Otared

by Mohammad Rabie

  She got off my lap, retrieved her eye-cap, and returned it to its socket. Then she took a plastic cup and filled it from a bucket in the corner, splashed water over her vagina a couple of times, put on her robe, lifted the curtain, and went out. I was sitting on the mattress, slowly deflating, the sperm drying on my trousers and thighs. I saw blood smeared thickly over my penis, sticky and starting to dry. I had no idea where it had come from, and adolescent nightmares flashed through my mind: had she stuck a razor up herself? But what had happened was more a cause for disgust than fear. She was menstruating. Someone walked by the shack and paused for a moment to peer in beneath the raised curtain, and I saw his eyes smiling behind his mask. An Ismail Yassin mask. The narrow brow, thick lips, big teeth, and broad grin gave it away. I was still wearing mine. I was safe. I quickly got up, straightened out my clothes without wiping away the sperm or blood, and emerged to find that Ismail Yassin, interested in neither myself nor the girl, had wandered off. Standing outside her shack, she called out to me, “That’s three for three, then,” and I stood there, trying to work out what she meant. I stared at her breasts beneath the robe and grew flustered: I wanted another grope, but the thought of the blood held me back. “Come on!” she said, “Three minutes for three pounds!”

  I passed by many whores, none prettier than the menstruating girl. Though one-eyed, she was the most beautiful of the lot. Next time, I’d make sure to wear a condom. She might have some disease, I fretted, AIDS maybe, and I wondered if I’d been infected.

  I walked for ages. I heard the sound of cars overhead. On this section of the bridge, the cars could speed along with no checkpoints to stop or slow them down. I thought back to before the occupation, to those endless hours stuck in traffic on the October 6th Bridge. I’d look around at dozens of others waiting just like me, would watch them staring straight ahead with no purpose in mind. There was no waiting now. The number of cars passing between the two halves of Cairo had declined dramatically, and even with the checkpoints holding it up the traffic didn’t grind to a halt as it used to.

  Contrary to the dire warnings of the guard by the tunnel’s entrance, the place was perfectly safe, and my mask kept me at a remove from those around me. They were selling all kinds of contraband down here: hash and weed, white pills and colored pills in all shapes and sizes laid out on low tables, bottles of cheap booze, small plastic bags of fermented bouza, imported porn mags. There were no shacks for prostitution in this section. This was the tunnel’s commercial center. Business was more respectable here.

  The further I walked, the fewer vendors there were, until I reached a section where there were no vendors and no whores, just pedestrians like myself. All the faces were covered with masks, or paper bags, or the tail of a headscarf. A few, as I did, wore specially made masks, and these people were somehow different, as though their masks were not really hiding who they were. Wearing the same easily recognizable mask all the time is essentially pointless: you swap your face for your mask, and it becomes part of your identity.

  My first steps in Cairo for two years. The time I had spent in the tower had left me cut off from the latest developments. When had wearing masks become a normal thing to do? Or was it just because we were walking through the bridge?

  Vendors reappeared, this time hawking little pharaonic statues, which were—it goes without saying—forgeries, though they insisted they were authentic. I overheard one man arguing with a potential customer, trying to convince him that a stone head was real.

  Toys next: dolls, and cars, and colored balls. I had assumed the tunnel would be a marketplace for contraband, but almost anything could be sold here, it seemed. When I saw white underwear laid out on the ground, I remembered my unwashed cock.

  The tunnel narrowed. I heard someone tell his friend that they were very near the exit, and minutes later daylight could be seen filtering palely through a square hole in the floor. It was like the place was upside down, lit by windows in the floor rather than in the walls or ceiling. For a moment, I forgot that I was walking in a tunnel suspended in the air.

  I lowered myself down through the square opening and was assailed by the din of cars and crowds, and an overpowering stench of urine. The ladder was attached to a column against which people were wont to empty their bladders, and over the years the urine had formed a vast black stain that reached halfway up the concrete stem and spread further still over the ground. The stain was dry—I didn’t see it glistening as liquid would—but it gave off an intolerable smell. This, together with the various sights of a man eating a round of bread, drool coursing down his chin, a fellow clearing his nose down in the street, and a third guy gripping a short sword and brandishing it threateningly at the passersby, brought the bile into my throat and I puked. I was in Galaa Street, in the neighborhood they call Isaaf.

  I walked along slowly, trying to get out from under the bridge to where there was air to breathe. I could see the bright sunlight striking July 26th Street and I wanted to reach the intersection between July 26th and Ramses before I lost consciousness. I had to meet someone there. It was nearly 10 a.m. now. I’d be there in five minutes, no more.

  An old man stopped me. He was naked and barefoot, his legs so grimy that his toes could hardly be made out through the blackened filth, and he muttered inaudibly, spittle running down into his beard. He looked at me and whispered in terror, “We are all dead. We are all in torment.” I held his gaze for a while, then went on.

  For five minutes I loitered outside the Isaaf Pharmacy and then a woman wearing a niqab approached me and asked, “Otared?” I was silent for a few seconds before I replied. She nodded and walked off, and I followed her, feeling hopeful. I was afraid to look back at what I’d left behind.

  She walked down July 26th Street toward Downtown. It was at its most crowded and there was no space to move on the sidewalk, but she made her way through the throng as though she were used to it. I tried getting past people by shoving them or dodging. They divided into those who held you up by dawdling and those who were advancing in the opposite direction. The vendors set up on either side occupied a sizeable chunk of the sidewalk, and the space left for pedestrians had narrowed to less than a meter. I couldn’t see the woman clearly and I trailed her at a distance, forever trying to get closer through the pressing crowd.

  Then the sidewalk widened a touch, the crowds thinned out, and I drew up alongside her. I asked where we were going and she didn’t reply. She walked until we came to Ataba Square, went on to al-Azhar Street, and took a side street, then began turning down alleys of diminishing size until, though close behind her, I almost lost my way.

  This was my first time out and about in Cairo for a long time. No changes worth mentioning to the apartment blocks and buildings. The cars were the same and the crowds no smaller. But the people were less familiar. Incessant cries rent the air. Squabbles were breaking out in every street, outside every shop, a stream of insults let loose to amuse, to humiliate, to threaten. Fights with fists and knife thrusts. I counted four men puking on the pavement, then stopped counting. I saw someone lying on the ground, blood running out from beneath him. No one went over to cover his body. Back in the day, someone would borrow a newspaper and cover the body with it, holding it down with small stones around the edges, and any blood there was would be enough to stick the paper to the corpse. Now they left the dead body exposed to all and sundry.

  The woman climbed the stairs of an old building and opened the door of an apartment on the first floor. In we went. The niqab was removed to reveal a man with a pencil mustache. He lit a cigarette and said, “Won’t you remove your mask?” I’d grown used to looking through the narrow eye slits and to the mask’s weight on my face. I lifted it off, and my sense of security disappeared, and the fear came back, but I didn’t let go of it. I clung to the only protection I had here. Up in the tower, I’d been safe. Now I was out in the open. The man peered into my face for a moment and settled onto a chair. I sat facing him and, seeing no reaso
n not to, put the mask back on. I was a regular civilian now. I’d left the Interior Ministry a while ago and nobody had my back. Everyone I knew there had either left, or died, or joined the resistance, and anyone who’d stayed on as an officer was my enemy, no doubt about it. I was in danger, therefore, and my mask was my only protection. Though I was currently in a safe house belonging to the resistance and sitting with one of their communications officers, the sex change trick he’d played made me wary.

  He smiled. “Someone will drop in on you tonight to give you a message and a date. There’s an important meeting taking place and you should be there. People like yourself are thin on the ground these days, and maybe you don’t realize how vital you are. You can leave now if you’d like, but you must be back before midnight. And whatever happens, hide in the crowds if an officer should ask to see your ID. Kill him if you must. Technically speaking, you’re a dead man. After all, you’ve killed a lot of people in the past few months and, who knows, you might be killing more quite soon. Police officers these days are traitors, as you’re aware, so there’s nothing to hold you back.”

  I had no idea if the man sitting before me was an officer or not. The era of proud and upright officers was past, and so much brass had been stripped from shoulder boards it was no wonder people’s backs were bowed. Most likely his role in the resistance was to pass on times and dates, to meet people and escort them to safe houses, but he would have no experience with weapons, or explosives, or real police work. He rose, said goodbye, and left.

  I was exhausted. Wandering through the apartment, I came across a big, clean bed in one of the rooms, and I stretched out on it and immediately relaxed. In minutes, I had surrendered to sleep. For a brief instant, I thought of the semen and the blood. I wanted to get up and wash after my draining journey, but I was already going under.

  I was shaving with an electric razor. I’d used one before—ten years ago perhaps—and hadn’t liked it much. Now I could hear that familiar metallic whine, but I couldn’t feel it buzzing against my skin. Ten years ago, I’d been in a room in a hotel, whose name I couldn’t recall, in Berlin. Well, I wasn’t in Berlin now. Ten years ago, I’d visited the place, bought an electric razor in the street, and when I’d got back to my hotel room and tried it I hadn’t been impressed. Now, though, I was in Cairo, it was 2025, and I was sleeping in a small room in a strange apartment. I was asleep and, if I wanted to be rid of the razor’s whine, I must wake up.

  Suspended in midair was the smallest drone I’d ever come across, slightly smaller than an unfurled hand and hovering motionless by the ceiling. Six slender articulated legs hung down from the gleaming black body, and above it two huge black wings spread out—or rather, not wings exactly, but two hard casings under which the wings hummed. I was still sprawled out on the bed, so I sat up and serenely the drone drew closer. Its low whine was what had woken me and I realized how accustomed I had become to the absolute peace and quiet on the top floor of the tower. Accustomed to sleeping undisturbed. The drone landed beside me on the bed. For a few seconds, as the four translucent wings performed a few last upward flicks, the casings stayed raised, then they settled back flush with the body. I picked up the drone. It was very light, under a hundred grams, I guessed, or maybe less. Less than fifty, even. Astonishingly light and precisely engineered, and because it was a beetle—a scarab to be exact—I was instantly fond of it. I have a strange partiality for insects; an appreciation for the way they move and work, perhaps, for their ability to hold their own against humans. I turned it over, searching for a message and considering how I could keep hold of it. But I’d break it for sure if I kept it with me. This was no rugged weapon like my rifle, which could withstand being shunted around, neglected, and abused, and nor was it my mask, which had been scratched and marked in many places but remained solid and robust. This was a fragile toy, quite unsuitable for a man so disorganized and careless as I was. On the drone’s underside, I found a little button. I pressed it and a hatch opened to reveal a small hollow in the belly. In the hollow, I found a sheet of paper. I took the paper, closed the hatch, and placed the drone back on the bed.

  The message gave the address of an apartment in Abdeen, a time, and nothing else. I didn’t spend much time worrying over this unanticipated terseness—I’d been waiting for a message and here it was, with all the information I required. I had to be there at 7 p.m. and it was now 4. Three hours were enough to wash and get over to Abdeen.

  The drone started moving on the bed, skillfully scaling the rumpled covers. I hemmed it in using my leg, the pillow, and the wrinkles in the bed sheets. With a pair of hair-thin antennae, it felt out the slope of the pillow, tested a wrinkle, then approached my leg. And without any hesitation at all, it climbed up onto my knee, changed direction, and crossed over my knee onto my thigh. There it paused, neatly cocking its head toward my face, and started to dance. Was it aware that I was testing and teasing it? I knew drones were intelligent enough to move and fly, to make it past obstacles and reach their targets, but anything more was beyond the capabilities of a basic model, let alone interacting with its controllers like a pet. And even if this drone could act like a pet, I wasn’t its controller.

  Scarabs are amazing insects, I think, and drones are more amazing still: they use hardly any power, they’re minuscule, and all their complexity stays hidden away beneath their metallic shell. In my opinion, mankind’s first truly creative act was to build these drones. My little scarab tapped my thigh with its two back legs, flipped once in the air, then settled back down on my leg. It was showing off to me. It flipped again, spread its wings, and hovered there, perfectly balanced.

  A little performance for Mr. Otared.

  I went into the bathroom and closed the door. Cold water, and not a trace of soap in the apartment. I stood beneath the shower for a few minutes, then dressed in the same clothes I’d been wearing. Outside, the drone hovered right in front of the bathroom door as though waiting for me, and as I emerged a thought occurred: was it watching me? And just like that, the happy moments I’d spent in its company were wiped out. I was being watched, then, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Of course, I could smash it, but if I did that, then the meeting would be cancelled and my association with the resistance would be over. I knew there was someone watching me, and the person watching me knew that I knew it. There was nothing to be done. If the watcher was a cop, then he had to know that I’d be suspicious of the drone. Maybe he was some callow operative from the resistance, a new recruit, or maybe he was an experienced officer who just wanted to let me know that he could get to me. Message received, in any case. From now on, I’d adopt the standard wooden expression: no flare-ups of any kind. The drone flipped in midair whenever I looked at it. It wanted to impress me. What irritated me was that I had initially been taken in by its games. My sixth sense had deserted me and I’d only realized what it was long after it had arrived.

  Sooner or later, man will construct drones like this one not to serve him, not to cook for him, not to drive his car—nor will they become our masters, for that’s just the naive science fiction of crass filmmaking—but rather to worship us. There will be drones ready-made to be raped to keep the rapists busy, and others configured to resist. Configured with voices that scream and plead. We will beat them, and they will weep, and the drones’ owners will string them up on lampposts to flog and torture them. We’ll set fire to them, perhaps, as punishment for things they didn’t do. We’ll catch the smell of roasting flesh, pumped out of special compartments in their sides, and even better, we’ll be able to program them to beat us and turn us on. To rape us, perhaps, so we can sample the delicious agony of our orifices being violently abused, enjoy the strokes of a whip wielded across our backs by a mechanical arm, and then . . . then, we’ll shower and dress like civilized men and women, and walk the streets, toting our robot rapists in little bags.

  6 p.m. The number of people on the street not less but more; likewise the number of occupation army drones i
n Ataba and Opera squares. The sheer quantity of checkpoints made it impossible to walk through Downtown, and so I crossed Opera Square in the direction of Gumhuriya Street on my way to Abdeen. The statue of Ibrahim Pasha was still disfigured—its head had been stolen at the start of the occupation—and if anything its lower half looked as if it was getting smaller by the day. They said people stole bits by night, would climb a ladder with a saw and cut. Tiring work, but the statue seemed to invite theft. Ibrahim Pasha pointing out at the horizon. We had cut off his head, and hand, and arm, and we wouldn’t stop until we’d done away with the whole thing, down to the horse’s hooves. We wouldn’t leave a single atom on that plinth.

  A huge balloon bobbed over the statue, and midway up the rope that anchored it a gigantic advertising board was swaying in the wind. I couldn’t make it out at first, but looking closer I saw it was an advert for a television show. Tomorrow: Hope. Just reading the title told me everything I needed to know. Shows like this one had been common currency for at least twenty years, all of them talking about Hope and Tomorrow, Tomorrow and Hope, the Tomorrow that lies in Hope, or Hope in Tomorrow, and then the cycle would start over and we’d be back to a show about Hope and Tomorrow. Even after the death of Hope’s biggest huckster—the author of hundreds of books on self-help, positivity, and the like—from the inconceivably vicious double-whammy of AIDS and bone cancer, people still looked to Tomorrow with Hope. Which is why rapist drones were the solution.