photo courtesy of David Lisbona
Cairo is a different city in the dark. The withering light gone, the edges and the noise both seem less jagged.
What the horn is to daytime driving, headlights are to the night. Drivers often do not keep their headlights on as they drive. Rather, they flash them at approaching cars like some kind of semaphore. Once the signal is received and acknowledged, the lights are again turned off.
I try to ask Gamal about it, but he doesn’t seem to understand my question or my curiosity: “Why do I turn my lights on? So the car can see me.” He tells me something about being able to see better in the dark when I ask him why he doesn’t just leave them on. In a way it’s true. Screaming down the road in pitch blackness has caused my pupils to open as wide as cats’, and I can spot a cook fire a half mile off.
Honestly, I think all of my senses are heightened – I can feel the repeating texture of the vinyl dashboard as I grip it with both hands, and peer terrified into the darkness ahead. I want to tell Gamal it would be even easier to see cars coming if everyone just kept their goddamned lights on, but I don’t want to distract him, or be some sort of headlight imperialist.
Gradually, the intervals between intersections lessens, and the traffic increases as we make our way back into the throng of Cairo. In the city proper, the headlight regime seems to go out the window, with some cars using them continuously and others not. The cars that do use their lights, along with the shops, street vendors and the occasional streetlamp, provide a good deal of ambient light, and I relax and let go of the dashboard.
I mention to Gamal that I am hungry. I’m not sure why I do this. It is really just an observation, or maybe a conversation starter – a way to start a discussion of, say, food. For Gamal it is another – and perhaps the last – opportunity to squeeze the services of some friend of his into my life.
“You like Egyptian food?”
Even if all they ate in Egypt was kimchee, I’m not the kind of person that would answer “no” to this. “Yeah, sure I like Egyptian food,” I say, standing solidly on my two meals of toast with jam, and pizza. I realize that I forgot to eat lunch – further testament to the spectacle of the pyramids. I am now starving.
“I know a very good place.”
This is not exactly a surprise. “Really? It’s not too fancy is it? Because, I’m not really in the mood for fancy.” I feel like I am dating Gamal.
“No, no, not too fancy. This is a typical Egyptian restaurant. Very typical food. Very typical people. Many Egyptian people. You will like it – and very cheap.”
I don’t feel as if I have much say in these matters anymore, and I am hungry, so I give Gamal the OK, and we head for what I am sure is a friend’s restaurant.
The large plastic sign says “International Public Meal Kushari.” Despite Gamal’s assurances, I have the sinking feeling that I am about to eat in the Outback Steakhouse of Egypt.
For having a pretty big name, the place is surprisingly small inside, and instead of “many Egyptian people,” there isn’t anyone at all. A couple of waiters, a cook and another man that I take to be the owner lean against the counter staring up at a small television mounted high on the wall. The owner is the only one who seems to notice us come in. He takes another quick look up at the screen before coming over to greet us. He and Gamal exchange words and a hug, and then he shakes my hand, and beckons us sit down. From my seat, I can see that they are watching a soccer match. I don’t recognize the teams, but they obviously do.
The owner turns to his staff and barks something. With nothing that could remotely pass for enthusiasm, they stand and busy themselves. One brings me a menu, while the other waiter stands on a chair and switches the TV to CNN. He looks at me and makes a bit of a flourish with his hand, as if presenting satellite television for the first time. I nod my thanks, embarrassed.
“Tell them they don’t have to change the channel.”
“No, it is no problem. You are their guest, so we will watch American TV.” A montage of stills of Princess Diana cycles across the screen ending with the Paris tunnel and flowers.
“I don’t want them to miss the game.”
“It’s OK, really.” Gamal is now staring at CNN.
“No, I really don’t want to watch all this crap about Princess Diana.”
Gamal looks at me like I’ve said something wrong. “It wasn’t just Princess Diana. Dodi Fayed also died.”
“Yes, of course, I didn’t mean to exclude him. It’s a tragedy, all of it, but I don’t want to watch anymore of it. It really makes me sad.” This is a bit of a stretch.
“Really?” Gamal buys it.
“Yes, really.”
“What would you like to watch? We have MTV.”
“I’d like to watch the football.”
“It’s not American football.”
I assure Gamal that I know it is not American football, but that I like it anyway. “OK, no problem.” Gamal shrugs and calls to one of the waiters who smiles and changes the channel back. Everyone but Gamal seems pleased with this choice.
When the second waiter comes over accompanied by the owner, and asks what I would like to eat, I ask him what the specialty is. Of course it is, “kushari,” and I feel mildly idiotic. I wouldn’t ask this question at the International House of Pancakes. The only thing left to wonder is what kushari is. Gamal takes over, and explains that it basically means “leftovers.”
While nothing sounds better in a restaurant than leftovers, I have to ask, leftovers of what? The owner jumps in and tells me that they are not actually leftovers, but a traditional stew of rice, noodles lentils, tomatoes, fried onions and some other things that I don’t quite catch. I’m in.
I ask Gamal, what he’s having and he tells me, “nothing” that he’s full and pats his stomach. It is now well into the evening, and I have been with him since lunch time. Unless the papyrus guy or the fat man fed him, he hasn’t eaten either.
“Look, Gamal, please order something. I’m paying, because I don’t want to eat alone. In my country it is bad manners to eat in front of someone.”
He agrees to have kushari as well, but only to make me more comfortable.
Kushari turns out to be leftovers of nothing like I’ve ever had before. It’s good, and spicy, and a nice break from the falafel I’ve been living on. The owner returns to our table to see how we like the food. “Very good,” I tell him, “spicy,” and wave my hand in front of my mouth in what I hope is a universal gesture.
“You like beer?”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but yeah a beer sounds great – even better than Fanta.
“How many beers you drink?”
“Maybe two, three.”
He turns and says something to one of the waiters who nods and walks out the front door, and returns about a minute and a half later, as I’m again filling my mouth with spicy kushari, with three bottles of, “Stella”. It’s Egyptian beer with a bit of reputation among travelers – something about causing blindness or at least wicked headaches because of formaldehyde, or the fact that it travels for days on the back of flatbed trucks through the desert – and only the Australians seem to drink it. I vowed to avoid it, but sitting in front of me with rivulets of condensation running down the smooth sides of the green bottles, as the spicy kushari burns my mouth, it is impossible to resist. I raise the nearest bottle to my lips and take a long drink. Blindness is not too high a price to pay for the taste of cold beer sliding down my throat.
“Good?” Gamal asks.
“Very good. Gamal, do you – would you like a beer?” I motion to the two remaining bottles that are pooling water on the table.
“Ah, no, no thank you.”
I take it that Gamal doesn’t drink beer, but he seems to derive real pleasure from watching me. When his plate of kushari arrives, he thanks me profusely and digs in. I’m not sure which one I am attacking harder – the kushari, or the beer – but eventually I have to stop for a breath.
Gamal senses the pause. “Patrick, do you think they killed her because she was going to marry an Egyptian?”
“What? Killed who?”
“Princess Diana.”
Jesus, there is no escaping her. “No I don’t think so. Who are ‘they’ anyway?”
“The British secret police, and the royal family.”
“Why would they care?”
“Because she might marry an Egyptian, and have a child with him.”
“Because she would be queen, and that would make him king, and then Egypt would take over the U.K.?”
“No, that would never happen.” Gamal looks away. I think I have irritated him. “But her son, who will become king, could have siblings that were half Arab. You think it is crazy?”
“Yes, I do.” I reach for the second bottle of Stella.
“It is not. They would do it.”
“Look, Gamal, don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet that the average British wanker doesn’t really care about Egypt, or who Princess Diana is dating.”
“What is a wanker?”
“It’s not important. It’s just not a big deal.”
“Egypt is not a big deal?”
“Egypt is great, but no, it’s probably not a big deal to most Britons.”
“We have a great history.”
“I know you do, Gamal. Christ, I was just at the pyramids an hour ago, and it was fantastic. I know it was Arabs who brought the idea of the number zero to Europe, and that without it there we be no mathematics as we know it.” This is exactly all I know about the great history – in fact I’m proud of working in the zero, and “no mathematics as we know it” sounds sufficiently grave.
“Maybe it was the Israelis.”
“What?”
“The Jews.”
“I know who the Israelis are. Why would they care about Princess Diana?”
“Because they don’t want –”
“Because they don’t want Egypt to garner more support from Britain through their ex-princesses’ boyfriend?” I cut Gamal off. “That’s ridiculous.” Putting my beer down on the table a little harder than I mean to, causes a foam eruption that I must contain with my mouth, and takes something away from my standing to call other people ridiculous.
Gamal looks surprised. My outburst may have registered a notch above what the Egyptians consider polite agitation. I smile to show that it was inadvertent, momentary, and that my train is now back on its track.
It’s not that you can’t be irritated or angry in Egypt – in fact that seems to be the default setting of a significant sector of the population – but you cannot lose control. The yelling in the street is somehow subdued, the volume dialed up only to 7. Full throated screaming would indicate lack of control, and make a person appear foolish.
“Gamal,” I say in as even a tone as I can produce, “I’m sorry for calling you ridiculous.”
“It’s OK. These are the kinds of things we think about. It is easier to blame someone.”
I nod, and try to think of something to say to bring the conversation to some sort of mealy-mouthed resolution, but can’t. Gamal fishes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket.
“This is the middle east, Patrick, anything happens here.” He lights his cigarette, and we lapse back into watching the ebb and flow of the soccer game. Attacks are countered, the ball cleared, and counterattacks launched.
Gamal drops me back in front of the Tulip Hotel, thanking me again and again for dinner. I pay him more than he asks for the taxi fare. It ends up being surprisingly cheap, given that he spent most of the day with me.
“Tomorrow, I will pick you up right here and take you to the station. Half past six in the evening. Good night.” He guns the four cylinders of his Fiat, and rattles into the night.
I’m surprised at the effect three bottles of crummy Egyptian beer has on me, but the slight drunkenness feels good. According to my wristwatch math, it is a little after eleven, and while there are still strollers and hawkers in the street, I can’t find any counterweight to the force of the bed I know is waiting for me four long flights of stairs up.