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  To all those still waiting.

  PART I

  * * *

  THE PITCH

  1

  Hana slipped on the wet linoleum leading from baggage claim to Arrival Hall 1. No warning sign; no warning mop. She landed in the sitting position and watched her wheeled luggage roll unattended through customs. The fall ousted Hana from the trance caused by long, seemingly motionless travel; a curious lack of turbulence made it feel as if she’d spent all night pinned in the black yonder. Hana remembered waking full of dread somewhere over the Mediterranean. Her nightmare had been that she wasn’t moving. Move now, thought Hana. Stand up. She stood without making eye contact with onlookers. Then, unburdened of embarrassment, she chased her bags. “As-salamu alaikum,” said Hana as she passed the customs agent. Her rogue luggage had come to rest against a frosted-glass wall the height and width of the room. Installed therein was a frosted-glass door, beyond which lay her job, her purpose, her happiness. Finally, her life. Hana sped to the door, which slid open automatically. An air conditioner, mounted above and aimed straight down, blasted her kempt hair into a style more befitting her mood. She tucked the restive wisps behind her ears.

  The arrival hall was almost empty, so Hana had no trouble finding the paper sign with her name on it. A tight cap hugged the driver’s fat head. “Welcome to Egypt!” he said. “Everything was invented here. Poetry, science, math. The calendar, the plow.” Hana reached to shake his hand, but retracted at the last second. This wasn’t America, after all. She ought not to touch men she didn’t know. The driver led Hana at a brisk pace to the parking lot, where an ancient black Peugeot sat exactly parallel to the curb. “Please,” said the driver, gesturing to the back door. He loaded Hana’s bags into the trunk, then himself into the driver’s seat. “Here we go,” he said. In the mirror, the driver looked proud. As if God had delivered this task. You, drive! The car started begrudgingly but came to life when the driver throttled. The airport was suddenly a dim light in the rearview.

  “Is there a seat belt back here?” asked Hana, fishing in the crevice of the seat. She quit fishing after concluding that, at this speed, the belt’s value was purely psychological.

  “Don’t worry,” said the driver. “I’m Mustafa. Thirty years of legendary driving experience.”

  The dark cinder-block city blurred past. Night even seeped into the main drags and busy intersections, as if streetlamps were designed to accentuate the dark instead of defend against it. The lamps whipped by so fast they appeared to stand at odd angles.

  “Some people, they’re afraid of the revolution,” said Mustafa, as if he could sense Hana’s anxiety but couldn’t see it was his own fault. “I know it is a good thing coming. Mubarak is gone. God willing, the army will go soon. Oy, the army.”

  Hana relaxed. Or told herself to relax while looking out the window for signs of protest. All the news, the viral imagery—everything she’d seen and read in the weeks preceding her arrival—suggested evidence of the uprising lay rampant in the streets. One photo had depicted a whole avenue blocked off by huge cement cubes that had been stacked into a wall by the army. Protesters had used that unyielding canvas to paint the exact image of the street that lay beyond. The optical illusion was itself an act of rebellion, as if to say, This wall doesn’t really exist. Hana thought there’d be more glass, more tires, more paper strewn on the sidewalks. The paper would be leaflets and poetry and meeting places listed with dates and times, and xeroxed photos of martyrs.

  “Do you mind?” asked Mustafa, tuning his radio. “My show is on.” White noise poured into the back of the cab. Eventually he found the station. A soap opera full of exaggerated crying sounds. “I hope you don’t mind. I have been waiting all week to find out what happens.”

  Hana listened for stray words and phrases she remembered from her mother’s militant Arabic lessons. She’d only endured those lessons until she’d been old enough to mount an articulate protest against them. Hana had been seven at the time. “I don’t have anyone to talk to in this language but you,” she’d said. Now the radio offered a garbled story. Hana heard Please kiss me and Don’t leave. Then a struggle of some kind followed by a loud slap. The discrepancy between the number of words spoken and the number of words she understood was so severe that Hana leaned back into the seat cushion and regretted childhood. The rest of the drive passed at a speed enabled by that languor. The highway became a labyrinth of one-way streets. Downtown appeared around them.

  “Ah,” said Mustafa as if he’d returned home after a long journey. “We’ve arrived.” Parallel parking required a surgical touch, though Mustafa made it look effortless. “Over there.” He gestured. “Sharia Mohammad Mahmoud. Mansour. That building.”

  Hana recognized the cream bricks. Her new employer, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees—mercifully referred to by its acronym, UNHCR—had sent pictures, a floor plan, a key. She reached into her pocket to confirm the key was still there. The crummy prison retained its tinny captive, which was strangely cold to the touch. Hana was so relieved she threw open the wrong door. The graver of her two mistakes was not looking for traffic. A passing car made contact, but just barely. The edge of her door peeled the blue paint off the passing car like dead skin. Screech owls would’ve sounded less piercing. The door, pulled open beyond the hinges’ limit, was stuck now at a gruesome angle. Brake lights bled red as the passing car came to a stop. Dust kicked up by the tires had a spectral quality and wouldn’t settle. A sudden calm grew eerie amid the billow. Then, just as Hana was beginning to think she was having another nightmare—could dust really hang that way in the air without time having come to a stop?—the front door of the passing car cracked open. The driver rolled out. When he hit the pavement, he kept rolling. Back and forth as if he was in pain. Perhaps even near death. Oh shit, thought Hana. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. She tried to shut her door in an attempt to seclude herself from the mystery unfolding before her. Why did the man fall? How was he injured? Hana’s door wouldn’t shut, so she pulled harder. Her hands slipped off the plastic handle. The plastic felt like wax. Her palms were too sweaty.

  Mustafa yelled out the window and honked his horn until the man writhing in the street reluctantly ended his act. Aha! thought Hana. You’re not dying. You’re not even injured. You fraud! You cheat! Relief preceded anger and the sound of her own heart beating her eardrums. What did he want? Money? How much money? The fraud sat, stood, then started toward them. He hesitated as he passed through the headlights, appearing both afraid and enraged. “Oh, no,” said Hana when he proceeded to the stuck door. She tried desperately to close it again, to no avail. “Jesus Christ,” said Hana to the waxy plastic handle. The fraud leaned over and peered in. He seemed shocked and saddened to see a woman in the backseat. His fingers were rolled in a fist. Mustafa shook his own fist out the window and threatened to get out. Hana didn’t understand the Arabic, but Mustafa’s tone suggested a threat. Her spine prickled when the fraud moved from the back door to the front. Loud words were exchanged before the fraud lunged through the open window into Mustafa’s lap. His entire torso was now inside the car. He and Mustafa grappled in the space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, both men vying for air. Hana wanted to run, but gu
ilt kept her ass planted. What had she done to Mustafa’s taxi? To his livelihood? What would the fraud do to his body? To his face?

  Grunting and keys jangling in the ignition gave way to a popping sound and, at the same time, a yelp. Hana, ashamed to discover how low she’d sunk in her seat, peered through the space between Mustafa’s seatback and the headrest. The tussle had come to an end. By the look of it, Mustafa had landed a punch square on the fraud’s box nose, which was flatter than it had been and was now bleeding. The fraud was so dazed that he hung listlessly in the window. Not that Mustafa squandered any time waiting for the fraud to extract himself; he shoved open the door and thus ejected him. The fraud landed with a thump in the street. Mustafa got out, grabbed the fraud by the arm, and dragged him back to his well-used Volkswagen. All the while muttering something like, “I warned you. I did warn you.” The Volkswagen must’ve been manufactured in the ’70s. The aesthetic damage Hana had caused, now that she had time to look, blended seamlessly into the car’s long and presumably storied history. Mustafa lifted the fraud into the driver’s seat and said, “Yallah” so loud he sounded like a foghorn. The fraud, though grimacing, didn’t overtly protest; he sat up straight, closed his door, and slowly rolled up his window. Mustafa slapped the roof to hurry the rolling along. The fraud, like a whipped horse, sped away.

  “Now the hard part,” said Mustafa, traipsing back to his cab. His contrived smile was still there, like a scar from thirty years spent earning tips. “Shutting a door that does not want to be shut.” He leaned with all his weight, dug his heels into the hot tar, and shoved the back door until it submitted to the pressure of his will and what must’ve remained of his anger. The door wouldn’t latch until Mustafa kicked it. “Best not to lean on the . . . ,” he said, kicking the door a second time.

  Quiet, suddenly. The joints in Hana’s body began to unfix, so she could again move. Her fingers uncurled, nails leaving tiny red crescents on her palms. She pulled out her wallet even though the fare had been paid in advance. “For the door,” she said desperately. But Mustafa said no money. How could he blame Hana for what God willed? “Oy,” he said about God. “I don’t know what He does to my car. Yesterday I drove all morning with no gas.” Mustafa landed in the driver’s seat. He rested his head on the steering wheel. He breathed and sweated heavily.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hana after a few seconds. “Really, I didn’t mean . . .” Her words seemed to evaporate before reaching him. A sick, empty feeling lodged in her stomach as she exited the vehicle on the sidewalk side of the car.

  “Please, take my card.” Mustafa leaned across the front seat and extended his arm through the far window, presenting a copy. “Call every day for best fare, best service, best safety record.”

  Hana accepted the card by way of apology. Mustafa didn’t want her money, but at least he’d accept her business. She dragged her bags across the sidewalk as if they contained both her clothes and her guilt. “I’ll just pay for the door by tipping excessively over time,” she said, turning back to him. “You know that, right?”

  “Very good,” said Mustafa. He exited the parking spot as if he drove less by sight than muscle memory. An unconscious finesse. “Please remember to call,” he said out the window. “Otherwise I go out of business.”

  Hana watched Mustafa’s taillights fly away before dragging her bags up the stairs and into her building. A tile floor led to a rickety-looking elevator: the manual glass door had to be latched before the buttons lit up; the wooden floor managed her slight weight by curving into a shallow bowl; and the whole apparatus whined during ascent. Not that Hana had energy left to consider what the whining implied. The elevator stopped abruptly at the seventh floor, revealing polished concrete walls leading to dark-colored doors. Hers was brown, inlaid with carved wooden polygons forming a complicated geometric pattern. The apartment beyond a door like that, thought Hana, must be really special. Unlocking the door proved difficult. Her hands shook just enough that her key kept missing the keyhole. She ordered her hands to stop shaking by glaring at them. “Calm down,” she said to herself. When Hana finally got her door open, she met a dark room. She navigated by colliding with and bouncing off waist-high furniture. After locating the light switch on the far wall—an odd spot, yet it added character—she discovered the apartment looked the same in life as it did in pictures. Hana was almost disappointed that her expectations were met. A tortoiselike tour of the apartment revealed a single surprise: bath towels stacked neatly in the hall closet. Thick and, she thought, absorbent. She counted them. Three, the perfect number. One for using, one for using while the first was in the wash, and a third for backup or in case of company.

  A cold shower washed away the shock, the sweat, the smell of peanuts, even the lethargy. No way could Hana sleep now. At least, not until her hair dried. In the meantime she began unpacking. Her bags were jammed so tightly they exploded when she unzipped them. While sifting through the mess, Hana found a note her mother had secretly packed. Her mother’s name was Ishtar, same as the Assyrian goddess of love and war. A goddess who, according to myth, descended into the underworld, kicked down the front gates, and wreaked havoc in hell. The note said, Have a good time! in huge, messy cursive. Love, The only mother you’ll ever get. P.S. Thanks for waiting so long to leave me. I know you wanted to go earlier.

  True, thought Hana. But not very nice to point out. What was Ishtar’s motive? To solicit pity? To implant regret? Hana refolded the note before returning it to its hiding place. Then she ducked her pensive mood by lying down. In bed, Hana resolved not to miss or even think about Ishtar. Now wasn’t the time. She needed to sleep. It was past midnight. Way past, almost morning. Hana closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing. Her idea of nothing was the black area between stars. That scared her the same way thinking about death scared her. She tried to think about something else. Her sore arms were the obvious candidates. Why were her arms sore? Dragging her bags, probably. Or yanking the car door. Her arms felt as if they’d gone to the gym without the rest of her body. Hana wondered if there were gyms in Cairo. Surely, there must be. But gyms for women? Hana tried to think of nothing again. God damn her wet hair. Not that her hair was really the problem. The urge to sleep was precluded by a body drained of the ability to feel even tiredness. Her endorphins had poured out with the whiskey and were all used up. The whiskey had been free on the international legs of her flight. Hana had indulged in a desperate attempt to block out her fear of burning up or drowning in the cold black ocean. Then went her adrenaline, left back in the cab. The only thing she could feel now was the firmness of the pillow and the weight of the air. Not the weight, exactly, but the thickness of it, so that her body was again covered in a thin layer of sweat. Hana got out of bed and walked to her balcony. The dark and the loneliness—or aloneness, since she felt no longing for companionship—went well together. She didn’t have to worry about waking Ishtar or stepping on Pen, the family spaniel. The old dog, at his own peril, loved feet.

  When Hana reached her balcony, she sat in a plastic chair and witnessed the sun’s meek declaration. A red blemish in the eastern sky. She watched the red spread out and change color as traffic noises amplified. The city, seen now in the light of the morning, looked different from in the light of the television. Where was the tear gas? Where were the tanks? Satellite dishes large and small capped every building. Cairo, thought Hana, was surprisingly well connected to space. A strange, happy fact. Like how all the buildings in Chefchaouen were painted blue; and how, in Beirut, dried sea horses could be found along the promenade. The feeling of having arrived in a new place finally settled upon her, like a bird landing.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Hana visited her office in 6th October City—an hour’s drive west, though Mustafa’s lead foot shortened the drive to forty minutes—where she matched names with faces, which Hana found easier to memorize. A penchant for sketching people had trained her how to see them. Mostly she sketched older women, whose tre
acherous lives were plainly declared in lines, scars, spots, and other dermatological anomalies. The faces at the UNHCR, however, had less to tell; they were much younger. Employees included Yezin, whose giant eyebrows met in a tuft above his nose. His beard was neatly trimmed and his outfit was clearly ironed. There was Fadwa, who wore a scarf, and Noha, who didn’t. Fadwa had chapped lips and long arms she hid by crossing. Noha had wire-rimmed glasses and bloodshot eyes that betrayed the rigor of her work. Not that she looked unhappy. There was also Joseph, another American. His bow tie overshadowed his face. Silk, by the look of it; navy, pindot. Either the bow tie was too loose or he just loved talking. He listed every famous Joseph he could name. Saint Joseph. Joseph Stalin. Joseph Conrad. Chief Joseph. Jerry Lewis, whose birth name was Joseph. And finally Napoléon Bonaparte, who married Joséphine. Upon finishing his list, Joseph disclosed his motive. The names inspired him to do more with his life. By do more he meant “work harder.” His eyes were even more bloodshot than Noha’s.

  After the awkward introductions came an awkward lunch. Or a lecture disguised as a lunch. The lecture happened at Margret’s desk. Margret was the office coordinator and the liaison between the UNHCR and the Egyptian government. She spent most of her time on the phone with the Refugee Affairs Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the secretive, sometimes intimidating Ministry of the Interior. Margret was a German who spoke English and Arabic with almost no accent. She was feisty, tall, and her skin was a painful shade of pink—a combination of heatstroke, sunburn, and stress.

  “I brought kofta and ful,” said Margret, gesturing to the spread on her desk. “That’s meatballs and mashed fava beans. Well, not exactly mashed. More like stirred aggressively. Dig in. How was your flight?”