ARAB

ARAB by Jim Ingraham Page A

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Authors: Jim Ingraham
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street and while looking around for somewhere to wash his hands, he noticed a small man he was certain he had seen earlier at the restaurant. But maybe not. Was he being followed?
    “I don’t care about your business. Why did you insult me?”
    It had happened weeks ago at the Fishawi Café. He had come upon Amina by chance. She was sitting with two of her friends in the long mirrored room, had seen him and waved to him. Although they barely knew each other—they had attended the same anthropology class at the university in Alexandria and had twice shared a table in the cafeteria, nothing more. She seemed pleased to see him. She was on her way to America, she said. He was flattered that she remembered him and was enjoying the glow of being in her company when he saw Nuha on the sidewalk outside.
    He instinctively looked away. For reasons he didn’t understand and was now ashamed of, he pretended not to recognize her. She was with another woman. If he had spoken to her she would have come in. He would have had to introduce her to Amina. Why didn’t he want to do that? Why hadn’t he got up from the table and joined her, at least for a moment? Why had he looked away? He had turned his back on her, pretending not to know her. Was it weakness, a flaw in his character?
    Now, apparently thinking about the event and the humiliation, tears came to Nuha’s eyes.
    “I wasn’t myself,” he said.
    “You were never more yourself, Bashir. You live separate lives.”
    “You forgive me?”
    “No.”
    “But you don’t hate me.”
    “Are you in love with her?”
    “Nuha, she’s a child! She was a student I had met at the university. She’s gone. She’s in America.”
    “So you come back to me.”
    “She was never anything to me but an acquaintance. My heart has always been with you. Tonight we’ll have dinner at a new, very expensive restaurant on Zamalek. Tonight,” he added, smiling, “we’ll go up to my roof and listen to the stars together.”
    A dart of pleasure touched her eyes, and he knew he had her.
    “You are a joy, Nuha,” he said, tempted to reach for her hand although mindful that his fingers were soiled. He was sure the dung hadn’t touched his skin, but his hand felt dirty. The first chance he had he would scrub the filth off his hands.
    He was admiring Nuha’s soft lips, yearning to kiss them, when someone came up behind him and clamped a big hand on his shoulder, almost lifting him from the chair.
    “Hey! What’s…?”
    “You must excuse us for a moment, Miss,” spoken in a deep, gruff voice.
    Bashir knew the voice. He knew the stench of wine and sweat. He resented the intrusion and was frightened by the big man but was careful not to show it when he looked up.
    “Diab!”
    “Business,” the big man said. “We have to talk business.”
    In his confusion, Bashir tossed an apologetic glance at Nuha. He raised both hands to signify helplessness.
    “Be just a minute,” he said.
    Diab laughed. “I think a little longer than that.”
    Bashir considered arguing. Nuha would be furious if after this buildup, this healing of the wounds, he were to walk out of her life again. She wouldn’t have much respect for him if he were dragged off like a howling dog. And Diab would drag him off if he resisted; he was that kind of egotistical oaf. And he was strong as a horse.
    “Sorry, Nuha, I have to go. It’s business. I promise I’ll be at your place at seven-thirty.” He gave her a big smile. “Exactly seven-thirty. And I’ll bring roses!”
    Half way down the sidewalk, Diab said, “I don’t think you’ll be keeping that promise.”
    There was enough malice in the voice to frighten Bashir and drive from his mind a quickening resentment of having been humiliated in front of Nuha by this unlettered, unwashed fellah. What must she think? She could see that Diab was lower class. How could he explain the humiliation?
    “What’s this about?” Bashir said.
    “Be patient.”
    This pig has

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