by Anna Perera
Aaron draws a deep breath and sighs, listening for voices to echo down the stairwell, while an empty shell of loneliness opens inside him. What’s about to happen next sinks in slowly like a cold, painful death and all the time, for comfort, his hand clenches the glass bottle in his dusty pocket. Suffering and grieving are what his life is about, but this is different. How can Jacob be so nasty? Aaron could have sold the necklace and rescued Rachel. They could have run away to a village in Upper Egypt and built a house. They could have been happy.
Then footsteps sound at the top of the stairs.
Blue-patterned scarf on her head, Fatima with the Filthy Mouth pit-patters toward him. Her galabeya floats out behind like a storm cloud. When she sees Aaron leaning on the wall, a quick sideways glance says she knows something’s wrong. Suddenly fascinated, she pauses and folds her arms, and a whiff of saffron smothers Aaron. She’s been cooking and the strong smell makes his stomach lurch.
They eye each other for a second until she scratches her lined chin.
“You never visit your mother’s grave. Not even on Easter Sunday,” she says accusingly.
As Aaron glares back at her guilty, the truth of what she’s saying turns to anger and then frustration, but something stops him from retaliating. How can he explain to her that visiting his mother’s grave will make her death real again? Something he tries hard to ignore for fear of losing control of himself. Instead he feels pity. They might live in the same world, but Fatima’s is a far uglier one even than his. Stuck here with nothing but pictures of Jesus and Mary to keep her company, she’s kept going by the weekly gift of milk, rice, and vegetables from the church. He can’t help feeling sorry for her, even though the new pull of just telling Fatima where to go is a strong one. Instead he shrugs, then tilts his head to the footsteps hurrying down the stairs.
By the time Noha crashes down the stairs, followed by Jacob, Fatima has gone and Aaron has resigned himself to sleeping with the ponies again and foraging for scraps of food. One glare from Noha’s disappointed face is enough for Aaron to regret showing Jacob the pink stones that are now tinkling in her thrusting, open palm.
“I spit on you,” she says.
Aaron had hung around, hoping she’d feed him first. Furious with her, Jacob, and himself, he flies into the lane. Speeding past the unsorted bandages and syringes with Noha’s angry voice in his ear.
“Go on, run. You coward.”
The midafternoon sun blinds Aaron for a second as he pauses at the side of the tenement to listen. He gazes at a dirty boy in brightly colored rags who is picking through heaps of gauze and plastic tubing with bare hands, searching for drugs to sell. A whiff of dung awakes Aaron to the plight of the pony, which has wandered off after waiting for Jacob to remove the cart and is nosing the dry potholes and furrows in the path for water.
It occurs to Aaron that some battles aren’t worth fighting.
It’s easier to just think that life is like this. If only it was that easy. If only he could stop the shouting in his head. Shouting that tells him he’s useless and stupid and will spend the rest of his life on his own. Behind him is the rapid sound of Noha’s footsteps going back upstairs. He can feel Jacob’s shadow, still and silent, somehow watching him, which forces Aaron to get moving.
Darting between stacks of medical waste, he runs down the dark path between the tenements, careful not to tread on anything sharp, wondering if he and Jacob will ever be friends again. They fell out once before, several years ago, when Jacob accused Aaron of stealing two Egyptian pounds from the church collection box. On that occasion, Aaron had fiercely defended himself, while fingering the stolen coins in his pocket. Sometimes it’s easier to lie. Sometimes it’s easier to push difficult feelings down and pretend you don’t care what happens next. The necklace will end up in the priest’s hands and be given to the police first, and then, when no one claims it, given back and sold for cash to support the church. This thought sparks Aaron’s fury, making him want to yell from the top of the highest hill. Noha doesn’t even go to church. Neither does Jacob.
Their honesty is dishonest.
Right now, the hollow feeling in his chest and the gnawing in his stomach are caused not just by lack of food but also by the thought of Jacob digging into a plate of lentils and rice while he hunts for a slice of bread. It’s enough to drive him crazy.
Heading for the pony yard, with a cloudless blue sky above and the sight and stench of waste all around him, Aaron’s lost in thought when he turns the last corner leading to the yard and comes face to face with Shareen. Not her … Not now. She looks as wild as he feels. Moody. Mad. Her eyes are red with tears and bad temper.
“Aaron! Aaron!” she cries, falling on him and flinging her arms round his neck with passion.
Her soft, warm—no, hot skin smothers him with a sweet smell of rose petals. And is that jasmine on the twist of hair tickling his nose? Yes, jasmine. Smooth skin and silky hair rub his face. Lips brush his ear and then she kisses him. He should pull away, but it’s nice. He could pretend she’s Rachel … He should stop her.
They’re in the middle of the path. Too close to the corner. Any minute now kids will be coming this way, going home from school. It feels crazy to hold her like this …
Her lips crush his ear and there’s a cart rumbling toward them. Only a few feet away.
Aaron comes to his senses just in time, shouting, “STOPITYOU’LLGETMEKILLED!”
He untangles himself at the very moment Lijah turns the corner. Instantly, Lijah comes to the correct conclusion about what’s been happening and makes a sucking noise in the side of his cheek to force the pony to stop. Then he laughs at himself, shaking his head as if he should have known all along that something was going on between them.
He’s got a new pony, Aaron thinks dumbly, wondering where from.
“What a lovely couple you make!”
Lijah is smirking as he jumps down from the cart. It rattles and shakes, like his face, which changes from pleasure at catching them out to a clear need for violence. Only he’s not interested in Aaron. His bubbling, hard eyes are firmly fixed on Shareen.
“You whore!”
“Shut up!” Aaron shouts, trying to push past his threatening body. Nothing is more frightening than Lijah in a temper and, like a brick wall, his stepbrother stands firm and hard.
“Wait!” Shareen tugs Aaron’s shoulder, pulling him back. “I’m coming with you.”
“Hadn’t you better tell your husband where you’re going first?” Lijah sneers, then lunges at her with both hands.
Aaron elbows him in the side as Shareen yells and tries to duck out of the way. With popping eyes, Lijah grabs her wrist with one hand and Aaron’s hair with the other, then drags their screaming, struggling bodies past the pony and cart to a stretch of path where there’s more space.
He swiftly knocks them together like rag dolls, bashing Aaron’s nose until it bleeds, and they stumble and trip. Dazed and reeling, Shareen plunges her teeth into Lijah’s hand for a second and Aaron pounds him with his fists, but it’s too late. With an effortless kick from Lijah, Shareen crashes backwards on the dusty earth, bringing Aaron down with her. The world goes dark for him while she catches her breath, stumbles to her feet, and rockets away, heart pounding, scared to death Lijah’s coming after her. A few quick checks behind convinces her that Aaron has disappeared in the other direction.
Hands in his pockets, Lijah watches her go. The shifting light of the afternoon sun casts a shadow from the cart, hiding Aaron's body from view. Torn between chasing Shareen and getting out of here before someone comes, Lijah glances in the direction of Aaron and a deep jealousy sweeps over him.
Chapter Twenty
Help
The sound of singing from a child coming home from school saves Aaron from further cruelty. While Lijah jumps on the cart, wheeling it to the end of the path, nine-year-old Rafi, with a blue shoulder-bag swinging from his arm, wanders in a haze of heat toward the figure slumped on th
e lane. Rafi approaches cautiously while watching the disappearing pony and cart. He thinks the body with blood leaking from the mouth and the clopping pony are linked in some way, though he can’t think why the person on the cart would leave the injured man here.
At first sight the man looks dead.
All afternoon Rafi’s been desperate to get home, but now he isn’t sure what to do. His innocent eyes stare at the flies buzzing around the man’s mouth. Rafi’s never seen anyone hurt like this before. Mokattam is a peaceful place.
Down on the ground, Aaron blinks. Some kid’s staring at him. He should open his eyes. On the other hand, the blackness at the back of his mind is so warm and welcoming, he rolls, drifts, and sinks—yearning to give up and just die.
Rafi wipes his nose, drops his bag and bends over the figure. Perhaps he’s not dead after all? He twitched just then. Rafi touches his face. The skin’s still warm. Something tells Rafi to fetch someone, but this path leads back to the pony yard and beyond that to the school and main road. His home is a ten-minute walk in the opposite direction. He’s early today because the other kids needed to change their books at the library van on the other side of the village, then head home from there. Because he’s top of the class, the teacher gave Rafi his book this morning.
Rafi’s tempted to try to help the man, but he doesn’t know how to and all he wants is to show his book to his dad. Plus he’s hungry, so he swings the blue bag on his shoulder and walks off, and by the time he reaches home, he’s forgotten about the sleeping man with the bloody nose.
Shareen arrives home before Daniel and has time to push her face and hands under the tap and wipe dust and dirt from her face. Breathlessly excited by the kiss and the fight—by everything—she examines her arms and legs for scratches and bruises and sees she’s gotten off lightly, all things considered.
Later, when she empties the last of the rice from the brown paper bag into the pot of boiling water on the stove, the only thing she feels is a profound, overwhelming sensation of pleasure. Pleasure at the memory of her arms on Aaron’s warm neck. The feel of his strong muscles against her body is somehow more real than the rough, wooden spoon in her hand with which she is jabbing at beads of rice on the bottom of the pot. Jabbing at them to hurry them up. With her fired-up face veiled in steam and pointed up to the cracked concrete ceiling, Shareen dreams of Aaron—and her.
Him and her. Kissing. A new fantasy. A new escape.
With the faint echo of children playing outside, Shareen builds a wall in her mind to keep her husband out. A cloud of flies drift across the room and in that moment, as she waggles the spoon at them, she decides it would be fun to make Aaron fall in love with her. And no one need know.
He doesn’t love her yet. But he will. He will.
“It’s always the woman who makes that decision,” her mother once told her.
Soon Daniel will be back after spending the day carving walking sticks for tourists in the craft center. Coming home to mock his wife while she hands him rice and beans to eat. Until then, Shareen conjures up ways of making herself irresistible to Aaron. Her eyes fall on the fading red words sprayed on the floor. Day after day she’s been trying to scrub them away. No matter how much Daniel complains, she’s not going to get down on her hands and knees again. From now on, she’ll spend her evenings rubbing coconut oil into her rough hands, curling her hair with strips of cotton, painting her eyes with kohl, and practicing being gorgeous. And if Lijah tells Daniel he saw her kissing Aaron, she’ll laugh and call him a liar, then report him to the priest for trying to wreck her happy marriage as well as her good reputation.
No other footsteps turn into the empty path leading to the pony yard until the last flickers of daylight fade to darkness. Since Aaron is within range of a million insects and rats, it’s not long before something nips his ankle. He jerks his leg and slowly becomes aware of the pains in his head, arm, and shoulder, and soon the old ache in his knee starts up. As the path fills with shadows, the taste of blood hits the back of his throat, forcing him to gag.
Aaron tries to wipe the taste away, smearing blood from his nose across his face with the back of a hand. The sound of quick footsteps catches him off guard for a moment and he half-sits. The humid night turns in on itself to power up the smell of rotting garbage. The stench is sickening. When Aaron glances sideways, he sees Michael hurrying toward him. As always, the old patterned handkerchief is tied in knots on his head. His jeans and shirt are crusted with dust. He looks no different from normal, except the expression on his face isn’t polite and calm but deeply troubled by the sight of Aaron lying there with a bloody nose.
Michael doesn’t ask what happened. Only a handful of words leave his tight lips as he helps Aaron struggle to his feet: “There are two ways to deal with an enemy—outwit them or join them.”
“Join Lijah?” Aaron murmurs, gasping from the effort to straighten up.
Giddy with pain, his mind wanders back to Shareen flinging herself at him, then Lijah banging their heads together. A few wobbling steps later, Aaron manages to steady himself and, anxious to prove he’s all right, places a hand on Michael’s shoulder to make it easier for him to lead the way to the yard. All the while a fierce anger fires him up, while dizziness drains his face of color. Anger at Shareen for throwing herself at him. Anger at Lijah for finding them. Regret for being stupid enough to try to protect her. But the worst of these festering hatreds is the guilt he feels for enjoying kissing Shareen, a married woman, while thinking of Rachel.
He screwed up and he despises himself for it.
The clear night shelters them in a velvety blue light as they walk. When they reach the end of the path and turn to cross the pony yard, the sharp outline of the beautiful ponies catches Aaron’s eye. Their profiles look like sculptures on the distant hills. Michael nods at the appreciation he sees in Aaron’s expression. Like him, he smiles at the sight of the ponies.
Michael has often seen Aaron watching him work and has been aware of him sauntering back and forth while he’s up the ladder carving. Usually a child’s interest in his sculpting and painting dies away by the time they’re twelve. But not with Aaron. His interest has grown. They’ve never spoken about it, but Michael senses the time has come for him to help this orphan boy. Didn’t God arrange it this way?
When they reach the old white car parked at the edge of the village, Michael clicks opens the passenger door for Aaron and waits until he’s comfortably settled before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning over the engine. The mosquitoes are out in force, messing the windscreen, as Michael drives along the track to join the busy road. Being in a car for the first time sparks a strange, tickling nervousness in Aaron’s stomach.
Where are they going? Aaron’s eyes fix on the fuel gauge, flapping glove box, empty McDonald’s carton at his feet. A sudden bump on the track and screech of the wheels makes him grab the edge of the seat. Even the taste of blood in his mouth and the unexpected sight of his swollen face in the side mirror can’t prevent the feeling that this is a fantasy come true.
So this is what it feels like to speed along the highway … How Aaron wishes someone he knows could see him.
They overtake a blue car with ease. The driver honks the horn. A donkey laden with sacks of bananas stops to relieve himself. Michael puts up his hands for a second and Aaron freezes, thinking the car will crash now he’s let go of the steering wheel, but they suddenly turn right and the donkey is lost in a jam of blasting vehicles. Aaron’s aches and pains are almost forgotten in the enjoyment of zooming past taxis and buses instead of slowly plodding behind them in a cart. The pleasure he feels when they sail past a massive truck is beyond thrilling.
“I want to show you something,” Michael says.
But the thrills recede when, a few miles north of the city, after passing several mosques, new apartment blocks, and a racecourse, they turn down a highway. Ten minutes later they join a wide, flat road that seems to lead to nothing but dark hillocks of ba
rren land, inhabited by mosquitoes, tiny insects, and scurrying rats.
The bumps in the road keep shifting the focus of the car lights from one patch of scrub to another. There’s nothing to see beyond the odd clump of grass. Aaron’s confused and wants to ask where they’re going. But the question becomes unnecessary when a familiar smell sinks in and the car stutters to a stop on an incline. The car’s swooping lights beam over a chasm of waste bursting from a pit so wide and disgusting that Aaron gasps. Like massive eagles lunging at their prey, swarms of flies hover over the garbage and shudder.
“Cairo produces more than six hundred tons of garbage a day,” Michael says. “This is one of the Corporation’s dumps. By law they only have to recycle twenty per cent. The rest is burned.”
Aaron’s never seen anything like it. Everywhere there are mountains of food that could have been fed to the pigs. Plenty of paper, cardboard, and clothes that could have been recycled, plus oceans of plastic bags. His eyes pick out hundreds of broken bottles, mirrors, vases, and pieces of shattered glass that have been thoughtlessly tossed aside.
“The Zabbaleen collect three-quarters of the city’s rubbish and recycle more than eighty percent,” Michael says as he stares at the scene with the same horror as Aaron. Beneath the horror is the thought that without the Zabbaleen this pit would need to be twice the size.
For the first time, the usefulness of his work comes home to Aaron with a hammer-like force. He’s been told many times that they provide a service for the city, but after seeing this crawling sewer of filth, he can barely take in just how badly the city needs them. The Zabbaleen would never allow a place like this to exist.
“Why don’t they recycle it?” Aaron asks.
“All over the world the problems with rubbish are the same. A lot is taken to recycling plants, but that involves labor, time and money to transport. The more stuff people throw out, the more waste ends up in pits like this and our planet teeters on the edge of destruction. Only when we stop wanting things will our lives change.”
