by Jim Ingraham
“No longer a boy, Aleyya,” Bashir said. “And no naughtier than the vaunted Osama bin Laden when he was my age.”
“He got drunk and chased girls?”
“And stayed drunk for days and who knows what else. Only he did it in Beirut where his parents wouldn’t learn of it.”
“And that, by comparison, makes you brave because you do it here, openly?”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“But you’re not rich, Bashir. You have a reputation to build. That girl, Amina al-Khalid, does she know about these antics of yours? Is she impressed by that? Is she a fool?”
“She’s hardly that.”
“Has she introduced you to anyone important?”
“Just to be seen with her! That’s all I wanted. Do you know what an impression that makes? Me, an aircraft mechanic, a nobody, being seen with the daughter of a high official in the Department of Interior? It’s worth millions!” And the boastful laugh caused faces at nearby tables to turn.
“But she’s now in America.”
“Which is all right with me. She’s only a girl, Aleyya. It wasn’t for sex.”
“Does she know the police are investigating you?”
“Only because I’ve been seen in her company. They investigate all of her friends.”
“So now you’re calling her a friend?”
“If I say it enough, people will begin to believe it,” he said.
“And now where are you off to?”
“I have a luncheon date with a high official at the airport.”
She laughed. “Sail on, my friend,” watching him pick up the tab.
*
He was seated in the restaurant on Gezira long before the great man arrived. Keeping Esmat Bindari waiting would have been inexcusable. He could not afford to ruin this one-in-a-million chance to make a good impression. He was, after all, only a mechanic. And the man who had invited him here was an important man.
He was glancing out the window over rooftops at high buildings on the opposite bank of the Nile when he turned at the mention of his name. Surprised he pushed his chair back and got clumsily to his feet.
“No, no, sit down,” Esmat said, walking smartly up to him but not extending his hand. He was smiling, undoubtedly at Bashir’s awkwardness.
“Have you ordered?”
“No, I just got here,” Bashir said. He had been waiting a half hour.
“Good, then you must try the tahina. And the oriental bread here is exquisite.” He caught the notice of a waiter and placed his order. “With tea,” he said, smiling, unmindful that his having placed an order without consulting his guest was patronizing and rude. But Bashir smiled. He was offended but at the same time relieved. On his own he wouldn’t have known whether to order a full meal or merely an appetizer like this tahina. Perhaps a meal would follow.
“So,” Esmat said, spreading a cloth napkin over his lap, “they tell me you’ve been hard at work learning about electrical systems.”
“Avionics, yes,” Bashir said.
“State of the art, I imagine.”
“Just about.”
“And you’ve done work on corporate jets?”
“Yes.”
“Like the president’s?”
“A Learjet, yes. But a later model, a model 55.”
“And what does that go for?”
“New? I think they’re asking three and a half million, American. Maybe more.”
“Ooo, That much!” Esmat leaned back when the waiter arrived with the food.
The emanations from this man were just noises. He was neither listening nor thinking about what he was saying. Bashir felt slightly offended but he contented himself with watching the man’s small hands break the bread and dip a piece into the pureed chickpeas and sesame-seed paste.
“Go ahead, try it,” Esmat urged.
Bashir had eaten it before, but, to please the man, he pretended it was a new experience.
“I understand you sublet an apartment in Garden City.” Esmat said.
How and why would he know that?
“Oh, don’t be surprised,” Esmat said, laughing, the food still in his mouth. “You are an important member of our team. We like to know all about our key employees. I assume you can practice your inglizi there.”
Bashir wrinkled his face in puzzled surprise. I’m a “key” employee? He wanted to believe he was being considered for promotion, but he knew better. He was a mechanic, a well-trained mechanic, but nothing more. Yet, why had he been invited here? Had to be a reason.
“Aah,” Esmat said, wiping his mouth with the napkin. “You are wondering why I’ve invited you here.”
Is this man a mind reader? “I’m flattered,” Bashir said.
“As well you should be. Tomorrow you are to report to Rifaat Nasr. You know who he is?”
“Of course,” Bashir said. Nasr was the engineer in charge of security for the president’s Learjet.
“Very soon you will be working for him.”
For a long moment Esmat sat there smacking his lips, enjoying the pleased look on Bashir’s face. He pushed back his chair. “Enjoy your lunch,” he said, rising abruptly. He gave Bashir a little wave and walked away.
Bashir watched him glide past tables and potted palms and disappear past a decorated screen where, hopefully, he would stop at the cashier’s station and pay the bill. What happened? It was impolite in the extreme to have walked out like that, to have made no excuse, to have abruptly got up from the table. He could at least have pretended to enjoy a few moments of casual, even if meaningless conversation.
Bashir shrugged, looked around for someone to share his puzzlement. No one was watching.
*
For the hour it took Bashir to cross the river and drive to the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, he tried to figure out why he had been invited to meet Esmat Bindari. It was unprecedented. Bindari was an important man! Bashir was a mechanic! And Bindari hadn’t wanted to eat, hadn’t wanted a conversation. He had endured Bashir’s presence only long enough to tell him he was to change jobs. He could have posted a notice on the bulletin board! Bashir shrugged. The ways of the rich and powerful bewildered him.
He pushed that from his mind as he stood near glistening stacks of metal tubs in a kosheri stall, waiting for Nuha to notice him, amused by chattering voices in moving lines behind him—women strolling past displays of fruit on painted pushcarts, children bouncing balls on crooked walkways down long lanes of vendors’ stalls here in one of Cairo’s best-known tourist magnets.
His friend at the Parisian Café had told the truth: Nuha was here. She was less than twenty feet from him, a golden girl in white blouse and beige slacks, standing near a pyramid of oranges, talking to a tall turbaned man in a white dishdasha who was holding the flexible pipe of a bubbler, nibbling the mouthpiece, listening to her but watching two women in front of his vegetable racks fingering a leafy mound of melokhia.
“Don’t bruise the leaves,” he said.
“We’re looking for sand.”
“Try the desert.”
The women giggled and moved on. Nuha watched them stroll past the kosheri stand. When she noticed Bashir, her face stiffened.
Assuming the tall man to be her father, Bashir put on his warmest smile and held out his hand. “Mr. Za’im?”
“By virtue of my honored father, that is true,” the tall man said, a small cloud of smoke leaking from his mouth. “And you are…?”
“Don’t come near me!” Nuha said, stepping behind her father.
Mr. Za’im laughed, ignoring Bashir’s hand. “I think I’ve heard of you,” he said. “She hates you.”
“We have to talk,” Bashir said to Nuha.
“Go away!”
“Please,” Bashir said. “A few minutes. I have to explain.”
“You insulted me, Bashir. You humiliated me in front of my friend.”
“I’m sorry, Nuha. Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You saw me in the mirror.
You looked right at me!”
Mr. Za’im raised his free hand, the one not holding the pipe. “Stop! Take this somewhere else. I’m selling food here.”
“Tell him to go away!”
“You’re twenty-four years old, Nuha. You tell him.”
He stepped from in front of her, put his hand on her back and urged her toward Bashir.
*
“Why should I go anywhere with you?” she said, protesting even as she walked ahead of him toward the street.
“Because you can’t live without me.”
“Ha!”
She walked straight into traffic, causing a car to suddenly stop, a driver to scream at her. She slapped the rump of a donkey and hopped over animal droppings, angry at him, but anger is not indifference and not rejection, he told himself.
She waited at a small table near the sidewalk while he fetched the coffee, a small service for a beautiful woman.
“It’s the same woman you were seen with before!”
“The daughter of Aziz al-Khalid. You didn’t recognize her?” He was bent over, napkin in hand, scrubbing dung off his shoe, careful not to soil his fingers.
“I heard.”
He straightened up. “Then you realize why I wanted to be seen with her. Contacts, Nuha! Success depends entirely on contacts.” It pleased him that Nuha had recognized the girl. He wondered how many other of his acquaintances had seen him with the daughter of Aziz Al-Khalid. It would increase his stature. Stature creates respect. And respect is the answer, the ultimate reward. To be respected, to be esteemed, is the foundation for success!
He tossed the soiled napkin toward the street and while looking around for somewhere to wash his hands, he noticed a small man he was certain he had seen earlier at the restaurant. But maybe not. Was he being followed?
“I don’t care about your business. Why did you insult me?”
It had happened weeks ago at the Fishawi Café. He had come upon Amina by chance. She was sitting with two of her friends in the long mirrored room, had seen him and waved to him. Although they barely knew each other—they had attended the same anthropology class at the university in Alexandria and had twice shared a table in the cafeteria, nothing more. She seemed pleased to see him. She was on her way to America, she said. He was flattered that she remembered him and was enjoying the glow of being in her company when he saw Nuha on the sidewalk outside.
He instinctively looked away. For reasons he didn’t understand and was now ashamed of, he pretended not to recognize her. She was with another woman. If he had spoken to her she would have come in. He would have had to introduce her to Amina. Why didn’t he want to do that? Why hadn’t he got up from the table and joined her, at least for a moment? Why had he looked away? He had turned his back on her, pretending not to know her. Was it weakness, a flaw in his character?
Now, apparently thinking about the event and the humiliation, tears came to Nuha’s eyes.
“I wasn’t myself,” he said.
“You were never more yourself, Bashir. You live separate lives.”
“You forgive me?”
“No.”
“But you don’t hate me.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“Nuha, she’s a child! She was a student I had met at the university. She’s gone. She’s in America.”
“So you come back to me.”
“She was never anything to me but an acquaintance. My heart has always been with you. Tonight we’ll have dinner at a new, very expensive restaurant on Zamalek. Tonight,” he added, smiling, “we’ll go up to my roof and listen to the stars together.”
A dart of pleasure touched her eyes, and he knew he had her.
“You are a joy, Nuha,” he said, tempted to reach for her hand although mindful that his fingers were soiled. He was sure the dung hadn’t touched his skin, but his hand felt dirty. The first chance he had he would scrub the filth off his hands.
He was admiring Nuha’s soft lips, yearning to kiss them, when someone came up behind him and clamped a big hand on his shoulder, almost lifting him from the chair.
“Hey! What’s…?”
“You must excuse us for a moment, Miss,” spoken in a deep, gruff voice.
Bashir knew the voice. He knew the stench of wine and sweat. He resented the intrusion and was frightened by the big man but was careful not to show it when he looked up.
“Diab!”
“Business,” the big man said. “We have to talk business.”
In his confusion, Bashir tossed an apologetic glance at Nuha. He raised both hands to signify helplessness.
“Be just a minute,” he said.
Diab laughed. “I think a little longer than that.”
Bashir considered arguing. Nuha would be furious if after this buildup, this healing of the wounds, he were to walk out of her life again. She wouldn’t have much respect for him if he were dragged off like a howling dog. And Diab would drag him off if he resisted; he was that kind of egotistical oaf. And he was strong as a horse.
“Sorry, Nuha, I have to go. It’s business. I promise I’ll be at your place at seven-thirty.” He gave her a big smile. “Exactly seven-thirty. And I’ll bring roses!”
Half way down the sidewalk, Diab said, “I don’t think you’ll be keeping that promise.”
There was enough malice in the voice to frighten Bashir and drive from his mind a quickening resentment of having been humiliated in front of Nuha by this unlettered, unwashed fellah. What must she think? She could see that Diab was lower class. How could he explain the humiliation?
“What’s this about?” Bashir said.
“Be patient.”
This pig has importance only through the power of Faisal Ibrahim, Bashir reminded himself. And Faisal is in England with a dying heart. When Faisal is dead, it is I who will give the orders. I have the brain and the skill. Faisal must know that. Who else will he name as his successor? Who else can remove the taint of the past from his organization, disband it and make the company a legitimate dealer in military ordnance? The first thing I’ll do when I take charge is decide the fate of this donkey.
A man in jeans and sweatshirt was waiting for them down the sidewalk, holding open the back door of a green Pontiac sedan.
“Get in,” Diab said, pushing Bashir into the car, getting in beside him, making the car sag.
The car reeked of sweat. Didn’t the man ever bathe? “What’s this about?” Bashir said, despising the fear that had invaded his voice.
“Faisal is home.”
“Faisal? Here? In Cairo?”
“With big plans for you.” Diab said, laughing. “Big plans.”
The driver, the man who had obviously followed him from Gezira, was watching Bashir in the rear-view mirror. He too was laughing. How had he known Bashir would be at that restaurant with Esmat Bindari? Had he just happened to see him there? But why follow him?
“He just got back?”
“He’s been here for weeks,” Diab said.
And nobody told me? Why wasn’t I told? Had Faisal become enfeebled by his illness? Had a message been sent to me but not delivered? Has someone been lying to him about me?
Riding through the crowded streets of Cairo, Bashir sat in silence at the car window, telling himself he had done nothing to offend Faisal Ibrahim that couldn’t easily be rectified or at least explained. He told himself he had no reason to be afraid. Faisal was an intelligent man. He knew the times had changed. He knew it was no longer wise to deal with insurgents. And who else in his organization can manage the transformation?
But with a word Faisal could destroy him. His organization could close every gateway to the future. Without an organization Bashir’s plans would collapse. Arms dealing requires solid contacts, and Bashir didn’t have the resources to create his own.
So for now at least I must become a suck-up, as the Americans say, a role that disgusted him. He had spent a childhood begging people for handouts, despising himself, despising his life.
He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Do you have a tissue?” he asked, wanting to wipe his fingers, although now it wasn’t only his hands that felt unclean. Riding in this car next to this filthy man, his very soul felt unclean. The first thing he would do at Faisal’s place was take a shower, lather himself in warm suds and feel the filth drain off his body.
“A what?” the driver said, glancing at the mirror.
Bashir leaned back. “Never mind.” The idiot probably blew his nose on his nightshirt.
Faisal’s safehouse was at the end of a narrow alley in a village in the suburbs west of Cairo. It was a large white house fronted by a small garden, a house that probably had once belonged to a village leader. Two men were sitting on wide steps at the entrance playing cards. On a hot Egyptian day in summer, at the edge of the desert, only an idiot would sit on a stone slab in the sun unless he had been ordered to do so.
As Diab led Bashir up the steps, he told the men to cross the driveway and sit under a tree.
“We were ordered to—”
“I am your general. Do what I say.”
The men looked at each other, shrugged, gathered up their cards and walked toward the large shaded area under the tree.
“You have a kind heart, Diab,” Bashir said.
“Only for men who are loyal.”
Meaning?
But Bashir would not ask. It would not be dignified to ask. He was not a soldier. He had never been part of Faisal’s now defunct military band of thieves. He operated at a higher level. He would learn what he had to learn directly from Faisal Ibrahim, whom he considered socially inferior but professionally his equal. He may have been raised in poverty, but this was the modern world. A man creates his own place in society. And he does it with wealth.
Despite his resolve to be bold and unafraid, his legs trembled as he entered the small, curtained room at the end of a long hallway. The room had an air conditioner in a window with two ribbons fluttering off a grill. Faisal, in a striped galabeya, was sitting within inches of the ribbons in a lounge chair, his bare feet resting on a pillow, his eyes closed. A wad of cotton was wedged between one of his big toes and the toe next to it.
Although Faisal was still fat, he had lost weight. Deep lines marked his face. He looked tired.
