Glass Collector (5 page)

“Abe,” Aaron says between gasps, “you’re going to get it from Lijah now.”

“Don’t care.” Abe flicks a fly from his face with a dirty, broken fingernail. “If I tell the priest Lijah’s hurting a kid my age, he’ll be in big trouble.”

Aaron nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Abe charges into the stinking, open room, bags stuck to the walls like huge, dead bats.

“What’s Lijah done with my football?”

“Come out tomorrow on the cart,” Aaron offers. “I promise you by the time we get to the first pick-up—the perfume shop—Lijah will have finished you off or he’ll be laughing so much at your nerve in coming that he’ll tell you what he’s done with the soccer ball.”

“You think?” Abe comes back outside, presses his arm to his nose, and wipes it, revealing the small blue tattoo of a cross on his wrist that he was given at birth to show he’s a Coptic Christian like Aaron. “Hope you’re right.”

It’s a fact that Lijah can’t be trusted, but for some reason Abe has never been afraid of him.

Aaron can’t help looking forward to the sight of Lijah’s face when Abe jumps on the cart tomorrow morning. He’s an innocent, gentle-looking kid with big, soft eyes who likes a good fight, though he rarely gets the chance to have one. Abe can win over most people in Mokattam just by smiling or talking about jellyfish, but there’s one person who’s on to him—his mother—and it’s her screeching voice that breaks the silence between them now.

“Marris, come back!”

Turning quickly, Abe sees her wild black galabeya bouncing with air, slapping her as she dashes after the potbellied pig that’s snorting and charging down the lane. “See ya tomorrow,” Abe shouts, running after her.

Aaron can hear Shareen singing to herself next door. Her voice feels close as he climbs upstairs to his mat. Only Youssa’s here now, asleep on the grubby floor and probably drunk. Arms wide, feet out, a scratching noise rattles in his throat. It sounds like he’s having trouble breathing. Falling in a crumpled heap of exhaustion with his fingers in his ears, Aaron closes his eyes before he hits the floor.

Aaron dreams he visits his mother. She looks different. He looks different. Her life has changed. She’s in a plush room, surrounded by smiling women he doesn’t know, and she tells them this is her son. They seem pleased he’s come and ask him questions about his life, which he finds hard to explain. But whatever he says doesn’t matter. They smile anyway.

The rising sun spreads a sudden burst of golden light over Mokattam, illuminating the dark shapes of children uncurling from the floor to face another day. Buzzing flies circle Aaron’s head as he opens his eyes. Instantly he remembers the dream, which felt so real. With the sound of water drizzling from a distant tap and the clop and creak of ponies and carts making their way out of the village to begin work, Aaron wishes he could return to the dream.

He glances over at Youssa, who’s making the same scratchy noises as he breathes and is still lying in the position he was in last night—on his back, arms wide, feet out. Hosi is facing the wall, snoring and hugging his knees. Lijah’s beside him, head buried in his chest. For a moment the smell of sweating bodies overpowers the smell of garbage downstairs, which adds to the pinched-in feeling of waking up in the wrong place. Only the thought of seeing Rachel when he goes to fetch the pony stops Aaron from wanting to vomit.

Lijah’s always the last to struggle up after a deep sleep. He takes his time coming round while Aaron’s up and away from everything he hates, running through the dark lanes to the pony yard, with Rachel’s oval face and almond-shaped eyes at the front of his mind. A slow simmer of excitement starting up inside.

Each day, by the time he arrives, Rachel has watered and fed four ponies with a spread of hay, equally divided between their feed bins. This is work she’s done since she was eight and now, aged fifteen, she sometimes sits by the fence until the bins are empty and the sun’s half waving from the horizon before she runs home to help her stepmother with breakfast.

Starting the day with the hope that Rachel might smile at him isn’t a good idea, Aaron decides when he reaches the last corner. When she’s not here, like today, his heart sinks and the rest of the day feels emptier than usual. Even though he’s thought up a way to explain the lack of money in his pocket to pay her this week, it doesn’t help him feel better. Rachel never complains when this happens, but the light in her eyes dulls and he knows she’s disappointed, which makes him feel like a gutter snake.

The yard is always clean and newly swept. To say Rachel loves the ponies is an understatement. Unlike the nearest pigpen, which is dirty and bereft of anyone’s real attention, the pony yard is full of hope, with its wire and wooden fences, straight nails, and metal poles, and the large ramshackle shelter. And it’s all down to Rachel. The ponies regularly have their hooves picked out and every week she pinches the flesh on their ribs to make sure they’re eating enough. Fresh water’s always waiting on their return from the hot, dusty streets and many of the Zabbaleen say she understands ponies and they understand her because she’s a bit of a pony herself.

It’s true, Aaron thinks, that the way Rachel turns her head and stares with soft, deep eyes, plus the gentle whimper she makes when she moves around the yard, and then the sudden skips she does when she thinks no one’s watching are all pony-like.

He decides to get to the yard earlier tomorrow. As he rides the cart back to collect Lijah, the low sun on the back of his neck, he sees Abe waiting for him.

Lijah’s suddenly behind the cart. Aaron’s and Abe’s eyes meet for a second before the boys turn to face him. “And what are you doing here, kiddo?” Lijah asks.

“He wants his soccer ball.”

“Give me a hundred piastres and you can have the ball now.” Lijah grins. “I’m saving up to get married.”

“But it’s mine,” says Abe. “Why should I pay to get it back?”

“Because you want it and I’ve got it!” A look of contempt crosses Lijah’s face as he dares Abe to lose his temper. “And I
am
getting married.”

Abe’s sudden silence draws a few people from the neighboring houses. Sensing that a fight’s about to break out, they wipe the sleep from their eyes and gather round, amazed that Lijah’s picking on a kid now.

But no one had counted on Shareen coming up from behind to land a swift kick on the back of Lijah’s leg, toppling him into the cart, where he almost smashes his head. It forces Aaron to quickly jerk back the strings to stop the pony from bolting into Cairo.

“Give him his soccer ball, you creep,” Shareen yells at the top of her voice, her eyes blazing.

A wave of laughter ripples through the crowd as Lijah reclaims his manhood by struggling to straighten up and then marches off. Shareen follows him, hammering the back of his Old Navy shirt with her fists, screaming, “Where is it?”

Two minutes later she’s returned, punching the gray football in the air. She throws it to Abe, who runs off kicking it from knee to knee.

“Lijah’s waiting at the arch,” Shareen tells Aaron. “I don’t envy you.”

“Thanks a lot.” Aaron sighs. A graphic picture of being beaten to a pulp pops up in Aaron’s mind. He’s going to have to pay for Shareen’s moment of triumph.

“I’ll come with you if you like.” Head to one side, Shareen eyes him cutely, adding a quick pout to prevent him from thinking for too long.

“Shouldn’t you be at the weaving center?” Aaron’s wondering why she wants to spend the day on the cart.

“I don’t have to go in today. Anyway, I need to go into town.” Shareen nods.

“What for?” Aaron asks suspiciously. “Mind your own business.”

Soon Aaron and Shareen are on the cart, sitting side by side as it creaks through the oldest part of Mokattam, where the smell of burned milk fights to overpower the stench of rotting vegetables.

Aaron glances at Lijah, who’s standing in the distance, waiting by the arch that leads out of the village, and by the look on Lijah’s face he’s not happy that Shareen’s on the cart. Girls aren’t supposed to go out on the cart, but he knows better than to argue with her. She pokes her tongue out at him for good measure as she climbs into the back to make way for him.

Lijah has clearly decided it’s best not to get tangled up with her temper again today and grabs the reins.

The noise of the city increases along with the fog of exhaust fumes and the heat of the sun as it slides up through the cloudless sky.

As the pony plods along beside slow-moving taxis and cars, pigeons flutter toward the silvery high-rises in the distance. The city of ancient mysteries opens up with the sudden appearance of statues with the heads of falcons and lion-headed goddesses with sun discs for hats.

Before too long, the cart comes to a stop in front of Omar’s Perfume Emporium. Despite the ache in the pit of his stomach, Aaron recalls the night when the moon was large and low in the sky and his mother returned home to Mokattam and told him about Omar and the shop. She passed Aaron a stick of perfume to sniff. It smelled of a whole bush of roses. She described the glass bottles on the shelves and the relaxing atmosphere of the shop and … the next day she died.

Aaron glances at the wide, gold-tinted window beside the wooden doors and the narrow glass shelves heaped with bottles of every color and shape, some covered in delicate copper-colored nets. It’s so beautiful, Shareen’s eyes race across the window and crammed shelves. She’s like a child who’s stepped out of a cave and into a palace.

Afraid Shareen will forget where she is, jump down, and try to race inside, Aaron turns from the front of the cart to touch her shoulder and remind her: “You can’t go in there. It’s not open yet.”

Then a car screeches past, making Lijah impatient, and he cries, “Get going, both of you!”

His sharp instruction force Shareen to uncurl herself from the cart and slip to the pavement. Aaron grabs a few of the folded bags and leaps down, then watches Lijah lead the pony along the edge of the busy road and disappear into the traffic. He’ll circle the area while Aaron fills the bags, returning from time to time to collect them.

Lijah knows every secret nook and cranny in Cairo where he can tie up the pony and pass the time with a card game or tea and cigarettes with one of the refugees or street orphans. If he were to wait outside the perfume shop while Aaron worked, the police or Omar himself would soon force him to move on. The sight of filthy, dumb-looking Lijah sitting on a moldy cart held together with splints, string, and rust and attached to a feeble pony would do Omar’s business no good at all.

“I’ll help you.”

Shareen follows Aaron down a long brick alley that is empty apart from four cardboard boxes. It’s Aaron’s favorite alley because the only smell here is of exotic perfumes.

“I don’t need any help!”

He’s eager to lose Shareen before he starts and seeing her standing there, arms behind her back, looking needy, annoys him. This is the only part of his work that he enjoys and having someone else here—especially her—is spoiling the whole thing.

He’s thinking it’s too early to spy on Omar selling his perfumes. Shareen searches for a reason to prevent Aaron from getting rid of her. “I needed to escape because Daniel was coming to the house after breakfast to give me a betrothal present.”

“What? Now we’ll get blamed for stopping that.” Aaron shakes his head.

“You can’t follow me around all morning. I’m working.”

“I won’t get in the way.”

But she’s already in the way and they both know it. When Aaron punches the top one of the four cardboard boxes lined up under the side window of the perfume shop, it tinkles with the sound of shattered glass.

“What’s in there?” Shareen flashes a sweet smile.

Aaron flips open the box to show her. “Every day Omar throws out what the glass-blowers brings if it’s not perfect. Any small crack in a bottle and it’s dumped. If he thinks a stopper is a bad fit and needs an extra twist, he flings it back in the box where it came from.”

“What a waste!” Shareen sighs.

“Some of the women can’t cope with this shop at all,” Aaron continues. “At least once a day one of them faints from shock, because the smells are really strong. The glass gets to them too. Omar hypnotizes them. They don’t know what to do.”

He’s enjoying talking about Omar and he pauses dramatically.

“You’re making it up,” Shareen sneers. “Women don’t faint because of a perfume.”

“They do.” Actually, it had only happened once, but Shareen’s so startled Aaron decides not to tell her that. “
Some smells bring back difficult memories and glass is a mirror that shows you who you are
,” Aaron quotes, and flutters his hands like a magician who knows more than he’s saying.

“That’s stupid!” Shareen’s not having it. “How do you know all this?”

Aaron points to the small open window in the wall above the boxes. “I just wait here and listen.”

Shareen looks at him with envy. She wouldn’t mind hanging around here every day, listening to Omar.

“I stand like this …” Aaron flattens himself against the wall. Palms flat on the cool stone. “First, I go quiet inside. Then I don’t hear the traffic, just footsteps, voices, the cash thingy, the door and that. Once there was a car accident right out front but Omar went on talking about how the pharaohs communicated with the gods. Sometimes Lijah doesn’t come back for ages and when he does it’s like I’m lost, just listening.”

“Lost?” Shareen asks. She blinks and steps closer.

Stories and words that Aaron didn’t know were inside his head spill out as he exaggerates wildly. “Sharing the scent of ancient oils and their magic is the way a perfumer kneels to serve his god.”

“What god?” Shareen’s jaw drops even farther.

“That’s what he says, ‘my god.’ ‘Come. Come. Sit down.” Aaron imitates Omar ushering a woman to a cushioned corner bench before turning to his assistant, Bilal. “The first glory—go.”

Shareen raises her eyebrows.

“That’s what Omar calls the first faint—I mean swoon—of the day, and once, when I was staring through the open front door, I saw the assistant come in with a gold tray of tea in tiny pink cups with flowers on them.” Aaron takes a deep breath before conjuring up the next bit of the story. “Mint tea!”