Desiring Cairo

by Louisa Young

  After a while a taxi appeared, and we took it. Sa’id made a phone call, arranging for someone to fetch my things. I sat low in the back, ‘Enta ’Omri’ running through my head. Before you was darkness … I have started to dream my reality in the light of your eyes. And we headed downtown.

  *

  Actually I felt better out of the old city. It’s inebriating down there. Intoxicating. Like an unfocused pattern when you look too close, which from further away would fade into stripes of light and dark. You can go mad just noticing how many ways a dome can be made to fit on to a square. And the sinuous streets, the shifting shadows, the doorways and darkened windows, the ninth century waiting to get you. The ancient buildings down there are never in the same place twice: they move when you’re not looking. Cats and children and dust and ancient murders. Pickles your head. Holes for boiling oil to pour through, tunnels you can’t see but you know are there. Tattered dusty canvas hangings, faded patterns of interlocking flowers and arabesques (tracks of Sufi feet), once red and green and white, now dust, flapping, over ancient stone and wooden scaffolding bound together with rope. People moving like the ants negotiating the worn pile of the carpet in the Barsey mosque, following the channels of warp and weft, breaking out over the faded crimson thread but constantly frustrated by a strong green cord that they could not surmount, which became the limit of their world. Jasmine flowers just sitting there. Kufic inscriptions carved in stone, floriate and foliate. Roofs covered in rubbish. Lazy shifting in the wind. Static and mobile; is it alive? Is it a mouse, or is it a scrap? Or is it a feather? Or – oh. It’s nothing. It’s not there.

  Once a shopkeeper called to me. ‘Madame, what do you want?’ ‘Nothing, thanks,’ I called back, being civil. ‘Oh, I have nothing,’ he said. ‘Very good nothing. Best quality. Come and look.’ So of course I did. He showed it to me, cradling it carefully in his empty hands. ‘Oh it is beautiful,’ I agreed. ‘For you I make special price,’ he said. ‘For you, is cadeau.’ ‘Oh, that’s too much,’ I said, ‘I can’t pay you that much.’ ‘OK OK madame,’ he said. ‘No problem. You take two, same price.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What can I say. That’s a good price. Mabrouk,’ I said, congratulations on a good sale. ‘Mabrouk,’ he said. ‘You are good customer.’ ‘Don’t bother to wrap it,’ I said, and we neither of us laughed, we just looked at each other gleefully and I went my way.

  But I can’t be doing with that kind of thing now. My enemy is English.

  The aunt – Amina – lived in Garden City, which is not how its name sounds. The building was tall, like a transplanted block from a prosperous French boulevard. Sa’id and the police greeted each other without fuss. The hall was high and grey, gloomy. The lift worked. No door. The number of each floor was painted on the yellow wall between landings. The 7th was ours. I like 7.

  She was out when we arrived. Maid let us in. It was, as he had said, large. And dim, and cavernous. Cool bare floors, heavy rugs, heavy furniture in the tasteful end of the Louis Farouk style: rococo legs, gold and white, striped silk coverings. Massive mirrors, freckled like the ones at Fishawy. This was some old money. Sa’id and I sat like guests on a settee, and the maid brought 7 Up.

  ‘She’s not Abu Sa’id’s sister …’ I asked. This couldn’t be the same family as the house in Qurnah, so white and blue, so workmanlike. It didn’t connect.

  ‘My father’s brother’s wife,’ he said. ‘My uncle died after they were married. Young. Cancer. This aunt’s family is – as you see. This was her father’s flat, and she came back after her husband died.’

  ‘Did they have children?’

  ‘No time,’ he said.

  ‘But you all stayed in touch, still family. That’s good.’

  He smiled a little. ‘She and my father don’t speak. Nobody speaks to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … the mother, and …’ He did the rolling, beckoning movement with his hand, which in these circumstances means: and there’s more, always more, but you know that, and we can talk forever on this, but we’re not going to talk of it now … the bodily equivalent of dot dot dot.

  I sank in the settee, as best I could, and wanted to sleep. It must have been eight or nine by now.

  ‘Go and wash,’ he said. ‘Come …’

  First he showed me his room. His room! Where he always stays in Cairo. It was bare. A narrow bed, tightly made; a dark wooden table, a carved wardrobe. A light switch that had been painted over a dozen times, but not since 1954 by the look of it. A newspaper on the desk – Al Ahram. His bags from London in the corner, clean laundry folded in a pile on the foot of the bed.

  Then mine. Similar, even emptier. Perfect. And the bathroom. Suite in Cairo bathroom blue. Whoever did those huge blue sinks must have made a killing, back in 1954. He brought me two towels. Rough and white. And he kissed me, as he went off. ‘Your bags will be here soon,’ he said. ‘We can stay in tonight and tomorrow we will do it. Don’t go out without me.’

  Did I feel reassured? Or what?

  Did I feel hemmed in and taken over?

  Did I mind?

  It was the same as with Harry. Am I being cared for or am I being bossed?

  Oh fuck.

  ‘Habibi,’ I said. ‘You can tell me what to do, but I won’t necessarily do it. You know that, don’t you. English woman, you know.’

  He knew.

  ‘Yes habibi,’ he said. Not habibti, for a female. Habibi, for a man. Teasing me.

  I heard him talking to the maid as he left. A quicker, more guttural Arabic. Too Arabic for my ear. I wonder if he spoke harmoniously for me on purpose, so that I could follow easily.

  *

  I was rising up from deep in the huge, cornelian-stained bathtub, where I had been marvelling at the hollow clanking and growling of the plumbing and the height of the ceiling above my wet head, when I heard voices. Talking English. Walking past the door. Fuck me.

  ‘Sarah!’ I called out.

  ‘What!?’ Her surprise was total. ‘What? Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Angeline. I’m in the bath,’ I called.

  ‘What are you – hello!’ she cried, through the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I called. ‘Hang on. Wait. I’ll be out in a moment.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I’m confused.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be a mo. Is Hakim with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and her happiness at the fact flowed straight through the door. I was glad.

  But Sa’id said the aunt didn’t speak to Abu Sa’id because of Sarah. Oh. Just when you think you understand it all changes again. Oh.

  I met up with her ten minutes later, damp but dressed (alas in my dusty all-day circling Ibn Tulun and shagging in the Khan clothes again) in the drawing room. The maid smiled and had mint tea for me. I thanked her nicely and was sweeter with her than I had been when Sa’id was there. I don’t know why. It’s a girl thing. I don’t know why. Can’t deal very well with more than one person at a time. Maybe that’s it.

  Sarah didn’t look entirely pleased to see me. Not not pleased either. Confused.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked, as well she might.

  ‘I had to come,’ I said. ‘On business.’ (Ha!) ‘Madame Amina invited me to stay. Family friend,’ I went on, as she was looking at me with some confusion still. I called the aunt Madame in case Sarah felt I was … occupying her territory, or something. Or over familiar. And after all, I still hadn’t met the woman. But Sarah doesn’t know that. Yet.

  I don’t want to tell her about Sa’id.

  ‘What business?’ she said and for a moment I was lost without a lie, but then she carried on. ‘Actually I’m glad you’re here. You – I – I’m glad. Hakim will be pleased, too.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Out. Coming back.’

  ‘And how’s it going?’ I asked, friendly. It occurred to me that she might be ill at ease in this house, rather than with me. Well she mi
ght.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked, just as she asked me the same thing.

  ‘I just arrived,’ I said, as she said, ‘Since I arrived – four days.’

  ‘And …’ I said. I wanted her to tell me how it was, what the balance was, who was what. Like had she seen Sa’id? Did she know he was here? But I was awkward. Don’t be.

  ‘And what’s been happening?’

  She laughed. ‘Hakim has been making Amina make up with me. It’s good.’

  I wasn’t going to mention Sa’id. I wasn’t going to.

  ‘She tells me Sa’id is coming,’ she said.

  So I didn’t have to.

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  Then ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ I said, thinking to be polite, and gentle, and not liking the fact that I was lying by default. ‘Well, Hakim came to find you …’

  ‘And Sa’id didn’t.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Different folks,’ she said, after a moment. I had the impression she was scared. I didn’t blame her. He was a little frightening – do I mean frightening? Around that subject. I wanted to help her. Her firstborn.

  ‘I remember what you said about your sister,’ she said. ‘I want you to know that I understand that, but it is not simple.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he was always … not like Hakim. Hakim was always cuddly. Always loving. Sa’id is hard to please. Was. Is. Have you talked to him about me? When you were in London?’

  I realised she had been dying to ask this, and was kicking herself in her pride, at having let the question out. Well, I was glad to see her showing interest.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  She looked at me.

  ‘As you say,’ I said. ‘Proud.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘In so many words.’

  ‘Proud about me?’

  ‘About himself in regard to you. He wouldn’t talk about you. I felt he was … he felt betrayed. But that’s hearsay, you know. Inadmissible. I told him to forgive you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Sarcastically. Prickly. Yeah, proud.

  ‘I’d say it to anyone,’ I said. I am not going to be defensive here. I thought of my mother, of Dad, and Harry, and Lily. And Harry again. When I go home I am going to be a heavenly relative. Let her be Harry’s. Please please God, let her be Harry’s. And let us live happily somehow.

  Soon after that the aunt returned, and then Hakim, and it became a little party. The aunt was older, sixtyish, quiet, courteous. Elegant. One of her eyes was slightly milky. She asked me quiet questions, but she was not very interested in the answers. I didn’t mind that at all. She evidently doted on Hakim. Even the milky eye lit up when he arrived. And when he saw me, and fell on me with delight, and told her at length that I was his darling, his beloved English aunt, she and Sarah exchanged looks that I felt were quite possibly to do with earlier conversations about how hard it is for a boy to lose half his national identity, and how natural that he should need to seek it out. I didn’t of course bring up with Hakim any of the things Sa’id had been saying, and he was so pleased to see me and apologised so sweetly for having left without saying goodbye, and asked after Lily with such affection, and told his aunt at such length how beautiful she was, and how clever, and begged me so prettily to take out my photo of her to show, that I relaxed into it being a sweet family reunion, undercurrents at ebb, and affectionate sociability in flood.

  Then Sa’id came back. The aunt went out when she heard his voice in the hall, and spoke to him. Her voice came through urgent. He didn’t come in. Amina returned and looked at Sarah, patted Hakim, and said to me, ‘He would like to speak to you.’

  I went out to him. Heart lowered again. He knew what I wanted; I knew I couldn’t make him want it. I wanted to, though. I wanted to knock his head together.

  He was sitting on an elegant hard chair in the hall, his hands clasped in front of his knees, his head low. He looked up and said, ‘Did you know?’

  ‘I knew she was coming to Cairo. I didn’t know she would be here.’

  His head swayed a little. He looked so sad.

  ‘Don’t ask me, darling,’ I said. ‘You know what I think.’

  He beckoned me to him without looking up. I stroked his head. Beautiful curls. Cradled his brain in his handsome skull and sent love through my fingertips to him.

  ‘It was very hard when she went,’ he said.

  ‘I think she thought it would be harder if she stayed,’ I said.

  He sighed.

  And again. I waited it out.

  Finally: ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out and smoke. Let’s go to the Grillon and find some intellectuals to talk nonsense with. Let’s go and sing to the moon. Let’s go to Aswan. Come.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my shoes.’

  I went back in to the others. It’s not my own tragedy so I cannot dispense with manners.

  ‘He wants to go out,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, Madame Amina, Hakim. Sarah.’

  I’m not a practised deceiver. And she is not a fool. Her look was calm, understanding, collective. I looked her in the eye, and gave her a small nod. Just to let her know that she was right, to let her not be bothered by doubt when she had better things to be bothered with. I think her face hardened a little. Her eyes changed. A little. I couldn’t tell what from or what to.

  Well at least it’s done. As it would have to be.

  I went out the other door, towards the bedroom. I was in my room, picking up my shoes and my fags before I realised she had followed me.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Strange the ways these things happen.

  I almost asked if she minded. It’s nothing to me if she minds. But there’s something.

  ‘A few weeks,’ I said. ‘And yes. Insofar as we can tell.’ Love, I meant. Though I couldn’t say it.

  ‘Oh.’ She was disarmed. She knew I didn’t care. Knew she was badly placed to have an opinion. But as the thought ticked through her eyes I realised that she was making it her fault, or her – hers, anyway. She was making it a mother thing, because I am older. And I minded that. I nearly said: ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ meaning, ‘It’s nothing to do with the fact that you deserted him and he needs a mother,’ but realised in time how it could sound: ‘It’s none of your business.’ I said neither. Nothing. For a moment. Then I said, ‘Yes, I would like you to make up, but it’s not for me to … and I am not playing any part in that. No direct part. Just in case you were thinking anything of it.’ Like that I might, or that you might like me to.

  ‘Well,’ she said, with a little bitterness. ‘I seem to have forfeited my role rather.’ Which made me angry.

  ‘Don’t insult me,’ I said, quite gently. ‘And don’t insult yourself. You’re his mother, it’s your job to look after him. Forever. That’s all. What I am is between him and me.’

  She gave me a narrow look from under the hand that was fretfully wandering her forehead. ‘Yeah. Right,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, and gave her a straight look until she acknowledged me.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said. And I went, and Sa’id and I drove round and round the city in the dark, and ended up back at the City of the Dead, sitting up on the steps of someone’s mausoleum, drawing patterns with our toes in the dust by the light of the high golden moon, till he fell asleep in my lap. Much later I woke him, and we drove home. He didn’t say much, and I held his hand all the way except when he was changing gear.

  When we got in my bags were in my room and a great fan of tuberoses stood on the hall table. Shit. They’d sent them on.

  The note was on top of the bag. We sat on the floor in the corridor to read it.

  My darling girl how unspeakably happy I am that you have arrived. Dinner tomorrow? The Semiramis has a great show on, but if you’re tired we could go somewhere quiet like Justine or Arabesque. I’ll c
all you. Bring your friend! I cover you with rose petals – ever yours.

  Shit.

  We stood and for ten minutes Sa’id held me and I listened to his heart, then we went to our separate beds. As I went in he said: ‘That phrase, “tweak your chain”.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You are the dog on the chain, he tweaks it to see you jump?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  He was silent a moment. (Remember Lily counting out a moment. One to four, five to eight, with a tiny pause at four. That’s how long a moment is. Whenever I say I’ll be a moment she counts it out to make sure I’m not too long.)

  ‘So should the dog not take off the chain?’

  I was quiet for two and a half moments.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  It was the first night I had slept without him since we started, but there was only an hour or so left of it. I wanted him very badly.

  *

  By the time I emerged the next morning Sarah had gone out. Madame Amina was playing patience in her little sitting room, which was apparently what she liked to do. Hakim was prowling round my breakfast, waiting for Sa’id to appear, spoiling for something.

  ‘What are those flowers?’ he demanded.

  ‘Someone sent them,’ I said.

  ‘They weren’t here yesterday.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘You’re curdling my coffee.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m having breakfast,’ I said. ‘Be calm.’

  He sat. Disgruntled. Shifted in his seat.

  Then: ‘I want them to …’ he said. ‘It’s not so much to ask. He’d like her if … it’s his duty. He must to do it. He must. Sah?’