That Other Me (4 page)

We walk up the three steps to the heavy teak door. The foyer is round, with colored glass fitted into the ceiling. Light shines through them, and Mustafa's face turns a luminous green. I indicate that he should wait for me in the sitting room while I splash water on my face.

“They don't go out in the morning,” Mustafa says as soon as I settle next to him, “only in the afternoon: four, five, six o'clock.
Keda
, like that. They don't come back until late: nine, ten, eleven o'clock. Keda. They always dress nicely, with makeup and styled hair. They take the microbus—maybe because they can't afford taxis.”

“Of course they can't afford taxis.”

“Well, that's when my man always loses them—until this time, that is. Yes, he took a chance and got on the same microbus, dangerous as that was. I mean, what if, what if?”

“But they don't know who this man is.”

“True, but if they saw him there and remembered his face from another place, and then keep spotting him? They might solve the puzzle and form a picture.”

“We're the ones trying to form a picture, not them. Now, Mustafa, will you get to the point and tell me what you found out?”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Mustafa clears his throat. “Anyway, my man—and I won't tell you his name or where he lives, for your protection, of course. The last thing we want is people saying that Majed Al-Naseemy is spying on his daughter and her mother.”

“What did you find out?”

“They got off in front of a building near the embassies in El-Dokki. It's an old building, gray or maybe beige, I'm not sure because of all the dust and diesel fumes. You know, in Cairo buildings are never washed.”

“Mustafa!”

“Sorry, bey,” he stutters. “Where was I?” He interlaces his fingers, then leans back and thrusts his hands out to produce a mighty crack. “It seems they are looking for a composer.”

“A composer? What is that supposed to mean?”

A pinch of what feels like mildew clings to the back of my throat. I cough it away, and the dryness that takes its place signals the start of another day. Something pokes my bottom—another loose spring in the mattress—and I cry out a bit too dramatically before rolling off the bed, all the while scowling with the certainty that I'll never get used to this place.

My waking moments never feel fresh. In my room, the air doesn't move. It's as if a hundred old men slept around me, snoring, belching, and farting all night. The lingering staleness that is the hallmark of our dark, dank apartment always seems worse in the morning, and it makes me rush to slip into my dressing gown and step out onto the balcony off the sitting room. It's not much better out here, overlooking an alley so tight that any trapped breeze fizzles to nothing before it can reach me. The balcony is so small that I'd have to stand sideways if anyone joined me. Alone, I have enough space to take one step to the right or left. A pencil of light falls just beyond its edge. I clutch the iron railing and lean over to bathe my face in it.

I live with my mother on the fringe of the densely populated Imbaba slum in a building just a couple of streets away from Sudan Street. I can't see the road, but I can hear it. The persistent honks wrapped in the hollow drone of traffic is a daily reminder of how close I am to Sudan Street, that just by crossing it I'd be strolling in the more affluent Mohandessin district.

I hear a call from a balcony below me in the facing building. “Don't get too much sun, or you'll turn black.” It's Salwa, a sweet-faced mother with five children and a brutish husband. She has pulled up her cuffs and is hanging her washing on a line secured to poles that jut out of her window ledge. I peer down at her briefly and look back up at the sun, taking notice of another woman two balconies above her who is preparing to do the same with her laundry. It pleases me that there are no bruises on Salwa's pale arms, that she is cheerful for a change. Her husband must be in a good temper. I wonder whether it's because their children are doing well in school, or if he's had a recent promotion at work. I have to force myself to stop, to pull myself away from the details of our neighbors' lives. I don't want to start caring. Then I might not try as hard to break away from this soul-destroying place.

Two weeks on and still we haven't managed to see Sherif Nasr, the composer. My limbs feel heavy at the thought of trudging into his office again later today. Once more, Mama and I will step into the rumbling elevator that will take us to the seventh floor. I don't look forward to that windowless waiting room, full of other hopeful mothers and daughters. Sometimes the secretary sends us away because he's not in. If he is, however, the biggest struggle is remaining patient and pleasant during the long wait.

“And more important, don't fall over!” Another voice comes from the building facing mine, but one floor above, on the sixth floor. This well-fed neighbor is called Tafida, and her husband works in the sanitation department. She is grinning, but her eyebrows furrow as she concentrates on the stuffed brown paper bag she is holding. Her
plump hands press it firmly, as if willing it to magically turn into a ball. Once satisfied, she steals a look below and lets go.

I watch it crash to the ground and disintegrate in an explosion of potato and carrot peelings. I've seen this many times before. It lies alongside two other garbage bombs. Cats tackle the fish skeleton that peeps through one burst bag, trying to free it from the threads of pulped sugarcane. The other ripped bag looks alive with clumps of flies, which hover and stick to bits of soggy bread on a spill of watery yellow mush. It could be lentil soup or vomit—hard to tell. After the cats and flies are done feeding, whatever is left will lie there. People will skirt the mess until some brave soul, hopefully with old shoes, kicks the guck along the street to a gutter or rubbish heap. Perhaps Tafida's husband's people will pick up the mess. But it has been more than a week since I last spotted any sweepers or garbage collectors on this street.

I want to ask Tafida about this, inquire whether there is a strike, perhaps make a smart comment that poor streets are just as important as tourist roads. I want to tell Salwa that her clothes will never dry if she keeps hanging them right under other people's laundry. Instead I smile at the women and say, “Good morning to you both.”

They giggle; it's 2:00 p.m. But all hours that don't require a bulb being switched on are morning hours to me. They, on the other hand, have been up since dawn to prepare breakfast for their husbands, feed and clothe their children for school, make the beds, scrub the floors, wash the clothes, and cook the food for the rest of the day.

I laugh along with them, but all I can think about is my singing career, which is proving to be so much harder to attain than I'd predicted. I passionately crave this career. I dread the possibility of becoming one of these women, enduring a life like theirs, being unimportant and apathetic. I have been in Cairo for ten months and I am still stuck in this wretched alley, where rats grow fat and roaches don't scurry to hide.

I step into the apartment as the sun moves on to shine on someone else's balcony. My mother is in the sitting room, stretching the sleep out of her limbs.

“How long is this going to take? How many more times must we go to Sherif bey's office?” There is the whine of a starving cat in my voice, which she ignores as she plods to the kitchen to make some food.

I follow her and sit on a stool at the small wooden table. She fills a medium-sized pot with water and a smaller one with milk. She lights the gas stove and places the pots on burners. I slump on the stool and watch her pull butter and cheese out of the fridge—three wedges in paper wrappings. There is a mechanical efficiency in her movements. She reaches for three small plates, two cups, and a bunch of mismatched knives, forks, and spoons from the cupboard and drawer, arranging them in no particular order on the plastic covering of the table.

My mouth is a pout of disappointment as I peel the paper wrapping off the butter. “I mean, I really thought this would be easier, and the whole process is getting me down.” My voice rises over the tumble of fava beans she pours into the first pot as the water starts to boil. She is making
ful
, the humble first choice of Egypt's masses, popular because it's cheap and filling. “How many people have we talked to in the studios? How many phone calls have we made?” I hold a hand to my ear and deepen my voice. “ ‘Yes, we are interested. Yes, we want to meet. No, don't come yet. Wait for our call. We'll call you tomorrow, in a couple of days, in a week at the most. Yes, yes, for sure.
Wallah al-azeem
, by God!' They sound so excited and get us excited along with them. And then,
poof
!” I snap my fingers. “Zero! No one calls, not a soul follows up, nothing happens.”

Mama lifts the heated milk off the flame and turns to look at me. She says, “Well, and a good morning to your complaining.”

“Then, finally, we think the great Sherif Nasr will see us. But that cow of a secretary won't let us in. Really, Mama, how does anyone get famous here?”

“Well, what did you expect? Did you think people would take you straightaway?”

“Yes,” I say, like a child denied someone else's slice of cake.

“Just because you managed to come in second on
Nights of Dubai
.”

I flinch. More than a year has passed since I appeared on that show and still the humiliation of failing stings, like a spattering of lemon juice on grazed skin. If I'd come in first, I wouldn't be here, struggling to get a break. The station pays for the composing, recording, publicity, and distribution of the winner's very first song, but I'd had to settle for second prize: a generous seventy-five thousand dirhams, the money we're using to live here. “Second is not so bad,” I mumble, unconvinced.

Mama doesn't answer, only takes four eggs out of the fridge. I lay my head on folded arms on the table and let my mind fill with images of the multicolored lights that had raced over my face and the billowing smoke that had curled around my feet as I stepped into the silver bubble of a spotlight. I was wide-eyed with excitement. The stage was egg-shaped, with an orchestra on one side and three judges on the other. It felt natural being there. It felt right. Cameramen whirled around me. The audience never tired of cheering and clapping every time they were signaled to do so by a man wearing headphones.

Nights of Dubai
was the first program of its kind on Dubai television: a battle of talents directed by legendary star maker Simon Asmar. The Lebanese man had launched the careers of the great singers Majida Al-Roumi, Ragheb Alama, and Nawal Al-Zoghbi, to name just a few. Why couldn't he do it for me?

From the moment I saw the television promotion inviting all Arab talent “from the Gulf to the Ocean,” I knew I had to join. I was accepted right away and decided it was better not to delay telling Mama. As expected, she showed no interest and remained on the periphery as I rushed to the rehearsals. But that changed after the first two live episodes aired. And it was all because of a phone call.

His words were harsh and his threats daunting. “A Naseemy girl on television? The shame!” My father had demanded that I drop out immediately. Strangely, his reprimands filled me with a sense of importance. He was finally taking notice after having neglected me for so long. Mama did not bother with charm. She spoke to him in a mundane voice, as if she were talking about what she needed to buy from the fruit and vegetable market. She pointed out that we were not his responsibility anymore since he'd divorced her, that he had no say in our lives.

Once she hung up I'd become aware of a chaotic flapping in my chest. All I could think of was what he would do to us. She didn't answer when I asked her, just reached for her makeup bag. She would be joining me at the studio. I watched her line her eyes, the color of blue ice, with a steady hand. I watched them turn to steel.

I hear the spattering of hot oil. “They wanted a winner from a different Gulf country,” I say, sitting up straight. “They had to choose someone who was not Emirati so people would not accuse them of favoritism. I came in second only because of politics. Everyone said so.”

“That's not the point,” Mama says as the eggs pop and sizzle. “Even if you had come in first, it might not have made things easier now. You've got to understand that you're not the only one trying to get famous. There are many like you out there.”

“Politics,” I repeat, nodding vigorously. “That's what it was.”

“Much as you want it to, life doesn't work that way,” Mama says, picking up a plate and sliding the eggs onto it. “There are other young ladies all over Cairo who feel just as you do and, let me tell you, have just as much talent.” Her voice has grown louder. She waves the spatula in the air while she scolds me. “And they're probably sitting in the kitchen feeling sorry for themselves, useless as can be, moaning away while their mothers do all the work to put a morsel of food into their mouths.”

There's blame in her voice, as if I were the cause of our worries and sorry predicament. But who can blame her? She's the one who's
had to deal with my vindictive father and his cruel control tactics. He forced us into that dilapidated
shaabia
house—subsidized government homes built in compounds and available to every Emirait citizen—and made sure we were always in need of money. An overflow of guilt at voicing my grievances turns my skin so hot I can almost smell the burn in my cheeks. I take a yawning breath, hoping to convince her that my grumbles were no more than small talk to pass the time, to while away the minutes as we get ready for our day. I don't look at her, only pick up the cheeses and start to unwrap them: a hard yellow Roumy cheese and a soft white Baladi cheese. I place each on a separate plate and try to arrange the cutlery the way Clara used to. I wonder what happened to my Filipina maid. Does she remember me? Does she ever think of the apartment she lived in with Mama and me, which I called the snow palace?

I lived there until I was eight years old. Mama called it modern, with its lacquered tables and cabinets, sliding aluminum balcony doors, and light curtains with pink swirls that reminded me of strawberry ice cream. But in my young mind, it was a snow palace. The couches were a stark white, which Mama kept protected from dust and stains with a see-through plastic covering. The whole apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting, plush and cream-colored, which I would often lie on. I would rub my cheeks on the furry softness and pretend I was cleaning my face with snow, which I had seen only in pictures.

The apartment was in Deira, with a sprawling view of Dubai's creek. We had a ritual, Baba and I, of leaning over the balcony to watch the men unloading crates off the dhows moored at the dock. He told me they came from Iran, Pakistan, India, and even from as far as Africa. There were
abras
, too, water taxis that chugged back and forth from one side of the creek to the other, always crowded with passengers. I can honestly describe those as happy days, even though, if forced, I would probably be able to count more outbursts and sulks
than times of laughter and contentment. Now that I think about it, maybe I was only happy because I always got my own way.

Clara had a sweet voice that often grew croaky at the end of the day as she tended to my incessant demands. Whenever she felt a tantrum brewing, she would burst into song at the top of her voice. There was a desperate force as she drove the melody out. She ended up sounding wounded, as if she'd stepped on spikes. One day my father shouted at her, accusing her of scaring me. I liked that he did that. I thought it showed his love for me.

Baba visited us at the snow palace every other day. He would always show up after the evening prayer. Many times, he entered our apartment with his arms folded behind him. With a glowing smile, he would ask, “Who is the most beautiful girl in the Emirates?” I would hardly be able to contain my curiosity as I lunged to the right and left to catch a glimpse of the hidden surprise. How big was the toy? What color was it? How much fun would it bring me before I flung it into the basket full of other toys I'd grown bored of? “Stop jumping up and down, you little monkey!” And I'd have to force myself to stand still, with a silly grin that hurt my face. “You still haven't answered me,” Baba would say, looking around with a confused expression on his face. “Maybe this is the wrong apartment. Is this the eighth floor? Is this flat number 815? Is this the right place?”