Shooting the Sphinx (11 page)

“Were you pinching her like this?” Rami said to the camera in English, and he reached out and pinched one of the thugs on the butt. All the protesters joined in, even Farah, pinching the thugs' asses, tweaking them on the chest. The thugs tried to swat the forty hands away, but they were outpinched.

“Hamed, Hamed! Get the permissions!” yelled Ari, desperate to save the permits from this new pandemonium. Still bleeding a little, he had to keep the white papers out from under his bloody nose. Ari crawled through the scrum of protesters snatching up the last of the papers until someone stepped on the back of his hand.

“Ow, Hamed! The permissions! Get them off the ground!”

The thugs had had enough. Their back against the wall, they retreated slowly down the street, yelling menacing threats and punching anyone who got too close. Hamed picked up the remaining few papers. Ari couldn't lift up the last one. His hand was bloody and shaking.

Rami leaned down and picked up the paper, reading it.

“Ministry of Defense?” Rami laughed. “Here you go, man.” He handed over the paper and began to sing, joyously, victoriously, and everyone joined in the refrain, even some of the younger people hanging out of the windows:

“Ha, Ha, Ha!”

 

Chapter 21

“I don't need stitches?” asked Ari. He sat on a stack of cardboard boxes of medical supplies. He cradled the film permits in his arms, his hands and face crusted with drying blood. Farah rummaged through a box and pulled out some packets of gauze, medical tape, and cotton balls.

“It's nothing. Just a quarter of an inch. Head wounds can bleed a lot.” She pulled a bottle out of the box. “I'm afraid we only have rubbing alcohol, so this will sting.”

She cleaned out the gash, the source of the streaks of dried blood on his temple.

“Ow, ah.” Ari flinched.

“It's tiny. Hold still.” Farah dabbed the cool alcohol on his forehead with gauze. “You can go to the hospital if you want, but it's a very clean cut, and it's already closed up. I'll put a butterfly on it just in case. Come into the bathroom if you'd like to see yourself in the mirror. You should wash your face, too.”

Farah led him through the apartment to a bathroom. It was a big place with high ceilings and French doors that opened from room to room. The protesters were settling back down to work blogging. Laptops were everywhere, on every surface. The young people had a feverish concentration. The thugs spooked them just enough to fuel their determination with rage. They sprawled over the floor pounding out their stories on their computers, tweeting on their phones.

Farah taped a butterfly bandage over Ari's cut, then rinsed the blood off his face and hands in the bathroom sink. Her fingers lingered on his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said, and her eyes welled up for a moment. She tried to control herself, but fell against him shuddering.

“It's all right. It's okay. It's over.” He embraced her, feeling the warmth of her breath on his neck. Her hair stuck slightly to his lips.

She choked down a soft sob. “I was so frightened that they would take me into their car and then…”

“Hey, so was I. They're scary guys. I'm still shaking.” He held up his quivering hands. With trembling thumbs, he wiped the tears from her face. “What is this place?”

She stepped back and composed herself bravely, but he was happy, almost gleeful that she had leaned against him. “Come, I'll show you.”

She led him into a bedroom. Six sleeping protesters lay fully clothed, crashed out across the bed sideways. Piles of rope, tarps, paint, and materials to make signs were everywhere. Three protestors sat in front of a professional video-editing system set up on a dresser. They were already inputting the footage of Farah being abused by the thugs.

“We are spreading the word,” she said to Ari. “We are showing everyone that if they beat us down, we bring more people; if they beat them, we bring even more, until one day soon, there will be too many people to beat. If we overwhelm them, you see how easily they give up? Because they don't believe in what they are doing. They are cowards only beating people for government money. Why don't you put that into your Hollywood movie?”

“Well…” Ari couldn't think of a less likely subject for Hollywood.

The room lights turned on garishly bright.

The sleeping protesters rolled over, grumbling in Arabic. One opened his eyes and said to Ari in English, “Hey, man, we're trying to sleep. Turn off the lights.”

“But it wasn't me.” Ari replied.

Samir stood by the door with his hand on the light switch.

“So this is your revolution?” he said to his sister scornfully. “This is how you are going to change Egypt? Everybody sleeps in one bed? Shameful.”

“Is this her Muslim brother?” grunted one of the sleepy protesters, annoyed.

“Yes. Quick, film him!” said another. “Put him in tonight's video blast.”

The cameraman lying on the bed raised a camcorder that seemed permanently attached to his hand.

“Come with me, Ari.” Samir tugged on Ari's arm. “We must get you out of this place.” He switched off the lights just as the camera started recording. “Oh, excuse me for disturbing your dreams,” Samir said in the dark.

 

Chapter 22

Down in the street, Samir and Ari walked in silence except for their footfalls scraping on the sidewalk. Ari still held the film permits. Samir noticed that they were wrinkled and dogeared. Pursing his lips, chewing over words he couldn't say, he frowned down at the pavement. Guilt and rage, thought Ari. Which will be stronger?

Samir finally spoke. “Thank you for saving my sister.”

“Don't thank me,
aala wajib
,” joked Ari. (It is my duty.)

“Oh no, now you have been in Egypt too long.”

“Since I saved your sister's honor”—Ari saw his opening and took it—“doesn't an old Arab custom mean that you owe me some sort of debt of gratitude?”

Samir groaned. “I take it back. You are still a Jew.”

“Then I'll collect my pound of flesh, please.” Ari held out the film permits to Samir. “So we're back together again? By the way, did the money hit your account, the twenty-five thousand?”

Samir didn't answer.

“You never got the payment?” Now Ari understood the violence of Samir's outburst. “Why didn't you tell me?”

They walked into Samir's building and went up to his office, where he opened his laptop and slid it across the desk. Ari dialed.

“May I borrow your sunglasses?” asked Ari.

Samir took a pair from his pocket and handed them over. Ari put the glasses on over his forehead, hiding his little butterfly bandage.

Beth appeared in bed. “Hel … lo?” Her husband did not.

“Beth it's me.”

“Oh, Ari … what time is it over there?”

Ari ignored her question. “I'm here with Samir.”

“Hello, Samir.”

“We are so sorry to wake you.” Samir was contrite.

Ari was not. “The money did not hit the account.”

“What do you need the money for?” asked Beth nonplussed.

“You didn't send it?” asked Ari.

“You can't shoot anything yet.”

“Unbelievable!” Ari slammed his fist down on the desk.

“Elizabeth.” Samir trained the computer on himself. “If I may speak.”

“Of course.”

“The day we get the money is an important day,” said Samir slowly.

“How so?” asked Beth.

“Then Ari can go back to the airport to get the SpaceCam.”

The statement hung in the air. Whether the money was needed for bribery or some legitimate reason, Beth couldn't ask. She had no choice but to pay. She obviously didn't like it.

“Samir, how are you doing on your budget?” she did ask.

“We will go over.”

“Why?” she demanded.

Samir looked over at Ari. “Some occurrences that could not be foreseen.”

“Thought so.” Beth rubbed her temples. “After this payment, we are not sending any more money until I see a new budget that we both sign off on. We must know how much the rest of the filming is going to cost before we agree to pay.” She pressed her point.

“Of course.” Samir nodded with a courteous little bow. “That is the way it should be.”

“How is it going with permission to fly on another day?”

“I am working on it,” admitted Samir.

“Can I speak to Ari?” Beth rubbed her temples again. A headache seemed to be brewing.

“I'm still here.” Ari trained the webcam back on himself.

“Alone,” said Beth.

“Certainly.” Samir put the permits back into his desk drawer, got up, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

“Ari, did we pick the right guy?” She spoke softly, but it wasn't a question.

“Come on.” Ari rolled his eyes.

“I'm just asking.” Beth was annoyed. “Does Samir have enough juice to handle this? Or is he too small?”

“What are you suggesting? Dump Samir?” If only she knew Samir almost quit, he thought.

“Tell Frank that we can't get the shot legally and that he has to write something else easier to shoot.”

“Absolutely not!” Now Ari erupted. After taking the punch, he still had a pent-up fury. “I always get the shot. Always. And whatever you tell Frank, he's not going to believe it unless I say it, too.”

They both stared at each other for a moment. Something had snapped between them. They were now in open conflict. “Then good luck tomorrow,” said Beth.

“Thank you,” said Ari, meaning something else.

“You're welcome,” said Beth, meaning anything but, and hung up on him.

“Good…,” said Ari to the blank screen, “… night.”

 

Chapter 23

Ari sat holding his forms, waiting on a bench in another dark corridor in the bowels of the airport. He didn't know how long he'd been waiting. He didn't care. Samir paced, unable to sit. After a long time, a customs private came to fetch them.

They walked along the dim corridor under each naked light bulb to the end. They entered an outer office, passed several clerks in uniform sitting at their desks, and stopped outside a closed door. The customs private knocked three times. An order to enter came from within. The private opened the door.

Ari and Samir walked into a dark office with windows onto the black void. Behind a big desk, dressed in uniform, sat General Moussa, the head of customs. Slightly chubby, he sported a Saddam-style moustache. A TV was on, playing some sort of Egyptian soap opera.

The private ushered them to take seats by the edge of the desk. The general nodded to them in an amiable way, but said not a word. They were furnished with cups of tea by the private. Samir took the sugar cube and stuck it between his teeth as he drank. Ari copied him.

The general went about his business reading papers, making phone calls, not once looking at the TV, looking over at Ari cheerfully every so often, but with never an invitation to speak, not even an introduction. What is he waiting for? wondered Ari. A bribe? Yet Samir sat on in perfect stillness, waiting.

The soap opera ended. They all had sat there saying nothing for half an hour. An Arabic news program came on with footage of American troops fighting in some war. The private returned and took their glasses.

“Shukran,”
said Ari, realizing he had spoken the word for “thank you.”

The general looked up from his work at Ari.

“La sukr, aala wajib,”
said the private which, by this time, Ari knew meant: Don't thank me. It's my duty.

An old photo of George W. Bush came on the TV. The general looked at the television for the first time, then at Samir. “Leave us.” The general pointed at the door. Slightly humiliated, Samir stood up and walked out.

“Do you like George Bush?” General Moussa asked Ari in halting, heavily accented English.

Ari shifted in his seat. He looked at the empty chair where Samir had been a moment before as if for some sort of clue as to what to say. The chair was vacant. Ari searched his mind for the right answer. Does he want me to praise or to censure? wondered Ari. Probably not praise, but to call an American president a liar, a fool, a puppet of his vice president, seemed unwise, especially to a general in a military dictatorship.

On the wall above the general's head was the omnipresent portrait of President Mubarak staring directly down at Ari as if to say: “This general facing you between us speaks for me. He is me and I am him.” Such is the implication of all such pictures. Wouldn't insulting Bush be insulting myself to such a man? wondered Ari.

There has to be a perfect answer to this question, thought Ari as he fixed upon the man's Saddam moustache.

“I … think that … Bush made a big … mistake going into Iraq.” Ari had chosen his words very carefully.

The moustache came alive like two black caterpillars. The general's smile of approval expressed admiration for Ari's chess move.

“You are good man. I give you your camera,” said the general in his broken English. He added, “Saddam was great man! No?”

Ari nodded, thinking he could not have imagined himself ever hearing such a question. Let alone answering it, “Yes.”

Ari and Samir went back out through the portal into Terminal One, past the customs desk and over to the sixteen SpaceCam cases stacked against the wall. Ari felt unclean. He picked up the closest case. A sergeant ran out of the customs room to stop him.

Ari looked around for help. “Samir?”

Samir had left him. Ari was furious. “You call General Moussa. He gave me my camera! General Moussa, you call him.” Ari kept repeating the general's name, but the sergeant wouldn't let go of the case. Ari wanted to lash out, punch the sergeant in the face. Ari had reached his breaking point. He had praised Saddam. What else was left to do?