Sunday, November 8, 2009

NaNoWriMo - Day 6, Part 1

There were a few guests when he walked into the cafe, and Clarissa was hustling behind the counter, brewing shots of espresso. A headphone wire dangled from her ear, music blasting from it, and as Rafael walked into the kitchen he plucked it out. She jumped in surprise.

"Scared the shit out of me, Raf."

He winked. "Sorry, C. No headphones in the front, though."

She nodded, but he could almost feel the eye-roll as he headed into the kitchen. The eternal pile of dishes remained.

Rafael immediately threw himself into the work; there was a backlog from the last few days. Soups to make, meat to cut, stock to grab from the back room. He moved as fast as he could, leaning on the steel counters for support. Something else that needed cleaning. Once he hit a rhythm, he moved smoothly, the work guiding his limbs without thought or concentration. Clarissa was, for once, focused, running back and forth from the kitchen without wasting time. Maybe she realized what a state he was in, or maybe she just wasn't hungover for once. Whatever the reason, it was a pleasant change.

Midway through the lunch rush, they ran out of salt cod. Rafael kicked himself for not stocking more, before he remembered that his usual supplier had been out as well. Such was the of a restauranteur, he reflected; an endless series of fuckups that cascaded down the line until they reached the uncomprehending customer. Red wine was running low too, but he couldn't deputize the underage Clarissa to get it and couldn't risk leaving the place in her hands, either. Reluctantly, he sent a text message asking for help.

The rest of the rush went smoothly, although it was a close thing when his leg almost gave out while carrying a pot of almost-boiling stock. Only quick reflexes sliding it onto the counter saved him from being scalded by it. He had a morbid fear of being burned; as a child, the broad scar on his father's shoulder, sustained putting out an engine fire one night, had always made him feel distinctly noxious.

He poured himself a quick nip of whiskey under Clarissa's disapproving eye to steady his nerves and settle the sick tension that crawled into his stomach whenever he thought about burns. The music had stopped playing, he realized, leaving the guests to speak in hushed tones or risk having their conversations carry through every corner of the cafe. He rummaged through the CDs stacked at haphazard angles under the counter. A disc of capoeira music reggae-inflected and arranged for guitar seemed somehow appropriate for reasons he couldn't quote pin down, so he popped it in, grinning slightly at the bemused looks of a few who had never heard its peculiar rhythms before.

The winding down of the lunch rush left a Tower of Babel made out of dishes in the sink; several in fact, that he and Clarissa tackled as quickly as possible.

“How did the funeral go?” she asked, finally.

He shrugged. “A funeral. What can you expect, you know? Man goes in the ground, people cry, it's a tragedy.”

Clarissa frowned. “Wasn't he your friend?”

He stared at her for a moment, stock-still, hands immersed in the hot, soapy water. “Yeah, he was.” He turned back to the dishes. “Was. Not is.”

“That doesn't seem very healthy, you know...”

“It's not. It's a very unhealthy situation. But what're you gonna do?”

“Me?” She paused, drawing back in confusion. “I don't know...me? Do you want to talk about it or something like that?”

He laughed grimly. “No, not you, personally. Just what is one...never mind.”

He withdrew from the kitchen to pick up and run the last of the checks. More and more people using cards these days, even if just for a drink or a cup of espresso. Of course, he was guilty of the same sin. It still annoyed him from the perspective of the owner, but turning down cards or even setting a limit was bad business, now. Too many people had nothing but plastic. It was always the oldtimers, the immigrants, the working men who carried around a bundle of $100s wrapped in a rubber band or, in certain especially stylish cases, an old money clip. There was something reassuring about cash, especially, he thought, the soft, almost sensual feel of well-worn bills. Not to mention how easy it was to spend off of plastic.

By one-thirty in the afternoon, only Jorge remained, scribbling furiously in his notebook. He wrote with remarkably neat, precise script; letters formed as neatly as a schoolgirls flowing out of the pen clutched in his meaty paw. Seeing the cafe empty, and hearing the distinct blast of Clarissa's headphone from the back room, he took his glass sat down beside his last and best customer. Jorge nodded affably.

“My condolences,” he said. For such a large man, he had an oddly soft and almost childlike voice; nevertheless, there was a sharpness in his small eyes that belied a fierce, almost predatory intelligence. They were the only part of him that did not appear to be on the verge of falling asleep at any moment.

Obrigado,” muttered Rafael. He perked up slightly. “No, but thank you. It's been a shitty week.”

“Of course. You knew him very well, didn't you?”

Rafael tilted his head to the side in thought. “Yes, and no. Since high school...no from just before. The summer before.”

“Sounds like you knew him pretty well, then.”

“Sure, yeah. I mean, he was a hard guy to know, in some ways. Mystery wrapped in an enigma. All that. But yeah, I guess I knew him pretty well.”
“I imagine the funeral must have been interesting...”

“Not really, actually.” Rafael paused to think back to the previous day for a moment. “No, not really. It was all over pretty quickly, to be honest. I got a pretty bad feeling from James, though.”

“James...?” Jorge tilted his head at a questioning angle.

“Yeah, the older brother. I guess we've never really seen eye-to-eye. On anything.”

“Any particular reason for that?”

“You know, not that I know of.” Rafael felt the lie acutely. “Well, I mean, the obvious.”

Jorge reached across the table and softly a laid a hand on Rafael's shoulder “Accidents do happen. With surprising frequently, in fact.”

He stiffened and turned away. “Even so. I can understand. I sympathize one-hundred percent with him, to tell you the truth. I'd feel exactly the same way.”

Jorge shrugged his broad shoulders and ran a hand thoughtfully across his patchy beard. “Well, I just happen to think you're being excessively hard on yourself. About the whole thing.”

“Could be. Could be.” Rafael stood and took the last sip from his glass. “Good talking to you, anyways.”

The door opened as he turned back to the bar. Jason stepped in, pausing momentarily as the sunlight poured in around him. For that second, he appeared like some gilt statue of a candomble saint, light glinting off of the silver hairs that streaked his dreadlocks. He dressed, as always, immaculately, in an incongruously professorial style; tweed blazer, complete with leather patches, and high motorcycle-style boots. He held a pair of red wine bottles in each hand.

Bom dia, meu amigo!” he shouted in his best attempt at a Brazilian accent, raising the bottles high.

Boa tarde,” corrected Rafael, tapping his watch to indicate that it was now afternoon.

“Well, at least I try, man.” Jason set the bottles down on the bar and sat down in one of the stools.

“Well, A for effort. Want a drink?”

Jason eyed the glass in Rafael's hand. “As long as you're having one, it'd be rude not to, wouldn't it?”

Rafael laughed. “Sure, yeah. The usual?”

“No, actually. Not really in the mood, to be honest. Just rum, if you got it.”

Rafael raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Of course I've got it. I've got a bunch, actually.”

“From Barbados? Better be Bajan?”

Claro que sim.” He produced a fat bottle made of thick glass and wrapped in wicker, pouring a generous slug of rum over ice. Jason reached out and tossed back half the glass in a single swig.

“Much appreciated, man.” He held the glass up and swirled it around in front of a hanging lamp. “This is good shit, no doubt.”

“Do you think I'd have anything else?”

Jason leaned across the bar and flicked a two-thirds empty bottle of Ron Roberto bottom-shelf rum sitting in the speed rack. “What's this, then?”

Rafael laughed and sat down on the other side of the bar. “Well, I didn't give you that, did I?”

“Most certainly. I'd have to beat your crippled ass for that.”

Rafael took an aspirin and began fixing himself an espresso. “Very fucking funny.”

Jason cocked an eyebrow. “But seriously, man, how you holding up?”

“Oh great. The bluebirds woke me up today with their beautiful song and then I went to the meadow to pick flowers and just think about how great the world is and how much I fucking love nature. It was like a Disney movie, let me tell you.” He slammed the demitasse down on the bar with excessive force, spilling some espresso. “And then I got here, and guess what I heard? My leg never got broken and Louis was still alive.”

He never saw Jason's hand coming around, just felt the blow on the side of his head that stunned and him and nearly rocked him off of his seat. He shook his head to get the ringing out and rubbed the side of his skull ruefully.

“You gotta stop talking that shit, man.” Jason shook his head. “I know it sucks. But you gotta stand up and look at it straight. Stop getting it twisted.”

Rafael hung his head. “I deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did.” Jason's expression softened. One hand toyed with the gold bar that ran through the top of his ear. “Sorry. I hate to see ya like this, I do. But you gotta straighten it out in your head. Or it's gonna eat you up like the sickness.”

Rafael stirred his coffee listlessly. “Sure, but how? You don't know what it's like...”

“The hell I don't. I know exactly how it is.”

“How's that?”

Jason set both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Back in Bridgetown, when I was maybe 12, maybe 13, one of my brothers was teaching me how to ride his bike. A little one, one of those 100cc things that just blow smoke everywhere and make a whole racket. So I'm riding up and down de street, just fooling, you know?

“Where's this going, Jay?”

“I'm getting there. So here we are. And there was this girl, lived next door. Most beautiful thing I've ever seen my whole life. Half-lebanese, skin like honey, little sweet braids that smelled like coconut. Always said she wanted to be a swing dancer, like on Dirty Dancing. Used to sneak out the fate when her grandaddy fell asleep and practice dancing on he beach at night. ”

“With you, of course?”

Jason laughed. “I wish. Wasn't as good-looking then as I am now, “ he said with a wink. “Anyways, I was in love like nothing else, brother. You know in that way, when you're just a boy, and there's only one thing in the world you want. So I'm riding and I see Clara. I think, man, this is your chance to impress her. So I pop a wheelie, you know. Trying to show off.”

“And you hit her?”

“Well, some geezer opened the door of his car and hit me. So I spin out, you know. Lose control, head over heels, and bam.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “Bike goes right into her knees. I broke an ankle, she broke both knees. Basically laid up in bed, crippled. Couldn't dance, couldn't barely walk.” He took a long drink. “Fucking tragedy.”

“Man, that's...” Rafael shook his head. “That's pretty bad. Not really your fault, though. I mean, sure, it was stupid, but it was the guy who hit you, really.”

“Yeah. And that's my point. Accidents happen.”

Rafael bit his lip. “I guess. You got a point. Shame about that girl, though.”

Jason smiled slightly. “Well, it turned out alright in the end.” He fished in his pocket for his wallet and pulled a ragged-edged, faded photo from the back. It showed a dancer, lit by spotlights, back arched and leg thrown out in a graceful turn.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

NaNoWriMo - Day 4, Part 1

The dingy cream-colored paint on the ceiling swam in his vision. He breathed raggedly, hands crossed on his chest. A tightness was growing in his side that threatened to spread down to his leg, so he levered himself off the floor and grabbed an aspirin before showering. The heat of the water melted the knotted muscles a little, and he felt almost human, rather than a ball of assorted aches and pains, physical and mental.

He dressed for work early, hunting through the laundry for a black shirt and finally resorting to the pile of mildly dirty clothes in a basket by the back door. In truth, he could wear whatever he wanted, but he felt that to flout the dress code he set for his workers was bad policy. Although they never seemed to follow it anyways.

It was still too early to really leave when he stepped out in the glaring sun, blinking and fumbling for his sunglasses. He recalled that they had broken last month and sat down on the front step of his wide, rambling wooden porch. The upstairs neighbors' car sat in the driveway, mud-spackling the queer shade of maroon paint, while beside it his Triumph bike gleamed like a nicked but carefully polished gem. Clean because it sat there, as useful as a sundial in a tsunami, he thought. Between the rain and his leg, he'd be lucky to use the damn thing once this summer.

His own car needed to be washed, though it didn't have the same coating of dirt as the neighbours'. Another thing he probably wouldn't get to this summer. He sighed, limped to the car and drove to work.

For once, parking was easy to find.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

NaNoWriMo - Day 3, Part 2

Sun poured in through the skylight, painting the wooden floorboards in ochre shades. Its warm rays fell on Rafael's shoulders and flared in his eyes. The acrid scent of sweat filled his nostrils as he crouched listening to the melodic twang of the berimbau, the rhythm of the atabaque, the chant of the roda. Even the sunlight seemed to dance with the music as clouds passed before it. His breath came long and slow.

He touched palms with his partner and they cartwheeled into the roda. They began slowly, in time with the music, legs seeking each other out and retreating low and high, feinting and striking. At first the movements were compact, close to the ground, full of intention and trickery. The song of the roda began to pick up speed, and they evolved with the song, standing straighter, become more aggressive. Rafael feinted left and came whirling over his partner's head with a spinning left armada, only to hurriedly throw himself towards the floor to avoid the same coming from the right. Back and forth they went, exchanging blows that never landed.

The song accelerated. So did the dance, now a whirling exchange of standing kicks and 'Au' cartwheels. Rafael could feel the wind of his partner's foot passing before his face, centimeters from striking him. They played all out now, spinning in earnest yet friendly attempts to annihilate each other. His partner threw an acrobatic series of attacks that Rafael was only abelt evade with a wrenching backwards esquiva and handstand. He paused in that inverted state ofr a moment, seeing his opponent as if reflected in water. Sweat dripped from his scalp to the floor. Then he swept in with a low hasteira, moving instantly into a high strike. The sweep hooked the other man's leg and then a violent pain shot down from his knee as he connected with the other man's neck at the same moment that he lost his balance. They fell.

Rafael felt himself hit the bed as he woke. He lay motionless, sheets twisted and soaked, leg cramped and filled with agony. The light of early dawn crashed through his open windows, illuminating the armada of dust motes drifting through the air and stabbing at his eyes. He groaned and burrowed himself deeper into the covers. His fingers crawled on the dresser until they located a bottle of pills. The confusingly screwed cap defeated his groggy attempts and he tossed it aside onto the pile of swept-aside clothes.

His body refused his best efforts to stir it form the bed. He lay in a defeated, half-conscious state for some time. The dream hung persistently in his vision, in his nostrils. Every second was clear as if it were happening at that moment. The cobwebby remnants of sleep gummed his eyes. His leg pulsed.

Finally he dragged himself from bed with a Herculean effort and propelled himself towards coffee. The steel pot stood on the stove, one-third full from yesterday. He poured the cold liquid, swirls of oil coating its surface, into a mug and added a little water for volume before sliding it into the microwave. His head fell against the door of the oven as it hummed, the vibrations running through his forehead and down to his spine. It finished and he took a sip; too hot, stale, and watery. But coffee, nonetheless. It dulled the ache in his head but not his body.

Toast seemed like too much effort so he grabbed a handful of olives and a hunk of cheese and made that his breakfast. In truth, he didn't have to be up and about for hours yet, but even such a dismal morning seemed preferable to the option of returning to sleep and all its attendant torments. The taste of the coffee became unbearable and he added a little instant to fortify the flavor. Sparked with ambition, he fried a few eggs and bolted them down. Food and caffeine had restored some strength. His spirit still flagged. The temptation to simply fold himself in front of a screen and waste the morning tugged at him, but he fought back. For a while he picked desultory tunes on the guitar, but the strings strummed dissonantly and he couldn't find the will to tune it.

He turned to exercise to stem the ennui that threatened to drain him, leave him lifeless as if the victim of a vampire. Push-ups, sit-ups, weights, repeated over and over until the muscles shook and the tendons quivered like untied lines snapping in the wind. It was pain, but a good one that somehow made the other more bearable. At last he finished, collapsed, panting on the cold wood of his floor. Sweat dripped down into the small of his back and pooled beneath him. For a few moments, he felt decent and alive.

NaNoWriMo - Day 3, Part 1

A few others spoke, men and women Rafael didn't know or vaguely recognized. He heard nothing, just stared down at the odd collection of keepsakes arrayed across the top of the coffin. His eyes kept coming back to the hat; he remembered as clearly as a photograph Louis' laughing face beneath the bent brim, discolored with age. His face had been so like his brothers', and yet in many ways so different; perpetually amused where Damien looked somber and James angry. Laughing, but with some dark sadness in his eyes. That face appeared more clearly before him than the scene he stood in; smiling, sighing, and silent, in the stillness of death. All three, but the last most clearly.

The last people spoke the last words; and slowly, they began to drift away. Gina was the first to go, flanked by Louis' brothers. Others wandered away in twos and threes; the priest, the mestre, Ourinho and his girl. Jason stood for a long time, and finally wandered over, laid his heavy hand on Rafael's shoulder. He jerked instinctively in surprise, but said nothing. For a moment they stood, gazes locked. Then Jason turned away without speaking and padded into the rain, so that only Rafael was left, staring into the gaping wound in the earth. He was soaked, now, but hardly noticed; his hair dangled before his eyes, dripping down his face.

He wasn't sure how much later it was that he noticed the gravediggers standing ill-at-ease beneath the willow, smoke curling from their cigarettes, waiting for him to go. Perhaps he'd only been there for a few moments, perhaps for half an hour. The empty bottle of whisky hung awkwardly in his pocket, and on an impulse, he pulled it and tossed it away, turning as he did so that he did not see it fall, only heard the light shattering of glass as he returned to his car, closed his eyes and started the engine.

The radio turned on when he did and strains of Irish pipes floated from the car's speakers. He stabbed a finger at he power switch and shoved the car into gear. The gravediggers tossed spades full of earth through the air as he drove away, rolling through the winding paths in low gear. Once again he heard bagpipes, and looked in confusion at his stereo. But no; a crowd huddled by another grave, a piper sending the plaintive drone into the atmosphere. Rafael slowed but then thought better of it, feeling ghoulish in his fascination.

The gates now stood open as he left the cemetery and headed for home. The cafe would keep for now, on a rainy evening like this. He drove too fast down the empty roads, hugging the curves and feeling the tires strain under the load. On at least one turn he felt them lift and had to modulate the clutch to keep the car under control, wheels spinning out silver tails of water. Down the straightaway, around the rotary, clipping the grass and fishtailing slightly on the downhill curve, he roared homewards.

Before long he was in the driveway, panting slightly, foot aching as it held down the clutch, engine purring. Adrenaline lifted his heart into his throat, pulsed his veins against the skin. He turned the car off and limped hurriedly inside to the medicine cabinet, where he grabbed the first orange canister and dumped a pair of pills into his palm. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself; hair chaotic and damp, eyes bloodshot and sunken, collar twisted. He turned away in disgust as he swallowed the pills dry. A pile of unfolded clothes lay on top of his tangled sheets, and he had to shove them half-heartedly aside before slipping into an aching and troubled sleep.

Monday, November 2, 2009

NaNoWriMo - Day 2, Part 1

The cemetery gates stood shut when Rafael arrived, and he had to leave the car and push them open. They groaned and flakes of rusted black paint floated to the ground. He drove down the winding lanes with a growing sense of trepidation; somewhere in a tree, a dove answered the rain with a plaintive call. An old man shuffled among the graves, a broad umbrella protecting him as he moved along a twisting path.

Ahead, he saw a cluster of cars parked under a spreading willow, among them the long, low shape of the hearse. A small group stood by them. Two men were opening the rear door as he pulled the car onto the verge. He saw the faces turn toward him but for the moment, he remained seated, watching. Finally, he left the car and joined the rest of the group.

A silent nod was all he offered in greeting, and all he received in reply. He walked to where Jason and Ourinho stood, grabbing the hand of each in turn and clasping them around the shoulders. Silver beads of water dotted Jason's dreadlocks, dripping on the fabric of his black suit. A few tears dotted Ourinho's golden lashes, and he brushed them away with a gloved hand. Ze Carlos and brothers Damien and James joined them and together, the six men lifted the casket out of the hearse. Raindrops drummed on the black lacquered wood and rolled off the gilt edging.

They moved slowly; without his cane, Rafael gritted his teeth against the shocks that ran up his leg with each step. He could feel the eyes of the small crowd boring into him as they bent to set the coffin on the metal frame which would lower it into the earth. The six men stood and stepped back almost in unison. Across from him stood Gina, Louis's fiance. Former fiance, he reminded himself. She was in black, of course, from head to toe. A veil fell just to her mouth, but he could still glimpse her eyes, burning beneath. What was that expression..hate? Pity? Or just sorrow. Her long, brown fingers worried at the gleaming gold ring with the canary diamonds.

Damien and James flanked their brother's fiancee, arms around her in condolence. Their faces shared the same high, almost arrogant brows, deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks that had given Louis the look of some mournful chieftain, but physically, they could not be more different. James had a prizefighter's body, with shoulders seemingly twice as wide as his younger brother's taller, lankier frame. Louis had always seemed the golden mean of the two, Rafael thought. Damien did not look at him, but gazed downwards at the casket, focused as if staring into an infinite tunnel. James' eyes, though, bore into him like drillbits, burning darkly from the carved mask of his face.

Beside them stood Ourinho, shorter than all three, his dark golden curls sodden and running down his back. He had the face of a Raphaelite angel and another, even more angelic figure stood by his side. His latest girlfriend; was it Caroline? Or maybe Karen, Rafael couldn't remember. Though he was sure they'd only been together a month, he wept openly in front of her. Near the head of the coffin Jason slowly shifted his weight from leg to leg, looking menacing and incongruous with his long dreads and immaculately tailored suit and raincoat, towering over everyone nearby. He watched Rafael as well, his eyes a piercing, peculiar grey.

Mestre Ibrahim stepped forward and softly dropped a silk cordão casket, the green and gold shining on the black wood like some kind of tropical serpent. His suit fit oddly on his small frame, his old tweed flat cap was ragged, and his shoes scuffed and worn. On the street, he would be easy to overlook, but many in the small crowd stared at him with reverence. He crossed himself, work-worn hands moving in a swift motion from shoulder to shoulder and chest to aquiline nose. The mestre murmured a brief Portuguese prayer and turned away. Others stepped forward and dropped mementoes into the grave; a gold cross, white flowers, a worn leather bible, a tattered Red Sox cap.

A priest began to speak; Rafael didn't recognize him. The words flowed past him leaving no mark, bringing no meaning; platitudes, invocations and prayers. Gina sobbed silently beneath her veil. James' knuckles clenched white. Rafael listened but heard nothing, raindrops drumming on his head, his shoulders, cascading down between his fingers. He could feel the eyes boring into him. The priest finished his speech. Rafael licked dry lips.

Damien began to speak. "He was a brother to me, and to a lotta other people. He..." The words choked in the tall man's throat. "We're gonna miss the hell out of you, Lou."

He stepped back and shoved his hands back into his pockets, shoulders hunched, face to the ground. James pulled his arms from Gina's shoulder and edged towards the casket.

"You left us too soon, brother. All of us deserved to go before you." As he spoke his gaze drilled into Rafael's. "You were a good man, you were a good brother, and I know you woulda been an even better husband and a father. Rest in peace, brother. They ain't gonna make no more like you."

Another moment of silence, and then Rafael stepped forward, drew a slim bottle of Jameson from his pocket and upended it over the casket, watching the twisting amber stream cascade downwards, tumbling and blending with the falling rain. The acrid smell of whiskey touched his nose. He might have been shedding a tear, but he couldn't tell with the water pouring down his face. The last drops fell from the bottle and he put it back in his pocket.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

NaNoWriMo - Day 1, Part 1

Yes, National Novel Writing Month. The literary equivalent of a marathon, except at the end people don't congratulate you, they just wonder why you haven't showed your face in the light of day for an entire month.

Here's my profile:

The goal: 50,000 words; quality/consistency/plot unimportant. That works out to 1,666.6(repeating) words a day. Of course you can work extra hard on the weekends to average it out. I'm VERY good at that...

Anyways, here goes.


NaNoWriMo
Rafael watched the water pouring steadily through the cracks in the window. Instinctively, he knew he ought to get up, throw a towel down, maybe try to fix the thing, but he couldn't be bothered. The rain hammered at the windows, cascading down the ancient, bubbled glass. Every so often, a car would rush by, splashing the panes with grime from the street that soon washed away into the deluge.

Twenty days of rain in June, a flood of biblical proportions. A truck rolled through the puddles, sending a tidal wave against the windows. The trickle surged into a flood, and with a heavy sigh, Rafael pushed himself away from the bar and limped across the room to throw a few towels down to mop up the growing pool of dirty water. It was only five in the afternoon, but outside the headlights of the cars flashed across his eyes like searchlights, briefly illuminating the yellowing walls of the cafe. He grimaced at the thought of having to paint them.

He jammed more towels into the window sill and, his leg aching, sat down heavily in the chair by the door. The wood creaked as he leaned back, ancient nails complaining at the strain. Another thing to fix. A stab of pain shot up through his knee and he winced, digging his fingers into the joint. Sailors always used to say that rain made their old wounds tighten. After a month of rain, though, surely that stopped? He fished in his pockets for an aspirin but only came up with an empty tin of mints and crumpled packet of cigarettes. There was one left, but he set it on the table. Maybe the rain would stop in the next hour.

At the other end of the cafe, a fat man snored and shifted in his sleep. Rafael leaned around the pillar to stare at Jorge, dozing fitfully in front of a half-demolished plate of sardines. The edge of the table rose and fell on his swelling stomach with each sonorous breath. A half-empty glass of beer slid back and forth with each movement, like a drunken crewman on a boat pitching in heavy weather. Rafael sighed, and dragged himself across the room to rescue the plate and glass before the inevitable happened.

He eased himself into the chair across from Jorge and watched the glass slide back and forth, each time coming closer to the edge of table. Bubbles spiralled lazily up through the amber brew as it tilted back and forth. Jorge slept on, oblivious, as was his habit. Nearly every day he came in, and nearly every day he slumped into the same nap, same chair, same position. His wispy Fu Manchu mustache and beard, gold-rimmed glasses, serene demeanour and brightly patterned silk shirts gave him the appearance of some latter-day Confucius, dreaming peacefully after a long day of doling out proverbs and golden nuggets of wisdom. A battered leather diary lay open in front of him, stained with coffee rings and grease prints.

Resisting the temptation to read the sleeping man's work, Rafael carefully gathered up the dishes and brought them back to the kitchen. A small tower of dirty dishes leaned at a precarious angle in the sink. He peered around the kitchen, searching for Clarissa. An unshielded lightbulb flickered in the back corner, illuminating the twin white cables of her earbuds. She sat with her head down on a countertop, hoodie pulled over her head, heavy metal blasting out of the headphones. A cafe full of the unconscious. Rafael considered waking her and decided against it. She'd spent twelve of the last twenty-four hours in the place anyways. He pulled a stool up to rest his leg and began rinsing the dishes, scrubbing half-heartedly at the crusts of bread, congealed pools of oil and dried grains of rice.

The water began to spurt fitfully out of the spigot, and he gave the pipes underneath a firm kick. Another thing to take care of. He pulled a sticky note off pad tacked to the wall and pressed it to the u-bend. It joined a collection of such notes appended to various malfunctioning appliances; the flickering bulb, the flaky pilot light on the back burner, the broken back door latch held together by a rusted fork, and the wheezing pump on the back of the prep refrigerator. Clarissa claimed that it was giving her cancer, and Rafael was hard pressed to find a counter argument as it slowly bled out coolant day by day.

The dishes done, he hobbled back to the bar and reached under it for the bottle of Jameson he stashed behind the . The first two rocks glasses he pulled out were dusty and distinctly marked with fingerprints, so he tossed them in the bar sink and grabbed a wine glass that dangled from the brass rack above the bar. He poured a slug and then, thinking it looked lonely swirling around in the bottom of the glass, added a handful of ice cubes and topped it off. He rummaged through the drawers for an aspiring, reached into his pockets before remembering he'd already done so, and took a small sip. The whiskey stung his chapped lips. Why were they chapped, when it had been raining for a month? He drank glass of water to soothe them.

His eyes wandered across the rows of empty tables. The chairs stood in haphazard lines, but he couldn't bring himself to the go and straighten them. All the lights were on, at least, although in the back corner a metal lampshade seemed to hang at a particularly precarious angle. Some of the faded sepia photographs and line drawings of Rio, Salvador and Olinda had been knocked subtly off the level; he reached out to straighten the nearest one. A faint buzzing sound leaking through the speakers reminded him that the stereo was still on although the CD had finished playing. He conducted a desultory search for the remote, then dragged himself over to the system and stabbed spitefully at the power strip with his cane, shutting it off with a harsh electronic squawk.

The cane was preferable to the aluminum crutches he'd been dragging himself around with, but it made him feel like a relic, a piece of driftwood washed up on the beach and bleached in the sun. Not that he'd seen the sun for days. It was an antique; like the cafe, he thought. Like himself, in some ways. It was made of Pau-Brasil and had an ochre sheen to it. The top had been carved into some kind of animal years ago; a bird of some kind, or was it a fish? Age had battered it beyond recognition; his father had had a bad habit of dropping it, and once left to roll around the bottom of his boat for over a month. His grandfather had apparently stolen it from a colonel in Bahia, a story which Rafael was almost positive was fabricated - he had probably stolen it, but more likely from some old farmer passed out in a bar - but liked too much to dispute.

He took a handful of olives from the bowl set out on the bar. They were good olives, from the Armenian store; he made a mental note to get more. They were addictive, these things. As soon as he'd scraped all the meat off of one, he felt compelled to eat another, until the woody taste of the pits forced him to spit them out. The whiskey and olives had made him thirsty, and he downed another glass of water. Outside, the rain kept falling. Bored, he turned to espresso machine. Every time he got bored, he made espresso. He'd had a few today already...two? Three? It put him on edge but at least he didn't fall asleep like Jorge and Clarissa.

He filled the portafilter with espresso and tamped down the grounds with practiced flicks of his wrist, moving with the unconscious grace of muscle memory. The feeling was oddly satisfying, like turning a key in an oiled lock or cracking knuckles. A thin jet of boiling water sprayed out of the portafilter as it brewed and he quickly leaned all of his weight against the handle to jam the leak shut. Another thing that needed fixing. He slammed a Post-It on the machine and swirled the espresso around in the demitasse. It'd brewed too thick and dark, and he could see a few grounds suspended in it, but he didn't care enough to fix it. He sucked it down black, no sugar; he liked it better with sugar, but sometimes he drank it black out of some obscure obligation. The whiskey and the coffee gave him a dizzy, hyperactive feeling. His leg throbbed, and he realized his phone was ringing.

When he fished it out of his pocket, he stared for a moment at the animated church bells dancing on the screen. Five thirty in the afternoon. It took him a moment to remember where he had to be. Before he left, he set an eggtimer in the kitchen to wake Clarissa in a few moments. Truthfully, she'd probably pick herself up the instant he left. Could she really sleep with that noise blasting into her eardrums? He nearly knocked the coat rack over as he grabbed his jacket. He'd almost made it out the door when he remembered his wallet and had to limp back to grab it from the kitchen.

Outside, the rain slid down his collar despite his best attempts to turn it up against the downpour. His meter had expired when he arrived at the car. He hadn't received a ticket, though; an amazing piece of luck. His knee stiffened as he eased himself into the driver's seat, and for a moment he sat, biting his lip, eyes closed, leaning against the window. An ambulance roaring by with sirens on full startled him from his reverie.

With a groan, he turned the key in the ignition. Time to go to the funeral.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Triumphant Sun PDF


In the interests of keeping things up to date, I have created a PDF of Triumphant Sun, edited for clarity(and so that I can remember what's going on!), and I'm going to post it here.


Then maybe I'll, you know. Write a little.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Riches Among the Ruins


Yes, it's been quite a while since I've posted - but that should change, now that I have something resembling a full-time position.

I'm working for an author in Boston at a company called Turan Corporation, helping run the website, blog and general communications for this book:

As such, I'm going to be researching, writing and posting about the book, emerging markets and economics on blog.richesamongtheruins.com.

I was genuinely surprised by the book - I have neither economics expertise nor much knowledge about emerging markets. Essentially, my entire exposure to economic policy is reading a few blogs (like Pat Garofalo's economics column at Think Progress) and the Economist every week.

However, the book lays some complex financial arrangements out in simple, comprehensible terms. Furthermore, it's a genuine, real-life adventure story that reveals, at least to me, how crazy business in the various dark corners of the world can get.

I don't recommend things simply out of obligation or because it's my job (although it is my job!), but if you are interested in geo-politics, economics, or just travel, this is a pretty fun book and something I'd recommend picking up.

Hopefully, I should have some time to update here as well.


Monday, June 22, 2009

The Holy Land, Pt. 1

Recently, Sathi, Nick, and I took a trip through the Middle East to celebrate the nuptials of our good friends Joe and Hilla. Aside from the strangeness of people starting to get married (what next, bloody kids?) the trip was a smash hit from beginning to end. I'm not sure if the happy couple want me to put their wedding photos up here, so I'll just focus on a few of the other highlights of our voyage through Israel and then Egypt.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre - as nice as it is, one has to wonder whether Jesus really wants the place where he was crucified to be quite so...blinged-out. I'm fairly sure that this is an Orthodox shrine, although the 'INRI' makes me wonder if it could be Catholic. The Sepulchre is a site with a number of different faiths laying claim to various areas and sections, but the Eastern Orthodox seem to be winning out. It is basically their headquarters/secret lair/hidden castle, after all.

More Sepulchrous(sic.) Church - the tricky thing here is that some clever monk ran up there and opened that door to let in the godly shaft of light. Apparently one of the holiest sites in Christianity isn't above a few cheap parlor tricks...


The Dome of the Rock - Closed, unfortunately, because of some religious observance/protest/just general annoyance. The entire Dome/Al-Aqsa/Temple Mount complex is somewhat tricky to get into and an area of some controversy, and since it was both Friday and Shevuot, we had to content ourselves with taking photos from afar. A pity, since the Dome is probably the most recognizable landmark in all of Jerusalem. I'm pretty sure kaffir like me are completely banned from entering it, however.



Sand Witches - a major concern in desert climes. One minute you're sitting, enjoying a nice falafel, and the next you're a newt. And you don't get better, because it's a desert. You frakking bake to death and die.

BUT

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.



I couldn't resist posting a picture of the stunning greenhouse/garden paradise where Joe and Hilla were wed. Perhaps they will let me post more shots of the festivities.



Most pictures credit of Shahrin Ahsan.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Returned, Once Again

Two trips in a row and a new job have kind of wiped me out - trying to figure out a new schedule and which of literally 1000s of pictures to post.

Stay tuned...

Friday, April 24, 2009

Ordem e Progresso

Just spent a few weeks in Brasil - I'll post pictures and some stories about that a little later in the week.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 22

Evan was sitting in the lobby of the hotel, lighting a cigarette, when Samira returned from the university. He tried his best not to smirk at the look of surprise and confusion on her face when she saw him sitting at a table, tapping her key-card on the metal rim. She hesitated for a moment, poised on her front foot like a dancer who'd forgotten her routine.
“Left this in the cab. I would have called you, but...” He shrugged disarmingly.
“Oh.” The tone of Samira's voice sounded not at all amused. Nevertheless, she sat down at the table and pulled a cigarette from Evan's pack. He wordlessly handed her a lighter and she leaned back, inhaling deeply. “Thanks.”
“Not at all.” Evan stared at her through the curlicues of smoke. “How was your interview?”
“Interview?”
“Weren't you going to...
“Oh, it was fine,” interrupted Samira. “I guess. It could have been better.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
Evan heard the note of tension in her voice. “Any particular reason?”
“Just not very helpful, you know?”
Evan nodded. “I do. Welcome to Cairo.”
They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, neither willing to probe or break the other's reverie. The cigarettes smoldered down to crinkled stubs and Evan's coffee was reduced to grounds swirling in fractal patterns along the bottom of the cup.
Finally, Evan spoke. "So what is your story about?"
Samira stared at him for a moment with an unblinking gaze. Then her shoulders slumped and she dropped her eyes. "To be honest, I don't really know. I had one idea when I got here - I had a lot of ideas, honestly, and they all turned out to be wrong."
"Yeah, but what were you thinking of writing?" pressed Evan.
Samira sighed. "I don't know, it was something to do with the old houses in Cairo - you know, the ones all over Zamalek."
"Like the one you grew up in?"
Samira's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean? How do you know that?"
A smile crept up one side of Evan's face. "I didn't, but now I do.
Samira couldn't help but laugh. "I guess I deserved that. Anyways, I don't really know what I'm doing with it any more. There isn't really a story."
Evan thought for a moment. "You know, I have a friend who definitely has an in with the kind of people who are in those houses, if you want to talk to him."
"Really?"
"For sure. But...you have to talk to me about something."
Evan caught a flash of suspicion, quickly veiled, behind her slate-grey eyes. "What's that?"
He leaned forward. "Have you heard of General Abdel-Kareem?"

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 21

Sorry about the overly-long wait. I've been working on doing a comprehensive edit of the past 20 chapters, and I only got around to putting up a new one this weekend.

Part 21:

Khalida Maalouf leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee slowly. She remained silent for a few moments.

“Congratulations, Samira,” she said finally. “That's quite an opportunity. What are you writing about?”

Samira twisted her lips as she searched for an answer. “That's the problem, ustaaza. I don't know yet. I think the editor assumed I'd hit the ground running, you know? Have contacts, have a story. I don't have anything. There are kiosk vendors who are more connected than I am.”

“And so you're here, is that right?”

Samira nodded ruefully. “I'd sort of hoped that you could put me onto a lead.”

Khalida rose from her chair, her measured movements betraying some frailty of age. She pottered about the room for a moment, searching through yellowing papers and clippings. Samira watched her in silence.

“You were here, what...eight, nine years ago?”

“Eleven this winter.”

Khalida grunted. “Well, things may different than you remember. In fact, they will be – I assume you're not living in that rambling old thing on Zamalek?”

“No, I have a hotel room.”

“Well, that's no good. You need to get out into the city, staying up in some old palace like the Hilton isn't worth a damn.” Khalida settled back into her seat and placed a stack of articles by Samira, shoving some others aside and causing a small avalanche of rustling paper across the desk. “I'm going to be honest with you, Samira. This city might not have been the best place for you. You have the wrong instincts here – your mother, your father, that history – it's not going to help you as a reporter. You have to start fresh.”

Samira felt an unexpected wave of indignation at the professor's words. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm trying to say that you were very sheltered.”

“That doesn't mean...”

“It means you might have a perspective that makes it hard to see what's really going on sometimes. You went to university in England, yes?”

“Yes. Oxford, Trinity College.” Samira felt flushed, frustrated. “But I went to work at newspaper in Manchester, straight afterwards. Court reporting, digging in the gutters, all that kind of thing.”

“The worst street in Manchester is still a bit more posh than almost any block here. Remember that. Look, Samira. I'm not saying that you're a bad reporter. If I remember, you were always a dedicated writer.”

“Then what's the problem?” demanded Samira.

“The problem is that you might be the wrong kind of reporter.”

Samira rose, snatching the articles off of the professor's desk. “You're the first person I visit after 10 years, and you meet me with this?”

“Samira...”

“Never mind. I can see what you think of me – spoiled little rich girl playing reporter? Is that about it?” She swiveled on her heel, stumbled slightly and stalked out the door, trying to wrap what remained of her dignity around her.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 20

Part 20:

Samira leaned heavily on the door of the main campus building. The wooden doors opened with a grudging squeal of hinges into the dim, arched stairway, rows of marble steps illuminated with shafts of lighting cutting through the dust filled air. It was quiet; the sounds of the city faded into a a distant hum. She padded softly up the steps, footfalls echoing under the arched ceiling. She'd always loved the High Orientalist drama of the building's architecture, particularly the high arches that absorbed sound like a vault.

A back door hidden in an out of the way nook led her out on to the roof of the building, overlooking the courtyard with its fountains and spreading trees providing pools of shade. The top of the AUC building was a strange and somewhat random mess of worker's shacks, air conditioners, skylights and a peculiar, winding path that traced its way around the entire complex. She followed it now, ignoring the bemused looks of a few of the university's laborers taking time off for a smoke. Finally, she found the door she'd been looking for and slipped inside.

She found the office without trouble. The door was ajar, still plastered in yellow, curling clips from the Times of London, Al-Akhbar, and a dozen other papers. The nameplate had fallen at an alarming angle, held on by a single rusted screw, and a folder bulging with students papers listed at a similarly perilous slant. With a light knock, she pushed the door open.

Yaa ustaaza!” she cried. Her voice raised itself louder than she'd meant to, and Professor Khalida Maalouf started, nearly knocking over a cup of coffee. She peered at Samira over gold, half-moon reading glasses. “Remember me, ustaaza?”

Professor Maalouf blinked. “Samira? What are you doing here?” She raised herself out of her chair, brushing away the hand Samira offered in support and grasping her head for a firm kiss on each cheek. Samira felt a wave of nostalgia at the sandalwood scent of her imported perfume and the firm, dry sensation of her palms. “My god, how many years....” The diminutive woman rushed about the room moving papers and books, clearing a space in the encroaching chaos that had only reached new heights since Samira had last seen the office. A line of gilt-edged bone china coffee cups marched across an Alpine range of scholarly journals and essays like Hannibal's elephants, and she had to steady a few as Khalida shuffled paper aside.

“Sit down, sit down,” she insisted. “Here, I'll call Mehmet for some coffee.”

Sayyida, that's not...”

“Oh, don't call me sayyida, please, it's absurd. I'm not Methsuelah,” the professor cut her off. “Mehmet!” she cried through the open door.

A tall, somewhat absurdly good-looking young man appeared at the door, the almost feminine angles of his face marred only by a patchy beard and the rough zebiba that came from excessive devotion during daily prayers. He wore a pair of ancient trousers, cuffed high in the style of devout Muslims, and, incongruously, a faded Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. “Two coffees for Samira and myself, please,”she asked in English.”

Yaa, sayyida.” He padded away silently on a pair of battered leather slippers that seemed to be held together more by faith than thread. “Incorrigible,” growled Khalida. “He's a nice enough boy, although I don't think he approves of my clothes.”

If he was as orthodox a Muslim as he appeared, thought Samira, she'd have to agree. Though the professor was almost seventy, she still dressed with the same cosmopolitan, European flair she'd always displayed – a product of the monarchy and the Nasser years, her elegantly draped shawl and skirt-suit bespoke the kind of expensive, international refinement that had once defined Cairo's elite.

“So, Samira – of all the people I'd expect to see, you are definitely one of the most surprising.”

“I only just arrived this week. I'm taking the Cairo desk here,” she said, pride slipping into her voice despite her best efforts.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Signal Restored

After some battling, my computer has come back to life - a little more than 3 days, and a bit early for Easter, but we'll call it an Easter miracle and leave it at that.

Next installment should be up in the next few days while I try to figure out the most effective posting schedule. Anyone have any preferences for a day of the week?

Monday, February 9, 2009

*Carrier Lost*

My computer just suffered a pretty massive failure, so at present I only have access to my work laptop. There may be a brief interruption in my posting, since I have severely limited access at the moment.

Sorry!

Friday, February 6, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt, 19

Samira checked her pace before the arched gate of the American University. The guards appeared as lethargic as she rememberd, but she still approached with trepidation. She ran a hand along the fringe of her scarf, tucking stray hairs in place. It might be the most liberal campus in Egypt, but propriety might get her through the gauntlet she was about to run. The men at the gate had maintained, unusually for Cairo, scrupulous rules about who could and could not enter. Understandable for a center of moderate, Westernized education that the Muslim Brotherhood would probably dearly love to immolate.

The strange meeting in the car still revolved through her brain. Evan Rochester’s manner had simultaneously put her off and piqued her interest. The memory stuck with her, and she didn't feel certain that he was entirely appealing. If he'd simply tried to seduce her, she might have humored him, but the predatory cleverness in his eyes gave her a sensation she disliked. Still, she might have been too brusque...but the thing was over. Not much point in dwelling on it.

She walked up to the guard, a warm smile carefully placed on her lips, her passport poised between her fingers; in a moment, he had taken down her information and swept her through carelessly. The smoothness of the whole transaction almost made her double back in surprise. Surely he'd want more than name and passport number? If she'd had to convince him a little, lay a hand on his arm - it threw her off balance. It wasn't the '90s any more, she reflected. True, as a English national she wasn't precisely public enemy number one. With a bag full of needles and tubes of liquid, however, it seemed like security theater at its weakest.

Students swirled through the campus in clusters, forming and reforming around the pools of shade. They watched the games that played out on the basketball and tennis courts, clouds of reddish clay dust hovering over the players. The site was familiar to her, though fashions had moved on slightly from tennis whites. Though she knew that the tide of conservative Islam had risen even here, she was surprised by the number of hijabs she saw - none with the full head-to-toe, eye-slit niqab, but everything up to that point.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Parallels

*Fill in truth/fiction cliche*

Reading the times a few days ago, I saw a story that surpassed anything I'd dare write about. A few months ago, I wrote a brief, 1,500-word story about smugglers running the Mexican border. Obviously, this is something that happens all the time, but I thought I was pushing credulity by including a running gun battle in the middle of the desert.

Here's the story:

http://vouescrever.blogspot.com/2008/08/la-frontera.html

Little did I know...

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/02/us/02pot.html?scp=1&sq=mexico%20border&st=cse

Drug smugglers parked a car transport trailer against the Mexican side of the border one day in December, dropped a ramp over the security fence, and drove two pickup trucks filled with marijuana onto Arizona soil.

Drug smugglers from Mexico burned their truck and the marijuana it carried before fleeing from border agents in Arizona.

As Border Patrol agents gave chase, a third truck appeared on the Mexican side and gunmen sprayed machine-gun fire over the fence at the agents. Smugglers in the first vehicles torched one truck and abandoned the other, with $1 million worth of marijuana still in the truck bed. Then they vaulted back over the barrier into Mexico’s Sonora state.

Despite huge enforcement actions on both sides of the Southwest border, the Mexican marijuana trade is more robust — and brazen — than ever, law enforcement officials say. Mexican drug cartels routinely transported industrial-size loads of marijuana in 2008, excavating new tunnels and adopting tactics like ramp-assisted smuggling to get their cargoes across undetected.




I'm really just speechless. Firing at the Border Patrol with automatic weapons is one thing, but creating a mobile ramp to drive over the fence is some seriously crazy maneuvering.

I also apologize for the missed installment last week - I'll blame it on the Border Patrol, and promise to have a brand-new post this week.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 18

A thousand apologies for this much-delayed post. I actually saw a surge of hits on Thursday night/Friday morning - it was really rewarding to see that people have a real interest in reading, but it also puts the pressure on me. I guess I just got caught up in the hectic turmoil of inauguration week.

I'd also like to ask two small favors of my readers - first, if you have any questions, suggestions or complaints about where the story has gone or where the plot is going, let me know! That's the beauty of this format. Second, if I don't know you or I just don't know that you're reading, leave me a note saying hello and wherever you're from. Maybe it's working at a writing & development firm, but I love to find out demographics.

Anyways, here's Part 18:

Triumphant Sun


Evan recalled a connection between Samira's father and General Abdel-Kareem. There wasn't much chance that it had anything to do with his investigation, but he might find something he could use, some lead he could follow. He'd read an interview with Lena Crane, the English actress who married an Egyptian, General Rahman and made a splash in the London tabloids. To find his daughter here in Cairo so many years later was a lucky break.

He shook his head. She was staring at him curiously, trying to parse what meaning he might have gleaned from her name. That fixed gaze had a disconcerting effect on
him; he found himself biting at the back of his dry lips in distraction

“Did you know my father?” she asked.

“No, no. But I knew of him. Read about him. Are they here now, or in London?”

“Both passed away; my father here, my mother in London a few years ago.” She paused. “Allah yarhamhum.” She added the Arabic blessing for the dead almost as an afterthought, a dimly remembered but instinctive reaction. “What brought you to Cairo, then?”

Evan opened his mouth to speak but stopped for a moment. Too direct, and she might shy away from helping him. On the other hand, if he lost track of her it would be difficult to find her easily among Cairo's millions. “I'm writing a story, actually. It's being going on for a while now. Hopefully I'll be able to file it soon.”

An expression Evan couldn't identify flicked across Samira's face. Did she already know who he was after, what he was chasing? He pressed on. “You know this city well, don't you?”

“It's been more than a few years,” she replied.

“Still, you might be able to help me out. I'm sure of it, actually.” He pulled a card from his pocket and offered it to her. “Could I get a number, something to get a hold of you later on? I might have a few questions for you.”

Samira took the card, examined it for a moment and slipped it into her purse as the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the American University campus. She dropped a five-pound note in the driver's hand and stepped smoothly out of the cab.

“I'll let you know,” she said over her shoulder.

Evan sat for a moment, watching her fade into the hustling crowd through the metal frame of the taxi's open door. He felt a vague sense of guilt mixed with satisfaction as he toyed with the hotel key-card that had fallen, unseen, out of her pocket and onto the seat as she left. Maybe he should have let her know, but after she brushed him off that way, it was really his only chance. He grinned as he paid the driver the rest of his fare.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 17

The name ticked through Evan's head, turning gears of recollection as it went. Something about the juxtaposition of Arabic and English stirred vague memories.

"I feel I've met you somewhere," he confessed. "I can't really remember, though."

Her eyes never wavered from his face, their gaze sharp and disconcerting. "No, I don't think so."

"You're sure about that?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He leaned back in his seat and watched the city crawl by for a moment. Across the street, soldiers were piling wearily out of a dilapidated, fabric-covered truck, battered rifles slung across their backs. They dropped down from the wooden benches in the back one by one in a disorderly line, marshalling out slowly and without much effort. Put it in black-and-white, Evan thought, and you had documentary footage from the Second World War.

"If you insist, then, Ms. Crane. I guess we haven't met, but I'm not going to stop trying to figure it out."

The smile pulled at her lips again. It had a transforming effect on her face - from a sharp severity anchored by those inescapable eyes, her expression became momentarily open and inviting, her eyes looking almost surprised, they opened so wide.

"Good luck to you in that...Evan, was it?"

"Yes, Evan Rochester. Here, take my card. Evan fished through his wallet and handed one to her, slightly battered and dusty from kicking around the chaos in his billfold. "I've been here a while, if you need any tips. Places to go, not to go. Things like that."

This time she actually laughed. "I think nineteen years in this city more than prepared me. But thank you, Evan."

"Nineteen years?" Evan looked critically at her. They sat in silence for a moment. "But you've only just arrived."

"Hrm?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

He reached over and tapped the slim silver watch on her wrist. "Your watch is on..." Evan twisted his head sideways. "It looks like Greenwich time."

It was strange to see a brown woman blush the way, like someone had poured red wine into a cup of coffee. "Well, you've got me there, Mr. Rochester."

"So when was the last time you were here?"

She sighed. "Almost ten years. We left when my father died, and my mother moved back to England to write for a magazine."

The gears stopped turning in Evan's head and clicked together so clearly he could almost hear it in his head.

"Samira Mohammad Crane Rahman? As in Lena Crane and Khalil Mohammad Rahman?"

She nodded slowly.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 16

I hope to be bringing regular updates throughout the New Year - 52 minimum, inshallah. That's my resolution, and I'm sticking to it if it kills me.

It may yet kill me.

Also, if anyone who was in Egypt can remind me of the name of those delicious fried-dough pastries people had for breakfast, I'd be much obliged. I can't find a reference in my blog, diary, or on the internet.

Edit - fateer! I remembered.

Thanks!

***

Evan munched contentedly on his fateer, watching the flow of pedestrians eddy and flow around the chaos of the sidewalks. An old woman leaned against the cracking plaster of the wall down the street, wrapped in black rags and a white hijab, proffering a lined hand for alms. Her eyes gazed into the middle distance with the vague confusion of the almost blind. Evan counted out the change from Hamid and placed it in her outstretched palm.

Shukran, shukran ya basha,” she began to thank Evan.

“No, it's nothing.” Evan walked to the corner and finished his breakfast, leaning against the dusty wall. He felt a vague sense of guilt eating next to the blind woman. She couldn't see him and his meal was as common and basic as they came, he couldn't help feeling over-indulgent as he licked the last of the honey from his fingers. The sun was beginning to peek over the rooftops, sending bars of light cascading down the street, and on an impulse, Evan decided to take a cab down to Islamic Cairo. He wouldn't find a lead there – far from it – but at present, the dry heat and buzz of the city made him wish for nothing more than to sit in the shade of an alley and pass the day smoking shisha and reading.

Evan knew he ought to try to hunt down someone at the Mogamma, but the idea of spending the day in the faded, claustrophobic rooms of that hellish building was too daunting. He stepped to the corner and flagged down a taxi that was slowing to a halt in front of the café across the street. Ducking under the sill, he slipped into the bead-covered back seat.

A woman stood frozen in the opposite door of the cab, half crouched in the act of entering the car. She wore a broad, brightly patterned teal headscarf that draped loosely around the lower half of her hair and western jeans tucked into high leather boots. For a moment she made as if to tug her scarf up around the loose waves of hair gleaming blackish red in the sun, then dropped them to her side and seated herself beside him

“Sorry...” began Evan in Arabic.

“It's fine. I'm going to the American University,” she said brusquely in English. “You?”

Evan was taken aback by the sudden switch in language. “How'd you know I speak English?” was all he could blurt out.

She looked him up and down, her grey-green irises raking quickly across him. A smile twitched at her mouth. “It's obvious. So, where are you going?”

The cab driver turned around and stared at the two. “Excuse me, but where to?”

“The American University is fine,” said Evan. “That's close to where I'm going.” He turned back to the woman, still staring at him with suspicion in her eyes and amusement on her lips. “Sorry, but I'm very inconsiderate. My name is Evan Rochester.” He proffered his hand.

She shook it lightly, her hands dry and slightly cool. “Samira Mohammed Crane.”

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

War...War Never Changes

Required background reading:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/04/weekinreview/04cohen.html?scp=2&sq=Israel%20twitter&st=cse

What's the story here? Basically, this:

The Israel Defense Forces, recognizing that success in neutralizing the Hamas movement in Gaza is as much a public relations challenge as a military one, has enlisted an arsenal of Internet tools to take their message directly to a global audience. There is a military channel on the video-sharing site YouTube where you can watch suspected Hamas sites being obliterated by ordnance; blogs that spread the message of the foreign affairs ministry; and in the newest wrinkle, a news conference conducted through the microblogging service Twitter.

"Since the definition of war has changed, the definition of public diplomacy has to change as well," said David Saranga, the head of media relations for the Israeli consulate in New York, which conducted the Twitter news conference on Tuesday.
I can't even begin to describe how bizarrely post-modern this is. The idea of using Twitter - one of the most inane technologies of our time - to create the narrative of a war in Gaza just twists my brain completely.

I'm sure that statements like this will be of great solace to the Gazans receiving missiles and shells on their heads.

Question from peoplesworld: 40 years of military confrontation hasn't brought security to Israel, why is this different?

Answer from israelconsulate: We hav 2 prtct R ctzens 2, only way fwd through neogtiations, & left Gaza in 05. y Hamas launch missiles not peace?

EhsanAhmad: you didn't get my point that Hammas is an elected govt and if u keep attacking them they got right to attack you

israelconsulate: if hamas's goal were 2 btr the lives of its cit. they wouldn't target IL. they would invest in edu/hlth not in bombs

backlotops: 1 side has to stop. Why continue what hasn't worked (mass arial/grnd retaliation)? Arab Peace Initiative?

israelconsulate: we R pro nego. crntly tlks r held w the PA + tlks on the 2 state soln. we talk only w/ ppl who accept R rt 2 live.


What a shame that international law has not made a decision about the "rt 2 live." Truly this is one of the pressing issues of our times!

Seriously, Israel? This trivializes the war beyond the wildest dreams of the 24-hour news networks; they might turn it into camera fodder and meaningless backdrops for attractive reporters to bubble nonsense in front of, but to reduce the casus belli to "We hav 2 prtct R ctzens 2" is just insulting.

The kind of communication that Twitter represents is the worst sort that the internet encourages - the constant, unending, lightning-fast torrent of response to absolutely nothing. It's the kind of place where you'd post about what you album you're currently listening to for the delectation of the unthinking cyber-mob. It is, in short, an inappropriate venue for discussing the siege and invasion of a city.

I can only imagine what Genghis Khan's Twitter might have looked like.
'took smrkand 2day. piles o/skulls, rzed wall. was a gud day. 2morrow maybe rape,pillage?'