casual, even if meaningless conversation.
Bashir shrugged, looked around for someone to share his puzzlement. No one was watching.
*
For the hour it took Bashir to cross the river and drive to the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, he tried to figure out why he had been invited to meet Esmat Bindari. It was unprecedented. Bindari was an important man! Bashir was a mechanic! And Bindari hadn’t wanted to eat, hadn’t wanted a conversation. He had endured Bashir’s presence only long enough to tell him he was to change jobs. He could have posted a notice on the bulletin board! Bashir shrugged. The ways of the rich and powerful bewildered him.
He pushed that from his mind as he stood near glistening stacks of metal tubs in a kosheri stall, waiting for Nuha to notice him, amused by chattering voices in moving lines behind him—women strolling past displays of fruit on painted pushcarts, children bouncing balls on crooked walkways down long lanes of vendors’ stalls here in one of Cairo’s best-known tourist magnets.
His friend at the Parisian Café had told the truth: Nuha was here. She was less than twenty feet from him, a golden girl in white blouse and beige slacks, standing near a pyramid of oranges, talking to a tall turbaned man in a white dishdasha who was holding the flexible pipe of a bubbler, nibbling the mouthpiece, listening to her but watching two women in front of his vegetable racks fingering a leafy mound of melokhia.
“Don’t bruise the leaves,” he said.
“We’re looking for sand.”
“Try the desert.”
The women giggled and moved on. Nuha watched them stroll past the kosheri stand. When she noticed Bashir, her face stiffened.
Assuming the tall man to be her father, Bashir put on his warmest smile and held out his hand. “Mr. Za’im?”
“By virtue of my honored father, that is true,” the tall man said, a small cloud of smoke leaking from his mouth. “And you are…?”
“Don’t come near me!” Nuha said, stepping behind her father.
Mr. Za’im laughed, ignoring Bashir’s hand. “I think I’ve heard of you,” he said. “She hates you.”
“We have to talk,” Bashir said to Nuha.
“Go away!”
“Please,” Bashir said. “A few minutes. I have to explain.”
“You insulted me, Bashir. You humiliated me in front of my friend.”
“I’m sorry, Nuha. Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You saw me in the mirror. You looked right at me!”
Mr. Za’im raised his free hand, the one not holding the pipe. “Stop! Take this somewhere else. I’m selling food here.”
“Tell him to go away!”
“You’re twenty-four years old, Nuha. You tell him.”
He stepped from in front of her, put his hand on her back and urged her toward Bashir.
*
“Why should I go anywhere with you?” she said, protesting even as she walked ahead of him toward the street.
“Because you can’t live without me.”
“Ha!”
She walked straight into traffic, causing a car to suddenly stop, a driver to scream at her. She slapped the rump of a donkey and hopped over animal droppings, angry at him, but anger is not indifference and not rejection, he told himself.
She waited at a small table near the sidewalk while he fetched the coffee, a small service for a beautiful woman.
“It’s the same woman you were seen with before!”
“The daughter of Aziz al-Khalid. You didn’t recognize her?” He was bent over, napkin in hand, scrubbing dung off his shoe, careful not to soil his fingers.
“I heard.”
He straightened up. “Then you realize why I wanted to be seen with her. Contacts, Nuha! Success depends entirely on contacts.” It pleased him that Nuha had recognized the girl. He wondered how many other of his acquaintances had seen him with the daughter of Aziz Al-Khalid. It would increase his stature. Stature creates respect. And respect is the answer, the ultimate reward. To be respected, to be esteemed, is the foundation for success!
He tossed the soiled napkin toward the
Bashir shrugged, looked around for someone to share his puzzlement. No one was watching.
*
For the hour it took Bashir to cross the river and drive to the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, he tried to figure out why he had been invited to meet Esmat Bindari. It was unprecedented. Bindari was an important man! Bashir was a mechanic! And Bindari hadn’t wanted to eat, hadn’t wanted a conversation. He had endured Bashir’s presence only long enough to tell him he was to change jobs. He could have posted a notice on the bulletin board! Bashir shrugged. The ways of the rich and powerful bewildered him.
He pushed that from his mind as he stood near glistening stacks of metal tubs in a kosheri stall, waiting for Nuha to notice him, amused by chattering voices in moving lines behind him—women strolling past displays of fruit on painted pushcarts, children bouncing balls on crooked walkways down long lanes of vendors’ stalls here in one of Cairo’s best-known tourist magnets.
His friend at the Parisian Café had told the truth: Nuha was here. She was less than twenty feet from him, a golden girl in white blouse and beige slacks, standing near a pyramid of oranges, talking to a tall turbaned man in a white dishdasha who was holding the flexible pipe of a bubbler, nibbling the mouthpiece, listening to her but watching two women in front of his vegetable racks fingering a leafy mound of melokhia.
“Don’t bruise the leaves,” he said.
“We’re looking for sand.”
“Try the desert.”
The women giggled and moved on. Nuha watched them stroll past the kosheri stand. When she noticed Bashir, her face stiffened.
Assuming the tall man to be her father, Bashir put on his warmest smile and held out his hand. “Mr. Za’im?”
“By virtue of my honored father, that is true,” the tall man said, a small cloud of smoke leaking from his mouth. “And you are…?”
“Don’t come near me!” Nuha said, stepping behind her father.
Mr. Za’im laughed, ignoring Bashir’s hand. “I think I’ve heard of you,” he said. “She hates you.”
“We have to talk,” Bashir said to Nuha.
“Go away!”
“Please,” Bashir said. “A few minutes. I have to explain.”
“You insulted me, Bashir. You humiliated me in front of my friend.”
“I’m sorry, Nuha. Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You saw me in the mirror. You looked right at me!”
Mr. Za’im raised his free hand, the one not holding the pipe. “Stop! Take this somewhere else. I’m selling food here.”
“Tell him to go away!”
“You’re twenty-four years old, Nuha. You tell him.”
He stepped from in front of her, put his hand on her back and urged her toward Bashir.
*
“Why should I go anywhere with you?” she said, protesting even as she walked ahead of him toward the street.
“Because you can’t live without me.”
“Ha!”
She walked straight into traffic, causing a car to suddenly stop, a driver to scream at her. She slapped the rump of a donkey and hopped over animal droppings, angry at him, but anger is not indifference and not rejection, he told himself.
She waited at a small table near the sidewalk while he fetched the coffee, a small service for a beautiful woman.
“It’s the same woman you were seen with before!”
“The daughter of Aziz al-Khalid. You didn’t recognize her?” He was bent over, napkin in hand, scrubbing dung off his shoe, careful not to soil his fingers.
“I heard.”
He straightened up. “Then you realize why I wanted to be seen with her. Contacts, Nuha! Success depends entirely on contacts.” It pleased him that Nuha had recognized the girl. He wondered how many other of his acquaintances had seen him with the daughter of Aziz Al-Khalid. It would increase his stature. Stature creates respect. And respect is the answer, the ultimate reward. To be respected, to be esteemed, is the foundation for success!
He tossed the soiled napkin toward the
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