by Anna Perera
Aaron stumbles toward her, arms trembling. Boys aren’t supposed to touch girls, but his hands reach roughly for her shoulders and she grabs them as if they’re life rafts. Pressing them to her eyes, she smothers his palms in tears which sting his skin like prickly pears.
Aaron whispers to her wet lashes, “I’ll look after you. If you want …”
“That’s mad,” she sniffs. “What with?”
“I couldn’t think of anything else to say,” he murmurs, embarrassed.
“I know,” Rachel sobs. She uses his hard, dirty hands as tissues to dry her face, then drops them. “They’re scratchy.”
“It goes with the job.” Aaron shrugs. Their eyes meet. “Sorry about Fatima.”
They’re both silent for a moment. Now the only friends
I’ve got with a mother are Abe and Jacob, he thinks to himself.
“What’s it like?” Rachel tries to sound normal. “Someone said you’re doing … medical-wasting.”
Aaron has trouble thinking with Rachel standing this close, and it feels as if she’s talking to someone else. He’s not a medical-waster, is he?
“Awful.”
The answer forces his thoughts away from the fantastic sensation of Rachel beside him, so close, to the alarming face of Noha with her wrinkled neck, sorting through syringes. Noha, pinching mosquitoes out of the air above his head. What was natural now feels unnatural.
Rachel picks up on the sudden change in him. “It’s not up to anyone to make me feel better,” she says, stubbornly folding her arms.
And Aaron’s back to square one. Back to the beginning. Teetering between owning up and running away. Her look tells him she’s thinking he’s a … half chromo thing who isn’t quite right. Who isn’t Sami either, with his safe job fixing radios. The longer they stand there, the wider the gap between them grows.
He’s somehow messed up, even though she’s smiling sweetly between her tears.
“Do you think you can have what you want if you just want it enough?” she says.
“Maybe.” Aaron sighs.
“I prayed for Fatima to live, but she didn’t.” “She might have wanted to die,” Aaron offers.
“You mean what Fatima wanted was more important than what I wanted?”
“It was her life, wasn’t it?” He forces himself to smile.
“How about what God wanted, then?” she asks.
A jumble of answers crash around Aaron’s brain before he says, “Maybe God hasn’t made up his mind yet. I mean, look at all the garbage in the world. He hasn’t figured that one out, has he?”
Why is Rachel starting things up between them again? His answer’s not good enough and her lips begin to quiver.
“I want to know. I want someone to tell me why she died.”
There’s a roar behind her soft words that she can’t let go of and Aaron feels as if his mother just died. Died again. Leaving the same question on his lips that Rachel’s asking. He doesn’t know how to make her feel better and the comforting smell of her, the sound of her voice, the flashes of light in her dark eyes, make him shrink like a shadow into the dust.
“The Holy Family came this way once.” Rachel gazes at the clear blue sky with troubled eyes. “They were in Cairo. They must have seen the pyramids.”
“I bet there weren’t any bags of rubbish here then,” Aaron says, and Rachel laughs.
Her laugh destroys the dark feeling inside him and the sunshine comes home to them both. A picture of the Holy Family here in Mokattam is hard to get rid of once it has sprung to life and it’s not until the sound of a pony and cart tumbles down the lane toward them that Rachel remembers Fatima and her face fills with sorrow again.
Jamal comes round the corner on his cart. It’s his sister, Suzan, who’s going to marry Lijah, and Aaron feels a stab of guilt for what the whole family is about to receive. He wonders whether Lijah will treat his brother-in-law like his stepbrother.
“Hiya.”
The atmosphere lightens when Jamal jumps down to give them some strange news.
“There’s this thing in the paper about a woman who saw Mary, Mother of God, going into the Imperial Hotel. Honest.” He throws the crumpled newspaper at them.
“That’s stupid,” Rachel says, as Aaron catches the flyaway page before it lands in the dirt and her words stab him through the heart. It’s true. It’s true. He wants to yell but doesn’t have the nerve.
Opening it up, Aaron flattens the paper with the side of his palm by resting it on his knee. Underneath the headline is a picture of a smiling middle-aged woman in a green headscarf who’s described as thirty-four and living in Heliopolis with her surveyor husband and three kids.
She looks normal enough.
“Read it out loud,” Rachel says as she helps Jamal offload the cart and gently leads the pony to the trough. Even though most Zabbaleen children learn to read at six years old, she’s too shy to show off in front of the boys. “Go on, Aaron.”
He smiles, happy to do what he’s told.
“‘On Thursday morning at nine thirty I was coming back from Aunty’s house—she’s deaf and I do what I can for her. I was hurrying to cross the highway to get to work. It was murder, the traffic was—’ Hang on …”
The pony makes a snuffling sound, as if eager to hear the rest, and Aaron skips the next bit to stutter over the next sentence.
“‘I thought I was … was … er, imagining … imagining things, but no, I’m telling you, I’m not like that. Look at me, I’m an ordinary married woman and I saw the ghostly figure of the Virgin Mary in front of the Imperial Hotel opposite me. But it wasn’t a ghost. I almost fainted at the sight of her. I nudged the woman next to me and she saw it too. We aren’t Christians. We don’t pay attention like them—we’re Muslims—but we know her. She was there. When we got to the hotel she was gone. We went inside but, bah, nobody saw her. We told the reception girl, but she had her nose so high in the air she couldn’t even see her desk.’”
“What did I say?” Jamal quickly nods. “She went to the priest and the church sent people down there with cameras. They saw nothing. Now everyone’s crowding the hotel. The police have set up a cordon to keep them away. It’s all over Cairo.”
“Really? Wow,” Rachel pipes up.
A strange sensation spreads through Aaron at the thought that it could have been his picture in the paper. Now he knows he didn’t imagine Mary. She came to him. She did.
“You’ve gone gray,” Jamal says.
“Nah, I was just …” But Aaron can’t explain. He can’t tell them he saw Mary too. They wouldn’t believe him. He turns to Rachel. “Does Sami let you on his computer?”
“Of course.”
“He won’t let me touch it,” Jamal says sadly. “But sometimes he doesn’t mind if I look over his shoulder, as long as I don’t lean in too close.”
“I wish Mary would come to me.”
Rachel turns away with a funny skip, so funny that even the ponies prick up their ears at her. It’s almost as if she can feel Aaron staring and is swinging her arms because she knows he likes her.
Rachel is deep in thought as she heads away from her family who is outside the coffin-maker’s house to pay the bill after Fatima’s cremation. “Don’t look back when I’m gone,” Fatima told her before she died. “And stay away from Sami.” That was a bit rich, coming from her, because her own mother had tried everything in her power to keep her away from Rachel’s father, who is the nicest man in Mokattam. All these things are on Rachel’s mind as she rushes through the alleys, shyly waving at everyone and sidestepping trash bags and leaking filth to get to the secondhand electrical shop at the other side of the village.
As soon as the sun goes down the wedding procession will start at the church and Shareen has given Rachel the highly prized job of chief bridesmaid, even though she hardly knows her and her best friend went crazy. Mind you, Shareen was desperate to borrow the silver slippers Fatima wore on her wedding day and had kept wrapped in ol
d tissue paper ever since. Fatima told her she could borrow them if she gave Rachel the honored role of bridesmaid. Surely with one eye on the eligible men who would see her. But still Shareen’s invitation was nice. It’s something to look forward to after the sadness of Fatima’s cremation this morning.
When Rachel arrives at the shop, Sami’s on the street, chewing gum, hanging back from a group of angry men who are threatening Faisal, the rich, beefy merchant, who’s standing in front of his truck, lazily batting flies from his neck. Rachel pauses beside the fruit stall to listen and Habi, the greengrocer, hands her a small stalk of black grapes to eat.
“Shukran,” she thanks him.
The sweet grapes melt in her mouth as Rachel lowers her head to hear what one of the men is saying.
“Don’t give me that story. You’re making a good living while we’re getting poorer every day.”
There’s a long silence. The atmosphere becomes tense. Faisal fumbles for a handkerchief to avoid answering. Beads of sweat form on his lined forehead. A younger man pulls a knife from a pocket, hiding it behind his back.
Shocked, Rachel turns away. Habi tries to wave her inside Sami’s shop, but at that moment Lijah comes speeding under the arch on a rickety motorbike. He swerves, skidding around the truck, and almost splutters into the fruit stall. At the last minute he snaps the handlebars up and the engine grinds to a halt. Habi pulls Rachel out of the way as Lijah stands up, his gangly legs on either side of the bike to stop it from toppling over.
“Come on now. What can I do?” the merchant says to himself, grateful for the sudden distraction as he climbs into the truck.
“Where did you get that bike?” Sami asks Lijah, baffled. Rachel stares at him. Sami hasn’t once glanced her way.
Without him noticing, she slips into the safety of the doorway of his shop and folds her arms to wait for him.
“Someone gave it to me to pay back a debt.” Lijah laughs as the men gather round to examine the wreck, nodding and holding their chins while pretending to recognize the make and design. “I’m going to sell it and buy a pony.”
Before too long the merchant escapes in a stink of exhaust fumes and the lane fills with more men. Rachel stands waiting in the doorway of Sami’s shop for someone, anyone, to say hi and ask how Fatima’s cremation went. Last night Simon and Mart were put to rest and everyone was there.
“Who will it be tomorrow?” Rachel wonders aloud to the column of ants marching along the edge of Habi’s stall toward the pomegranates.
She’s about to run home when she spots Aaron, Jamal, and Jacob coming down the path.
“Hey,” Jacob shouts, waving the newspaper. “There’s a list of all the names of the tourists who died in the bombing, even the doorman and the taxi driver, but Simon and Mart aren’t here. Why not?”
“Let me see.” A long-faced elder grabs the paper from Jacob angrily, without looking at him. Then stares at Aaron. He hasn’t been forgiven for stealing, even though everyone knows he’s been reduced to working as a medical-waster.
“And a lady saw the Mother of God in front of the Imperial Hotel.” Aaron tries to be friendly, but the elder screws up his eyes.
Scanning the list of the people who died in the bombing with a grubby finger, the elder dismisses the vision-of-Mary story with a grunt. But the longer he reads down the list of names, the more he frowns. And the more he frowns, the angrier he grows, until finally he says, “Forgotten in life and forgotten in death!”
Aaron gazes at Rachel, who’s chewing a knuckle and trying to be invisible in Sami’s peeling doorway. She looks crushed and beaten.
As the newspaper is passed from man to man, the list of the dead is more interesting than the description of Mary at the Imperial Hotel. More interesting to everyone except Aaron, whose eyes are fixed on Rachel.
He once overheard Omar say that love is a cauldron of flames that drive sane men crazy. Aaron didn’t know what he meant at the time, but he sort of understands it now. Sympathy, hope, desire, need: so many emotions tangle up inside him that he can hardly breathe. He can’t go over there. Not with everyone watching. All he can do is give Rachel a kind look and send her a silent promise to take care of her.
A rough piece of plastic sheeting falls from a heap of bags and a child drags it across the dust with a galloping sound. Feeling pinned down by the force of Aaron’s burning eyes, Rachel peeps out from the shadow to watch, wishing he would stop going out of his way to embarrass her. Everyone can see him gawping at her with that lovesick look. A heaviness inside tells her to walk away, but there are people everywhere. If she steps out of the doorway they’ll know she’s been hiding there all along and Sami will know she’s been waiting for him. And then what?
Her chance to escape doesn’t come until Lijah sparks the motorbike to life. The wheels wobble, then screech off to an intake of surprise from everyone that the battered old reject can move so fast. Everyone but Aaron looks on, while his eyes face in the other direction, chasing Rachel’s quick shape as she sprints from the doorway, ducks behind the fruit stall and runs down the winding lane.
As the last puffs of exhaust fumes die away, Aaron’s heart follows Rachel while his body stays put, feeling heavier and heavier the farther she disappears from his sight.
Chapter Seventeen
Bad News
Undecided whether to go to the pony yard in case Rachel’s heading there or to pass by her home, Aaron slouches against a shop wall, sheltering himself from the sun for a while until Jacob interrupts his yearning.
“Let’s see what’s happening at the church, yeah?”
Aaron half nods. The moment’s gone. She’s gone. He’ll have to wait for the next chance to come. He has no choice but to follow Jacob past the shops and stalls and down the winding alleys to the long path that leads to the church.
Aaron’s happy to go with Jacob, who still seems his usual self, thank heaven. Things are easy between them as they walk side by side, but something Rachel said earlier is troubling Aaron.
“Did you know that boys are going backwards?”
“Like that film?” Jacob asks. “What film?”
Aaron shakes his head as they leave the bags of garbage behind and amble toward the open walkway beside the high limestone wall.
Jacob pauses to scratch his wild hair. “I’m not sure what it was called now.”
“Me neither … hmm. Hey! What’s Noha doing here?” Aaron has never seen Jacob’s mom anywhere near the church. She doesn’t believe in Jesus. Now she’s beside the high wall, looking agitated, next to Sahira, the tallest, thinnest woman in Mokattam. As they approach they can hear Sahira muttering the latest news from behind a hand covering her mouth.
“The best doctor in Bab el Louk—he was there—he said that was it. He did. They won’t. No. Not coming home.”
“Who’s not coming home?”
Jacob has excellent hearing and his question startles Sahira into dropping her hand.
Warning him off, Noha points a finger at him and says, “Shush. Go away, Jacob. And you, Sahira, you shouldn’t have been listening. Don’t say a word to anyone.”
Whatever they’re talking about looks serious enough for Sahira to make the sign of the cross twice on her chest and beg Jesus for help with a whisper and raised eyes, even though Noha’s giving her actions a snarly look.
“Someone else died?” Aaron guesses.
“Be quiet!” Thumping the air with a fist, Noha’s face is sliced by so many lines it looks as if it will split into a hundred pieces if she gets any angrier. “They said to keep it until later.”
“Trying to get information from her is like trying to get blood from a stone,” Jacob whispers. He nudges Aaron as they walk away. “You’re right, though, and they can’t say anything because Simon and his brother and poor Fatima have recently died and anyone else now will be another bad omen for Shareen tonight.”
But rumors spread faster than quarry dust in Mokattam and news of the latest tragedy has already fallen o
n most people’s ears as they sort the garbage and gather up the food slop to take to the pigs that are now hidden illegally in homes all over the village.
It seems that Merry, the teenage daughter of Said and Esther, medical-wasters, died of hepatitis during the night. The deacon is going to announce it soon but everyone already knows and her cremation is taking place later today.
When Shareen hears the news, she’s furious and stomps upstairs to the small room she shares with her father and kicks her faded mat. This is a terrible omen. When she glances at the pillowcase printed with a picture of a curvy belly dancer, she almost freaks out. The last time she lay down to sleep, she was free. Tomorrow she’ll wake up as horrible Daniel’s wife.
As a special treat for breakfast, Shareen’s father paid someone to bring a McFalafel back from Cairo’s McDonald’s. The spicy smell of the fast-food treat still hangs in the air as Shareen stares at the pointy silver slippers that look like
Cleopatra’s canoes on her dainty little feet. Why did she beg Fatima to give her these stupid shoes?
It’s not easy to imagine a happy wedding when everything is falling apart.
Most of the day has been spent being waxed and plucked; her hair is set and curled but dropping out in the afternoon heat. Her make up is melting. The red lipstick is a shade too dark. Mostly polished and shiny, several nails have chipped since they were varnished an hour ago, and where’s Rachel, her bridesmaid? Her stepmother’s cremation took place this morning. She should be here by now to help and spoil her. Shareen doesn’t even like Rachel, who’s drippy and never listens when she tells her what to do. Plus she likes boring Sami, with the sagging shoulders and silly grin, who watches Candid Camera on TV or sits in front of that crummy computer all day long.
This is not how Shareen imagined her wedding day. She wipes sweat from her face with the damp sleeve of her gray galabeya. Where are the gold shoes she dreamed of? The white silk dress and red ribbons to braid in her hair? Where’s the excitement she hoped to feel? Her handsome husband from a Hollywood film?
Her eyes linger for a moment on the cheap dress with a threadbare hem that’s hanging from the curtain that divides the room in two. It’s a faded cream color, the waist is too low, and the material is crumpling in the afternoon heat. Shareen borrowed the dress from Marlina, a woman with eight sons, who wore it more than ten years ago. Why did she allow Daniel to talk Marlina into giving the old thing to her?
