directed by my mother, we bought from her, not from the government-subsidized oven at the end of the street.

  Madbouli, the fruit and vegetable seller, spilling out of the plastic armchair in the corner of his shop, was a permanent fixture. My father bought fruit and vegetables from him, constantly arguing over their quality; my mother’s eyebrows rose and fell at his prices. When I was older and did the shopping for my own home, I sorted, smelled, and selected mangoes from the imposing pile at the front of his shop. He used to throw in a couple of overly ripe ones in retribution. By then, Madbouli had discarded his galabeya for trousers and shirts; they were less kind to his portly form. These shops and their owners occupied a big part of my childhood, and they are still there in one form or another. Magdy, missing a few more teeth, has an apprentice circling Zamalek’s streets on his bicycle distributing newspapers. Umm Hanafi’s patch of pavement is empty. Madbouli has been joined by his extended family in manning the shop. Farther down, a mobile phone shop replaced the bakery.

  The simultaneous demise of the high street and rise of the mall should have caused its own revolution, an occasion for rethinking our streets and our expectations for civic space. Instead, Egyptians peacefully gave in to the call of the mall. Cinemas. Starbucks. McDonald’s. Zara. Mango. Ice rinks. As public spaces were eroded, malls offered lavish, privatized replicas of plazas and parks. Families enjoyed a comfortable air-conditioned environment where they marveled at the prices of all the imported goods they couldn’t afford. Unmarried couples relished a space where they could hold hands undisturbed, stare at windows of furniture shops, and share cheap sodas. Public bathrooms were regularly cleaned and stocked with soap and toilet paper, unlike anywhere else in Cairo. Ease and convenience are the defining conditions. But nobody stopped to think of the repercussions. The lack of intimate exchanges between shopkeepers and customers. The growing separation between where we live and where we invest. There is nothing in the mall worth holding on to. Even its perfection has an artificiality that makes it ugly.

  * * *

  When we arrived at Sun City, I got out of the car and asked Samir to wait for me in the parking lot. I couldn’t handle the thought of him coming into the new Diwan, offering his unsolicited feedback
on what we’d done and what we could’ve done better. I trod carefully on newly polished marble floors, scared to slip. Crystal air, fake palm trees, and sweeping staircases, under the trompe l’oeil dome, painted with a Renaissance knockoff of some impossibly blue sky, worked together to suspend reality. I spotted Diwan’s familiar logo, located opposite the entrance to the cinema. I walked along the new shop façade, checking the glass for scuffs, reviewing the offerings of Arabic and English books in the window display. Inside, I saw Nihal with the new store manager, cashiers, and customer-service, café, and maintenance staff. I set aside my doubts, pushing the long chrome door handle, just like the one on the door in Zamalek. The air in the room smelled of potential, like a new car: the shelves were perfectly stacked, books on the display tables were neatly aligned, and the tills and the staff still had a freshness about them.

  Nihal’s kind eyes allayed the fears of new staff members, while her words expressed the gentle ruthlessness with which she managed people. Nihal pointed to the pile of folded clothes individually wrapped in plastic on the table next to her as she gave her spiel. “You will wear these at all times while conducting business for Diwan Bookstores, and you will behave according to our standards. Oh, and all uniforms are the same, regardless of rank.” The manager frowned. The maintenance staff smiled. “Your position is on your name tag.” When the room quieted down, Nihal continued: “The pockets of the trousers are sewn shut to avoid temptation, or false accusation. You can leave your personal belongings in your lockers when you change your clothes at the start of your shift.”

  Most employees lived in ‘ashwa’iyat, settlements on the outskirts of the city. Through an illegal process, individual citizens seized agricultural land, building unlicensed residential properties. In an act of willful denial, the government didn’t extend essential utilities, such as electricity, to these areas. Landlords stole electricity from nearby settlements or found ways to use generators. Once some time had elapsed and the arrangements became more permanent, the government was begrudgingly forced to accept what was. Residents and bureaucrats worked together to create a no-man’s-land: not fully acknowledged or granted public services, but not under imminent threat of removal. Entire communities, housing millions of people living in subhuman conditions, were cramped on the edges like this.

  “Cleanliness is akin to faith,” Nihal went on. The men nodded in agreement. “We all know how hot it gets, how crowded the buses are, and how slow the traffic is. By the time you get here to start your shift, it is as if you have run a marathon. Diwan is our oasis, we have our ways of doing things and we keep a standard for ourselves, regardless of the outside world.” I found relief in the familiarity of this performance, and in being part of the audience. Her eyes met mine. “I also want to highlight some more items from Diwan’s employee handbook,” she said, as she pulled out nail clippers from her handbag. “At Diwan, long fingernails are not tolerated because they don’t fit with our image—especially the little finger.” I heard whimpers. Most working-class men distinguished themselves from laborers by growing the nail of their pinkies, implying the impossibility of manual labor. Shuffling feet. Nihal sensed rebellion. “You represent Diwan. We have our way of doing things. We learn from one another. We don’t force anything, we guide.” She wore the demeanor of a mother pleading with her children. The nail clippers made their rounds between the men. Crisp clicking sounds continued in the background as Nihal listed her other demands.

  My cue approached. Nihal had called me in for the final act of the orientation. As her soliloquy came to an end, she directed the men to me. I cleared my throat and I summarized myself: my name is Nadia, I am Nihal’s partner, I am responsible for the divisions of finance, marketing, and English-book buying, and I am proud to be a member of Diwan’s family.

  “As Islam teaches us, work is one of the purest forms of worship,” I told the room. “For this reason, we do not allow prayer on any of our premises. Should you wish to pray, find a mosque, and remember that time spent in prayer is deducted from your breaks. The company pays you for your time and effort. Wasting it is stealing from the hand that feeds you. And thieves will be prosecuted.” The silence got heavier. Like confused children, the men turned their heads back to Nihal.

  “Welcome to the family.” She smiled.

  8

  SELF-HELP

  Not all books are created equal; some are more equal than others. Even though Self-Help was the fastest-growing section of Diwan, I didn’t read those books. I had always turned to literature to be challenged, to deepen my sense of self and the world. Self-help did the exact opposite: it explained nuance away. It prescribed. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

  Up until Hind and I met Nihal, and the three of us opened Diwan, I’d never even touched a self-help book, let alone read one.

  “If I drink the crap you put in my water, do you promise to stop pushing this bullshit on me?” I remember bartering with Nihal, as she gently slid a copy of James Redfield’s The Celestine Prophecy across the table to me.

  “How do you know it’s bullshit if you haven’t read it?” she responded with a half smile.

  “I can smell it.”

  “Why go through life blinded by your own arrogance?”

  “Why not? You do the same. Our sources may be different, but our arrogance is equal.”

  “How do you nourish your soul?” questioned Nihal, her tone full of pity.

  “I work hard.”

  “I made spinach, apple, and raisin salad with a curry dressing for lunch today. Want some?” Nihal gushed, offering up the bowl.

  “No, thanks. I’m on a diet.” Even as I said this, I felt my resolve waver. I looked at the salad, its shiny film of dressing beckoning me.

  “Don’t succumb to the diet mentality. That’s how you gain weight.”

  “Shut up! You sound like a fucking self-help book.” I knew I was being a bitch. Nihal relied upon her remedies and solutions, wherever she found them. In homeopathic vials. In the cryptic clues left by angel cards. In the pages of the many self-help books she insisted Diwan stock. We settled into a pattern, in which Nihal would recommend purchasing some buzzy new self-help book for the stores. The Power of Positive Thinking, The Power of Now, Awaken the Giant Within, You Can Heal Your Life, The Road Less Traveled, Chicken Soup for the Soul—it didn’t matter. I would scoff. She would continue, at regular intervals, to ask me whether I had ordered it. Finally, I would acquiesce. And then it would invariably sell extremely well. Demure Nihal would never acknowledge her victory directly.

  “You should get all the other titles by these authors. They have such a loyal following,” Nihal would propose innocently.

  “Wouldn’t that suggest that they aren’t delivering on their promises? If one book didn’t solve the problem, how could the next one claim to?”

  “Truly dedicated readers never stop learning, even if it means approaching the same issue from different angles.”

  “Does it ever occur to you that these books are a con? In the pharmacy of the soul, could you be falling for the placebo effect?”

  “I know why I like them. Do you know why you hate them?”

  * * *

  One of Nihal’s greatest qualities is her light touch. I kept thinking of her question, which was really a challenge disguised as a question. Our stores in Zamalek, Heliopolis, Maadi, Mohandiseen, Alexandria Library, and even the newly opened Sun City Mall felt like shrines to self-help, proving Nihal’s point. Only the Diwan inside Cairo Airport’s duty-free shopping area had been spared the self-help torrent, since it was mostly comprised of Egypt Essentials, targeting travelers. No matter how much we expanded these sections, dividing them into subsections for relationships, diets, personal growth, healing, and spirituality, they never fully satisfied demand. For every new title and series, Nihal had a knowing smile. Hind chose not to weigh in, instead quietly hunting for any Arabic translations.

  As sales skyrocketed, I was forced to face my distaste
for the genre. I wanted to understand my customers’ desires. I’d initially assumed my animosity toward self-help stemmed from snobbery: it didn’t qualify as literature. But I felt a bit blinded, unable to see what others saw in these texts. I used to be less judgmental. I remember saying, “I don’t care what you read, as long as you read.” Now, I cared a lot.

  I began looking into the origins of self-help texts. Samuel Smiles, a largely forgotten author, may be the ultimate originator of the modern-day genre. His story collection, Self-Help, which he (appropriately) self-published, details the lives of hardworking men (no women) who triumph over their circumstances. It was published in 1859, the same year as Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, and outsold every other book on the market except the Bible. That year, Smiles became an early celebrity, a guru of anti-materialism, the ironic father to a multibillion-dollar industry.

  As I soon discovered, the genre significantly predates Smiles and is intimately related with, you guessed it, the ancient Egyptians. Sebayt, literally “instruction” or “teaching,” was a genre of pharaonic wisdom literature. The oldest surviving self-help book is widely believed to be The Maxims of Ptahhotep, or Instruction of Ptahhotep, which was written somewhere between 2500 BC and 2400 BC and not discovered until the mid-1800s. Ptahhotep, a vizier during the rule of Pharaoh Isôsi of Upper and Lower Egypt, the penultimate ruler of the Fifth Dynasty, was an elderly man on the verge of retirement who was eager to pass his position on to his son. The king, not wishing to disappoint his loyal subject, hesitantly approved the succession, on the condition that his wise man pass his knowledge on to his inexperienced son. Ptahhotep wrote this guidance as a letter, extolling the virtues of silence, timing, and honesty, and discussing the importance of relationships and decorum. His rules were copied by scribes and shared broadly. His letter belonged to this burgeoning genre that directed readers to live according to Maat, the ancient Egyptian goddess who ruled the stars and the seasons, and also tempered the actions of mortals and deities alike. She personifies the concepts of truth, balance, harmony, law, morality, and justice (she reminds me of Nihal). I looked for collected sebayts to stock in Egypt Essentials because I wanted to claim sebayt as the ancestor of self-help.