Glass Collector (17 page)

Ahmet, the deaf metal worker, takes one afternoon off a week to ride his boss’s pony and cart around the city because the doctor told him twenty years ago to give his ears a rest from the hammering and banging of the foundry and listen to different sounds. Ahmet took this to mean “listen to other loud sounds” and began haunting the noisiest parts of Cairo. He soon went deaf, but he keeps up the routine of riding the cart around the city with a happy grin and is always good for a lift.

“Right,” Jacob says, nodding. “Come with me!” Aaron suggests.

He stares at Jacob’s open face. His friend looks normal, like his old self right now. It was stupid to worry about him. Maybe he was just hungry and the medicine bottle was all he had, Aaron tries to tell himself. He blocks out the lingering memory of pastries and lentils that proves otherwise.

Jacob shakes his head. He’s exhausted. “You go.”

Aaron nods at Jacob’s mother. “Yes, I’ll do it.” Then he glances at young Salome, and tries to catch Wadida’s eyes to give her a quick smile, but she squirms from his gaze. He shoots from the room. This could be his last afternoon of freedom for a long time and he’s determined to make the most of it, knowing he’ll be too tired tomorrow after working with Jacob to do much of anything else. But the sweet feeling of escape turns bitter the closer Aaron gets to the bottom of the stairs, where a woman is piling used bandages into a bag.

The smell of blood makes him gag. He grabs his stomach to hold back the need to vomit. How’s he going to do this? He can’t even bear to look. And if he survives the first day, there’ll be another and another after that, until a vile disease brings him out in sores and finishes him off. He’s not ready to give in to this, he realizes.

There’s one last thing he can do to save his own skin—run to the perfume shop in the hope that Omar will take pity on him. Rescue him. Save him from a fate worse than death.

Soon Aaron arrives at the shops and stalls in the old part of the village. Glancing up the lane, he sees Ishaq, the icon seller, pulling down his shutter, closing up for his afternoon nap. The baker’s shelves are empty. Only the butcher is hard at work with a meat cleaver by a wooden block that is loaded with chunks of pink flesh. At the small foundry where red-hot coals, high flames, and four smoky figures are pounding hot metal into a molten pulp there’s a loud noise of tapping, knocking, and banging. The noises aren’t too bad when one man slams his hammer down, but when all four do the same, the sound is deafening.

Aaron covers his ears.

“Where’s Ahmet?” he asks the butcher, keeping his eyes firmly on his wide face and away from the meat he’s cutting.

“He just left.”

The butcher turns his head in the direction of the stone arch and Aaron takes off. He races past the laundry with its sudden alien whiff of soap, then Sami’s electrical shop with a flickering TV in the window. Remembering Jacob’s words, he slows down and peers inside to see if Rachel’s there. A pulsing beat sounds from where Sami’s perched in front of a radio beside Habi, the old greengrocer, who’s smoking hard. There’s no sign of Rachel.

Running under the arch, Aaron spots Ahmet in the distance and speeds up to catch him before the cart turns into the road. There’s no point in shouting at the deaf man. Panting for breath, tensing his stomach, Aaron gallops alongside the cart. Ahmet finally spots him and slows down to let him on.

Aaron touches Ahmet’s arm with gentle affection as he settles beside him on the scratchy bench. Several fig seeds are trapped between Ahmet’s teeth. Aaron points to the seeds.
One there. Two there
. Ahmet nods and licks his lips. He doesn’t find them. No matter. Aaron’s here at last, on his way to the city. With sunshine skating across Aaron’s shoulders, the pony ambles along the busy road, which is bursting with taxis and cars.

Ahmet grins with an animal energy that whips him up to steer the pony right in front of a blue truck.

“Don’t be crazy!” Aaron cries, grabbing the reins.

The blue truck overtakes them in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Blasting horns and screeching brakes bring the traffic to a standstill. Aaron makes a fast clicking noise to get the pony out of the way of several stalled cars, but it lifts a hoof and stays where it is. Ahmet can’t stop grinning as Aaron awkwardly pushes him aside. He wasn’t expecting to be killed today, not when he’s trying to escape another deadly fate. Afraid of what Ahmet might do next, Aaron gently tugs the reins and make soothing noises to the pony, which eventually lumbers on to a trot.

With one hand on the reins, Aaron reaches for the perfume in his pocket and it feels real—cool to the touch and safe. Everything else—the orange sun, the wide sky, the endless traffic—seems flimsy and made-up.

This weird sensation of unreality only leaves him when he turns the cart onto the familiar road leading to Omar’s shop. The carved black door is open wide and Aaron glances in as he comes to halt a few feet away. Ahmet frowns, wondering why they’ve stopped, and Aaron reassures him by touching his arm briefly before handing over the reins and climbing down. “Two minutes,” Aaron mouths, holding up a couple of fingers.

It’s only been five days since he was here but it feels like a long time ago and the window, with its pink, blue, and golden bottles, seems to glitter a welcome. Aaron stands, hands in pockets, wide-eyed at the new display. The noise of the streets fades to nothing as the reflections of the glass reach out from the mirrored shelves to a place deep inside his chest. He’s lost in the sight of the smallest bottles placed between the ones with the bubbled, need-to-touch sides. The rose-glass perfumes are lined up together on the lowest shelf, while the bottles with tall blue necks and pointed stoppers have been carefully mixed in among the round ones with twisting golden spires.

He’d like to stay and work out the reasons for putting this one here, that one there, but he can just make out the dark shape of Omar behind the cash register. There’s a chance he might look up and see Aaron gazing in. There’s a chance he might feel sorry for him and offer to help. If only a miracle would take place right now and Omar could see he needed looking after and take him on. But then, if he’s guessed who stole from him he’ll just rush out and collar him again.
Can you be locked up for just looking? For just wanting?

Aaron drops his eyes, remembering there’s a bottle of stolen perfume right now in his pocket. He finds his way through the denim for the bottle. He’s too nervous to stay—too sad to go. He suddenly becomes aware that he’s not alone and turns swiftly to see Ahmet standing behind him, eyes glued to the window.

It’s then that an earth-shattering blast rocks the city and a bolt of black smoke darkens the sky. A bomb. It’s a bomb. Aaron knows it’s a bomb. A second later cars slam to a stop. Speed to reverse. Taxis brake and screech, skidding and turning. Buses pull over to let passengers off. Police sirens wail. From the direction of the smoke, it’s clear a bomb’s exploded somewhere in the hotel district. Women pick up their children and flee. People scream, running for their lives.

But in a state of supreme ignorance, Ahmet rubs the sides of his face and stares at the glittering bottles in the shop window. He hasn’t heard the blast and is intoxicated by the colored glass. Then metal shutters cruelly unfurl, dropping to slice the window in two, but not before Omar spots Aaron out front. This clearly isn’t the moment to deal with him and the black doors clunk shut. A key twists in the lock.

“Ahmet! Ahmet!”

Aaron tugs his arm, but the deaf man brushes him off, rooted to the spot. He can’t look away, even though the window’s shuttered tight. In the end, Aaron drags him backwards toward the pony, which is restlessly kicking back while trying to pull the reins from the lamp post. Staggering awkwardly, Ahmet’s about to lose his temper until he wakes up to the incredible chaos around him. His eyes dart from cars and buses eager to go the wrong way down the street, to the ominously dark sky, to clouds of dust and dirt flying from the other side of the roundabout, while all around shops are clattering to a shut.

In a daze he climbs on the cart and lets Aaron guide the pony down the middle of the crazy street toward Mokattam. Looking back, Aaron sighs shakily. The main road’s crammed with speeding police cars and ambulances. If they hadn’t stopped to look in Omar’s shop window they’d have followed the road to the roundabout, then gone on to the highway lined with posh hotels. They could be dead now.

Breathing heavily, sweating from head to toe, Aaron has a feeling that someone from among the Zabbaleen must have been caught in the blast. A hollow ache starts inside as he wipes flecks of black dirt from his forehead, racking his brains to recall which families are out on the second shift right now. Who’s clearing the cafés and restaurants on the roads leading to the museum? Might they have avoided the explosion? There are hundreds doing that shift.

Ahmet’s confused by the chaos as the cart dawdles its way through the traffic trying to leave the city. By the time the bedraggled pony wends his way into the silent cavern of Mokattam filth, Aaron’s glad to be home for once. No bomb’s ever gone off here.

The icon seller is asleep in his doorway. Insects have set up home on his feet. A small, half-naked boy crawls gingerly out from under the stall selling limes, bananas, and mangoes. Everyone else is at the end of the lane, arms folded, crowded around one of the few men in Mokattam who owns a cell phone.

Aaron thuds to a stop to listen to the breathless voice on the phone, which is held palm-out for everyone to hear.

“Yes, a hotel. I don’t … Can’t see. Yes, an explosion they think. It’s Armageddon here. Blood everywhere. There’s at least twenty dead. Even more injured. There’s a mangled pony in the road between cars smashed with concrete. Glass everywhere. The police are moving everyone on. I can’t quite see. Yes, the cart’s on its side. Rubbish all over the place. Two, you say? The guy here says two on the cart are dead. One with a blue-and-white shirt. Can you hear?”

Simon. It’s Simon. He has a blue-and-white shirt. Simon’s dead. His brother, Mart, too. Aaron went to school with them. Simon’s the same age as him, too cocky, but he’s nice to Abe. Says he’s going to get him a jellyfish on the Internet. Abe adores Simon, like he does Aaron, as if he’s an older brother. Since day one it’s been,
Simon this, Simon that
. Aaron enjoys Abe waiting for him and following him around, but sometimes it’s good to get rid of him and Simon was always happy to take over when Aaron got fed up. Abe’ll miss him too. He’s been blown up by some maniac while picking up trash. Aaron’s stunned. It could have been him. Several adults are staring at Aaron and he doesn’t know how to react. What can he do to show he’s as shocked and sad as they are, when really the news has turned his heart to stone?

Strange as it feels, all Aaron can think as he climbs off the cart is, Shareen’s wedding’s supposed to be tomorrow. He feels sick and stunned—off balance as he heads away from the old village toward the tenements. Everyone’s running the other way. Bad news travels fast in Mokattam. Already the smell of death is in the air and the bodies aren’t even here yet. But they will be—Simon and his brother will be cremated within twenty-four hours.

Instead of turning down the lane that leads to the medical-wasters’ tenements, Aaron races to the church. Suddenly in need of peace and something nice to look at, he walks beside the high, curving limestone walls with their pale frescoes of scenes from the Bible and looks up with envy. How does Michael know how to make those figures look so real? As he gets closer to the open walkway in front of the church he sees Michael talking to Mohammed, the guy whose daughter died of kidney disease last year. Aaron hesitates and lowers his head. Father Peter is up ahead, walking his way as if he has urgent business on his mind. He must have heard about Simon. Surely he doesn’t want to speak to Aaron about the bottles now?

Aaron turns his face to the wall to avoid being caught. Heart thumping, he can feel and hear the priest rush past in squeaky sandals. The skin on the back of Aaron’s neck prickles with heat. But Father Peter has seen him and stops in his tracks and turns back.

“It’s good to see you, Aaron,” he calls.

“And you, Father,” Aaron lies as he slowly turns to face him.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine.” Aaron takes a deep breath and meets his pale, staring eyes.

“I have just one thing to say to you.” Father Peter nods.

“Right.” Aaron sighs, hoping it will really be just one thing.

“One day you will be judged for what you give, not for what you have.”

With that, Father Peter looks past him, hitches up his black robe, and rushes on, his sandals squeaking more than ever.

The dreaded talk is over and Aaron’s off the hook. But though he’s relieved he got off lightly, the priest’s words weigh him down as he looks around. At the front of the church, arranging a green knapsack of tools on his shoulder, Michael meets his glance with a look of understanding and half nods.

“Aaron,” he calls.

“Yes?” Aaron gulps.
What now?

With the sun lighting his face, Michael smiles. He looks as if he has had an idea. “Yes, a moment please.”

Aaron’s jaw snaps tight with fear as he walks toward him.
I’ve got nothing to lose if he asks about the bottles. What do I care?

“Why do you think you are here, alive, in Mokattam?” Michael says softly.

Aaron eyes him carefully. Apart from the dusty, knotted handkerchief on his head, Michael doesn’t look suspicious—just curious—which makes the question sound strange. He seems to want a serious reply.

“Dunno.” Aaron shifts from foot to foot.

“I believe we’re here on earth to learn from our mistakes and become better people.” Michael smiles again.

Aaron tries not to sigh.
Oh, no. The priest must have asked him to give me a talk. I should say I’m sorry for stealing the perfumes, but the words won’t come out.

“We’re here to help each other.”

Twisting the strap of the knapsack from his shoulder, Michael drops the tools on the floor with a clank.