“See you when you get here.…” Ari heard the phone jostle as it was passed back over to Beth.
“I’m totally serious about that e-mail, Ari!” she whisper-yelled at him.
“Beth, Beth, calm down! Didn’t you hear me? I shot the Sphinx! I just shot the Sphinx!”
Ari hung up the phone and handed it to Samir, who embraced him and kissed Ari three times on the cheeks.
“Whoa!” said Ari surprised.
Ari laughed, giddy with glee. He kissed Samir back, and then the pilots were there and he kissed them on the cheeks, too. A jeep zoomed right up to them with a screeching halt. The squadron commander, Major Horus, hopped out spitting mad.
“Oh-oh.” Ari backed away. The two pilots sheepishly walked over to their commander, who started yelling at them for flying too low.
“Hamed?” Ari looked around. “Where’s Hamed? I’ve got to go.”
Don was stunned. “We’re not flying another mission?”
“Of course,” said Ari. “You guys do it.” Ari pointed to Major Horus chewing out his pilots. “Look, they’re going to have no asses left in a minute. You’ll never get that low again.” Ari started to walk off toward Hamed’s car.
“Where the hell are you going?” demanded Don.
“Yes,” added Samir, offended. “Where are you going?”
“We got the shot, guys. We got the shot,” said Ari over his shoulder to a very confused Samir, Don, and Charley. Ari jumped in Hamed’s car and drove away.
PART FIVE
The black and white days are coming, there is no grey.
—Tweeted by Gsquare86, Gigi Ibrahim, Tahrir Square, Cairo
Chapter 35
Traffic snarled to a standstill near Tahrir, so Ari grabbed his camera and hopped out of the car. He made his way through the traffic onto the sidewalk. A lot of young people were out, but there were older people, too. Everyone wandered around aware of everyone else. They glanced around at each other with searching looks, for what? Permission to simply be there together? Excited curiosity flickered about from young face to old face to shopkeeper to taxi driver to those who ambled toward the growing din or walked there with purpose. Ari snapped their photos.
They even glanced at Ari for answers. Could this really be happening, such an improbable thing, an unnameable thing? Dare I look upon this greatest of obscenity in my own personal dictatorship, in the police state inside my mind? were the questions on everyone’s faces as Ari caught them looking into his camera lens.
Ari could hear music and singing echoing in the square ahead. Singing in unison, clapping in rhythm, thousands in angry jubilation.
When he entered the square, it was a party, and Ari took its smiling picture: people milling about in groups sharing bread and hummus, some clustered around happy impromptu leaders chanting, some with paint, paper, and bedsheets making banners and signs; others stood off alone, confused or embarrassed by the collective transgression all around them.
Ari could see a small stage at one side with a band on it setting up their instruments and Rami with his acoustic guitar waiting to sing. Ari scanned the densely packed crowd near the stage for sight of Farah.
A very handsome man with strong chiseled features, surveying the scene as if he had just arrived, walked in front of Ari.
“Khaled Nahkti?” asked Ari in disbelief.
“Yes?” said one of Egypt’s biggest movie stars, wondering at the Westerner who had hailed him.
“I’m Ari Basher. We’ll be shooting together in a couple weeks. I’ve been talking with your agent.”
“Of course, of course!” Nahkti embraced him. “I am with you on such an honorable place! To meet with you in such a glorious time of all the Egyptians for all of us to achieve our goal, which is the democracy, which is the change.” Men started to cluster around him, touching him on the shoulders or the arms as if he were a religious relic or an icon vestment of deliverance.
“Take our picture on our birthday of the new Egypt!” Kahled Nahkti threw his arms around his brethren and as if on cue Rami and the band struck up a song, which echoed out around the square through large amps and speakers beside the stage.
Ari snapped away as Rami’s simple rhythmic words rang out, a song meant to be repeated by the crowd—and they absorbed it, listening at first; then it spread through their number, the crowd clapping a sharp clap at the end of each line until it was a rhythmic thunder. Then the words grew in everyone’s mouth as they learned them, and even Ari could almost sing them. He certainly recognized two words: “Hosni Mubarak.”
“What’s it mean?” Ari asked Khaled Nahkti, who was singing away. He switched into English, translating for Ari’s camera.
“All of us…” He clapped. “… standing together,” clap, “… asking for one simple thing.” Clap. “Leave…” clap, “… leave…” clap, “… leave…” clap, “… leave.” Clap. “Down, down with Hosni Mubarak.” Clap. “Down, down with Hosni Mubarak.” Clap. “He will leave,” clap, “… cuz we won’t leave.” Clap. “He will leave,” clap, “… cuz we won’t leave.” Clap. And on and on it went for several minutes, building to a frenzied crescendo.
Ari zoomed his lens in, picking out interesting faces: a man with a small half-open turban and owlish glasses; a woman covered head to toe in a black chador, dancing, with flowers stuck out of her hijab making her face look like a flower, the flower petals encircling her face like a wreath. Many danced with their hands, making autonomous flicking movements, snapping, or making circles in the air in the Arabic style. No more were these faces timidly looking for permission. They had the answer. They gave themselves permission. They took it.
The group around Khaled Nahkti grew so big and crushing that Ari lost him in the melee. Individuality raged, newborn, from all the clusters within the large crowd, like a thousand wedding parties careening into each other.
Ari fell in with a gaggle of pretty young women in western clothes, their heads uncovered. They pushed their way forward toward the stage to join another gaggle of girls upfront. Ari took pictures of them, and then he saw Farah, dancing and bouncing above the crowd, pumping her fist in the air.
“Farah!” Ari yelled, but it was impossible for anyone more than a few feet away to hear him amid the crosscurrents of sound and motion. He pushed on with the girls toward Farah by the stage. Rami finished singing the song, and Ari lost sight of her when she stopped bouncing up in the rousing ovation of clapping and rising fists.
“Farah? Farah!”
Ari pushed through to the spot where she had been dancing. He scanned the faces of each one of the smiling, ecstatic young women.
Yet amid all the bustling joy he couldn’t find her.
Chapter 36
The next day, Samir invited Ari to his home for the first time to watch the dailies of the shot of the Sphinx. Hamed smoked out front, leaning against his car in the street. The neighborhood had large trees and three- or four-story buildings mostly built in the 1960s and later. A lot of children, clean and well cared for, ran around squealing, playing soccer with a red rubber ball.
Samir and Ari sat on a low modern sectional couch watching the first series of helicopter shots, which were the only ones low enough to use. The furniture in Samir’s home struck Ari as brand new and extremely clean. Persian carpets lay in every room over polished tile floors. In the dining room, Samir’s wife, Leela, was setting the table for dinner. She wore the hijab.
“That is the best take,” said Samir after the shot that ended with the tourists getting sandblasted between the buses by the pyramids.
“Frank’s going to love it,” said Ari, pleased with himself.
The Sphinx shot ended and a few seconds of protesters marching to Tahrir Square came up. The film rolled out on the image. Ari picked up the DVD remote and pushed pause. The last frame of the helicopter shot of the crowd froze up on the flat screen.
“Samir, Ari,” called Leela. “The food is on the table!”
“We’re almost done,�
�� Samir called back.
“These demonstrations are getting big.” Ari pointed at the crowd.
“They can grow as big as all Cairo, and in the end, the streets will be empty.”
“Empty?” Ari didn’t believe it. He hadn’t slept well thinking of yesterday’s demonstration.
“The government will crack down any day now”—Samir slapped his hand with his fist—“and everyone will go home. You will see. There is a line you cannot cross or you are dead, or in jail.” Samir gave a look like he had lived those words.
Ari was uncomfortable. He knew he had to broach the subject of what to do about the demonstrations with Samir, but he was afraid of a temperamental reaction. “Let’s talk about scouting.”
Samir’s face brightened. “I want to get you out on the road every day until Frank gets here. First we must find the locations that are supposed to double for Iraq.”
“Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to go to Jordan.” Ari dropped the bomb.
“Jordan?” Samir suppressed his surprise. “Why? Are you thinking of shooting the Iraqi scenes in Jordan?”
“I got some photos from their Film Commission.” Ari had spent a great deal of the night on the Internet thinking about the demonstration and trying to come up with a plan B. “The pictures of Jordan look a lot like Iraq.”
“Jordan is nothing like Iraq.” Samir started to get that dark look in his eyes, a brewing fury. “It is covered with hills.”
“It’s on the border of Iraq,” said Ari.
“Yes, but that is the desert part way out toward the border, not in the city.” Samir’s eyes widened. He took on a jilted look. “There is a week’s worth of filming set in Iraq. That is half our work.”
Ari didn’t want to argue with Samir in his home about cutting his job in half, not in front of his wife. “Look, Samir, nothing is decided yet. I just have to go and see for myself. You can understand that. We both have to do what’s best for the movie. Right?” Ari stood up.
“You will see.” Samir ushered him into the dining room. “It is more expensive than here.”
“A little more”—they came to the dinner table—“but it looks more like Iraq.”
“How are you doing on casting?” Samir moved on to a different topic. “I will need the actors’ passports to get them work permissions with the union.”
“They like Khaled Nahkti. I saw him in Tahrir Square yesterday.”
Leela walked in holding their two-month-old daughter.
“Khaled Nahkti? Khaled Nahkti? He’s so handsome,” teased Leela.
“And what am I?” asked Samir.
“You are my beautiful husband, but he’s Khaled Nahkti! Will I get a chance to meet him?”
“Yes,” said Ari.
“No,” said Samir, and they all laughed.
Ari hovered over the round tiny face of the baby, her expression so curious, so trusting. “And this must be…”
“Yasmine,” said Leela.
“She’s beautiful. Hello, little Yasmine. I’m Ari.”
“Say hello.” Samir put his finger under her tiny toes, and she clutched it the way baby toes do.
“How old is she?” Ari asked Leela.
“Two months.”
“Oh my god,” exclaimed Ari. “I’m really stealing your husband.”
“Stealing him?” she asked perplexed.
“It’s a joke,” Samir explained. “He means taking me away from you.”
A lot of Samir’s anger made sense to Ari now. He was under the pressure of a big job and a new baby.
“Now, she is ‘stealing’ my daughter away from me,” said Samir.
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word,” said Leela with disapproval.
“Yasmine will visit her grandparents during the shoot,” explained Samir, “in Palestine.”
“Palestine?” Ari realized Leela wasn’t Egyptian, but Palestinian. “Gaza or…?”
“My wife is from the West Bank. Her parents were—”
She corrected him forcefully. “Are from Jerusalem.”
“So I’m lucky to meet Yasmine,” said Ari as warmly as he could, but there was now a charge in the air.
“Sit, sit.” Samir sat after Ari. “Leela will bring us some coffee. And who will play Nahkti’s sister? Have they picked an actress yet?”
“I think they like, uh…” Ari searched his mind for the name of the actress. “Afareen … Afreen … somebody.”
“A Persian name?” asked Samir.
Then Ari remembered. “… Ben Jakob.”
“Israeli?” asked Leela, surprised.
“She’s an Iranian Jew,” said Ari. “She moved to Israel when she was fourteen. She has an Israeli passport.”
Leela and Samir looked at each other.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ari.
Samir gazed back at Ari without anger, devoid of anything but disappointment. “You don’t see a problem with an Israeli playing an Arab?”
“Well, find me someone better,” said Ari, knowing that was almost impossible in the next few days.
Samir forced himself to smile. He dished a heap of rice and lamb onto Ari’s plate and let the matter drop, for the moment.
Chapter 37
Ari spotted Khaled Nahkti in the café. He was impossible to miss. Twenty people surrounded him, shaking his hand and asking for an autograph. Ari waited at a respectful distance, watching for a sign of exasperation, but Nahkti patiently shook every hand and signed every piece of paper. Good, thought Ari. He’s a pro. He’s a real star. He understands that without the fans he would be nowhere. Ari stepped behind the last fan on line.
“Can I have your autograph?” asked Ari, holding out a pen and a manila envelope he was carrying.
“Oh, it’s you!” Nahkti laughed. “Let us go inside. They have a table for us at the back.”
Nahkti led Ari in, and the effusive maître d’ seated them. The energy in the room seemed to rise up and conversations buzzed as people turned to notice the movie star passing among them. As Ari and Nahkti sat, immediately a shy young woman came over and held out a scrap of paper. Khaled asked for her name and signed a little note to her.
Finally, Nahkti turned to Ari, focusing on him completely as if the room were empty of anyone else. Ari felt sucked into a vortex of charisma.
“My heart is overjoyed to meet with you,” said Nahkti, clapping his chest.
“My heart is happy to meet with you, too,” replied Ari.
“Please tell Frank how honored I am to be acting in so important a movie.”
“And Frank is also honored.” Ari bowed his head.
“To tell the truth about war is the most important movie there can be.”
“Thank you. I agree completely, and I know that Frank is very happy that you think so.” Ari felt that they needed to make some more small talk before coming to the real question. “Have the costume people been to see you yet?”
“Yes, there are some clothings that are okay.” Nahkti spoke English boldly with a few malapropisms. “When Frank will come to Cairo so I can wear them for him to choose?”
“Soon. In a week, when he finishes shooting in New York. Khaled, if we had to move all of your Iraqi scenes to Jordan, would you have any objection to going there for a week?”
“I shoot anywhere. Jordan is closer to Iraq.”
“Can you drive a car?”
Nahkti puffed up his chest. “An Egyptian man is not a man, until he drives a car in Cairo.”
Ari laughed. “I know what you mean. We have some stunt driving if you’re comfortable with it. You know the scene where you have to drive away from the American soldiers while they’re shooting at you?”
“Do not worry. Any taxi driver in my country is ready for Formula One. I am better than the best American stunt driver. Trust me.”
Then a thought popped into Ari’s head. “Do you know Omar el Mansoor?”
“From Studio Giza? Yes, very well. Why do you ask?”
“Do you trust him?�
� asked Ari.
Nahkti took a moment to measure his words. “Get your money up front.”
Ari nodded. “Tell me, would you be free to do a costume fitting on Friday?”
“Friday is tough. I will be in the Square.”
“You’re going to the Square all day?”
“Why don’t you come with me?” Nahkti was excited by the idea. “You must tell your friends in the American media what is happening.”
As much as he’d like to hang out with Nahkti, he had a lot of prep work to do for the crew’s arrival from New York. “Uh … I’ll have to call you about that.”
Ari opened his manila envelope and put a glossy headshot of a beautiful actress, who bore a resemblance to Nahkti himself, on the table between them.
“Who is she? I do not know her.” Nahkti picked up the photo. “She will play my sister? She is not from Egypt.”
“Her name is Afareen Resavi…”
“An Iranian?”
“… Ben Jakob. She grew up in Iran and then moved to Israel.” Ari held up her picture and asked the question he had come to ask. “Will you work with her?”
“Of course,” said Nahkti without hesitation.
“No problem?” Ari had to be sure.
“The Actors Guild might fine me or throw me out for working with an Israeli,” said Nahkti flippantly.
“Oh, we can’t ask you to get in trouble with the union.” This was no trivial matter. In America, the union could shut down a production.
“So what?” said Nahkti. “Let them throw me. They are small-minded.”
“Will they block you from working in Egypt?”
“So I will work outside of Egypt until they forget,” said Nahkti confidently. “Before that day, they can go and fuck themselves.”
PART SIX
The desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.
—Robert Bolt, Lawrence of Arabia
Chapter 38
The flight from Cairo to Amman, Jordan, takes twenty-five minutes on an American plane. On EgyptAir it’s closer to forty because you have to divert to the south around Israeli airspace.
Shooting the Sphinx Page 13
