The Cairo Affair

5

When he woke around noon on Saturday, his head throbbing to the anguished melody of a call to prayer wafting in through an open window, he briefly had no idea where he was, nor where he had come from. He was not in his own bed. His pillow was damp, and there was a stink of acid that made him think that he’d vomited, but when he sat up, gripping his head, he found no traces. Then he recognized the disorganized room, the pastel colors, and the Mickey Mouse clock. From another room, he heard CNN playing on a television.

Maribeth appeared with a cup of coffee, wearing a long T-shirt, disheveled hair, a smile, and nothing else. “You look bad, John.” She handed over the cup. “You need this more than I do.”

“How much did I drink?”

“Everything they had. I’m starting to think maybe you have a problem.”

He did, but he didn’t think drinking was it. With his first sip of hot coffee he was overcome by the desire to urinate, and when he got up he noticed he was still wearing underwear. “Did we … ?”

A short laugh, then she shook her head. “You couldn’t have raised your voice by the time we got back here, much less that.”

He gave her a weary grin, handed back the coffee, and went to the bathroom. From where he sat on the toilet he could see his face in her low mirror. He was pale, his eyes shot through with red. “Mind if I take a shower?” he called through the closed door.

“I think I’m going to insist,” she called back.

It took a while for the hot water to reach her fourth-floor apartment, and once it did it burned. He stood under the steaming downpour, thinking through the previous night. The memories were disturbingly slow in coming, but they did come, and he remembered laughter and loud voices—mostly his—and the novelist David Malek and later on some friends. He remembered an argument with a Slav, but couldn’t remember what it had been about. Then he had a quick flash of panic—where was the pistol? He hurried through his shower, toweled off, and squatted naked at the foot of the bed, hunting through his pile of clothes. “Looking for your gun?” Maribeth asked from behind. She had dressed in a long white skirt and an open-collared mauve blouse.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Only travel agent I know of who carries heat,” she said. “It’s in the living room. Why don’t you get dressed and have some breakfast?”

He did as she suggested, then found the pistol in its holster on the coffee table. There were still seventeen rounds in the clip, and none in the breech.

Maribeth had cooked up Swiss cheese omelets, ham, and buttered toast, and they ate in her modest dining room—an extension of the kitchen—while through the window came the noise of downtown traffic. The coffee and food began to temper his hangover.

Maribeth spent her work hours approving and more often rejecting visa requests, and each week she collected a handful of stories of colorful characters who believed that simply scrawling marks on a form entitled them to an entry visa. “They always get it wrong,” she said. “We start with the assumption that everyone wants to jump ship and set up a new life in America, and it’s up to them to prove otherwise. But when you tell them this, they act as if you’ve just insulted them. On Wednesday a woman spat at me.”

“She spat on you?” he said, a slice of toast halfway to his mouth.

“At me. Splattered across the divider window. There’s a reason we have those things, you know. She said, But we’re democratic now, just like you! Why would I want to leave?”

“I’m not sure I’d call a military government democracy.”

“People believe what they want,” she said, then nodded at the television behind him. “You hear about that?”

He turned to find a talking head on CNN relating the story of Emmett Kohl, deputy consul in Hungary, who had been shot in a Budapest restaurant. There were, apparently, few clues, and only an unidentified security photo to guide the investigations: a wide face, hairless, with a cut on one cheek. A real bruiser.

“You knew Kohl?” he asked.

“As well as most, I suppose. He thought he was hilarious.”

John was struck by the cynicism in her voice. “You didn’t like him?”

“He was just … you know. One of those bosses who slaps your back and makes a joke and says that we’re all in this together. But when the shit hits the fan you never know where he is. I’ve worked for worse.”

“I’ll bet I have, too.”

She smiled over the rim of her coffee cup and said, “Where have you worked, John? Where did you come from before you magically appeared here?” She took a sip, and when he didn’t answer she said, “Look, I’m not trying to pry, but it’s obvious you don’t schedule flights for people. Jennifer tells me you spend most of your time on the fifth floor, with the spooks.”

“Spooks?”

She reddened. “You know what I mean.”

He did, and so he told her a little about himself. She already knew of the ex-wife and children, so he brushed over his time in the army, skipping mention of his dishonorable discharge. “I kicked around for a while, got married, had some kids. That didn’t work out.”

“Whose fault?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He thought about it, but he needn’t have—the question had haunted him for years. “Both of ours.”

“Both? Is that the answer she’d give, too?”

“Spoken like a real bachelorette.”

“I prefer the word spinster.”

“My point,” he said, trying to ignore her mocking grin, “is that we share the blame, just like we share the kids.” It was a diplomatic answer, which was another way of saying it was untrue. John would always blame himself, for he had been the one who couldn’t hold down a job, who chose to reach for the car keys whenever a fight erupted, who began to feel like his own absent father even though he lived in the same house as his kids. He said, “I remembered how good I’d had it in the army. Lots of order in that kind of life. You know when you’re waking and when you’re going to sleep. You know what you’re supposed to do, and when. The rules are clear—there’s never any ambiguity.”

“Unlike in a family,” she said, her eyes locked on him, no longer taunting.

“Right,” he said, then paused before going on. The lies about his job hadn’t been required—he’d just been asked to avoid advertising his real position at the embassy. She was waiting. “So I applied with Global Security, and a few years later I was sent here.”

“Global Security?” Maribeth placed the coffee cup on the table, her eyes slitted. “You’re a contractor? Like that—that guy in Pakistan?”

He nodded.

“Well, damn,” she said, almost a whisper.

Before she could go on, there was a knock at the door, and as she went to get it John finished his toast, wondering how to escape. He had no idea how this revelation was affecting her, and, given the way he was feeling, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out right now. Then he heard the newcomer’s voice: “My love!” It was Geert Rutte, a Dutch media consultant, another Deals regular. John didn’t feel he had much choice in the matter—he got up and went out to say hello.

Despite being near fifty, Geert dressed like a hipster, with thick-framed black glasses and bowling shoes, and was full of overabundant, meaningless smiles. He also maintained an absolute indifference to the feelings of others—empathy had never been part of his upbringing. “John! What a surprise!”

“Morning, Geert.”

“Is it still morning? Maribeth, is it still morning?”

“I think it’s early afternoon,” she said, smiling at John.

“Yet this is a wonderful coincidence, John, for I have two propositions for you!”

“Do you see my face?” John asked him.

“Yes, John. I do.”

“How does it look?”

“Pale. Well, paler than usual. It’s hard to tell with you people.”

“I’m hungover. So please talk quietly.”

Geert’s eyebrows rose. “Ahh,” he said before lowering to a whisper. “I have two propositions for you, John.” He wandered in, sniffing the air. “Is that coffee?”

“Would you like some?” asked Maribeth.

“Of course.”

They all went to the kitchen, and as she poured another cup, Geert sat in Maribeth’s chair and bit into a slice of her toast. “My propositions.”

“Perhaps you could just spit them out,” said John.

“The first one is an investment opportunity.”

“Do I look like I have money?”

Geert paused, staring in shock. “You don’t?”

“Well, not enough to invest in anything.”

“But you have a job. With the American embassy.”

“I also have an ex-wife and two children.”

“That’s criminal.”

“It is what it is. What’s the second proposition?”

“Don’t you want to know what kind of investment?”

“What’s the point?”

Maribeth placed a fresh coffee in front of Geert. “Doesn’t anyone want to offer me an investment?”

“Do you have money?” Geert asked her.

“Not really.”

Geert shrugged elaborately, then came out with one of his ubiquitous smiles.

“What’s the second proposition?” asked John.

Geert finally looked at his coffee. “Milk?”

“It’s next to the plate,” Maribeth said, giving John a quick grin.

As he poured the milk, Geert said, “Now that I know you’re poor, the second proposition might be more interesting. A part-time job making conversation with pretty Egyptian girls.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Conversational English. That’s all they want. Thirty euros an hour, and they pay for the tea.”

“Who are these Egyptian girls?”

“And why am I being passed over again?” Maribeth demanded.

“Because,” Geert told her, “you are a woman. And no,” he added, holding up a finger, “I’m not ashamed I said that. John,” he continued, turning away from her, “they’re women, not girls. Married, as well. To members of the protest movement. They know their husbands’ stars are rising, so they’re desperate to look good and speak well when faced with foreign diplomats. With English, they will be prepared for most situations.”

John shook his head. After Libya, this felt ridiculous. He imagined sitting in the Marriott or Arabica or Starbucks with an Egyptian housewife discussing beaches and servants and diplomats’ wives, then being asked, “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Calhoun?”

“I’m not sure,” he said as Geert took another bite of Maribeth’s toast.

“It’s the easiest job in the world, John. And they want you.”

“There are thousands of native English speakers in town.”

“Me, for example,” said Maribeth.

Geert shrugged. “But most of them are not American blacks.”

Maribeth looked at John, who said, “Neither are most English-speaking diplomats, Geert.”

“Maybe they want to speak the jive to your president,” Geert said, and when neither of them gave him a smile of encouragement he shrugged again. “I can’t explain the inner workings of the Egyptian female mind. I never will be able to. All I know is that when I described you to Mrs. Abusir, she perked up as if I had shocked her toe. She told me—in confidence, mind—that she was sure the other wives would love to meet you. But don’t tell her I told you this.”

“Tell her thanks, but I’m not interested.”

“Really?” Geert looked surprised. He believed he had sold it well. “Maybe when you feel better, you’ll change your mind. How many tequilas did you have?”

“I need to go to the embassy,” John said, rising to his feet. He thanked Maribeth for the breakfast, then slipped on his holster in the bedroom. As he was pulling on his jacket, Geert appeared in the doorway.

“You should watch it,” the Dutchman told him. “Too much tequila and you’ll end up in jail. You don’t want to see the inside of an Egyptian prison.”

“Maybe you’re right, Geert.”

“You’ll end up like Raymond Davis.”

Raymond Davis was the contractor Maribeth had been thinking about. A month before, he had been arrested for shooting two Pakistanis in Lahore, and it had blown up into large-scale protests all over that country, demanding his execution. Raymond Davis’s situation had terrified everyone in the contractor community.

“And if you’re in jail,” Geert said, “what will poor Mrs. Abusir do?”