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, March 22, 2009
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.
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?
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!
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.
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
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.
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.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.
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.
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