Tamima

Usta Baher was a dick. The way he referred to Tamima in the masculine, as if calling her by her name was some kind of indecent exposure, the way he never looked her in the eye when she addressed him as if looking was somehow equal to undressing, the way he zigzagged from lane to lane bullying every car into moving out of his way, how he pressed harder on the gas whenever someone tried to overtake him. Tamima was getting more car sick by the minute. If he slammed on the brakes or drove right into a pothole one more time, she’d probably puke. She’d lunge at him and puke all over his shiny grey suit. Thankfully, they were nearing The Civil Status Authority in Abasiyya and Usta Baher was slowing down. But then there was his imminent emergence out of the car for Tamima to worry about, his biker shades and the far-flung scent of his oud perfume as he rushed to her side to open the door. All what was missing really was a coiled tube earpiece in his right ear.

            She stepped out, cursing him under her breath. Badr, the person in charge of whisking her through all the red tape and ordinary people was a small guy with a big head. He stood waiting on the sidewalk, his face baring a huge obligatory smile. She extended a hand to shake his, but he turned it down, politely of course.

“After you, Madame Malik.”

She walked along a pavement now buzzing with flies and activity and looked at the women as they sat cross-legged on the cold asphalt. The grounds were steeped in the stench of dried out urine. Everything around them was littered with waste; Chewed up and spat out gum, Coca-Cola bottle caps, cigarette butts and the odd abandoned zanuba slipper. But that didn’t deter the women. They lapped the garlic on the ghee on the bread every morning and popped it in the oven to stay strong and warm, then went about their day selling the usual fare of Taiwanese toys, tissue boxes and shriveled vegetables. And while they waited to make a dime or two, they busied themselves with picking nits out of their children’s hair and chitchatting about useless husbands and the rising price of sugar.

“Good morning ya Abla!”

“LE6 the tomatoes!”

“May God make you pregnant!”

“Pregnant! She’s an Anissa you blind one! She means, may God find you a husband, ya Anissa!”

She followed Badr into the government building. Scanning her surroundings in the hall, she noticed she was the only unveiled woman inside, if not one of a handful in a sea of men. On the peeled cracked gray walls above the plastic seats was a pixelated poster with a bold red headline. “The Heroes of the 2011 Uprising,” it read, “The Police Martyrs.” Underneath the header were some 50 thumbnails of malnourished faces. They were all draftees from remote villages, the eyes hollow, mouths forlorn. She inched closer to take a better look: Those men, they had no clue what they were getting into, no choice when they opened fire. She wanted to take a picture of the poster, but taking pictures was risky business nowadays. They’d probably think she was a foreign agent or a journalist in an opposition newspaper, or even part of a terrorist organization. Who knows.

“After you ya Madame.” Badr had the elevator door open. People were stuffing themselves in before the ones inside could make an exit. Once everyone guaranteed a spot, all eyes turned to her. “Come in,” they urged unanimously. “There’s still space.” She hesitated for a second then clinched her bag and took the plunge. Inside, she stood straight as an arrow with barely a twitch, her eyes fixed on the weight capacity sign. “Do Not Exceed 640 Kilograms,” it read. She made a swift head count without moving a muscle. There were 11 people in this elevator with an estimated average weight of 80 kilograms each. Tamima could not breathe. Not only because of the car ride, this place, or that poster, but because of what she was here to do.

She sat on one of the many plastic orange seats lining the cracked gray walls on the second floor and remembered: Those 18-days in winter known as the 18 days of Arab spring. That time when so much was happening that every television channel had to split its screen into four. How a country became a planet weathering through a cosmic shift. How the streets felt like a hundred years and the balconies served front row seats. She was there, past those balconies in the control rooms, the little apartments Downtown and all around town. Weirdly enough, he was there too. They were part of the same youth movement, she was sure. The one that met regularly at Cairo Capital Club in Garden City. The rooms were so crammed in those days, people on people, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder, side by side. That kind of intimacy was OK at the time, even desired. He never sat on a window ledge though, or cross-legged on the floor. Perhaps it was his air, because in a room so crammed people still gave him his space. But he was there, she was sure. When he spoke, he would lean back in his armchair, drape one leg over the other, weave his fingers together, and the whole room would fall silent. He was there because when she spoke, flitting around like a firefly, his eyes would follow her, everywhere.

“Follow me, Madame Malik.” Badr led her through a corridor where police guards sat sipping their tea and watching passersby. Rooms shrouded in cigarette smoke and a general feel of ennui flanked the passageways. Finally, she was ushered into a threadbare room with no pictures on the walls, not even of President Sisi. There were no plaques, no stationary and no files on the desks or in the cabinets, just tea dregs and burnt cigarette butts in glass cups. The one leather sofa there was originally black, but the white cracks ran through it like a thousand dried out creeks. She sat on it careful to avoid the gutted center with its sponge filling bulging out like the entrails of a carcass. Facing her was a young man in a white galabiyya and ankle-length trousers. The man was bearded without a mustache, which immediately indicated his Salafi leanings. Behind one of the desks sat a government bureaucrat, his jaundiced eyes shrouded in the smoke he’d just exhaled, as he lazily spoke on his mobile phone. Neither of them looked at her.  

She didn’t look at them either. Instead, her eyes wandered around the room. There were no computers, because there weren’t computer systems, that much she knew, but if archiving was done manually, where the hell were all the records? Where could they have possibly stored Gamal Abdel Nasser’s first ID as President or Faten Hamama and Omar al-Sharif’s divorce papers? In a little safe down in a vault? And what about the files they didn’t want? Mina Daniel, a blogger, shot in front of the Maspero building during a peaceful sit-in. Shaimaa al-Sabbagh, a poet, shot in Tahrir Square in a day that commemorated the 18 days. They were there, even if this room was empty.

Their first time alone together was on the Cairo Capital Club terrace. She stepped out to smoke a cigarette. He followed and asked for a lighter. It was hard to stay still when his eyes never left her. She put one hand on the rail and puffed away with the other, but it felt awkward, especially with her bitten fingernails on display. She twirled a short strand of her hair around her finger and dropped her gaze to where his shoes were. Their black sheen made them seem like they had just arrived in their box. She lifted the collar of her jeans jacket and hid half her face, then peered out. He hooked his finger into hers and freed her short strand now curled around itself.

“Toota,” he said with a smile.

“Sorry?”

“Too-ta.” 

“Your husband’s ID card please.” The bureaucrat with jaundiced eyes was finally off his phone. She searched her wallet, her bag, and pockets. “Oh, I forgot it. Oh no, here it is.” She pulled a card out. “Wait, this is my driver’s license. Would it work?” Badr charged between them. “Forgive us, ya Basha. El Madame got her driver’s license by mistake, but look, Look! The information is identical. We’re so sorry, but,” he winked, “you understand.” Tamima looked over at the Salafi sitting in front of her. The poor guy was tugging at his trousers, trying to cover what was left of his limbs.

“Take her to Lieutenant Mustafa on the ground floor. See what he could do,” he said, blowing smoke in Badr’s face. Badr didn’t blink. If anything, his face swelled with gratitude before saluting the man and marching off. Tamima followed.

Do I really want to do this? Change the status on my national ID to ‘married?

Loverutionaries, they used to call themselves. Even though they believed it, it still made them giggle. Or maybe they giggled because they never really believed it. She expressed herself to him in bits and pieces. At first he listened to her stories with a kind of rapture, but then one story led to another, and one question led to another. The more Malik knew about Tamima, the more reserved he became, and as his love grew, he also became critical of the very qualities that had attracted him to her in the first place.

Egypt’s 18 days in Tahrir Square saw women abandon the home, lead men in demonstrations, stand in front of police tanks, take over the megaphones, guard the gates, and even guard the night. They were grabbed, slandered, fingered, shot, yet poured back into the streets in ever-growing numbers. Did any of it happen if the records were lost? Malik probed and Tamima had nothing to hide. She told him who was her first, who she loved, and whose heart was broken. That night, she went to bed and woke up to a strange sound. Not so far from her, an animal was bellowing in pain. They used to shoot the stray dogs in the neighborhood in those days, so she thought it was another dying one. She put a pillow on her head, but the sound persisted. She got out of bed and followed it into the balcony. It was there that she found Malik, on the floor, body shaking like an earthquake, head between his knees.

The problem became so severe in the months that followed that to her shock, he demanded she sees a psychiatrist. He loved her, he said, he wanted to marry her, but in order to take this step he had to feel secure in their union. Only men had no qualms about casual sex, he had said. It wasn’t casual, she tried to explain, but the more she explained, the angrier he became. He interrogated her day and night, chasing after every tale, the smallest detail. Did she have any regrets? No. Then something must be fundamentally wrong with her. She needed rehabilitation. Malik argued that Tamima would not be able to exist within Egyptian society the way she was, let alone instill the values that he wanted in their future children. She was crushed, but at the same time found it impossible to walk away. Tamima was irrevocably in love. He did not mean what he said, she convinced herself. What he really meant was he could not bear sharing her with someone else, not even in his imagination. So she erased every trace of a past life, tore every old photo, poem, or note, and cut ties with anyone who would unsettle their relationship.

“Madame Malik?” It was Badr. She had unwittingly stopped in her tracks in front of the men’s toilet. The door was like a palimpsest of scribbles, reiterating the same thing over and over again in different colors: ‘Manhood,’ in red spray paint, ‘Men,’ in ink, and ‘Manly’ in a thick black felt pen. There was even a tiny doodle of a man’s penis next to the knob. The door was closed, but it might as well have been wide open. The smell of the disinfectant mixed with aged urine crept through the door and clung to the parched papyrus-colored paint. “I need the women’s toilet,” she told Badr, “just go to the Lieutenant’s office and I’ll catch up with you there.”

            She waited for him to take a left at the end of the corridor then quickly took a photo of the battered door. On her way down the corridor were big boards hung on several walls. “The Fundamentals of Police Behavioral Conduct,” it read. She looked around before taking another picture then hurried to catch up with Badr. As she sat waiting by the Lieutenant’s office, she opened the photo she’d just taken. Words and broken meanings faded in and out: power to the people.. respect for human rights.. freedom of expression…honesty .. transparency ..plurality.. democracy. She looked inside the Lieutenant’s office and found a bevy of veiled government workers fluttering around him. He stood in their midst like a knight in shining armor, tall, broad, and tyrannical, making eyes with one and leaning on the other, while they blushed and flushed and giggled like fools. They all fell for the uniform. They were all seeking a way out of the home at any cost. She found herself wondering what a night with this man would be like. Would he mount her like a prisoner of war? Would he be kind to her the morning after? Did those women really think this man, this man, was their salvation from the father, the brother, the country?  The Lieutenant shot a look her way. It was brief, but had the will of a bullet. Then his coffee was served and the women dispersed.

“You will need to sweet talk the Lieutenant since you forgot your ID,” Badr whispered, “also, excuse me for saying this, but you also should thank him for receiving you in his office. We need to follow the protocols.”

“Protocol!” Dr. Aziz once said. He was annoyed he could not get through to her.

“You need to learn how to conduct yourself in society. Understand, Tamima. You are a lady.” She laughed. “What is so funny?” Dr. Aziz was the psychiatrist Malik had chosen for her.

“Look at how you’re sitting. Don’t slouch” he said. “What is so funny?” She obliged and sat up straight. Everything about Dr. Aziz was large, his physique, his demeanor and his tastes. Although Tamima received most of his advice with cynicism, there was always an element of amusement. Dr. Aziz was a society man who appreciated the finer things in life. Whole sessions were spent on talking about how to tell the difference between an original Limoges dining set and a fake one, or on how to tell the difference between real Czech crystals and artificial ones. She did not know nor care about such topics, but he derived so much pleasure out of them that she let him talk all he wanted.  With time, however, the sessions did bring about change. Dr. Aziz’s approach was effective. In their first session, he told her there is no such thing as ‘fixing’ a patient, but that he could definitely work with her to meet her goals. He asked her what she expected out of their sessions and she simply told him she wanted to be with this man. Dr. Aziz taught her that her past was hers alone, and that only she reserved the right to disclose or un-disclose it. He taught her discretion. He showed her how to turn a situation to her favor, how to think before speaking, and when not to speak at all. He taught her how to tell her man what he wanted to hear so that she could get what she wanted. How to act in public and how to close the doors to the rooms she won’t be going back into. Dr. Aziz also paid a lot of attention to her image. He despised her cropped hair and the way she dressed, her Birken Stocks and ripped jeans.

“Dr. Aziz, I’m a journalist, not a TV anchor,” she’d say.

“So what? You come from a good family, Tamima. Show me your hands. What is this, they’re dryer than mine. Put some manicure. Stop biting your nails.”

Eventually, Toota became more than a nickname, it became a way of life. In bed, she was too scared to show want or experience, so she gave him the lead. He derived pleasure out of dominating her, as if that would heal his bruised pride or dispossess her of her past. When the big day came, she found herself letting go of one wish after another and surrendering to his will. Initially he had agreed with her that an intimate celebration by the beach in Ain Sukhna is what he wanted too. But then there were his colleagues at the the law firm, his high profile clients, and his parents’ society friends. There were also her friends, other writers, bloggers, artists, NGO  workers. “Are they going to smoke pot all night?” he had said, “I don’t want any scenes.” When it came to their furnishing the apartment, she had no say either. He argued that he needed to entertain his clients. He wanted something sober, leather couches, cherry wood, plush fabrics and subdued shades all around. He told her where to shop and asked her to come back to him with samples to choose from. When she was finally done, she did not recognize herself in any corner. The living space looked more like a cigar lounge, and the dining room was fit for receiving dignitaries.

“Toota, I need you to keep your distance from the help.” She was too friendly, he complained.

“Why don’t you grow your hair out? You look like a 15-year old boy.”

“It would be best if you stop coming to my office. I’m not comfortable with my colleagues ogling my wife. I’m going to be a partner here soon, you know.”

Eventually, he even started putting limitations on her work:

“Listen, I don’t want you walking around the Tahrir area anymore. It’s a dangerous place now. Safety first.”

“Tell you what, why don’t I hire you a driver? Do you see how people drive nowadays?”

“Why are your colleagues calling you at such an hour?”

She was too naiive, he argued. She trusted people too much. He loved her. He wanted to protect her. She should trust him. He knew better.

The Lieutenant shot another look her way and signaled for her to enter. She entered with Badr tagging along, and sat down waiting while he pretended to be busy with files on his desk.

“General!” Badr started, “forgive us, Madame Malik here forgot Mr. Malik’s national ID. You know Mr. Malik, right? He’s had General Rafiq call you yesterday. We would be so grateful if-“

“Badr,” she said, “could you leave us alone for a minute?”

“What?”

“Wait outside. Just for a minute.”

She waited for him to leave before turning to the Lieutenant and extending a hand across the desk. “Tamima Fadel,” she said. It took him a few seconds to respond. She gave his hand a squeeze and watched him wriggle it out of her grip.

“I initially came here to add my husband’s name to my ID,” she began, sitting down again. “It is not my idea, but you know, it makes it easier to do things together, like vote in the coming presidential elections. Will you be voting, Lieutenant?”

“…”

“I’m sorry, are you a Lieutenant or a General? Badr over there just called you a General.  I’m confused.”

“…”

“Oh, right. The police force is not allowed to vote. I would vote for Mona Prince,” she continued, “but there is no way she could collect enough signatures. She being she and all.  Have you heard of her?”

“I’m sorry, what are you here for?”

 “You wouldn’t. She is this crazy university professor who got suspended for teaching her student’s Milton’s Paradise Lost. Have you heard of Paradise Lost?”

“…”

 “I know there is no hope in her ever winning. You know, with all that bullshit she stands for.. dreams, knowledge, art, literature, freedom… but you know, I would be voting for a principle.”

            “Watch your words, ya Madame.”

She looked up at the big board plastered all over the building. There it was again, over his head. “You know, power to the people, respect for human rights, plurality, and all that- Garbage.”

“Where’s that man who was with you?”

“Such a shame you can’t vote. It only makes sense that those who uphold these values the most are allowed to have a say, don’t you think? Anyway, I know you’re a busy man. There are hundreds of people who come asking for favors everyday. They probably come from all over the country. They take trains, microbuses and wait for hours at your door. You probably send them off for a missing stamp or signature.”

“Madame Malik, you are here because orders came from above. How can I help?”

“My point is, these people need your time more than me. If you do not help them, I’d imagine they will probably have nowhere to sleep in the big city, until they get their papers in order.” She stood up.

“Anyway, I thank you for your time, and of course, please do thank General Rafiq. But as you know, I forgot my husband’s national ID at home today. And besides, it doesn’t really matter. Long live the president.”

 “Badr!”

Badr appeared.

“Take this woman and get out of here.”

Badr’s mouth looked like the high dam before the flood, but Tamima had no interest in listening. She walked out leaving him to hobble behind. At the entrance, she looked for Usta Baher, but the car was no where to be found, so she stopped by one of the women selling tissue and bought a box.

“Malik! Malik!”

She turned around to see who was calling her husband. It was Usta Baher, calling her.