David scratched at his ear, grimacing. “Don’t know if I could pull that off. An American, probably.”
“A novelist?”
“Ha!” David said, slapping the table, fully recovered now. “No, that’s best avoided, too. Maybe someone at the embassy? Maribeth tells me you work there, too.”
John wondered what else Maribeth had told him. He’d never admitted to his real function, but she’d certainly noticed, the last time he slept over, the work-related call he’d received in the middle of the night before rushing off. “I hope it’s someone more interesting than me,” John told him. “I just schedule travel for the important people.”
“Know any CIA?”
Maribeth turned to listen to this.
John opened his free hand to the ceiling. “Never one that would admit to it.”
Instead of deflating him, David seemed to take this as a challenge. He leaned closer. “But you know people who don’t admit to it.”
“Tell it from an Egyptian’s perspective,” John said. “Much more interesting.”
Maribeth let out a disagreeable grunt. “He wants to sell the book.”
John got up and ordered a round of drinks from the bar. He wasn’t particularly interested in the conversation, nor was he all that interested in Maribeth’s hand sliding along his upper thigh once he’d returned with three beers. Yet here he was, trying to forget about blood in the desert as he drank his beer in great gulps and nodded at David Malek’s unself-conscious praise of the revolutions trembling through this part of the world. His optimism, John realized, wasn’t naive. Like Jibril’s, it was merely American, the belief that all anyone in the world wanted was to live in their own little America. Finally, John cut in. “You know, don’t you, that they’re going to vote in Islamist parties who have no time for the United States. Look at the history here: Nasser, Sadat, Mubarak. Failed wars, failed culture, and failed social policies enforced by a secret police. The Muslim Brotherhood has been taking care of the people for decades, far better than their governments ever have, and now it’s time for their reward.”
Innocently, David said, “And why not? It’s called democracy. You sound like Gadhafi.”
John frowned. “What?”
“The first volume of his magnum opus, The Green Book, is called ‘The Solution of the Problem of Democracy.’”
Green, thought John.
David said, “You think democracy is problematic. It is, of course, but that’s the way it goes. Either they’re democratic or they’re not.”
“Yeah,” said Maribeth. “We can’t give them only half democracy.”
“We’re not giving them anything,” said John, leaning forward. He was a big man, and he knew it. He also knew that a little physical intimidation tended to help his arguments. “If we’ve given them anything, we’ve given them thirty-odd years of authoritarianism by supporting their oppressors. Now, we act as if we’ve given them a new world because they’re using Twitter to talk to each other.”
“Look who’s the wet blanket,” Maribeth said. David was grinning wildly at his outburst. No one here was intimidated by him.
He looked away, scanning the crowd again, but his shadows hadn’t bothered following him inside. As he took another drink he had a flashback to his dream, opening up the trunk of that Tercel and finding his son and daughter inside. Danisha climbing out and telling him how tired she was. Jibril beckoning him into the street.
He knew, of course. A man who knows poetry knows how to read his own dreams. He had populated this one with people he’d let down, just as he knew he would eventually let down Maribeth, who was now squeezing his inner thigh. God sure didn’t make me very wise. He’d let down a lot of people during his time on earth—women, friends, and employers—and as Maribeth’s nails dug through his jeans he hoped that no one would be too surprised the next time he failed.
She squeezed harder, nails pinching. He nearly yelped.
5
When he woke around noon on Saturday, his head throbbing to the anguished melody of a call to prayer wafting in through an open window, he briefly had no idea where he was, nor where he had come from. He was not in his own bed. His pillow was damp, and there was a stink of acid that made him think that he’d vomited, but when he sat up, gripping his head, he found no traces. Then he recognized the disorganized room, the pastel colors, and the Mickey Mouse clock. From another room, he heard CNN playing on a television.
Maribeth appeared with a cup of coffee, wearing a long T-shirt, disheveled hair, a smile, and nothing else. “You look bad, John.” She handed over the cup. “You need this more than I do.”
“How much did I drink?”
“Everything they had. I’m starting to think maybe you have a problem.”
He did, but he didn’t think drinking was it. With his first sip of hot coffee he was overcome by the desire to urinate, and when he got up he noticed he was still wearing underwear. “Did we…?”
A short laugh, then she shook her head. “You couldn’t have raised your voice by the time we got back here, much less that.”
He gave her a weary grin, handed back the coffee, and went to the bathroom. From where he sat on the toilet he could see his face in her low mirror. He was pale, his eyes shot through with red. “Mind if I take a shower?” he called through the closed door.
“I think I’m going to insist,” she called back.
It took a while for the hot water to reach her fourth-floor apartment, and once it did it burned. He stood under the steaming downpour, thinking through the previous night. The memories were disturbingly slow in coming, but they did come, and he remembered laughter and loud voices—mostly his—and the novelist David Malek and later on some friends. He remembered an argument with a Slav, but couldn’t remember what it had been about. Then he had a quick flash of panic—where was the pistol? He hurried through his shower, toweled off, and squatted naked at the foot of the bed, hunting through his pile of clothes. “Looking for your gun?” Maribeth asked from behind. She had dressed in a long white skirt and an open-collared mauve blouse.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Only travel agent I know of who carries heat,” she said. “It’s in the living room. Why don’t you get dressed and have some breakfast?”
He did as she suggested, then found the pistol in its holster on the coffee table. There were still seventeen rounds in the clip, and none in the breech.
Maribeth had cooked up Swiss cheese omelets, ham, and buttered toast, and they ate in her modest dining room—an extension of the kitchen—while through the window came the noise of downtown traffic. The coffee and food began to temper his hangover.
Maribeth spent her work hours approving and more often rejecting visa requests, and each week she collected a handful of stories of colorful characters who believed that simply scrawling marks on a form entitled them to an entry visa. “They always get it wrong,” she said. “We start with the assumption that everyone wants to jump ship and set up a new life in America, and it’s up to them to prove otherwise. But when you tell them this, they act as if you’ve just insulted them. On Wednesday a woman spat at me.”
“She spat on you?” he said, a slice of toast halfway to his mouth.
“At me. Splattered across the divider window. There’s a reason we have those things, you know. She said, But we’re democratic now, just like you! Why would I want to leave?”
“I’m not sure I’d call a military government democracy.”
“People believe what they want,” she said, then nodded at the television behind him. “You hear about that?”
He turned to find a talking head on CNN relating the story of Emmett Kohl, deputy consul in Hungary, who had been shot in a Budapest restaurant. There were, apparently, few clues, and only an unidentified security photo to guide the investigations: a wide face, hairless, with a cut on one cheek. A real bruiser.
“You knew Kohl?” he asked.
“As well as most, I suppose. He thought he was hilar
ious.”
John was struck by the cynicism in her voice. “You didn’t like him?”
“He was just … you know. One of those bosses who slaps your back and makes a joke and says that we’re all in this together. But when the shit hits the fan you never know where he is. I’ve worked for worse.”
“I’ll bet I have, too.”
She smiled over the rim of her coffee cup and said, “Where have you worked, John? Where did you come from before you magically appeared here?” She took a sip, and when he didn’t answer she said, “Look, I’m not trying to pry, but it’s obvious you don’t schedule flights for people. Jennifer tells me you spend most of your time on the fifth floor, with the spooks.”
“Spooks?”
She reddened. “You know what I mean.”
He did, and so he told her a little about himself. She already knew of the ex-wife and children, so he brushed over his time in the army, skipping mention of his dishonorable discharge. “I kicked around for a while, got married, had some kids. That didn’t work out.”
“Whose fault?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He thought about it, but he needn’t have—the question had haunted him for years. “Both of ours.”
“Both? Is that the answer she’d give, too?”
“Spoken like a real bachelorette.”
“I prefer the word spinster.”
“My point,” he said, trying to ignore her mocking grin, “is that we share the blame, just like we share the kids.” It was a diplomatic answer, which was another way of saying it was untrue. John would always blame himself, for he had been the one who couldn’t hold down a job, who chose to reach for the car keys whenever a fight erupted, who began to feel like his own absent father even though he lived in the same house as his kids. He said, “I remembered how good I’d had it in the army. Lots of order in that kind of life. You know when you’re waking and when you’re going to sleep. You know what you’re supposed to do, and when. The rules are clear—there’s never any ambiguity.”
“Unlike in a family,” she said, her eyes locked on him, no longer taunting.
“Right,” he said, then paused before going on. The lies about his job hadn’t been required—he’d just been asked to avoid advertising his real position at the embassy. She was waiting. “So I applied with Global Security, and a few years later I was sent here.”
“Global Security?” Maribeth placed the coffee cup on the table, her eyes slitted. “You’re a contractor? Like that—that guy in Pakistan?”
He nodded.
“Well, damn,” she said, almost a whisper.
Before she could go on, there was a knock at the door, and as she went to get it John finished his toast, wondering how to escape. He had no idea how this revelation was affecting her, and, given the way he was feeling, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out right now. Then he heard the newcomer’s voice: “My love!” It was Geert Rutte, a Dutch media consultant, another Deals regular. John didn’t feel he had much choice in the matter—he got up and went out to say hello.
Despite being near fifty, Geert dressed like a hipster, with thick-framed black glasses and bowling shoes, and was full of overabundant, meaningless smiles. He also maintained an absolute indifference to the feelings of others—empathy had never been part of his upbringing. “John! What a surprise!”
“Morning, Geert.”
“Is it still morning? Maribeth, is it still morning?”
“I think it’s early afternoon,” she said, smiling at John.
“Yet this is a wonderful coincidence, John, for I have two propositions for you!”
“Do you see my face?” John asked him.
“Yes, John. I do.”
“How does it look?”
“Pale. Well, paler than usual. It’s hard to tell with you people.”
“I’m hungover. So please talk quietly.”
Geert’s eyebrows rose. “Ahh,” he said before lowering to a whisper. “I have two propositions for you, John.” He wandered in, sniffing the air. “Is that coffee?”
“Would you like some?” asked Maribeth.
“Of course.”
They all went to the kitchen, and as she poured another cup, Geert sat in Maribeth’s chair and bit into a slice of her toast. “My propositions.”
“Perhaps you could just spit them out,” said John.
“The first one is an investment opportunity.”
“Do I look like I have money?”
Geert paused, staring in shock. “You don’t?”
“Well, not enough to invest in anything.”
“But you have a job. With the American embassy.”
“I also have an ex-wife and two children.”
“That’s criminal.”
“It is what it is. What’s the second proposition?”
“Don’t you want to know what kind of investment?”
“What’s the point?”
Maribeth placed a fresh coffee in front of Geert. “Doesn’t anyone want to offer me an investment?”
“Do you have money?” Geert asked her.
“Not really.”
Geert shrugged elaborately, then came out with one of his ubiquitous smiles.
“What’s the second proposition?” asked John.
Geert finally looked at his coffee. “Milk?”
“It’s next to the plate,” Maribeth said, giving John a quick grin.
As he poured the milk, Geert said, “Now that I know you’re poor, the second proposition might be more interesting. A part-time job making conversation with pretty Egyptian girls.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Conversational English. That’s all they want. Thirty euros an hour, and they pay for the tea.”
“Who are these Egyptian girls?”
“And why am I being passed over again?” Maribeth demanded.
“Because,” Geert told her, “you are a woman. And no,” he added, holding up a finger, “I’m not ashamed I said that. John,” he continued, turning away from her, “they’re women, not girls. Married, as well. To members of the protest movement. They know their husbands’ stars are rising, so they’re desperate to look good and speak well when faced with foreign diplomats. With English, they will be prepared for most situations.”
John shook his head. After Libya, this felt ridiculous. He imagined sitting in the Marriott or Arabica or Starbucks with an Egyptian housewife discussing beaches and servants and diplomats’ wives, then being asked, “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Calhoun?”
“I’m not sure,” he said as Geert took another bite of Maribeth’s toast.
“It’s the easiest job in the world, John. And they want you.”
“There are thousands of native English speakers in town.”
“Me, for example,” said Maribeth.
Geert shrugged. “But most of them are not American blacks.”
Maribeth looked at John, who said, “Neither are most English-speaking diplomats, Geert.”
“Maybe they want to speak the jive to your president,” Geert said, and when neither of them gave him a smile of encouragement he shrugged again. “I can’t explain the inner workings of the Egyptian female mind. I never will be able to. All I know is that when I described you to Mrs. Abusir, she perked up as if I had shocked her toe. She told me—in confidence, mind—that she was sure the other wives would love to meet you. But don’t tell her I told you this.”
“Tell her thanks, but I’m not interested.”
“Really?” Geert looked surprised. He believed he had sold it well. “Maybe when you feel better, you’ll change your mind. How many tequilas did you have?”
“I need to go to the embassy,” John said, rising to his feet. He thanked Maribeth for the breakfast, then slipped on his holster in the bedroom. As he was pulling on his jacket, Geert appeared in the doorway.
“You should watch it,” the Dutchman told him. “Too much tequila and you’ll end up i
n jail. You don’t want to see the inside of an Egyptian prison.”
“Maybe you’re right, Geert.”
“You’ll end up like Raymond Davis.”
Raymond Davis was the contractor Maribeth had been thinking about. A month before, he had been arrested for shooting two Pakistanis in Lahore, and it had blown up into large-scale protests all over that country, demanding his execution. Raymond Davis’s situation had terrified everyone in the contractor community.
“And if you’re in jail,” Geert said, “what will poor Mrs. Abusir do?”
6
From Maribeth’s building on Hussein Basha Al Meamari, he walked to Talaat Harb Square, a large yet elegant intersection of six streets circling the statue of Talaat Harb, economist and banker. He kept an eye out for shadows but saw nothing, worrying that his roughshod brain wasn’t up to the challenge. Yet as he continued down the street toward Tahrir Square, it occurred to him that perhaps he’d had it wrong. Perhaps—and he briefly felt a sense of warm relief at the prospect—the two men outside his place had been watching someone else in the building. He didn’t talk to his neighbors, but he wasn’t the only foreigner on that leafy Zamalek street. By the time he’d made it through Tahrir and was entering Garden City, the charm of this thought had gone a ways toward relieving his headache.
The air—fresher on the weekend—was also doing him a world of good. He reached the embassy on Tawfik Diab Street and gave his passport to one of the local guards, a conscript with the Central Security Forces, which was responsible for, among other things, guarding embassies. The Egyptian glanced at the passport, then took a good look at John’s face. “You are in bad shape, no?”
“Not as bad as I look,” he answered unconvincingly.
There were a few extra marines posted on the grounds, looking hard yet serene. They didn’t bother asking his condition.
Another guard stopped him just inside the door, and once he’d stated his intention John removed his Glock and handed it over. The guard didn’t seem surprised by the pistol, just took it over to a steel cabinet and put it into a locked drawer. Then John handed over his keys, phone, and change, stepped through the metal detector, collected everything again, and went to the far window, where he told the doorman, Eric, where he would be. Eric was maybe twenty-five, from Wyoming, and was losing a battle with psoriasis. He had a remarkable memory for the hundreds of faces that passed him each day. “Haven’t seen you since Wednesday, Mr. Calhoun.”
The Cairo Affair Page 13
