The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul

by Sandor Jaszberenyi

  There were barely a couple of people left inside. Before the bar was a mirror; I stared at myself. We were drunk but still moving. A thirtyish, long-legged Sudanese woman sat at the bar with a beer. She smiled on seeing us. Blake stepped over to her. “Hi, pretty girl.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you alone? In need of company?”

  “Yes,” she said with a laugh.

  Blake sat down beside her on a barstool, and I sat down beside them.

  “This here is Daniel. I’m Charlie.”

  “Mira.”

  Blake kissed her hand.

  “Mira. You’re beautiful.”

  “You two are beautiful, too.”

  “So I am,” said Blake. “Not the Hungarian.”

  “The Hungarian is beautiful, too. Are you American?”

  “Yes. What are you drinking, Mira?”

  “Beer.”

  Blake ordered three beers and three whiskeys.

  We clinked the whiskey glasses and drank up.

  “You remind me of an American singer, Mira,” said Blake.

  “Not Ella Fitzgerald, I hope.”

  “You know about Ella Fitzgerald?” I asked.

  Mira nodded. “We used to listen to some of her records back in Khartoum.”

  “Beyonce,” said Blake, putting an end to the guessing game.

  We now clinked the beer mugs. The bartender warned us that this was the last round. Blake ordered three more whiskeys.

  “Mira,” he said, “both of us like you a lot, but this place is about to close. You’ll have to choose between us.”

  “I can’t choose.”

  “But you must.”

  “I live three blocks from here. You can both come over to my place for one more drink, so I can make a well-informed decision.”

  “You have booze at home?”

  “No. But I have khat.”

  “We’ll bring the booze,” said Blake, telling the bartender to pack us up six cans of Sakar. The man put them on the counter in a black plastic bag. We paid.

  Mira really did live just a couple of apartment buildings away. The wind blowing in from the desert sobered us up a helluva lot, Blake and I, by the time we reached her flat. It was in a two-story concrete block, like so many buildings in Ma’adi. The woman rummaged for a while in her golden purse until she found the key. Blake meanwhile pressed a hand to her ass, to which she said, with a laugh, “That’s not allowed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t yet decided.”

  We entered a big living room that led to the other rooms and the bathroom. In the middle was a blue linen couch, a matching armchair right beside it, and a little table. Mira stepped from her high-heeled shoes and went in barefoot. We also took off our shoes. Blake put the black plastic bag on the table, removed a can of beer, opened it up, and plopped down in the armchair.

  “Have you chewed khat before?” asked Mira with a grin.

  “We have,” I said.

  “Good.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a plastic container. After peeling the lid off the box, she dipped in her finger and removed a big green glob of khat paste she then rubbed into her gums. We followed her example. I opened a beer to wash down the bitter taste.

  Blake reached into his pocket and threw a leaf of Xanax pills on the table. Three pills were left.

  “What is this?” asked Mira.

  “Xanax,” Blake replied. “It’s terrific. Especially if you have a drink to go with it.”

  “What are the side-effects?”

  Removing the flattened box from my pocket, I took out the information leaflet and read some of it aloud, choosing the most interesting bits.

  “Consumption of alcohol is strongly ill-advised. Side effects may include agitation, irritability, anger, aggressive behavior, delusions, nightmares, hallucinations, psychosis, or other unusual behavior. If you experience any of these symptoms, contact your physician immediately.”

  “Aha,” said Mira, swallowing a pill and laughing.

  “So then,” said Blake, “Have you decided already which one of us you like?”

  Mira stood up and sat in Blake’s lap. While kissing him she reached out a hand and began caressing my thigh.

  “It’s a really tough decision,” she said with a laugh. “I like your mouth but the Hungarian’s eyes. They are like broken glass.”

  Blake laughed.

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” said Mira, “and when I come back I’ll see how he kisses.”

  Extricating herself from Blake’s embrace, she staggered toward the bathroom. By the time she returned, she was down to her bra on top, though she hadn’t yet removed her skirt. She came straight to the couch, sat in my lap, and kissed me on the mouth. Her drool was bitter from the khat.

  “I think you don’t have to choose between us,” said Blake, stepping up behind her and unfastening her bra.

  I opened my eyes. The sun shone in the window, its light on the bed, where all three of us lay. I saw Blake’s hairy leg beside mine, Mira’s black nakedness between us. She was drooling onto the pillow. My mouth was dry, my lips cracked. My head was buzzing. Again I heard the noise.

  “Mother.”

  A child’s delicate voice came from the direction where, I suspected, the bedroom door was.

  I shut my eyes.

  “Mommy, wake up. Please wake up, Mommy, I have to go to school.”

  I lay there completely motionless. I dared not breathe.

  “Mommy, I’m really hungry, too.”

  For a few seconds all was silent, and then I heard sniffling and crying from the door.

  I turned to Mira and gave her a nudge.

  “Wake up, your kid is calling you.”

  She didn’t react. I nudged her harder. Her head slipped off the pillow. She didn’t wake up.

  The child didn’t stop crying even for an instant. Sitting up in bed, I looked for my underwear. My head was buzzing, my temples throbbing. I felt as if a knife were being plunged into my head with every heartbeat. My underwear was under Mira, only its edge visible. I pulled it out and got it on fast. I then stepped over to the door, which was slightly ajar, and opened it completely. Standing by the bedroom was a little, dreadlocked black girl of about seven, wearing a floral dress and white shoes with ankle straps. Tears were flowing from her eyes.

  “Hey, little girl,” I said, my voice raspy from yesterday’s whiskey and beer and Xanax.

  “Where’s my mommy?”

  “Your mommy is asleep. She worked really late last night.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, sniffling, looking me over.

  “I’m a friend of your mother’s. My name is Daniel. Where is your father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there anyone besides your mother who helps out sometimes?”

  “Miss Lucille. But she’s not here now.”

  “I see,” I said, massaging my throbbing temple.

  “What’s your name, little girl?”

  “Ella.”

  “Okay, Ella. I’ll get dressed and we’ll find you something to eat.”

  Returning to the bedroom, I got on my jeans and T-shirt. I looked at the bed. Mira and Blake were lying there unconscious. The little girl was waiting for me in the living room, sitting, scared, on the couch. The khat paste and the empty cans of beer were still on the table along with the open condom-wrappers.

  “Come on, Ella. Let’s see if we find something in the kitchen.”

  She followed me there. Dirty dishes towered above the sink. I opened the old fridge. It was completely empty. For a minute I just stared at the sad little girl as I struggled with the nausea erupting within me.

  “Today is a special day. We’ve met each other. Bring your things.”

  The little girl ran into one of the other rooms and reappeared a moment later with a cheap, Chinese knapsack on her back.

  “Can we go?”

  “We can go.”

 
It was already hot outside. I kept blinking under the blazing sun, and my head hurt like hell.

  “Where is your school?” I asked.

  “Not far. At the end of the street.”

  We walked past two-story concrete apartment blocks that all looked the same, the plants in front of each building covered thickly with dust. At the corner I saw a sign for Costa Coffee, which had locations all over the place.

  “We’ll go in here for breakfast,” I said.

  The waiter raised his eyebrows on seeing me with a little girl, but said nothing. He stopped by our table.

  “What do you want, Ella?” I asked.

  “A banana split.”

  “I’d like a banana split and a coffee.”

  The waiter nodded, and left. I took a cigarette from my pocket and lit up.

  “What would you like to be when you grow up, Ella?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I want to be like Mommy. I want to make lots of money so we can buy a big house.”

  “I see. And where is your dad?”

  “He stayed in Sudan.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a soldier. Mommy says he died.”

  The waiter arrived, placing the dessert and the coffee on the table, and then left again. The banana split comprised two bananas, two scoops of vanilla ice cream, and chocolate sauce. The little girl wolfed it down at once.

  “Once I’m grown-up and beautiful, like Mommy, I too will have nice clothes and white boyfriends. How did you meet Mommy?”

  “In a restaurant,” I replied.

  “That’s good. I like restaurants. Especially the desserts. Do you have a kid?”

  “A little boy. He’s still really little. He’s not big, like you. He doesn’t even talk yet.”

  “Is he white, too, like you?”

  “Yes. And blond. Just like me.”

  “And is his mommy like mine?”

  “Yes, just like yours.”

  I wiped her face with a napkin. She didn’t like that at all. The waiter came by and I paid.

  “Can you get to school on your own?” I asked her in front of the café.

  “Of course. I’m a big girl.”

  “Bye, then.”

  Off hopped Ella along the street, turning around a couple of times to wave. Once she disappeared around the corner, I turned back toward Mira’s building. I’d walked maybe a hundred meters when gut-wrenching nausea suddenly took hold of me. Leaning on a palm tree, I puked repeatedly. On finishing, I wiped off my mouth with the napkins that had been stuffed in my pocket and got to wondering when, the day before, I myself had eaten bananas.

  When I got back to Mira’s flat, there was Mira, naked, slumped on the couch. She clearly had a helluva hangover; pain was written all over her face.

  “Don’t worry about your kid. I bought her breakfast and took her to school.”

  For long seconds Mira just stared ahead with glassy eyes and cracked lips. I sat down beside her, in the armchair.

  “I don’t have a child,” she said.

  I took a big gulp of what was left of a can of beer. It was lukewarm, but it soothed my stomach.

  The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul

  “Don’t you die, M’zungu,” was Joyce’s constant refrain. I think she meant it seriously, too. Why wouldn’t a 300-pound Congolese madam mean such a thing seriously in the wee hours of the morning in Ma’adi, that leafy suburb of Cairo, during the last call for drinks at a dive bar or when the last customer leaves her place? The chair creaked under her as she leaned back, took a drag on her slender cigarette, and took a swig of beer, and then she said it again, while resting her eyes upon me as if she saw death.

  Of course it wasn’t at all certain she was saying it to me. More likely she was saying it to her tribe back in the Democratic Republic of Congo, to orphaned child soldiers and witchdoctors left without followers. She was talking to someone from her past. In that respect we were different: I didn’t go talking to my past. She did.

  One time I asked her—after making love, having just wriggled my head out from between her colossal, swaying breasts, momentarily imagining that I’d just surfaced on the Mediterranean at night—why this never-ending mantra exhorting me not to die? As we lay there on her mattress, we watched the geckos racing across the ceiling of the prefab concrete apartment house and took labored breaths in the steaming hot Cairo night.

  “Because it’s custom.”

  Those in her tribe believe that on certain exceptional nights, under malicious stars, in the event of certain exceptional influences the soul leaves the body and sets forth on an expedition. They call this the “most beautiful night of the soul.” At such times the soul is not bound by the sins of the flesh. But, left on its own, the body feels increasingly orphaned as it awaits the return of the soul, and if the soul doesn’t return, the body dies. In Joyce’s tribe it was custom to reassure the individual whose soul had wandered off not to die. They sat in front of their huts and on certain exceptional, starless nights they told each other, every single member of the tribe, not to die while his or her soul was away.

  Of course souls don’t leave everyone at the same time. To each his own time. But one thing’s certain: no one can avoid having their soul abandon them sooner or later. At such times there’s nothing to be done—besides being told by others not to die while your soul is away.

  “Don’t you die, M’zungu,” said Joyce, adding my race in Swahili. “Don’t you die, white boy!”

  I never did understand why she was saying it to me, of all people. Why not to her workers? Her customers? Why not anyone else? When I asked her, she replied that it’s because she saw that my soul happened to be off somewhere.

  Perhaps she really did believe in the spell, I thought, or perhaps she was just being sentimental or was crazy, until one day I found in her room the letter notifying her, with regrets, that her son had died in Congo in a battle against the rebels.

  So it was in vain that she escaped with the kid after her village was massacred. It was in vain that she left him with her sister in the capital, so that by going from the peaceful and tolerant Sudan to that city of opportunity, Cairo, she could earn enough money to have them join her. Her efforts were wasted. The fact that someone is just six years old protects them from nothing at all in most of Black Africa.

  The postmark on the letter was from the day she first raised me up off the street.

  “Don’t you die, M’zungu,” she said when we first met. It was Wednesday, 2 AM. A hot wind was blowing in from the desert in this suburb of Cairo. Filthy palm trees stood in the light of the yellow moon. I was bleeding heavily.

  It had began as a wondrous night, actually: just me and the liquor. It began with me packing my things into my backpack and checking out of the Bluebird Hotel. I didn’t have enough money left to pay for the room. I had not the slightest intention of getting in touch with Europe, from where I could have arranged to get myself some money. I simply figured that nothing mattered. I didn’t really care what would happen, but I was certain that I could spend what I had left on better things than the cockroach-infested room I’d been renting for three months, and in which the ghost of the previous tenant had still been merrily haunting me, that fellow who’d committed suicide while lying in bed. After taking my leave of the blood-stained mattress and the walls scribbled over with ink, I headed toward Ma’adi, on the city outskirts, where the rocky desert begins. After a brief search, I found the Koriana brothel.

  Cairo’s suburbs are full of whores. Mainly black Africans. The products of war and poverty, they flee to Egypt, which, in contrast with Europe, is more accessible. Of course not a single one of those hapless women arrives in the country as a prostitute, but becomes one subsequently. When they realize that they can earn far more money from letting strangers between their legs than they can from cleaning or working as maids. They won’t be any more scorned than they already are: it was the Arabs, after all, who conquered her ancestors an
d then sold them into slavery. And while that practice has since gone mostly out of fashion, the vast majority of the population does not regard black people as their equals, no matter how much money they have or what they do for a living.

  Though I’d already been to nearly all the brothels in Cairo, I never had figured out how their owners named them. In the Koriana, which means “Korean” in Arabic, I never did see a single Korean. As for the Faris, it had originally been a Chinese restaurant, and though the name “Red Dragon” did change under the new owner, the furnishings in the lobby did not. The dragon-themed folding screens and the plastic tablecloths with Chinese characters remained. It was here that the businesswomen sold their bodies, and here that so many of the city’s black African residents imbibed.

  When I stepped inside the Koriana, only a couple of people were sitting about in front of the mirrors, and the only billiard table was occupied. Two black guys and two black girls were playing. Judging from their facial features, they were all Sudanese.

  I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer and a whiskey. An Arab woman in her mid-twenties put the drinks down before me. I sipped on the whiskey and glanced about. Though I didn’t have a whole lot of money left, it was by all means enough for one woman. Enough, too, so I could drink late into the night. I didn’t care about the rest. More precisely, for ninety-two days now I hadn’t cared where I would sleep and what I would eat, who would pay the electric bill, and who would shoo away the residents’ representative when he came knocking. I didn’t care how many people had died in the protests and how many in the bombings in Gaza, I didn’t care about the spokespersons campaigning for the true causes set to change the world, and I didn’t care about the sad-faced dogs and even sadder-faced subjective poets whose images were shared on Facebook. I’d had enough of everything.

  Like I said: It was a wondrous evening, just me and the liquor.

  As time passed, more and more people filtered into the bar, and finally even moving was impossible. To be on the safe side I downed three more whiskeys. Once I finally felt as if the alcohol had smoothed over my face, I went looking for a woman. Choice, there was. At a table behind me sat five black women bearing gobs of makeup and seriously gelled hair and wearing cocktail dresses. They were whores, around thirty years old; they were looking about and drinking beer. One of them, a rather thin gal in a tight-fitting white dress, stood up and stepped over to me.