Rebels by Accident (10 page)

Sittu and Hassan are waiting for us at the Sphinx. Deanna gets off her camel first. She hardly even needs help from George. I, on the other hand, am way too afraid to move, so it takes George, Hakim, and Hassan to get me down.

Deanna makes us take about a dozen pictures of her and the Sphinx from different angles. Right profile. Left profile. Foot to paw. “I'm going to put these all over Facebook,” Deanna says. “Didn't Beth—or was it Karen?—call me Sphinx Face?”

It was Karen. “They didn't mean it as a compliment, Deanna.”

“Of course not. But look how amazing this thing is.” Then she makes me take a photo of her and Hassan and the Sphinx, of her and Sittu and the Sphinx, and then she makes Hassan take a picture of her and me and Sittu and the Sphinx. They are mostly profiles of the Sphinx, with a few head on. Sittu explains that Napoleon didn't shoot off the Sphinx's nose, like we thought; it was a man named Muhammad Sa'im al-Dahr, who got really mad that people were worshiping the Sphinx and leaving offerings at its base to ensure they had a good harvest.

“It's getting late. We should head back home,” Sittu says.

It can't be later than noon, but I don't question her. Time seems different here. What's late feels early and what's early feels late. I don't get it, but it doesn't really matter. I'm just glad we're here.

“I'll go ahead and bring the car,” Hassan announces, and then hurries off.

“Slow down!” Sittu shouts. “That boy is always rushing. He also thinks I'm this old lady. The car isn't far.”

“Well, we're a little tired,” I say, hoping to make her feel better.

“Yes, it can be exhausting to climb to the top of the pyramid,” Sittu admits.

I'm about to tell her the truth when Deanna yells, “Ahmed!”

Five different guys turn around.

“That Ahmed!” Deanna points to our friend from the airport.

“Girls!” He waves to us and we run over to him.

“I thought we'd never see you again,” Deanna says, giving him a big hug.

“It's so good to see you.” I hug him too.

“Well, it's a small world, but Egypt is even smaller.” Ahmed asks, “So what do you think of the pyramids?”

“Amazing,” I say.

“Ahmed,” Deanna says, “I don't get it. If you were raised in Giza, haven't you been to the pyramids, like, a million times?”

“Still asking questions! Let's just say I have a lot of family—a lot of family. And sometimes I need some time alone to appreciate my family's greatness. So this is where I come to think, appreciate, and breathe.” Ahmed laughs. “Sometimes it's easier to clear one's head in the presence of what we know well.”

“Very true,” Sittu says as she walks up to join us.

“
Izzayyik
?” Ahmed says, bowing slightly toward Sittu.

“Very well,” Sittu says.

“Ahmed, this is my
sittu
,” I say.

“Madam, you are too young to be a grandmother.” He is sweet, but I don't think his cheesy line is going to work on Sittu.

“And you, I see”—Sittu glares at the silver band on Ahmed's ring finger—“are too married to be talking with such a sweet tongue.”

You go, Sittu. My
sittu
knows how to put a cheesy guy into the grater.

“I mean no disrespect,” Ahmed says, stepping back. “I am a widower.”

“You didn't tell us,” I say.

“I was married for so many years, sometimes I forget she's no longer in this world.” Ahmed smiles, but his eyes look sad.

“I understand what you mean,” Sittu replies. “I was married for close to forty years.”

“May God's blessings be upon him,” Ahmed says, and he bows to her, but his expression has changed, and he looks at Sittu longer than is really polite.

Sittu nods. “
Shukran
. And may Allah's blessings be upon your wife too.”

“Sittu, Ahmed is the one who helped us through customs,” I share.

“Then I thank you for all of your generosity.” Sittu touches her heart.

Ahmed nods, but it seems like he's not really listening. “Tell me,” Ahmed says, sounding surprised and pleased at the same time, “did you by any chance attend the University of Cairo?”

“Why, yes, I did,” Sittu says. She moves closer to his face. For a moment, she just stares. Then she says, “Ahmed!
Izzayyak
?”

“Egypt really gets smaller all the time,” Ahmed says cheerfully.

“You know each other?” Deanna asks.

“We were at university together,” Ahmed explains.

“You were great friends with Gamal,” Sittu says.

“He lives in Dubai now.” He shrugs. “You go where there is work.”

“And Suad?” Sittu asks.

“Ahh, I married her.”

“May Allah's blessings be upon her,” Sittu says. “She was a good woman. Great sense of humor.”

“That's why she married me.” Ahmed laughs, and Sittu laughs too. Ahmed turns to us. “Your grandmother was quite the firecracker in those days. She led student protests. She was steadfast—never feared going to prison.”

“You were arrested?” I exclaim. My eyes must be the size of dinner plates again. I wait for Sittu to explain.

Instead, she cuts off Ahmed, who looks like he's about to tell another story, simply saying, “The energy of youth.”

Deanna tugs on the back of my shirt. I know exactly what she's thinking: Ahmed and Sittu would make a great couple. Maybe they would. They are both widowed. They went to college together. But playing matchmaker for my grandmother is too weird. Besides, she wouldn't like any idea that came from me.

“Well, it was the pleasure of all pleasures to see you again, madam,” Ahmed says. Sittu doesn't say a word, but I think she's blushing. “Girls, I hope our paths cross again.”

Deanna tugs on my shirt so hard this time I fall back a step. “What?” I whisper, as I turn to her.

“Don't you think we should take Ahmed for coffee or lunch or something, to thank him for his help?”

“That is very sweet of you but not necessary,” Ahmed says.

“Of course. Where are my manners?” Sittu says. “After all you did to help my granddaughters, it is I who should take you for lunch. I will be offended if you refuse.”

“Well then, how can I refuse? I must get back to see a cousin today, but any other time would be wonderful,” Ahmed says. “I'd love to take you all to the National Museum. You know, I did my master's work in Egyptology; ironically, that was in America,” he laughs. “Tomorrow? Though, tomorrow that area may be a little dangerous because of—”

Sittu cuts him off. “We live in Heliopolis. We can meet there.”

Deanna raises her eyebrows like now she understands what I meant about Sittu keeping something from me. “What's happening there?” Deanna asks.

“It's January twenty-fifth—”

“We shall meet in Heliopolis then,” Sittu interrupts again.

“New Cairo.” Ahmed smiles, going along with Sittu.

“Not so new anymore, but there are some nice places in the area. Do you drive?” Sittu asks.

“I rented a car.”

“Sittu, maybe you should give Ahmed your number,” Deanna says.

“Of course. A pen.” The normally composed Sittu fumbles in her bag. “I know there should be one in here…. Here we go.” Sittu lets out a breath as she pulls out a pen. “Oh, paper.”

“Here, I have something.” Ahmed pulls a receipt from his pocket and gives it to Sittu.

“Lean on me.” Deanna turns, and Sittu rests the receipt against Deanna's back to write.

Sittu hands the paper to Ahmed, who puts it back in his pocket.

“Until we meet again.” Ahmed bows and then walks in the direction of the Sphinx.

• • •

On the drive back, I insist Deanna ride up front. For most of the ride home, she and Hassan sneak glances at each other while Sittu stares out the window with a smile on her face, as if she were sixteen again.

It must be nice to be in love.

I don't know how long I've been asleep when Deanna's snoring wakes me up.

“Deanna,” I whisper. No response.

“Deanna,” I say louder, but she doesn't wake up. She's in too deep a sleep to hear me. Climbing pyramids and falling in love take a lot out of a person.

My thoughts turn to all that happened during the day. What is Sittu hiding about tomorrow? What would I Google? Egypt? January 25? Maybe find something on Facebook? But it's not like I could find any information on an American website, and here, they'd all be in Arabic. For the first time in my life, I wish I actually knew the language.

I look over at Deanna, still snoring, and I think about how I had worried for nothing about her not having a good time. And how after we'd finished dinner, Hassan and Deanna talked about American and Middle Eastern music until Sittu announced it was time for all of us to go to bed and politely kicked Hassan out. I meant what I told Deanna about being okay with the two of them getting together. But that doesn't mean it's easy to live with.

When Sittu came in to say good night, I was about to ask her about what she'd said when we were with Ahmed, but just then Deanna asked if she could call her mom. Sittu, of course, said yes and took her to call in the other room. I fell asleep before Deanna came to bed.

Now I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Whatever is happening tomorrow, I'll find out soon enough. At this moment, I just want Deanna to stop snoring. I didn't know girls could snore that loud.

I quietly go over to her bed. She has one of her romance novels open on her chest. This one has some super-cute guy wearing one of those traditional Arab headdresses that men in movies wear when they are supposed to look like some rich Arab oil businessperson. Of course, the guy is on a camel, and his arms are wrapped around an anorexic-looking chick wearing a long, flowing dress.

This kind of thing really flips Mom out. She says it's racist garbage. She starts to say “crap” but stops herself. I always thought pictures like this made Arabs look better than the long-bearded guys you see on television screaming, “Death to America.”

I put the book on the nightstand, making sure to turn the cover face down, so Sittu won't see it. I have a feeling she'd find the stereotypical Arab and damsel-in-distress portrayal offensive—or at least stupid.

I nudge Deanna's shoulder. Her snoring just gets louder, so this time I shove her a bit.

“What?” She waves her hands in the air like she's swatting at a mosquito.

“You're snoring.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, instantly falling back to sleep—wonderfully silent sleep.

I climb back into bed and close my eyes; two seconds later her buzz saw starts right up again. Now I'm thirsty.

I drag myself out of bed again. As I'm pushing open the kitchen door, Sittu calls to me from the balcony.

“Mariam, come here.”

She's still awake?
I go out to join her on the balcony.

“Take a seat.” Sittu pats a chair that looks a lot older than her. Its plastic cover is cracked down the middle.

For a long while, Sittu doesn't say a word to me. I'm too afraid I'll say something wrong, so we just sit in silence, watching the cars go into and out of the traffic circle. I've never seen anything like it. Cars enter the circle from five different roads, but they can only exit from one road at a time, and it's not always the same road. The exit road seems to alternate every few minutes.

“It is so much busier here at night,” I say.

“Is traffic this crazy in New York?” Sittu asks.

“In the city.”

“It must be a beautiful place, New York.”

“Sittu, how come you never come to visit us?” I ask.

“Your
giddu
didn't like to fly,” she says. “And I never felt good about leaving him alone.”

“It's been almost ten years since Giddu—”

“I'm an old woman now,” Sittu says.

“Ahmed certainly didn't think so.” I try to make her smile, but she's looking down at the street.

“Ahmed?” she says, like she doesn't know who I'm talking about. But it's obvious that she does.

“You know who I mean—the man we met at the pyramids. The man you're taking to lunch.”

“Of course,” she says, turning toward me. “See, my memory is going—a sign of aging.” She looks back at the road. “He won't call for a while if he calls at all.”

“Why wouldn't he?”

“He's still wearing his wedding band.” Sittu rubs her own band as she says this. “He's still very much married, so it will take some time for him to feel right about having lunch with another woman, even if that woman is an old friend and only talking about lunch.”

I don't try to convince her otherwise. What do I know about men? What do I know about
sittus
, for that matter? For several minutes, we watch cars below.

“You can't sleep?” she finally says. “The time difference takes a bit of adjusting.”

I shrug. “Deanna's snoring pretty loudly.”

“Your
giddu
, now he was a snorer. I think I spent the first year of our marriage sleeping on the couch. In time, you adjust. After he passed, I couldn't sleep because I missed his snoring.” She smiles so wide she's actually showing teeth.

“Did my
baba
and Giddu not get along?” I ask, thinking about how Baba never talks about him.

“They had their ‘stuff,' as you kids call it,” she says, her smile disappearing. I don't have the guts to ask what kind of stuff.

“I wish I could remember him,” I say, then catch myself. “Sorry, Sittu. I know I acted like I remembered him when we were looking at the photos. We just don't have a lot of family pictures around. We mostly have paintings—copies of Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso. My favorite is the guy who did the giant green apple.”

“Magritte,” Sittu says. “He's one of my favorite artists too. I gave your parents a print of that painting for your room when you were born.”

“I didn't know that. It's hanging in the living room.”

“Well, it was a gift to you, so it should be in your room,” she says.

“I like that we all can share it.”

“You are very generous in spirit,” Sittu says. “Remember, don't give away so much that you are left with a hole in your heart.”

“I have a painting in my room that I found in our storage area. It's by an Egyptian artist—an original. It's an oil painting. Very cool.” I tell her all this, hoping to impress her. “It's pretty abstract, but it makes you feel like you're on fire. You look at it and want to go out in the world and make something happen.”

“You don't know this artist's name?”

“The painting isn't signed, and when I asked Baba, he just said, ‘some guy.' I don't think it's his kind of thing. He didn't even want me to bring the painting into the apartment, but Mom convinced him to let me have it.” I shrug. “Mom needed more storage space for all the stuff she never gets rid of. You know,” I say, trying again to make Sittu laugh, “she still has shoes from when I was in first grade.”

“The painting that made you feel on fire—was it blood orange and canary yellow with stripes of red?”

“That's the one! How did you know?”

“It's your
baba
's painting.”

“Baba?! I've never seen him paint or do anything creative at all.”

“When he was younger, one of his favorite things to do was go to the Egyptian Museum and sketch.”

“The ancient artifacts?”

“No, the tourists. Your father loved to sketch people, and then he'd come home and make abstract paintings, like the one in your room.”

“You mean that painting is of a tourist?”

“Or inspired by one.”

“Probably an American.” I laugh.

“Why do you say that?” Sittu asks, but her chuckle shows she knows exactly what I mean.

“Deanna says American tourists are loud and obnoxious and always pissing people off, which makes locals want to punch them in the nose.”

“Not all American tourists,” Sittu says with a smile. I wonder if she thinks of me as a tourist, though I guess that's what I am.

“Would it be okay for us to go to the Egyptian Museum?” I ask.

“Of course we can.” Sittu smiles wide at me. “I'd be very happy to take you.”

“How about tomorrow? I mean today. It's already tomorrow.”

“Today, it might be best to stay near home instead.”

“Is the museum very far? As far as Giza?”

“It all depends on traffic.”

“We can just go for a little while—”

“You are like your father—persistent.” She sighs, looking out into the night.

“I'm sorry.”

“
Habibti
.” Sittu touches my cheek. “Don't apologize for asking for what you want. I would love to take you, and we will go, but the museum is at Tahrir Square, and tomorrow…” She pauses. “Well, it's best to be closer to home tomorrow.”

“What were you going to say? What's happening at Ta…Ta…”

“Tah-rir,” Sittu says.

“Does it have something to do with Tunisia?”

Sittu pulls her shawl tighter around her body. “Do you want to get a sweater?”

“I'm not cold,” I say, frustrated that she's changing the subject. She's doing exactly what my parents do—treating me like a child.

Sittu just nods. At least she's not trying to tell me how I should feel—“You must be cold” or “You must be hot” or “Put on a sweater anyway. Trust me”—like my parents do.

“You know,” she says, forcing a smile like that's going to make me forget about my question, “when your
baba
was a kid, we would all sleep out here in the summer. Your
baba
called it balcony camping.”

“Sittu, please tell me what's going on tomorrow,” I say.

The expression on her face makes me want to run back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

Instead of answering my question, she says: “‘I've come here to Cairo to seek a new beginning between the United States and Muslims around the world, one based on mutual interest and mutual respect; and one based upon the truth that America and Islam are not exclusive and need not be in competition.'”

What is she talking about?

She continues, “‘Instead, they overlap and share common principles—principles of justice and progress, tolerance and the dignity of all human beings.'” She pauses. “Mariam, do you know who said these words?”

I'm sure she can tell from the clueless expression on my face that I have no idea. I shake my head.

“Your president.”

“Wow, Obama said that about Muslims? That's so cool.”

“The summer he took office, he addressed the world from Cairo. It was an important, historic speech—and you don't know this?”

If Sittu is trying to shame me, well, it's working. I don't want to tell her that Baba always shuts off the world news.

“It was important that your President Obama won the election and that he made this speech, but words without action are like those cars down there when they're out of petrol: they get us nowhere. Since your president made his speech last summer, conditions in Egypt have only gotten worse, much worse. For Muslims and Christians—for everyone.”

“President Obama has something to do with what's happening at the square today?”

“Tahrir Square,” she says, sounding like Baba when he's lost patience with me. “The United States has given Mubarak a lot of aid over the thirty years he's been in power, but it goes into his pockets and those of his corrupt police force.”

“Mubarak, he is the president, right?”

She slams her hand on the railing. “A president is elected. In the thirty years that he has been running this country into the ground, Mubarak has never been elected. The elections we have here are not real.”

“They're fixed?” I say, remembering the conversation from yesterday.

“More like broken!”

“Well, if President Obama knew this—”

“Mariam, don't they teach anything in those American schools? Doesn't your father talk to you about what's going on in this world? I didn't raise my son to turn his back on his country.”

“My father loves America.”

“Your father's country is Egypt!” Sittu shouts.

She must see that I'm totally confused, because she takes my hand and says, “For the past thirty years, this man has kept all the money America gives us. So our streets stay dirty and food prices soar. Parents can't feed their families. And our people grow more humiliated and angry. Do you see this?” she asks, showing me her palm.

It looks like a hand. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to see there.

“The dirt. It's from pollution—pollution that only gets worse as the streets get filthier, as the people become hungrier and their shame deepens, all because of this man who calls himself the president.”

Sittu's anger and my confusion are making me tired and cold, and I suddenly just want to go to bed.

Sittu turns her head toward the traffic. “When your father was at the university—”

“I had no idea Baba went to college here.”

“Yes, before he went to America. He had one semester left before he would have graduated. But during a student demonstration against the government—”

“He was arrested, like you were?” I ask, not believing that my father would have ever done anything illegal.

“It was much worse for your father.”

“Why?” I ask.

“
Habibti
, forgive me. I don't know why I'm talking of such things.”

“Please tell me,” I plead.

“I can't tonight.”