Sara's muscles tensed as the plane fell briefly, suspending itself with a jolt like a marionette. She cursed her brother, Paul, for dragging her halfway around the world to his rescue. And she cursed Paul's wife, Betty, for being so weak. It seemed like it was only yesterday when Sara sat across the table from Paul and Betty as they presented his grand plan to Sara, a year ago. They were sitting at a cafe on the Upper West Side, his wife Betty blowing lazily on the foam of her capuccino, as Paul explained that he had quit his job as a computer analyst. He needed to grow, he said. He needed to follow his dream as a writer, he said. He had to leave the city. He could only write in a parched, empty place. The Middle East, he said. Sara stared incredulously at Betty through the light steam that rose from their coffee cups. But Sara's tongue was frozen. It was not her place. It was Betty's place to keep him tethered to the fence that separates reality from fantasy. It was Betty's responsibility to watch over him. Ten months later, the tether had been sliced. Betty returned to New York-alone-begging Sara to go back and look for Paul, her missing Paul.
The airplane doors slid open and the heavy Cairene air rolled in. Her fellow travelers, mostly young Egyptian men in freshly pressed Levi's, carried themselves somberly through the silent airport. As she walked toward the customs agent, her eyes were drawn to local men, who seemed to have only experienced foreign lands through peeks into newly arrived suitcases. She looked nervously at childlike, heavily armed guards who stared back at her under their tilted, black berets as she exited the airport.
She walked out into the cool, violet night to an explosion of tambourines and loud voices. Hands, arms, chests and backsides collided as people greeted each other joyously. Wrinkled men in white galabiyyas embraced their voyagers from New York. Stout women with padded hips shouted jubilantly while young children splashed in the dry, powdery floor. The constant chatter, smoke and laughter clashed with Sara's images of a hostile people that had seemingly swallowed her brother in one breath. Her muscles relaxed while a blue, melancholy wind whistled in the air.
She noticed an army of taxi drivers aggressively surveying the scene. "Taxi, Taxi," said a short, clay-colored man.
"How much to Pension Athens?" she inquired nonchalantly, trying to appear like a world-weary traveler.
"Sixty pounds."
Sara walked away as he yelled out fifty-five.
She crossed a pack of drivers and approached a young man with black, curly hair and a wide, golden grin calmly leaning against the side of his taxi.
"How much to Pension Athens?" she inquired non-chalantly, trying to appear like a world-weary traveller.
"For your beauty I would do it for free, but as you know I must eat," he unfolded his arms. "Thirty pounds." She battled against her instinct to decline the offer from the flirtatious driver for the sake of cultural openness and aching joints.
The cab's ceiling was lined in Christmas lights, a bright turquoise necklace with an Arabic inscription danced from the cracked, rear view mirror, and the dead meter was cloaked in a thick layer of dust. The backseat leaned heavily to the left, forcing Sara to strain her thighs as she balanced on the middle hump. She had a perfect view of the driver's gold tooth through the rear view mirror.
"Here on vacation?" he asked in a familial manner.
"Yes."
"Your first time in Cairo?"
"Yes," she said, trying to gauge whether he was just friendly or lonely.
"Are you married?"
"No," she responded impatiently, remembering the string of lunatics she had once called dates, left on the other side of the world.
"Are you traveling alone?" Their eyes locked in the mirror. She looked down at the car door. The handle was intact. She thought of the discounted fare and wondered if he would expect more at the end of the ride. She started imagining her escape from the cab at the next red light.
"No," she lied. "My fiance is waiting for me at the Pension."
Cars' horns tore into the black sky in a consistent, rhythmic manner. She was somehow calmed by what she saw on the highway. It was divided in the middle by small parks filled with tall, rotund women, wrapped in black cloth, tending to their children. The cool night here, she thought, must have pushed them out of their homes. Her visions of throwing herself out of the speeding cab dissipated when a white van filled with veiled women pulled up next to their taxi. In unison, the women cupped their mouths, and pushed loud air out of their rosy, circular lips as they rapidly rolled their wine colored tongues. Their yodelling sounded celebratory.
"The beauty of marriage," the cab driver laughed. Her curiosity smothered her fear of the cab driver.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"They are coming from a wedding party. You can not escape it. Cairo is always full of weddings." She tried to imagine New York full of weddings, streamers flying down Broadway, long banquet tables covered in flowers lining the sidewalks, people dancing in the middle of the streets.
She was brought back from her thoughts when the car suddenly stalled. Horns honked wildly as the cab driver got out of his car and lifted the hood. A few drivers yelled at him as they slowly drove around him and his taxi. They became a fork in the road, like a clump of rice surrounded by ants. After a slight inspection he pulled a small rubber hose from the front seat. Sara watched as he stuck one end of the hose in an opening under the hood, and then stuck the other end in his mouth. He then proceeded to suck fluid into his mouth and spit it out on the road. He did this three times. Wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, slammed the hood shut and slipped back into the car.
The cab driver laughed and said something Sara did not hear, for she was thinking about Paul and his love of inertia. She couldn't imagine her brother being this resourceful. She couldn't imagine him having the force of will to fix a stalled car in the middle of traffic. She imagined Cairo moaning and heaving while its people wove strings and tubes through the buildings to keep the city from fragmenting into the desert. It was the middle of the night and the city was in constant movement. She began to understand how Paul could have gotten lost.
The cab pulled into a wide dark alley and something soft began to melt inside of Sara. She noticed three mounds moving slowly in the shadows. The cab driver jumped out of the car, retrieved her bag and started walking toward a doorway.
"Where are you going?" asked Sara.
"Come. We have arrived." He stood in the doorway which held a small, swinging light bulb. Sara approached the smiling cab driver cautiously, keeping her eyes on the mounds, which seemed to be sleeping. "Are you sure this it?" she asked.
"What is the matter? We are here. You foreigners are all the same, always afraid," he responded with a mixture of pain and offense. "The Pension is on the fifth floor. The elevator is broke so you must walk."
Sara paid him and he wished her a pleasant stay and walked away. Sara watched the cab driver as he said something very jovial in Arabic toward a dark corner of the alley. Her eyes adjusted and she saw the mounds transform into three old, heavy men. As the cab driver disappeared into the shadows he said something else and the alleyway erupted into hearty echoes of laughter.
She hesitantly climbed the stairs. The corners of the steps were covered in dust and rubble. Small garbage bags and ripped magazines stared back at her. Green walls, chipped, exposing a pink coat and then occasionally a bare white grainy cement. Each landing led her to a cleaner staircase until she reached the fifth floor, which shone wet and freshly mopped. She plunked her bag down with a thud and a young man in a white uniform came near her with a grin. "Welcome to Pension Athens," he said, as if he had been waiting all night for her arrival.
A thin, brown carpet, lined with potted plants, lead the way to the bulky, wooden reception desk. The lights were bright, almost sharp. White, slightly transparent drapes covering long windows billowed in and out.
"Yes, yes, yes hello. How can we help you?" asked the receptionist in a high, breathy voice.
"Hi, my name is Sara Madden and I made a reservation about a week ago. I don't know if I spoke to you..."
"Ah, yes, yes. No, you spoke to my brother Fadi. I am Amr. We have your card here. We, unfortunately, do not have a single room for you tonight but if you like, you can stay in a double-occupancy room."
"Do I have to pay for the whole room?" she asked, considering the pittance left over from her salary as a high school teacher.
"Yes, but you must sit here and wait for another tourist to share a double room. Then you can share the cost of the room. How long will you be in Egypt?" asked the receptionist.
"I think a few weeks, at least."
"A single room shall be available in a few days and we can move you there then. I suggest you wait because more guests are sure to come in soon."
"My brother Paul stayed here for a few weeks about a year ago. Do you remember him?" Sara asked.
"Ah, yes, yes, yes. A very nice man, very quiet. With a wife. Very nice, very nice," he said as he glanced at the bellhop. The bellhop grinned at Sara.
Sara gently fingered the address of his last known residence. "What do you know about the neighborhood, Imbaba?" She asked.
"Very, very crowded," replied Amr. The bellhop stopped grinning. "Will you see him tomorrow?" asked Amr.
"Ah..." Sara hesitated as she eyed the bell hop, "Yes, I will. I am very tired. Where can I sit while I wait?" "In the salon," said Amr.
The salon was high-ceilinged and white. Three Louis XIV-style couches lay like a horseshoe around an art-deco coffee table. Spacious balconies jutted into the alleyway facing an abandoned building full of sand and rubble. The ceiling fan hummed quietly while the noise from the city wafted in from a distance.
Sara saw an older man sitting next to a wiry, drawn woman. He smiled at Sara. He looked soft like a teddy bear that had been worn out by too many caresses from a lonely child. His face was large and brown and open with a tuft of gray hair growing out of his head like dead wheat on cracked terrain.
"Waiting for a room companion?" asked the man in an English accent.
"Yes," replied Sara, staring at the quiet woman next to him.
"Dolores here has been waiting all evening. See, she has come to visit me and I would be happy to share a double room with her but the laws in this country control even the most innocent of intentions," he said.
"What do you mean?" asked Sara.
"A man and a woman can not share a hotel room together unless they are married. It is a preposterous law that the present government has recently enacted," he said. "But before we get involved in any political discussion, introductions are in order." He stood up. "My name is Malamud and this is my dear friend Dolores." Dolores rolled her eyes back into her head and nodded noncommittally. Her lack of eyelashes and diminutive eyebrows made her face look like a hard-boiled egg.
"Hello. My name is Sara." She looked at Dolores, worried that she may have no choice but to share a room with this woman. "Do you know how long it will take for me to get a room? Because if it takes too long I am going to another hotel," said Sara.
"Patience, my child. Do not be mislead by the speed and chaos of this city. You will get nothing accomplished in this city without patience," informed Malamud. "In any case, I think your problem has already been solved. You can share a room with Dolores."
"Are you here on vacation or for other reasons?" asked Dolores in a halting German accent.
"I am here on vacation," responded Sara, "and you?"
"Are you deaf? You just heard that I am here visiting Malamud," Dolores exclaimed. Malamud chuckled and patted Dolores on the knee. Sara got that soft, melting feeling again.
"Do not mind her. She is just tired from a long trip. Come, let us tell the receptionist that all is arranged." Malamud walked over to the receptionist before Sara could object.
Sara's bags were carried by the bellhop into the bedroom. Dolores glided in with only her handbag. The bellhop did not seem pleased with the arrangement. There were three slim beds in the room. Dolores sat in the one nearest the balcony. She sat with her back to Sara smoking a cigarette and staring out onto the balcony. Sara fell into the bed nearest the door and asked if it would be all right to turn off the light. Dolores said she could do whatever she wanted.
By 5:00 AM Sara's eyes began to fall. Dolores continued staring out onto the balcony. The city became unsettlingly quiet. The air began to cool as it does when the earth is about to start a new day. Sara stared at Dolores' silhouette against the growing light, which was getting redder by the minute. The air felt light through Sara's nose. The sound speakers from the minarets started to bellow out the call to prayers. As the sad wail echoed throughout the city, Dolores slipped out the door. Sara turned on her side and fell asleep.