by Louisa Young
‘Aiwa,’ I said. Yes. ‘Give them time. We can’t do it for them.’
He was so pleased at the idea that they might do it at all that the idea of giving them time to do it was most acceptable. ‘You think it will be all right?’
‘Has to be,’ I said. ‘He likes happiness. So it has to be. More or less.’
He ruminated, then sat down and ate three eggs and two mangoes and drank three cups of coffee.
I smiled at him blankly, and ruffled his head as I finished up and went to my room to think about my heart.
Sa’id came in half an hour later: or rather knocked, as propriety required, and called me out.
‘Are you ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I murmured.
TWENTY-TWO
Let’s Go to the Bank
We drove down. Parked right on Midan el Tahrir, by the back entrance to the hotel. Back entrance indeed – the block rose huge and rich above us, with its gardens and terraces, gazing out over the breadth of the square, where crazy lanes of traffic entangle themselves in arabesques, and pedestrians fear to tread. Where you know for sure that Cairo traffic police have the lowest sperm count and the highest levels of lead in their blood. The Egyptian Museum, pink and colonial, the colour of a British colonel’s neck in the tropics, sat to the right, calm and protected, like the Hilton, from the everyday mayhem going on outside.
By the time we got back the car would probably have been rolled somewhere else by a pettish taxi driver, but when I suggested to Sa’id he put the handbrake on he didn’t agree. ‘We have an invisible man waiting in an invisible car as well,’ he said. ‘Not to worry.’
We sauntered up the wide steps as calm as you like. Sa’id in his greenish suit, me in string-coloured linen and sunglasses, like any foreign lady. It was hot – of course it was hot. My eyes were sandy with lack of sleep; my head soft. Cairo head. Nobody could tell that inside my soft head I was running through what Eddie knew I knew, and what I might have to dissemble about to protect Harry. Eddie knows I know he’s alive. At least I don’t have to fake amazement to save my skin, or Harry’s.
Past the palms and curious stone busts on pedestals, past the tables of the Ali Baba coffee house where the prosperous young people smoked and drank domestic Stella. It was just after noon. Hot. Calm.
‘Where is the bank?’ I asked again.
‘Through the entrance, left off the hall and second on the left. Where it always was.’
Yes.
I don’t know what I expected Eddie to do. Jump out and … Oh God.
Through the hall, second on the left after the boutique full of embroidered caftans and appliquéd leather-work cushions. Banque Misr. OK.
In we went. Clerk was free. ‘Evangeline Gower,’ I said, ‘come to make a collection.’ Gave him my passport. Sa’id stood back, against the wall. Waiting. Looking, if I may say so, deeply cool.
Ah yes, said the clerk, and went away, and came back, with another man – manager? Who looked at the passport, and me, and said ah yes, and then there was a form to fill in (I lied about all that I could – like where I was staying. Put Hotel el Hussein) and then another, and I was to sign something but it was in Arabic. I read it as best I could, and called Sa’id over and he read it for me. The manager couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Fascinated to see who it was.
I was just waiting for his voice to come bouncing in, for the ‘Angeline, darling!’, or the gunfire, or whatever he was going to use to amuse me today.
The manager spoke to Sa’id, assuming I didn’t speak Arabic. ‘Nice-looking babe,’ he said, or words to that effect. Sa’id said to me – in Arabic – ‘Hey, Angeline, this gentleman thinks you’re a nice-looking babe.’ ‘Really?’ I replied – in Arabic. ‘Tell him I think he’s a nice-looking gentleman.’ The manager flushed purple. I put my hand out to pat his arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t mind people thinking I’m a nice-looking babe. Really I don’t.’ He was so relieved. The exchange cheered me. Made me feel strong, beautiful and clever.
‘Now why are you calling the bank manager habibi? I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I? You naughty old thing …’
Sa’id had his hand over mine. Otherwise I might have lost it. But I didn’t. I stood. I breathed. I waited. Half a moment, including the little pause at four. Turned round.
And there he was. Eddie Bates.
‘Hello Eddie,’ I said.
‘Tschh,’ he said, crossly, sucking his teeth.
‘What?’
He recovered himself.
‘François du Berry,’ he said. Holding out his hand. Taking mine. Little bow as if to kiss, but not. ‘Enchanté.’
‘French!’ I said. His accent was OK, but really. ‘Oh no. They’d never take you for a Frenchman. Crap choice. Really.’ Oh my God, I’ve gone straight into the banter. I can still do it. Great. Good.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said. He was doing the accent in English too. Just a leetle. Actually it was good. ‘I can be very convincing. I just don’t need to be in present company. Absurd, isn’t it? Now won’t you introduce me to – Sa’id, isn’t it?’
‘François du Berry, Sa’id el Araby,’ I said, giving it full gutteral Arabic pronunciation and hoping Eddie wouldn’t pick it up, which was pointless because he obviously knew already, but I had to do something.
‘Hello,’ said Sa’id, giving that full Arabic pronunciation too. Ah. He was going to pretend not to speak English. What a good idea. Now does Eddie speak Arabic, that’s the next thing. Anyone can spot habibi in a sentence. Doesn’t mean a thing.
‘Come and have lunch,’ said Eddie. ‘So much to talk about. The restaurant here is not bad. Or we could go out. Which would you like?’ He was smiling radiantly. He is unbefuckinglievable. Swanky silverish prosperous-fellow suit, new haircut, same patrician face, noble nose. A little tanned, in an expensive-looking way. It suited him. Newish scar on his forehead. Whoops.
François my arse.
‘Something to pick up first, Eddie,’ I said, smiling archly.
‘Chérie,’ he said, lightly, warningly. Of course – I’m not to call him Eddie. This is farcical. ‘You can fetch it later – too heavy. You know what these primitive currencies are like. You’ll have to hire a bearer. Oh but you already have.’ He beamed at Sa’id, who smiled politely back, as you would if you hadn’t understood but could see that a joke was being made.
‘No, now,’ I said. ‘Come come. I’ve come all this way.’ I was glad I had. Seeing him, my heart flooded back to me. Hearing him. Racist cunt. I’ve decided I don’t mind that word used as an insult any more. I’m just unmanning him. Unmanning him with femininity. That’s all. Actually cunt could be the great female insult.
Even so, Egyptian pounds. It was going to make a hell of a package.
Eddie made flirty little moue. ‘Oh all right,’ he said. ‘You can give the lady her money, Mahmoud. Count it out.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I said, but the first clerk was already at the machine, which was whipping through notes at a rate of knots, rattling as it flicked and fanned them through. It was made of bilious green metal, dimply, with a rubber belt. I watched. And watched. It was getting quite a groovy little rhythm going.
‘He’s jolly handsome, isn’t he darling?’ Eddie didn’t even bother to sidle up to my ear, just announced it straight out. ‘Such good taste. Except for Harry of course. Does Harry know about this one? And does this one know about me? Oh dear oh dear. You’re lucky I’m so very fond of you. Thousands of men would mind, you know. But I’m just so very pleased to see you that I really don’t. But he doesn’t have to come to lunch, does he? Send him off with the money instead. Then at least if he steals it we’ll never be bothered with him again. Actually that’s rather a good idea. Cheap at the price! I’ll stop the counting now, we could send him off with what we’ve got to so far and then there would still be plenty for the lovely Lily. How is the lovely Lily?’
‘Dead,’ I said. I don’t kn
ow where it came from. But it suddenly seemed a good idea that he should think she was dead. Then he wouldn’t bother her.
‘My sweetheart!’ he cried. ‘No!’
‘She was knocked down by a car,’ I said. ‘Three months ago. Didn’t you hear?’ Now as I filled the story out I couldn’t bear to do it. The words stuck in my throat, as if saying them would make it happen. Like magic words. Which were of course invented right here on the Nile. By Thoth. I desperately tried to conjure up antidotes to any bad luck I was bringing down. Thoth, habibi, I don’t mean it, I don’t mean it. Banish the image even as I say the words. The overall effect was to make me seem strangled and miserable, so from that point of view it was good.
Once again Eddie was demonstrating his … his complete detachment from the human race. I’d just told him my daughter was dead, and I think he believed me, and he claimed this grand emotional connection to me, and this is what he said.
‘That must have been terrible. Now do let’s finish this off, and go to lunch.’ The money was ready. Five hundred and forty-seven thousand Egyptian pounds, plus change, in a cardboard box. The bank staff were very worried. One of them was standing by the door, which was now closed, and he wasn’t letting anybody in. I didn’t like that. Eddie didn’t seem in the least perturbed. I dared not look at Sa’id.
I stared at the box. What the fuck is this. This is mad. ‘The money was for Lily, Eddie,’ I said.
‘François,’ he snapped.
‘So she can’t have it.’
‘I’m sure she would have left it to you in her will,’ he replied, already halfway out of the bank, ignoring the box. He genuinely didn’t care about it. This is great – he doesn’t care about it, I don’t care about it, yet here we are, him using it and me being manipulated by it. I glanced back to Sa’id. He caught my eye as he handed his holdall to the clerk, and asked him to put the money in it, and, while it was being transferred, he held my eye as I had held his head last night. Eye beams twisted. His strength flooded down the beams, and mine leapt up to meet it. So far so good.
The bank men didn’t want us to leave, fussing and whooshing and making a big irritating business about us just walking out with the cash. As we insisted, they gradually fell back, eyes huge, disbelieving, amazed. Sa’id picked up the holdall, took my arm, and led me to the door. It was open again. Eddie was outside in the marble corridor, waiting for us. So far so good.
‘We can’t have lunch, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘It’s been lovely to see you but we’ve got to get on, so if you’ve …’
He cut straight in. ‘Go away,’ he said to Sa’id. Sa’id didn’t. I wasn’t scared. We were in the middle of the Nile Hilton surrounded by white marble and bell boys and well-dressed Germans. The square outside was crawling with tourist police. I wasn’t scared of this. I was scared of the long run; of next time.
Eddie took my arm and led me to a sofa. I considered resisting, but didn’t. There used to be a prison down in the old city where the prisoners’ hands grab at the bars of the windows, down by your feet. Dirty skinny hands, bitten nails, gnawed knuckles. Hopeless hands. I always made a point of avoiding it, when I could remember where it was. I intend to mix with the Egyptian justice system even less than with the British, as far as I possibly can.
Sa’id walked alongside me, silent, carrying the money. We sat. Sa’id stood in front of us, unabashed. ‘Go away,’ said Eddie. ‘Imshi.’ This is what you say to an annoying child who pesters you at the pyramids. It is not what you say to a grown-up. I was glad that Sa’id seemed to have that Egyptian gene that enables them to ignore rude ignorant foreigners.
Eddie turned to me and flung his arms around my neck on the sofa. ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘Make him go away. I want to talk to you. I don’t want to have to knock you on the head or slip drugs in your tea. It’s so childish. And it just leads to misunderstandings. We must have a new beginning here and your friend is getting right up my nose.’
‘I don’t think he’ll want to go, you know. If I were you I’d just ignore him.’
‘Oh don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘How can I fuck you with him there? Though actually …’ and his eyes lit up a little, and wandered down Sa’id’s long and elegant body, and up again. Sa’id still betrayed nothing. He was just standing, waiting, cool as you like, not bothered. I was beginning to think maybe he didn’t understand English. It was me who wanted to punch Eddie for looking that way at my darling.
Sit on it. It’s just a tweak on the chain.
‘Come upstairs,’ he urged.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because we have what we came for and now we must be off.’
‘What, you’re just going to take my money and go?’
‘It’s my money now,’ I said. Not that I gave a shit about having the money. I just knew who I didn’t want to have it. ‘But you can have it if you like. I don’t care.’
‘So why did you come?’
He knew why.
‘You know why.’
He shouted with laughter. ‘Yes and it worked, didn’t it! But Angeline,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s about. Angeline, I have to. It’s not fair. I tell you; just once. Just once. Don’t I deserve it? I could have forced you, I never did. Just come upstairs with me now, and let me fuck you and that’s it. He can come too if you like. But just let me do it. It’s only fair. You fucked me. Didn’t you? Eh? You did, didn’t you? Cheeky bitch. So you owe me one. Don’t you!’
The fact that he’s right means nothing. There is no debt here. He did me wronger than I did him.
‘But you know our tragedy, darling, don’t you,’ he murmured. ‘Of course you do. The girl I want is the girl who wouldn’t let me. That’s why I want you. Let me and I won’t love you any more. Promise. Because you know I’m not going to be so picky forever. Don’t make me rape you,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make me. I don’t want to. It won’t satisfy me. I’ll only come bothering you again. You know it. And you know I’m going to do it anyway. If not now, tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next year. You know I can. So let me. Make it easy. Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you …’ His voice was growing quieter, he was leaning in to me, repeating and repeating the words, murmuring. To an onlooker, he might have been commenting on a passer-by’s outfit. I could smell him. Eau Sauvage? – no, Blenheim Bouquet. Beautiful cool cedarwood smell. The world continued around us. I couldn’t move.
And so we stayed.
Sa’id leant across, leaning one arm on the wall behind us. The other moved in front of Eddie’s face. Sa’id spoke softly, in Arabic. Eddie ignored him, then flinched suddenly. Sa’id spoke again. English. ‘Mr Bates, you are new here, and I am not. Nobody here cares anything about you.’
Eddie looked up at him. Which is when I saw the curve of sharp steel at his throat. Sa’id’s hand was steady, his face dark and calm, his eyes ancient. As Eddie raised his head he seemed to be baring his throat to the blade, almost, almost on purpose. There was something sacrificial in the movement.
The world hung still.
Then Eddie raised his head that little bit further, and kissed Sa’id full on the mouth.
The world hung.
Sa’id smiled. His most dangerous, beautiful smile.
Straightened.
Folded away the knife. Picked up the bag.
Gave me his hand.
‘Masalaamah,’ he said. Goodbye.
We left.
*
As we passed through the garden I started to run; Sa’id reached out his long arm and stopped me.
Down the wide steps.
Taxi, madam? Taxi?
Our car had indeed been moved, and blocked in by cabs. I waited while it was liberated. It was like one of those puzzles: move this bit to make way for that bit and you’ve blocked the bit you first thought of. I didn’t look back the way we had come. Got in the car. Head on the dashboard. Sa’id got in and drove; round the square, on to the October Bridge. Driving. After a wh
ile I stopped him and got out and was sick against a dusty wall by the pharmaceutical research station. A skinny dog came and sniffed and I was sick again. Sa’id passed me a bottle of Baraka and I washed my mouth and poured half the rest over my head. He drank. I lay along his body, holding on to his strength and fragility as he leant on the side of the car. Held him. Took water in my hand and washed his face, his beautiful mouth, and rubbed it and washed it again.
The dog scurried away. A child came out and looked at us, and then went away, probably to get his friends to come and look too.
We sat on a low dingy wall, in a bit of tattered shade beside the road.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Why!’
‘Raising the stakes,’ he said.
I thought about it. ‘I don’t think you did,’ I said. ‘They’re high anyway. I think you just showed him that we have a hand. Showed him one card.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But – sorry.’
‘No, I think it was good.’
He grunted.
I breathed for a little while. Checking myself: brain: still there; hands: still here. Heart: beating. Eyes: clear. Belly: steady. Then I checked Sa’id. His eyes were shut. He seemed unscathed. But.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
He opened one eye.
‘The kiss.’
He made a bitter little face. ‘I’d rather he kissed me than you,’ he said. And laughed.
‘I’d rather he didn’t kiss either of us,’ I said.
‘Of course.’ He stood up and started to prowl around. ‘Come on. Let’s go and put this shit somewhere.’
‘What?’
‘The money. The five times as much as I make in a year that you have in that bag.’
Oh. I hadn’t thought that he would have strong feelings about money. But then he’s a merchant. He has money, and you don’t get it if you don’t have strong feelings about it. Unless you’re me, and it keeps landing on your head and you can’t use it. And this is a country that knows poverty. This money may be a curse and an irrelevance to me, but it’s still a fuck of a lot of money.
‘Would you like it?’ I asked.
