The Cairo Affair

6

Then it was morning, and she felt as if she’d been in a dream. Not only of Yugoslavia, but of Egypt. A dream that was lingering still, for what was this cinnamon smell? That flowery, brown-tinted wallpaper? The green knitted blanket under her? Harsh daylight cut through venetian blinds. The ache in her back was enough to tell her this wasn’t a dream, but she had to sit up, look around, and then hobble to the bathroom she’d been given a tour of the night before to really believe it. After she flushed the toilet and washed her face and hands and opened the door, she found the old woman—yes, Fouada—standing in the corridor, smiling at her, holding out a large cup of tea. Gratefully, Sophie accepted the steaming cup. She said, “Omar?”

Fouada shook her head and pointed toward the living room—toward the front door. On the mantel against the far wall was an ornate clock from another age: It was one in the afternoon. How long had she slept? She wasn’t sure, but the mere smell of the tea began to revive her. She wasn’t living in a dream, she told herself. She had never lived a dream, not even when it had seemed that way. Not in Yugoslavia, and not here, during those adrenaline moments with the flash drive and Emmett’s computer, when she’d felt a distant echo of that Serbian basement. Zora hadn’t been a dream, nor that tingling, electric attraction that had bound the two of them. Those afternoons with Stan hadn’t been a dream, either. It had all been real, and her mistake had been to think of it as a dreamlife. It was why she was here without friends and at the mercy of people she could not even communicate with.

She took a long, hot shower. Through sign language and eager nods she got a pair of clean but oversized panties from Fouada. While the prospect of sharing her intimate garments clearly disturbed the older woman, she gave in, realizing that this poor girl hadn’t packed properly. Sophie forced herself into her old clothes, which were getting stiff by now. So be it. She drank her tea, dark and strong, then went to the kitchen, where Fouada had laid out a plate of toast and cheese and olives. She took a few bites—it was delicious. But Fouada wouldn’t let her eat for long. She took a severe look at Sophie, then disappeared into her bedroom, returning a while later with a long summer dress and a belt. She held it out with one hand, then used the other to point at the clothes Sophie was wearing and then pinch her nose. She handed over the dress and belt. All of this was done with a serene smile. While the dress—a mess of abstract patterns in yellow and brown—was too large, cinching the belt made it wearable. Only after getting her to model a bit did Fouada leave her to enjoy the olives.

Later, Sophie returned to the bedroom and closed the door and took out her phone. There wasn’t much charge left, but there was enough. She checked the recent calls and selected Kiraly’s number.

He answered after a single ring. “Mrs. Kohl,” he said, his accent bringing on a rush of familiarity. She’d forgotten how much she liked that overly earnest Magyar pronunciation. “I am glad you called.”

“I wanted to apologize,” she said. “I think it’s time to tell you what’s going on. Someone needs to know.”

There was no joy in his voice, only a kind of morose patience. “Thank you, Mrs. Kohl. I should tell you first that the American embassy knows where you are now. That you’re in Cairo.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I want to make a confession to you. Will you listen to it?”

“I’m not a priest.”

“You’re the closest thing to a priest that I know.”

“I take that as a compliment, Mrs. Kohl.”

He waited, and she told him. She told him everything, answers to the questions he never would have thought to ask, as well as telling him stories that were far beyond his mandate. There were still so many things she didn’t know, like how everything had ended in two bullets entering her husband, but someone else could put it together. All she knew was that her story had led, somehow, to that restaurant, and eventually her guilt would be uncovered. So she told it all to a man whose job it was to make connections. He asked no questions, only listened, and sometimes she had to say, “Mr. Kiraly?”

“I am here.”

And she went on.

It took about fifteen minutes to get it all out, a brief time considering that the story spanned decades, and when she was finished she felt exhausted and empty. Free. Not really, but at least her shackles were lighter, easier to bear. In the tired silence that followed, she lay on the bed again and stared at the ornate ceiling lamp. Kiraly also sounded exhausted when he said, “Well. That is quite a lot.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Silence, as he considered his options. “I’m not sure there’s anything to do about it. Not now, at least.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“Them?”

“The embassy.”

“I don’t see the point of that. Do you?”

“I suppose not,” she admitted.

“Thank you for your openness,” Kiraly said.

“Thank you for listening,” Sophie said and hung up. A minute later, her phone bleeped to tell her that its battery was dead.