Rebels by Accident

by Patricia Dunn

  “You are both so beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “So are we cool?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  We ride in silence for a minute. I can tell Deanna’s thinking about Hassan. I listen to Hakim and George talking to each other in Arabic, and I can actually pick out a word here and there. Bamiya. That’s okra—one of the few Egyptian dishes Baba makes. I wonder if they’re hungry.

  “Hey, Mar?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What you said…do you really think it’s true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “That Hassan’s into me?” Deanna sounds unsure of herself, which is about as unusual as me riding a camel.

  “Of course! He stares at you like you are the only thing he can see. He called you beautiful. What more do you want?”

  “He hasn’t held my hand. He held yours.”

  “He didn’t want me to hyperventilate and cause an international incident,” I tell her.

  Deanna laughs.

  “What?”

  “How would it look for an American tourist to pass out and roll down the side of the pyramid?”

  Deanna’s eyes look as if they’re straining to smile.

  “You must really like this guy. I’ve never heard you sound so fine,” I tell her.

  “Freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?”

  I smile.

  “I’ve never been in love before.” She sighs and when I look at her, I can see how right I am. She really is in love.

  “We go faster?” both George and Hakim ask, tapping their wrists as if they are wearing watches.

  “I think we’re on the clock,” Deanna says.

  We start to pick up the pace, and I think about what is really bothering me. “Deanna, what do you think Sittu was writing about on Facebook?”

  “Brangelina,” Deanna laughs.

  “Come on, I’m serious. There is something going on that she doesn’t want me to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but remember when Hassan said something about tomorrow being the day?” And Salam too, he was talking about a tweet and she shut them both up. “What does that mean?”

  “Mar, Sittu’s really great, and she totally loves you. So why don’t you just trust her?””

  “You’re right.” I smile at her. “Thanks, Deanna.” I turn to Hakim and George. “Okay, guys, emshi. Fast!” I say, surprised that I know yet another word in Arabic.

  “You’re really starting to get into this,” Deanna says.

  “Giza’s cool.”

  “Well, you are one hundred percent part Egyptian.”

  “Yes, I am,” I say, surprised that it feels good to say that. If it weren’t for the tourists clicking pictures around us, it would feel as if we were living in a different time, as if Deanna and I were Cleopatra and Nefertiti, princesses of the pyramids. We both would’ve had princes who would become kings and make us queens. Strike that. We would be rulers ourselves.

  I look over at Deanna. Maybe for now, being two girls on a dorky camel ride is enough.

  chapter

  FOURTEEN

  Sittu and Hassan are waiting for us at the Sphinx. Deanna gets off her camel first. She hardly even needs help from George. I, on the other hand, am way too afraid to move, so it takes George, Hakim, and Hassan to get me down.

  Deanna makes us take about a dozen pictures of her and the Sphinx from different angles. Right profile. Left profile. Foot to paw. “I’m going to put these all over Facebook,” Deanna says. “Didn’t Beth—or was it Karen?—call me Sphinx Face?”

  It was Karen. “They didn’t mean it as a compliment, Deanna.”

  “Of course not. But look how amazing this thing is.” Then she makes me take a photo of her and Hassan and the Sphinx, of her and Sittu and the Sphinx, and then she makes Hassan take a picture of her and me and Sittu and the Sphinx. They are mostly profiles of the Sphinx, with a few head on. Sittu explains that Napoleon didn’t shoot off the Sphinx’s nose, like we thought; it was a man named Muhammad Sa’im al-Dahr, who got really mad that people were worshiping the Sphinx and leaving offerings at its base to ensure they had a good harvest.

  “It’s getting late. We should head back home,” Sittu says.

  It can’t be later than noon, but I don’t question her. Time seems different here. What’s late feels early and what’s early feels late. I don’t get it, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m just glad we’re here.

  “I’ll go ahead and bring the car,” Hassan announces, and then hurries off.

  “Slow down!” Sittu shouts. “That boy is always rushing. He also thinks I’m this old lady. The car isn’t far.”

  “Well, we’re a little tired,” I say, hoping to make her feel better.

  “Yes, it can be exhausting to climb to the top of the pyramid,” Sittu admits.

  I’m about to tell her the truth when Deanna yells, “Ahmed!”

  Five different guys turn around.

  “That Ahmed!” Deanna points to our friend from the airport.

  “Girls!” He waves to us and we run over to him.

  “I thought we’d never see you again,” Deanna says, giving him a big hug.

  “It’s so good to see you.” I hug him too.

  “Well, it’s a small world, but Egypt is even smaller.” Ahmed asks, “So what do you think of the pyramids?”

  “Amazing,” I say.

  “Ahmed,” Deanna says, “I don’t get it. If you were raised in Giza, haven’t you been to the pyramids, like, a million times?”

  “Still asking questions! Let’s just say I have a lot of family—a lot of family. And sometimes I need some time alone to appreciate my family’s greatness. So this is where I come to think, appreciate, and breathe.” Ahmed laughs. “Sometimes it’s easier to clear one’s head in the presence of what we know well.”

  “Very true,” Sittu says as she walks up to join us.

  “Izzayyik?” Ahmed says, bowing slightly toward Sittu.

  “Very well,” Sittu says.

  “Ahmed, this is my sittu,” I say.

  “Madam, you are too young to be a grandmother.” He is sweet, but I don’t think his cheesy line is going to work on Sittu.

  “And you, I see”—Sittu glares at the silver band on Ahmed’s ring finger—“are too married to be talking with such a sweet tongue.”

  You go, Sittu. My sittu knows how to put a cheesy guy into the grater.

  “I mean no disrespect,” Ahmed says, stepping back. “I am a widower.”

  “You didn’t tell us,” I say.

  “I was married for so many years, sometimes I forget she’s no longer in this world.” Ahmed smiles, but his eyes look sad.

  “I understand what you mean,” Sittu replies. “I was married for close to forty years.”

  “May God’s blessings be upon him,” Ahmed says, and he bows to her, but his expression has changed, and he looks at Sittu longer than is really polite.

  Sittu nods. “Shukran. And may Allah’s blessings be upon your wife too.”

  “Sittu, Ahmed is the one who helped us through customs,” I share.

  “Then I thank you for all of your generosity.” Sittu touches her heart.

  Ahmed nods, but it seems like he’s not really listening. “Tell me,” Ahmed says, sounding surprised and pleased at the same time, “did you by any chance attend the University of Cairo?”

  “Why, yes, I did,” Sittu says. She moves closer to his face. For a moment, she just stares. Then she says, “Ahmed! Izzayyak?”

  “Egypt really gets smaller all the time,” Ahmed says cheerfully.

  “You know each other?” Deanna asks.

  “We were at university together,” Ahmed explains.

  “You were great friends wi
th Gamal,” Sittu says.

  “He lives in Dubai now.” He shrugs. “You go where there is work.”

  “And Suad?” Sittu asks.

  “Ahh, I married her.”

  “May Allah’s blessings be upon her,” Sittu says. “She was a good woman. Great sense of humor.”

  “That’s why she married me.” Ahmed laughs, and Sittu laughs too. Ahmed turns to us. “Your grandmother was quite the firecracker in those days. She led student protests. She was steadfast—never feared going to prison.”

  “You were arrested?” I exclaim. My eyes must be the size of dinner plates again. I wait for Sittu to explain.

  Instead, she cuts off Ahmed, who looks like he’s about to tell another story, simply saying, “The energy of youth.”

  Deanna tugs on the back of my shirt. I know exactly what she’s thinking: Ahmed and Sittu would make a great couple. Maybe they would. They are both widowed. They went to college together. But playing matchmaker for my grandmother is too weird. Besides, she wouldn’t like any idea that came from me.

  “Well, it was the pleasure of all pleasures to see you again, madam,” Ahmed says. Sittu doesn’t say a word, but I think she’s blushing. “Girls, I hope our paths cross again.”

  Deanna tugs on my shirt so hard this time I fall back a step. “What?” I whisper, as I turn to her.

  “Don’t you think we should take Ahmed for coffee or lunch or something, to thank him for his help?”

  “That is very sweet of you but not necessary,” Ahmed says.

  “Of course. Where are my manners?” Sittu says. “After all you did to help my granddaughters, it is I who should take you for lunch. I will be offended if you refuse.”

  “Well then, how can I refuse? I must get back to see a cousin today, but any other time would be wonderful,” Ahmed says. “I’d love to take you all to the National Museum. You know, I did my master’s work in Egyptology; ironically, that was in America,” he laughs. “Tomorrow? Though, tomorrow that area may be a little dangerous because of—”

  Sittu cuts him off. “We live in Heliopolis. We can meet there.”

  Deanna raises her eyebrows like now she understands what I meant about Sittu keeping something from me. “What’s happening there?” Deanna asks.

  “It’s January twenty-fifth—”

  “We shall meet in Heliopolis then,” Sittu interrupts again.

  “New Cairo.” Ahmed smiles, going along with Sittu.

  “Not so new anymore, but there are some nice places in the area. Do you drive?” Sittu asks.

  “I rented a car.”

  “Sittu, maybe you should give Ahmed your number,” Deanna says.

  “Of course. A pen.” The normally composed Sittu fumbles in her bag. “I know there should be one in here…. Here we go.” Sittu lets out a breath as she pulls out a pen. “Oh, paper.”

  “Here, I have something.” Ahmed pulls a receipt from his pocket and gives it to Sittu.

  “Lean on me.” Deanna turns, and Sittu rests the receipt against Deanna’s back to write.

  Sittu hands the paper to Ahmed, who puts it back in his pocket.

  “Until we meet again.” Ahmed bows and then walks in the direction of the Sphinx.

  • • •

  On the drive back, I insist Deanna ride up front. For most of the ride home, she and Hassan sneak glances at each other while Sittu stares out the window with a smile on her face, as if she were sixteen again.

  It must be nice to be in love.

  chapter

  FIFTEEN

  I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when Deanna’s snoring wakes me up.

  “Deanna,” I whisper. No response.

  “Deanna,” I say louder, but she doesn’t wake up. She’s in too deep a sleep to hear me. Climbing pyramids and falling in love take a lot out of a person.

  My thoughts turn to all that happened during the day. What is Sittu hiding about tomorrow? What would I Google? Egypt? January 25? Maybe find something on Facebook? But it’s not like I could find any information on an American website, and here, they’d all be in Arabic. For the first time in my life, I wish I actually knew the language.

  I look over at Deanna, still snoring, and I think about how I had worried for nothing about her not having a good time. And how after we’d finished dinner, Hassan and Deanna talked about American and Middle Eastern music until Sittu announced it was time for all of us to go to bed and politely kicked Hassan out. I meant what I told Deanna about being okay with the two of them getting together. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to live with.

  When Sittu came in to say good night, I was about to ask her about what she’d said when we were with Ahmed, but just then Deanna asked if she could call her mom. Sittu, of course, said yes and took her to call in the other room. I fell asleep before Deanna came to bed.

  Now I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Whatever is happening tomorrow, I’ll find out soon enough. At this moment, I just want Deanna to stop snoring. I didn’t know girls could snore that loud.

  I quietly go over to her bed. She has one of her romance novels open on her chest. This one has some super-cute guy wearing one of those traditional Arab headdresses that men in movies wear when they are supposed to look like some rich Arab oil businessperson. Of course, the guy is on a camel, and his arms are wrapped around an anorexic-looking chick wearing a long, flowing dress.

  This kind of thing really flips Mom out. She says it’s racist garbage. She starts to say “crap” but stops herself. I always thought pictures like this made Arabs look better than the long-bearded guys you see on television screaming, “Death to America.”

  I put the book on the nightstand, making sure to turn the cover face down, so Sittu won’t see it. I have a feeling she’d find the stereotypical Arab and damsel-in-distress portrayal offensive—or at least stupid.

  I nudge Deanna’s shoulder. Her snoring just gets louder, so this time I shove her a bit.

  “What?” She waves her hands in the air like she’s swatting at a mosquito.

  “You’re snoring.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, instantly falling back to sleep—wonderfully silent sleep.

  I climb back into bed and close my eyes; two seconds later her buzz saw starts right up again. Now I’m thirsty.

  I drag myself out of bed again. As I’m pushing open the kitchen door, Sittu calls to me from the balcony.

  “Mariam, come here.”

  She’s still awake? I go out to join her on the balcony.

  “Take a seat.” Sittu pats a chair that looks a lot older than her. Its plastic cover is cracked down the middle.

  For a long while, Sittu doesn’t say a word to me. I’m too afraid I’ll say something wrong, so we just sit in silence, watching the cars go into and out of the traffic circle. I’ve never seen anything like it. Cars enter the circle from five different roads, but they can only exit from one road at a time, and it’s not always the same road. The exit road seems to alternate every few minutes.

  “It is so much busier here at night,” I say.

  “Is traffic this crazy in New York?” Sittu asks.

  “In the city.”

  “It must be a beautiful place, New York.”

  “Sittu, how come you never come to visit us?” I ask.

  “Your giddu didn’t like to fly,” she says. “And I never felt good about leaving him alone.”

  “It’s been almost ten years since Giddu—”

  “I’m an old woman now,” Sittu says.

  “Ahmed certainly didn’t think so.” I try to make her smile, but she’s looking down at the street.

  “Ahmed?” she says, like she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. But it’s obvious that she does.

  “You know who I mean—the man we met at the pyramids. The man you’re taking to lunch.”
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  “Of course,” she says, turning toward me. “See, my memory is going—a sign of aging.” She looks back at the road. “He won’t call for a while if he calls at all.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s still wearing his wedding band.” Sittu rubs her own band as she says this. “He’s still very much married, so it will take some time for him to feel right about having lunch with another woman, even if that woman is an old friend and only talking about lunch.”

  I don’t try to convince her otherwise. What do I know about men? What do I know about sittus, for that matter? For several minutes, we watch cars below.

  “You can’t sleep?” she finally says. “The time difference takes a bit of adjusting.”

  I shrug. “Deanna’s snoring pretty loudly.”

  “Your giddu, now he was a snorer. I think I spent the first year of our marriage sleeping on the couch. In time, you adjust. After he passed, I couldn’t sleep because I missed his snoring.” She smiles so wide she’s actually showing teeth.

  “Did my baba and Giddu not get along?” I ask, thinking about how Baba never talks about him.

  “They had their ‘stuff,’ as you kids call it,” she says, her smile disappearing. I don’t have the guts to ask what kind of stuff.

  “I wish I could remember him,” I say, then catch myself. “Sorry, Sittu. I know I acted like I remembered him when we were looking at the photos. We just don’t have a lot of family pictures around. We mostly have paintings—copies of Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso. My favorite is the guy who did the giant green apple.”

  “Magritte,” Sittu says. “He’s one of my favorite artists too. I gave your parents a print of that painting for your room when you were born.”

  “I didn’t know that. It’s hanging in the living room.”

  “Well, it was a gift to you, so it should be in your room,” she says.

  “I like that we all can share it.”

  “You are very generous in spirit,” Sittu says. “Remember, don’t give away so much that you are left with a hole in your heart.”

  “I have a painting in my room that I found in our storage area. It’s by an Egyptian artist—an original. It’s an oil painting. Very cool.” I tell her all this, hoping to impress her. “It’s pretty abstract, but it makes you feel like you’re on fire. You look at it and want to go out in the world and make something happen.”