Triumphant Sun, Pt. 14

A bent, old man whose face was covered in fine wrinkles set down her coffee and her shisha with a gaptoothed grin and retreated to his permanent post before the flickering television which flashed back and forth between grey and color images. The first sip burnt her lips and she barely avoided spilling the coffee in surprise. She turned her chair so that the flash of the TV no longer hovered at the edge of her vision and puffed thoughtfully on the pipe, watching the cars tracing their chaotic paths across the square.

She'd begun to realize that she really had no leads for the story she wanted to write – no idea who owned the grand houses in Zamalek and in the wealthy suburbs. Once, her father would have known all the owners, her mother would have been to parties at each of them, but now they were as mysterious to her as any tourist. Most of them wouldn't appreciate a journalist poking into them either – they'd send her packing in an instant.

She sipped the coffee again, now cool enough to drink. The taste rolled around on her tongue, at once sweet, bitter and slightly gritty from the fine grounds. Good, but far from the best she'd had. Even in London, there had been a Lebanese cafe down the street from her office where she'd had cup after cup of coffee while trying to finish her deadlines. She fished in her bag for a notebook and her insulin and opened it on the metal table.

Swearing under her breath, she realised she'd forgotten her meter, and paused a moment before simply guessing at the number and dialing in a few units. She earned a few strange glances from the ahwa's denizens as she slipped the needle under the hem of her blouse and injected herself. By this point, she'd grown accustomed to the stares of strangers confused by the operations of her disease. Still, it felt unusually awkward on a street corner in Cairo.

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 13

Samira's head felt full of sand and cotton wool as she levered herself out of sleep. Her tongue had the thick, tingling sensation that meant something was wrong with her blood sugar, and she moaned quietly to herself and shuffled across the room to her desk, sheets still looped loosely around her naked body, trailing on the carpet. The first jab of the lancet failed to draw blood, but the second jabbed too deep and bled profusely.

The glowing numbers popped out in the gloom and Samira hung her head. At 251, no wonder she felt the dragging, sickly sensation. She dialed a moderate dose of insulin and injected it roughly into her thigh, a tiny dot of blood welling up there as well. Though there was no way the drug could act that fast, a sense of relief bloomed through her limbs – a trick of the mind, to be sure, but a reassuring one.

She dialed up the water to its hottest setting and climbed into the cramped shower, shivering as the spray shifted from mildly chilling to almost scalding. The heat blasted her skin, almost burning away the sensation of sickness and lethargy. Head tilted and eyes closed into the scouring flow, she stood motionless for a while.

Her mind wandered – to her empty flat in London, dust gathering on the photographs and newspaper clippings; to her father's empty house, decaying in the middle of the ravenous city; to the quiet house in Greenwich that they had occupied after their personal exodus, with the Egyptian tapestries on the walls and the English records on the stereo, the twin scents of her mother's Dunhill cigarettes and roast lamb filling the house.

She dressed and walked down to the sprawling lobby of the hotel, a confusing sprawl filled with American Express branches and tacky shops hawking fake Pharaonic memorabilia. A vague, irritating sense of nationalism reminded her that the historical souvenirs always managed to conveniently forget the intervening millennium and a half of Islamic rule.

A glance at the absurd prices at the hotel cafés made her laugh in derision as she wound her way out onto the street to start her first true day back in the city.

Triumphant Sun, pt. 4

The envelope rested on a table between the two men. Carlos drummed his fingers irritably on his chair. A thick silence filled the room as he stared at the envelope. Finally, he pushed it away and inhaled a dense stream of smoke. “It's too much of a mess, Evan. I'd like to help you but...”

Evan leaned forward and took the envelope back. Outside, the storm had slowed and the sun began to gleam through the tarnished light. They lapsed back into a wordless haze. Evan rolled the cool, biting taste of lime and tonic around on his tongue, a perfect antidote to the dry harshness outside. The gin stung in the cracks that the heat and sand had left on his lips.

“Fair enough,” said Evan finally. He rose, finishing his drink and walking to the bar to pour himself another. “You should just forget I ever brought it to you.

Carlos crooked a smile with half his face. “Done. So what happened to your leave, anyways? Weren't you going to head home for a bit?”

“I was. But you know how big this is. If I've got to deal with it, I think I'm going to be here for a bit longer. More than a bit.” Evan ran his fingertips, damp from the condensation on the glass, through his hair.

“Bet you're thrilled.”

“Well, on the one hand it's a month or two more in Cairo.”

“And on the other?”
“It's a month or two more in Cairo,” Evan quipped. He paused, staring out the window. “Anyways, I''m going to head out. If I need to drop some stuff here, could I?”

“No worries,” said Carlos, holding open the door. “Any time you get sick of Stella and tea, I'm your man.”

Evan paused at the bottom of the staircase, standing a moment in the cool shadows. Only one of the bulbs was lit, and it blinked fitfully. The beginnings of a headache teased at the back of his head and he rubbed his temples with both hands, staring out at the almost painfully bright sunlight at the end of the corridor. The bawab had returned and dozed in his chair by the entrance, a cup of tea cradled in his wrinkled hand. Evan walked softly so as not to disturb the man as he emerged into the heavy sunlight.

The island of Zamalek felt quiet compared to the rest of Cairo, and the men armed with Kalashnikovs underpinned the sense of prosperity on every street corner. A group of school-boys in uniform scrambled down the street, bouncing off of cars and walls like so many tumbling creatures. A cab swerved to the corner but Evan waved the driver off and donned his sunglasses before the man could speak. The storm seemed a bit weaker now, and the walk to his apartment would help clear his spinning head.

***

Samira licked the blood from her fingertips. It had a salty taste mixed with the tiny grains of sand blowing through across the Nile. She ran her hands through her hair in frustration, threw a scarf around her throat and headed downstairs to the hotel to get a drink and wash away the dry feeling in her throat that she can't shake. The stares of the porters and clerks bounced off the shell of her indifference. She still felt wobbly though her shoes were flat and the dazed sensation of diabetic lows gave her the oddest sensation of standing feet over her own head and directing her motion like a puppeteer. For a moment she leaned on the banister.

Her finger was still bleeding and she put it in her mouth again before it spotted on to her pale blue dress. A group of rich young Egyptian men wearing garish designer clothes walked by with predatory gazes. She stared at coldly at them, shooting contempt from her steel-gray eyes.

One leaned over and blew a kiss to her. “Yaa habibi!” he called to her from across the hall.

Samira consciously snapped out of her unconsciously coquettish pose. “Allah yuqra baytik,” she snapped back, an Egyptian oath more or less translating to 'May God step on your home'. Patently absurd in English, it was effective as a whiplash in Egypt

He recoiled as if punched and stalked away to the laughter of his companions while Samira glided serenely on and got to the bar without shaking to order a gin and tonic and a tall glass of mango juice, draining half the juice in a single gulp and taking a long sip of the cocktail. Her fist coiled in a tight ball around the fringe of her scarf.

She took another drink of juice and felt the effect as it began to steady her nerves. The only thing worse than a low, she thought, was a high, when her body became enervated and the sugar poisoned her from the inside out. Highs and lows, ups and downs in endless cycles that tore one way and then another.

Her phone jangled and she shut it off after a quick glance. Fourteen hours and halfway across the world, London could wait. She took a palm-sized notebook from her purse and jotted down the number 59 in neat, round characters with a red pen. It added to the crimson digits cascading down the page, every single one representing a low blood sugar, with only a few little islands of black or blue interrupting it. Weren't, she thought and not for the first time, diabetics supposed to have high sugars?

She'd smoothed her rough edges and she finally relaxed a little and allowed herself a tight smile. She had wheedled, bullied, begged and twisted arms but at last the paper had chosen her to take over the Cairo desk and it had been a personal point of honor that she hadn't once mentioned her father's name, even if she doubted they would have understood the importance. She wondered what it meant here. Khalil Mohammed Rahman had been a legend and a terror in his time, and being his daughter would have to mean something, even the daughter of his English widow. And what would he have thought of her gin and tonic? Probably just judged her brand of gin. The thought amused her.

She pulled out a second notebook slightly larger than the first and began to write quickly, the letters slanting more with each word until she held the book almost perpendicular to her body. Without a definite assignment from the London desk, the first few weeks would be impressions, local color pieces and soft features about eccentric characters. Her hotel room was too removed from the pulse of the city – that would have to change. An apartment in Mohandiseen or better yet Downtown, if she could manage it. The western hotels and restaurants of Zamalek were too sheltered and other parts of the city lay too far from the centers of power in the Mogamma and the ministry buildings.

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 2

The cab pulled away, weaving through the pandemonium with practiced abandon. A bus hurtled by, men leaning from its open doors at alarming angles. There were no windows at all, and smoke – whether cigarette or diesel – poured from the vehicle in waves. Evan tried to look through his papers but lurching of the car prevented him from doing anything but gripping the door and hoping the whole contraption didn't fall to pieces.

For his part, the driver carried on a blistering flow of conversation into his cell phone while smoking the battered remains of cheap Egyptian cigarette. Occasionally, he blew his nose with great gusto on tissues from gaudy tin box on the dashboard, painted gold and laced with Qu'ranic verses. Evan wondered if the thing possessed some religious purpose – perhaps tissues needed some special blessing from Allah - or whether it was just supposed to add to the interior design of the car. This already featured a lurid, zebra-patterned acrylic fur dashboard, a Qu'ranic verse in window decals and a good luck charm to ward off the evil, eye swaying from the rear-view like loose rigging on a ship.

The traffic slowed to a crawl. The driver leaned out the window, uttered a few choice Arabic curses, and then retreated from a volley of equally enraged responses like an alarmed hermit crab pulling into its shell.

“It is the government,” he apologized in Arabic. “The traffic is bad because they are coming.”

“To give a speech?” replied Evan.

“No, just driving across 26^th July.” It was one of the major bridges arching across the Nile. Mr. X sighed. An official motorcade locked down the snarled roadways of Cairo for hours as it roared by at full speed with its motorcycles, armored trucks and limousines,. Any politician or officer with enough clout could command one, a privilege abused as often as possible in the otherwise impassable Cairene gridlock. “Inshallah, it will not be long.” The driver shrugged and lit another cigarette and leaned back in his seat.

“Inshallah,” replied Evan, echoing the Egyptian fatalism. Everything in Egypt operated on that principle - If Allah wills it. Inshallah, the work will be done tomorrow. Inshallah, we will have fair elections. Inshallah, I will be paid today – and if not, inshallah it will be tomorrow! All business conducted as if man had but a passing influence on the events of the world. On the one hand, as a philosophy of life, it dissolved many day-to-day cares. On the other, some problems were too important to trust to Allah's inconsistent influence.

“You would like cigarette?” Evan shook his head. “You are American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Egyptians like Americans very much, you know,” he said, with the air of a man bequeathing mystical truths. “We like the American people very much. It is only...” Here he paused, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “It is only your President. Bush is very bad, and hates Egyptian people, Muslim people. But we know that your President and your people are different. We love the American people.”

“I don't doubt it. Everyone is very friendly.”

“Yes! Egyptian people are the world's friendliest. Did you know that?”

“I'm not surprised.” Evan began to wish he had taken the cigarette, just so he would have something else to besides sit with his hands awkwardly on his lap.

“Ah, but we are very bad, too. Many will try to rob you – try to cheat you! You must be very careful that nobody tries to cheat you.” The driver shook his head sadly. “It's a great problem, really. Nobody follows the law, and everybody tries to steal. Especially the government, they are the worst. Look at this – all these people waiting, and why? A minister in a hurry.”
E leaned forward. “Do many people feel this way? About the ministers, and the government?”

“Of course! Everybody is tired of it. But what can you do? Things are like that.”

“Yes. Still, maybe someday things will be better.”

“Inshallah.” That seemed to be the end of it. The traffic began to flow again as the police escort's wailing sirens disappeared back into the city. They moved forward by fits and starts that became the dashing, swerving combat of traffic.

*|*

“Of course I'm not smuggling drugs!” Samira Mohammed Crane folded her arms and tossed waves of thick, black hair over her shoulder. The customs official, a fat, passive man with the obstinate demeanor of a camel, stared back at her. Her eyes, like round obsidian flakes, sparked with anger. He held up a clear packet of syringes and three vials of smoky liquid.

“What is the purpose of these, please?” he asked in English.

“For the millionth bloody time, I'm diabetic.” The man stared blankly. Samira switched into a stiff but educated Arabic. “I have sugar in my blood and I need to take injections. Understand? Diabetes, the disease.”

“Ah, diabetes. Marhaba,” he replied, accented with the heavy drawl of a Saidi, from the south of Egypt.

“Finally.”

“Do you have a letter?”
“A what?”

“A letter, for permission.”

“Permission for what?”

“Permission to have drugs for the diabetes.”
“I need the drugs. I don't have any letter. You, you absolutely...” She burst out into English, “You silly little man!”

He shrugged with all the resignation of a bureaucrat at last back on comfortable ground. “I'm sorry, but without a letter of permission it is not possible.”

Samira looked around the terminal entrance in dismay. All around, tourists lugged behemoths on little black wheels across the spotted tile flour. An Egyptian man wearing alligator loafers and a pinstriped suit with a turqoise shirt stood amongst a small group of them, holding a sign saying A&O Tours.

“Excuse me,” she said, picking the plastic bag and striding over to the tour guide. “Yaa raab,” she greeted him quietly.

The man's expression leaped from boredom to leering enthusiasm. “How may I help you, madmoiselle?” he replied.

“I'm sorry, but the customs are giving me trouble. Do you think you could take me with your group.”
“No problem at all, madmoiselle. My name is Tareq Ramadan. But what is...”

“Not important.” With a smooth handshake born of tipping maitre'des at a hundred London restaurants, she slid twenty Egyptian pounds into his hand.

“It's my honor,” he said with an oily smile.

She loitered for a few moments, watching the customs official stolidly inspect the bags of unlucky travellers. When the group finally gathered, more than a few stared at the slight, dark woman with the finely tailored suit who had joined into the little huddle of nylon windbreakers, khaki shorts and digital cameras. With a smirk and a nod from the tour leader, the whole group swept past customs with grand indifference.

As she slipped away from the group, Tareq tried to interrupt her exit. “Pardon, madame, but please tell me your name. Perhaps...”

“Fatima,” she replied, letting her hand linger in his for a moment and then peeling off into the turbulent crowds of Cairo International Airport.