The Cairo Affair

7

By the time Omar Halawi returned home, the sun was half hidden by the buildings around them. She’d rested on his terrace for a while, watching the sun make its way down, and between clay-colored towers she could see the pyramids. She’d forgotten about that—how from so many spots in Cairo you could just look out and find them sitting on the edge of the city. The ancient world watching over the modern one.

Halawi looked as if he had been through the wringer. She knew that he had been at his office, wherever that was, but she didn’t bother asking what the trouble was. She had enough difficulty keeping track of everything on her side of the national divide to fret about his. He sat beside her on a wicker chair, both of them taking in the view.

Without looking at her, he said, “Mrs. Kohl, I asked you last night, and I will ask again. Why are you here? What is it you want to do?”

In the clarity that had followed her confession, she had her answer ready. “I’d like to face the man who killed Emmett. Find out why he did it.”

“The man who killed your husband was Gjergj Ahmeti. We will probably never find him.”

“The person who paid Ahmeti. That’s who I want to talk to. And maybe,” she said after a moment, “do something more than talk.”

He nodded solemnly, as if none of this was a surprise, as if everything she’d said had been preordained.

“And then I want to go home.”

“Of course.”

She took a breath. “I should probably talk to Stan again before I leave. He deserves some answers.”

“I will see if I can arrange that.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

He raised his eyebrows, as if he didn’t know.

“Who paid Gjergj Ahmeti to kill Emmett?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she said, “Was it Michael Khalil?”

“I don’t know.”

“He spoke to Emmett,” she said. “In Budapest. On the day he was killed.”

The Egyptian’s voice rose an octave. “Spoke to him?”

There was something gratifying about this. Sophie, for once, knew more than he did. “Khalil claims he didn’t, but the Hungarians saw them speaking.”

Omar blinked rapidly, hands moving in his lap; this, clearly, was a revelation. “What did they speak about?”

“Stumbler, of course.”

He pursed his lips, nodding. “I will certainly find out about this,” he said, then turned and said a few words in Arabic. She realized that Sayyid, his tough young man, was standing in the doorway. Sayyid said something back.

“It’s time for dinner,” Omar told Sophie, then stood. At that moment his phone rang, and he answered, listened briefly, said a few more words in Arabic, and then walked the phone back inside, muttering the whole way. She followed Sayyid to the kitchen and helped Fouada set the table for dinner. Sayyid made no move to help with anything; he settled on the sofa and scrolled through messages on his phone. Omar returned, rubbing his eyes hard enough that when he released them he had to blink in pain. “What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He was lying to her, she knew, but part of her postconfession clarity was the understanding that there were things she would never know, so she did not press.

Meals, she remembered as she picked at her falafel and salad, had been important in Yugoslavia. After Vukovar, they had stayed for three more days in Zora’s uncle’s house, for after Vukovar they couldn’t be comfortable with anyone else. Their shared secret tied them to Zora. They ate and drank with her and her friends—more strong-willed young people who mixed politics and art and faith as if they were gin and tonic and lime. There had been plates piled high with grilled čevap, sarma, meats of all kinds, pickles, cheap beer all around. Eat, drink, and back to the war—which was where she felt like these Egyptian men were heading when, after eating, Sayyid and Omar prayed together. The ritual washing. Hands on either side of their heads, behind their ears, praising Allah, then the near-crouch of hands on knees. Supplication. They had prayed in Yugoslavia, too, but never so humbly. The Serbs’ god stood as their soldiers’ rear guard. These people’s god was always far, far ahead.

Then the men were gone, and she helped Fouada clean up. But this was not Sophie’s kitchen, and eventually Fouada shooed her away. She returned to the terrace, hearing voices and car engines and, more distantly, prayers. She remembered drinking Cosmos with Glenda and listening to her complaints about Hungarians. She wondered with despair how she could have ever hated that life.

Because, Zora once told her, you want something better, something more than mere happiness.

And where had that gotten her? What kind of arrogant bitch could claim that there was anything more important than happiness? What kind of a fool could believe such a twisted philosophy?

This fool, this one here, sitting huddled on a stranger’s terrace, unable to speak a word to her hostess. This was how you ended up alone.