He pulled out the last thousand fliers and left the empty cardboard box on the corner. Passing out the fliers became harder as fewer people were out walking on the street. Some people already had fliers from before on their way back from wherever their evening had taken them. Another of the girls said good night.
Ari, Farah, and the last of Rami’s harem walked even slower, even more tired. Ready to finish their chore, they gave out fliers twenty at a time to anyone who would promise to pass them on until, to their surprise, they had no more fliers. The final groupie yawned and said good night. Farah and Ari stood there facing each other. Dawn started to break in the sky.
“Here’s the last one.” Ari held it up. The street was deserted, no one to give it to.
“Keep it, so you remember this night.”
Ari stuffed it in his back pocket and pointed. “The sun is coming up.”
Farah took his arm. “Let’s go get some breakfast.” She put a scarf over her head, and they walked up the hill toward Al-Hussein Square outside the ancient mosque.
They bought a few ataif, stuffed pancakes; yogurt with saffron; coffee; and a pastry to split. They rinsed their hands in a big star-shaped fountain and lay down on its walls, their heads coming to a point. They ate until the remains of their breakfast lay on the star wall between them.
“Farah?”
“Yes, Ari?”
“I have to tell you something.”
“You have fallen deeply, passionately, madly in love with me?”
“I might have…” Ari found it almost impossible to speak. “… to fire your brother.” Ari veered away from telling her that it had already happened.
Farah laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Ari.
“And I thought you were nervous from seeing me.”
“You’re not angry at me?” Why didn’t I just tell her the truth? He berated himself in his mind.
“Fired from a stupid American movie, why should I be angry?”
“It’s not stupid.” Ari took offense.
“It’s a blessing.”
“It’s a very important film … about the truth,” he insisted.
“In a few days, you won’t think so. Nor will Samir. Don’t you get it? You are like two flies on the back of a camel walking into a sandstorm. Everything will be turned upside down. Everything.”
Ari stared at her, furious that she had called his movie stupid, mad at himself for telling a half truth, afraid she would hate him for hurting her brother, needing her to absolve him when she didn’t even care. She looked so beautiful, her brown eyes so wise. If I kiss her maybe she won’t hate me when I tell her about the police. He leaned over and felt her breath on his lips, sweet. He kissed her, barely, softly. Her lips trembled. She pushed him away gently.
“Stop. Ari. Where do you think you are? This is Cairo.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He withdrew, crushed.
She caught his hand and squeezed it. “After the revolution, if you still feel this way, if you still remember me even, come find me and we can do this for real, but not now. You mustn’t kiss me because you feel badly about hurting Samir.”
She knows, thought Ari. She knows everything. Tell her what you came to tell her. Don’t be a coward.
“I might have to…”
“Yes?” she prompted him gently.
“Call the police on him.”
“What? Police?” She recoiled trembling with revulsion. “No, no, you can’t do that. And think of yourself; don’t call in the police. It is so … unnecessary. It will be the end of him.”
“Why? They say it’s just a bureaucratic thing.”
Farah took a deep breath, then spoke. “Remember how I told you he had disappeared for a year?”
“The day he dropped you off at college, yes?”
“When he finally came home, he was a walking skeleton. His clothes hung on him like a wire hanger. His back had skin that looked like scrambled eggs, even the soles of his feet had scars on them. He could not control where he went to the bathroom.”
Ari understood. “The Muslim Brotherhood raped him?”
“No, no, not the Brotherhood, the government, Ari. He was locked up for a year in a secret prison.”
Chapter 50
Omar’s office was a big art deco affair with high ceilings, metal moldings, and cone-shaped sconces on the walls. He had a big mahogany desk, which had probably been there since the beginning. It looked like a movie set of a studio chief’s office from the 1930s.
Ari was daydreamy from no sleep. He half expected a lion to roar, trumpets to sound, and little spotlights to cut up through the air from out of the brass inkwells attached to the antique desk blotter. A black-and-white movie might start any second, and the three of them would morph into Boris Karloff, Sydney Greenstreet, and Peter Lorre hatching some plot.
Beth and Omar sat at the desk pouring over Samir’s budget. Ari couldn’t focus on it anymore over their shoulders. He had passed out Rami’s fliers until dawn. His mood had collapsed into exhaustion and gone sour. He pulled his chair over to the window and looked out through wooden Venetian blinds at some electricians pushing big old arc lights on battered rolling stands down the street toward a soundstage. The round housing fell off an arc light and clattered onto the street. Ari wondered if those spotlights were from the 1930s, too.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the last flier from the night before. He sneaked a peek at Farah’s picture with the other girls.
“Samir has two drivers in here for every vehicle.” Beth pointed at the numbers with her red pen. “Should we cut them?”
“They are cheap,” said Omar, “a few dollars a day. It’s not like teamsters in New York.” He rubbed his face wearily. “Is anyone hungry?”
“I could eat,” said Beth. “Should we take a break?”
“The meal is ready. They will bring it.” Omar called out to his secretary in Arabic.
Ari stood up and stretched. He didn’t want to make small talk with them, so he picked the Cairo Times from Omar’s desk and leafed through the Arabic pages not understanding a word. He just looked at the pictures, mostly of police looking heroic and some of the protesters looking guilty and suspicious.
A porter carried in a big tray with a lot of little dishes on it.
“Do they have hummus?” asked Beth.
“Always,” answered Omar as he offered the bread basket to her.
Ari picked up a spoon and scooped up some rice and lamb onto a plate. With his other hand he turned the page of the newspaper.
“What the…?” said Ari. He dropped the spoon with a clatter and picked up the newspaper. He held up his own picture in black and white.
“Ari? What’s wrong?” asked Beth.
“That’s me! That’s my picture!” Ari handed the paper to her.
She turned to Omar. “What’s it say?”
“Uh, uh, uh, ‘American Producer to Film Israeli Actress’ at Cairo International…”
“Airport?” Beth finished the sentence.
Incensed, Omar scanned the text. “Samir planted this story.”
“Of course he did. Brilliant. Just brilliant!” Ari raged. “Once we bring in the cops … of course he has to defend himself. His back is up against the wall! You guys are geniuses. Now we’re in a war with Samir.” Ari leaned over the desk and glared at them. “What’s the endgame?”
An hour later, Ari was riding with Omar in the back of his car toward downtown Cairo. Past a certain point the traffic thinned to almost nothing, then just simply disappeared. They went round a traffic circle. In the middle stood a bronze statue of a man wearing a fez.
“That is Talaat Harb,” muttered Omar. “He built my studio.”
“A film distributor with a statue?” asked Ari.
“No, he was a great man, an economist. A visionary of the future.” Omar sighed. “If only such people still existed.”
“What happened to all the taxis?” said Ari, noticing that they w
ere the only car going around the circle in the middle of the day. “Where is everybody?”
Omar didn’t answer. He had a grim look.
They turned off the traffic circle onto a big boulevard. Halfway down to the next square, a line of police in khaki uniforms with truncheons stretched across the street blocking their path. Omar pulled out his cell phone and made a call, speaking a few urgent words in Arabic.
A police sergeant stepped out of the line and flagged them down. Omar’s car stopped. The driver opened his window. Speaking Arabic, the sergeant pointed back the way they came and gestured that they should turn around.
Omar said a few words, then passed the phone up out the window to the sergeant, who took it with some annoyance. When he heard the voice on the other end, his entire demeanor changed to one of crisp obedience. He ordered the policemen out of the way and motioned Omar’s car through the police cordon.
They drove to the next square, around another traffic circle, down another avenue, this time closed off by a cluster of police in riot gear and armored personnel carriers. Another sergeant stepped forward, this one angry, more insistent, yelling and waving them away. Again, Omar handed his cell phone out the window. Again, the sergeant waved them through.
They came to a crowd of two hundred thugs milling about in the middle of the street who held sticks, broom handles, and homemade weapons. Omar’s driver leaned on the horn. Slowly the thugs moved out of the way like wild animals in a game park and let the car inch forward. Curious, they all looked inside suspiciously at Ari.
Detective Kek, from the police station, was directly in front of them talking to a group of thug bosses while he had the phone pressed to his ear. He turned to face the car, saw Omar, and they both hung up with a little wave of recognition. Evidently, they had been on the phone together. Detective Kek told the thug bosses to wait and walked around the side to Omar’s window.
Shaking his head, Detective Kek said something disapproving in Arabic.
“I know, I know,” said Omar. “Once we get this done, we’ll get out of here.”
Detective Kek waved at the thugs, but they were less disciplined than police, so he had to yell at them to get their attention. He even slapped one thug on the back of the head who was busy goofing around. Tension was high.
Omar’s driver honked and pulled carefully through the rest of the thugs, then sped down the avenue until he turned onto Samir’s street.
They stopped right in front of Samir’s office. Ari and Omar got out of the car, each clutching a copy of the newspaper. They ran inside.
Chapter 51
Samir fed the last of the stack of permits into the shredder. He slid his computer into its case and packed it into his satchel. His desk, in fact his entire office, was completely clear of not just papers, but everything except for the baby picture of his daughter, Yasmine.
“Habibti,” he said as he kissed the picture.
The call to prayer sounded. Samir did the standing portion of the prayer, then got down on his knees and prostrated himself. The door opened, and Ari and Omar walked in holding their newspapers.
“So this is Studio Samir?” Omar looked around contemptuously. “A one-room office. He’s more of a nobody than I thought.”
“Omar, please,” said Ari.
Samir froze for a second. Then continued to pray.
“I don’t know why he’s making so much trouble,” Omar continued. “We’re just going to win in the end anyway.”
“Can you just let him finish?” asked Ari.
“Why? He’s praying for our destruction, but will God lift a finger to help you?” Omar asked rhetorically.
“Please, can we leave God out of this?” asked Ari.
“No!” Samir jumped to his feet breaking off in mid-prayer; something that is not done. Samir pointed at Omar. “His god is money!”
Omar sneered. “That’s very funny coming from you.”
“Samir, as a friend…” Ari stood between them trying to put as much sincerity into his words as he could. “I’m asking you, please just give us the permits.”
“A friend? Did you go to the police and sign a paper that I am a thief?”
Ari couldn’t answer the question. What was there to say except yes? “Samir.”
“Did you do that against me?” Samir pressed. “Admit it!”
“It’s just business.” The words tasted like chalk in Ari’s mouth.
“When you know that I am not a thief?”
“It’s not that simple, Samir. You know it’s not. I’m just following Omar. I have to take his lead.”
“So you signed a lie. Admit it. You are a liar.“Samir smiled a pained smile.
“Oh?” Ari was annoyed with the pleasure on Samir’s face. He slapped his own picture in the newspaper down on Samir’s desk. “Why did you plant this story? That we’re filming an Israeli actress?”
“Is this untrue?” asked Samir, still amused.
“It will be,” said Omar.
Ari turned on Omar. “What do you mean ‘It will be?’”
“Aha!” Samir jeered at Omar in triumph. “He knows that now everyone will be watching you.”
“What?” asked Ari, dumbfounded. “Omar?”
Omar held up his newspaper. “Only because he planted this story.”
“And God wills it,” said Samir.
“Fuck!” exclaimed Ari as he realized the whole move against Samir had backfired. Ari could never get the shot.
“Did he promise you that you would film an Israeli at the airport?” asked Samir.
“Yes,” said Ari blankly.
“Of course, that is how he seduced you and got the job away from me. Then he is a liar, too. Do you like him because he says nice lies to you?”
“Samir.” I’ve got to calm this down, thought Ari. Take emotion out of it.
“Do you like him better than me?” asked Samir, the pain of rejection so plain on his face.
“He’s very smooth.” Ari studied Omar. “He’s a pro. He’s made a lot of movies.”
“Do you know who he is? He is from an old military family. His grandfather was chief of staff of the Air Force, before Mubarak, before Nasser even, under the time of the British Interference! How do you think he is so rich? How do you think the government just gives him the oldest and largest movie studio in the country?”
Now Omar took offense. “What is this? I have a mortgage.”
“Guys, guys—” Ari tried to stop the argument before it veered off into useless acrimony.
“A mortgage from the bank of your uncle?”
“And who are you?” Omar shot back. “You are Muslim Brotherhood. You are nothing! You give money to your friends in Hamas!”
“Okay! okay!” Ari yelled and silenced them, then said, “Samir, we need the permits.”
“Impossible.” Samir shook his head.
“Give us the permits and I’ll go straight back to the police station right now and tear up the paper I signed.”
Ari reached under his belt and pulled out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills.
“Here’s ten thousand.”
Ari broke the band and fanned the money out on the desk like a deck of cards. Samir picked up the bills, looked at them for a very long time. With vehement contempt, he hurled the bills into Ari’s face with the force of a slap. Shocked, Ari recoiled. The bills flew around his head and floated down onto the floor.
A perfect stillness settled for a moment after they came to rest.
“You should not have done that,” said Omar almost without emotion. He took out his cell phone and sent a text message as Ari dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled around picking up the money off the floor. Samir laughed.
“You people are crazy…” muttered Ari to himself, snatching up the hundreds.
“Go on, pray to your god.” Samir kicked a few stray bills toward Ari.
Just then, a strange and distant sound wafted in through the open terrace door, an entomic buzzing. Ari thought it m
ight be a swarm of thousands of bees until he realized it was the roar of human voices, a quarter of a million, maybe more. The sound started to organize into one chant. Ari recognized the spoken words from Rami’s song.
“We won’t go until you go! We won’t go until you go!” over and over again in Arabic.
The three of them looked out toward the open balcony. The distant words became louder and clearer.
“What is that?” asked Ari.
“Ha! The Day of Rage,” exclaimed Samir.
Muffled shots or explosions popped in the distance like tear gas fired from grenade launchers. The sound of the crowd devolved from a chant into an angry roar. The three men paused again for a moment to listen.
“It’s getting closer,” said Ari.
Omar got a text on his phone. He walked over to the door and opened it. “Ari, leave the money on the floor.”
“But that’s ten thousand dollars! Beth’ll tell the studio that I lost ten grand!”
“Ari, stand up,” said Omar.
Ari noticed Detective Kek in the doorway smoking a cigarette.
Scooping up what last money he could, Ari got on his feet.
“Kek?” said Samir as he recognized the detective.
“You know him?” asked Ari.
“Samir, Samir, Samir.” Detective Kek wagged his finger at Samir and closed the door. He walked over to Samir’s desk and pulled out the chair, beckoning Samir to sit. Samir obediently went and sat down. He seemed to shrink in size before the short detective, whose force and prowess made him seem bigger, enormous.
Detective Kek took off his jacket. He had thick biceps that bulged against his shirtsleeves, a broad chest, and the narrow waist of a body builder. He wore a shoulder holster and a gun under his arm.
Detective Kek took a blank confession form from his pocket, showed it to Omar, and placed it down in front of Samir.
“No,” said Samir.
The detective then drew a pen from his shirt pocket and slapped it down on the glass desktop with the flat of his hand. Samir flinched. He shook his head.
“No,” said Samir again.
Shooting the Sphinx Page 19
