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.

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.

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.