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El-A7wa (The Cafe) Prologue & Chapter 1-5
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Prologue:
After many years in Cairo I have had the friendship of people from various lands that speak in different languages and hold dissimilar values. I was sustained by one piece of inestimable good fortune, I have the friendship of a man who possesses immense patience and wisdom with a gentle but unyielding fortitude; and even though I cherish the many who entrust me with the stories of their life's journeys I have not necessarily been impacted by them personally. When someone shares in your passions, or at least enjoys them with you then a part of yourself awakens, and for whatever reason the universe aligned and brought me a teacher. For those of you readers already corrupting this into a seductive tryst let me redirect your focus, this is a story of a grown man and grown women experiencing a non-sexual genuine friendship. I am fit, slim, and slightly muscular and outwardly I have always considered myself of average attractiveness however, I have been told almost monthly while living in Cairo that my white skin and blue eyes are coveted on an immeasurable level and if I chose to show my deep red wavy hair it would have a devastatingly tempting effect on even some of the most principled men. Choosing to cover myself is as much for their safety as it is for my own. He has deep almond colored hair, tanned white skin and dark features comparable to Turkish and European features. Tall, slim and exuding masculine but not a doggish personality. As far as I can surmise we are both attractive but it has never been a factor in our friendship, and if it had he had been very skilled at hiding it.
It's ironic that I use that terminology ‘teacher’ because I myself am a teacher by profession and take pride in impacting the lives of others through methodical advice and wise words of my own, as well as, pushing people to go outside themselves and experience things that they might have never voluntarily chosen to do. A mentor/student relationship is easily corruptible and the exchange of spirit is often-times received with judgment; however, the benefits are too high to count, especially when the age is significant enough to view the two as equals but to also establish a clear veteran in the equation. This gentleman has taken under his wing a valuable apprentice and though he may not see it, the challenge of such a task as this will make him–an already clearly grown man-to experience growth of his own. The exchange of knowledge and wisdom is only a sliver of the benefits offered by such a friendship and further understanding of each other and our combined life’s experiences would make for serious competition if we were to join forces.
It happened so quickly, a connection was made, and little did I know, then, that this would be one of those friendships that never expire. I tend to migrate towards people whom I can learn something from and more often than not, once they teach me what I want to learn the friendship fades. This was different, each time I met with him I became inspired; inspired to write/create and impassioned with an inner desire to push myself. It is a gift to meet someone who appeals to the writer in me and since I have known him my inner author has awakened. He encourages this part of me, reading each word I write and in that regard I have awakened his inner-reader. This connection is not temporary, which is more than I can say about my previous teachers. I can fairly measure the expiration date of most of my friendships and I do not see ours. He has at least 10 years on me, but I know that’s why I am capable of respecting him. These 10 years are more than an arbitrary number; it’s a collection of experiences that have shaped him into a complete man. From life I can say with a fair amount of certainty that meeting another complete person is both a rare treasure and pleasure.
Feeling alive and open to once again put ink to paper, to paint the world as I see it, I can see my surroundings in a way that most can only view through images. Exhilarated as I am to find an intellectual equal who challenges me I find myself with the burning urge to compete with him. I take the challenge to his field of specialty and subtly convince him to mentor me in a game of cards. In the months that followed I studied him-his strategies, likes, strengths and weaknesses, and little idiosyncrasies. He takes on the role of “teacher” with pride taking in my successes as his own as we triumph at times in oppositions to one another. For some reason, during this process, he began to underestimate my skills and did not recognize my potential. Which is a coincidence since the name of the game is estimation.
Chapter 1: Graduation Day
You sit at the other side of the table, unfazed and undisturbed by the trivial and mundane commotion occurring in the obscure cafe-the whirring of the coffee machines, the chatter of the businessmen unwinding from the week by playing cards, the somewhat indecipherable Arabic hymns of the Nasser era. You sit staring downward silently moving your lips to the symphonic tones and gesture to the waiter for something hot to drink. Even though the roar of the cafe makes relaxation impossible there you sit, calculating and calm, brooding and mysterious, positioned upright in your chair despite the lax posture of those around you.
It could have been the intensity of my stare, but you suddenly moved your eyes upward and caught mine off guard. You notice that I was looking at you, bobbing my head to the symphonic oud music emanating from the tv trying, myself, to concentrate even though the sounds of the cafe around me were making it very difficult. You raise your eyebrows and simply smile with your shisha lay rested on your bottom lip. You were probably thinking about your next move but your eyes said different, instead of casting them towards your cards you fixated on mine and despite my looking away when I returned my gaze to the table your eyes were still looking at my face. The sudden ease of your expression suggested a playful side to your personality that I had never noticed before and even though you were here playing a game every week I always pictured you so seriously. Slightly compelled by your stature and skill I would have never expected you to be able to tease with such enjoyment. You send a discreet smile my way as you lay down your cards, winning yet another round and you stifle a laugh satisfied with your victory over me.
The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans and the cool breeze from the fan overhead takes my senses by surprise and I inhale sharply trying to recover from my defeat. I make a silent covenant with your gaze that one day I will beat you at your own game, and my competitive urges will feel a sensation of satisfaction in that achievement. You smirk as if you understand my frustration at losing and grin at my eagerness to challenge you as if I am not in your caliber. Wanting to enjoy my time I attempted to distract myself with the writhing blurred bodies on the TV screen but I couldn't get your cheeky attitude out of my mind, no one had ever felt this confident in challenging me before. I must admit that in my professional and even throughout my personal life many are intimidated by me, but you smile beneath the billowing smoke clouds as if you are far more learned than I, as if there is a secret that you could teach me, as if you are the one whom I should be intimidated from. I must admit this is a strange sensation, to be bested by anyone is annoying, but to be defeated by a man feels particularly scintillating and intrigues me. It makes the dance of competition far more enjoyable and the thought of defeat wildly devastating.
You steal your gaze from mine acknowledging this unspoken challenge and you re-adjust in your seat signaling that the "game is on," and as I shuffle I do my best to give you my intimidating face and you still scoff as if I have much to learn. I must admit this just urges me on, this teasing of yours, this idea that you are superior bothers me so and I deal the cards while pursing my lips and thinking to myself…” You cannot let him walk away from this table thinking that he has beaten you.” The cards dance round after round and I follow you closely, edging up to your score, slowly bringing myself into your periphery on the table of battle. Seeing the difference in score you attack, taking me on as an equal…The dance continues and your experience overcomes me, and even though you won an understanding is made between you and I, an understanding that one day soon I will surpass you and that I am a worthy opponent.
Chapter 2:
After several weeks from my graduation day, it is understood at the table when I enter the cafe that I am no longer "the student," and in spite of the recognition you still seem to believe that I am unworthy. I admit that there are still things I must learn, but at the game itself I surpass many at the table with the exception of yourself. I see you now as my greatest competition and since the silent challenge has been accepted I eagerly await the days that we meet to duel both our minds and the game. I envision you when we exchange short communiqués during the week and as the challenge comes closer I expect so does your excitement, so when you saw me today your eyes lit up anxiously awaiting the trial of cards about to unfold…
We have made a little wager with significant and yet unknown results, the evening before we volleyed provocations to one another, taunting and measuring metaphorical limbs, and concluded the conversation with a bet: if I gain 3 wins over you, then you have to take me to your Friday night game with the varsity group. This is particularly advantageous for me because I can overcome some stereotypes of female competitors to a very male dominated corner of Cairene culture, the a7wa. Additionally, it would give me the opportunity edge past you in a neutral playing field where people don’t know me and therefore do not try to pacify me by ‘letting me win.’ True competition.
The other segment of this wager is if you win 10 games over me, you chose the number to be so far above mine to make me feel trivial and insignificant, but I let you because I really crave to go to this new battlefield. The stakes are by far the most frustrating part of this wager because you refuse to tell me what you wish to receive if you are to win. As mysterious as this is, naturally my imagination runs wild with the possibilities, I don’t think you will win so am unworried.
The weather has cooled so that when I pick up the plastic cards in my exposed hands I shiver throughout my whole body, the shisha man comes by to take my order and I feel relief in the shaking as he holds the hot coals by his side close enough to warm me temporarily. My usual order he has memorized by now so really his presence at the table marks simply a reason to extend a greeting. We have moved indoors so the music is somewhat louder and still there you sit exuding such confidence in your impending win that your expression reflects every smirk possible on a man who believes himself to be superior. I must admit this unnerves me every time, it doesn't put me in a foul mood, no, it burns the fire inside me so that I no longer need my jacket. It fuels me, this smirk of yours, makes my adrenaline pump and motivates with every part of my being to prove that you are wrong and that I am indeed a worthy opponent.
The players gather round and the game begins, each time the cool plastic cards come into my hands my body is sent into a dichotomy of sensory bombardments between the fiery attitude, the tepid tea, and the icy cards I am experiencing an assault on my senses. I can tell that our co-players aren't wise to our little arrangement which feeds my desire even further; the tease itself spurns me forward. My toes curl within my shoes as the temperature drops and my skin crawls under the layers of clothes. I remember your banter the night before in one of our virtual chat sessions and my toes curl even further, my finger-tips numb and that smile… not outright just to the side directed right at me as if you know every card in my hand and can predict every move I make. Seeing as you taught me this is not a big surprise but I yearn to shock you and not play as you imagine, however winning with this strategy is out of the question.
Round one proceeds as expected, the shisha arrives and your smirk is met with the slow exhale of water tobacco…the smell of mint reaches my nostrils and makes me laugh because it reminds me about conversations of tea and the warm sensation one gets when drinking a hot beverage on a cold evening. I bite my lip as I pick up my cards unsatisfied with what fate had dealt me and I glance over the table and find you stone faced as usual, probably thinking to yourself "she can't read me, I'm too good at this game." I smile at this thought because I have the perfect cards for dash call which means that in points I may overtake you even if you have the bigger estimate. I edge closer the table and glance at you, urging you silently to take the call. Seeing my expression your left eyebrow raises as if to say, "let's go!" I wait for the risk, my heart skips in my chest and I catch my breath. I drink my now warm tea, hoping to mask my excitement. I know that you can read me well, the months I spent studying you, you were studying me too. The round plays out and our scores are so close. You re-position yourself in your chair thinking of the hidden stakes of you winning our little game (that you have yet to tell me).
The shisha becomes stale in my mouth and the tea grounds lay in the bottom of my cup. You glance at me in a quizzical manner, your one eyebrow raised as if to say, “I didn’t teach you to play this way,” your lips purse and tighten as I take you by surprise. I enjoy these moments, even though they unnerve me. You place the straw from your Pepsi can lightly on your mouth and swallow the brown liquid. You sit back in your chair and twitch your left leg from side to side, and whether it is from the cold coursing through your body or nerves I notice and when you scoop the cards off of the table with your right hand you know that you have been beaten…I smile in your direction and you know I have taken away your “8” call, robbing you of your victory. Game 1 ends and the score is 1:0… You order your second round of shisha with dissatisfaction and smile at me, leaning your head away from the table so that only I can see it, “I’ve got you!”
You go into the next game and your legs have stopped twitching, you sink comfortably into your chair and drink from your shisha, but you bite your bottom lip and look at your cards intensely squeezing your fingers around them as if you are protecting a treasure. In the second round your teeth play with the plastic on your shisha lay and the table begins to claim their stakes you say “Dash call” while the others, including myself, verbally battle for our cards. Round after round and you inch ahead of me in points but not so far as to ensure victory. Then “8” I slide ahead with 122 point as your friend of 20 years that shares your namesake attempts to outwit me and fails. I clench my teeth as the score remains close, trying to distract myself by listening to the music in my headphones. I graze your foot under the table by accident and momentarily get you to glance up at me from your Ipad-softly resting in your lap. “Pass,” “Pass,” “Pass…” The table is hot tonight everyone vying for the king spot currently occupied by you as we both yo-yo back and forth in the position. We are truly the ones to beat…
In the 9th round you soar past me with a superb 8 and comfortably rest 40 points ahead. You take such pleasure in my subsequent stages of frustration engaging in full-on attack. You roll up your sleeves as if you are about to get dirty. Double round and I get excited hoping that you will lose so I can catch up. The game continues at a glacial pace and you ease into your chair with a sigh of relief as you claim victory. The café grows louder as the crowd rolls in from the workday; I remember thinking that this traffic is odd for a Monday. The music from the television grows louder to overcompensate for the chattering voices and the dice hit with force on the backgammon (towla) trays. The raucous laughter increases and the sound comforts you, this truly is your element.
You prove this with two wins in a row and the night ends 3:1… We stand to leave as you bundle yourself against the cold and mid-yawn you grin at me as if I have much to learn. Until Thursday my friend…we depart.
Chapter 3:
Today I am home alone. My first day off for the Christmas holidays and I am purposely doing nothing even though I have at least three hours in my not too distant future reserved for packing. I sit on my bed covered in blankets to protect me from the cool winter weather, with my hot cup of coffee listening to music trying to put off the inevitable. The combination of these three elements transports me back to last night, the coffee the music and the cold transports my mind body and senses back into the cafe where I lost once again to you. But something has changed, my normal competitive frustration is lacking today. If it had been any other day I would be seething right now in my loss, going over every detail of the game and preparing a new strategy; this time I'm not. I would describe my thoughts today as reflective more than analytical and the elements about last night that I begin to remember come pouring out of my fingertips.
The evening began before I even went to the cafe, the back and forth repartee between the two of us had not ceased since our last meeting, the main subject of which is your refusal to tell me what your end of our 'agreement' is. The secrecy is tantalizing and you enjoy the teasing that results in not revealing something I want to know. More and more the redundancies of my life simply fill the space between going to the cafe and playing cards which has become my secret guilty pleasure. Sitting and competing in cards, observing the everyday patrons around me has awakened my desire to go back in time and choose to become a writer. Like the infamous Naguib Mahfouz who got his inspiration from his notorious long walks throughout Cairo mine come from my visits to the a7wa and of course the friends who share the evenings with me every week.
You pick me up in your car and as I walk down the stairs I wonder if you are going to continue our convivial banter and try to intimidate me; when I get in immediate warmth overcomes me and the soft dulcet tones of our conversation puts me in a relaxed mood despite our upcoming challenge. After the week that I had at work I was mentally exhausted honestly, but on the way to the cafe my spirit lifted. We arrive at the cafe and I notice that you have become more relaxed in my presence as if we have known each other for years, you place your belongings on the hard red cushion of the wicker chair in the cafe which is now freezing from being outside on the porch of the cafe. Inadvisably that is where we choose to sit, being the first to arrive, and later on in the evening we suffer from that decision because even though the temperature begins the night at a cool 60 degrees around 7:30 when we start the game it plummets down to the low 40s as the desert breeze flows in around us. I too feel more relaxed in your presence, the familiarity of you has increased as our conversations have become more regular and I get to know you as a person not just an acquaintance. Despite you thinking that I give you too much credit I am certain now, since our friendship has grown, that you are exactly the man that I have observed you to be which just increases both my respect for you and my curiosity.
I feel calm here, relaxed and happy. The air is filled with a sweet minty smell impossible to bottle. It isn't a big space and not small either, it's simply cozy and nestles on the corner of an intersection diagonally from a mosque. It is a haven, my own respite from the world, I feel release here from my stress and anxiety and I can be myself which in Cairo is a rare moment for someone like me. More than anything I feel that I am loved here, I feel the camaraderie that I miss from my military days when a man and a woman could just be without expectations, pretensions or cultural obligations.
Whenever I arrive I am greeted by the waiters who have loyally served my order of red bull and shisha for over a year. Sometimes I feel calm and calculating and other times wild and dangerous but all parts of me are welcomed at Cafe Soraya and I don't have to think about anything, which for someone of my intellect is a blessing.
I enter tonight’s game numinously, our banter increases as does your teasing which still affects me in the manner that you intend it to and beneath my smile my teeth clench every time holding back retorts that would be culturally inappropriate. I could feel your eyes measuring me before the game had started and that knowledge emboldens me and makes me want to put on a show. The cafe is buzzing tonight, the usual faces trickle in and my icy hands find no solace in any of the warm crevices of my body. Both you and I find various ways of keeping warm; you constantly move your legs to the beat of the music blaring on the television and I keep my fingers moving with my dancing pen. Our comrades light up their cigarettes and do their best to look intimidating, the exhale of shisha and cigarette smoke create a pungent aroma in the air that is simply hypnotic; the thick smoke hovers over the table like a rain cloud about to poor on my good mood. I don't know if it was because of the weather or the distracting deep murmur of the cafe but I do not begin the game well this night. I stare at the fiery ends of the cigarette across the table and imagine the warmth that it must be exuding…
Conversations fill the room, complaints of work and random attempts at friendly insults were the theme of the evening but in the broken Amiya and English the men seemed more excited than usual perhaps because of the impending Christmas holidays. In any case the louder noise at the cafe motivated the table including yourself to play the first game of the evening more aggressively than normal. You slap and rub at your legs attempting to get comfortable and I smile with thoughts that my pen refuses to reveal.
My score plummets and I see a way to take advantage of losing. I think to myself, "if I keep decreasing then he will focus his attention on the others at the table." You look puzzled at my choice to lose, not knowing why I continue to play poorly. Of course you probably attribute this to my inexperience and you do not realize that I am falling behind for a reason. You debate the plays with the others in your rhythmic Arabic, gesturing with your whole body as you speak trying to make your point. I can tell by the tone in your voice that you are confused about my losing and I must admit I am nervous about falling too far behind. My shisha coals dwindle and I simply inhale minty air, which in Cairo is already polluted with enough smoke that tobacco is not necessary to achieve poor lung capacity. In round 7 you soar ahead and I begin to climb towards you like a panther stalking its prey.
At this point you don't even consider me as competition since my score is so low, I have reached my goal. Taking myself out of competition allows you to relax into the game and become comfortable. The pounding seductive beat of Jannat’s new album comes through my headphones and I turn up the anthem. I deal the cards and you lose the round, the scores inch closer between you and another and I sit comfortably back watching you battle each other as if it is my own personal theatre of gladiators...
The cards are not on my side tonight and the combination of noises assault my senses. The double tap of dice from the towla trays, the teeth grinding sha3by music from the screaming television, the deep male murmur of the patrons, the screeching of breaks and honking horns of the cars just feet away from where we sit, and the reading of the Qu'ran blaring from the megaphone of the nearby mosque all combine resulting in the constant beating behind my eyeballs. Oh how I long for silence and warmth back in your car. I reach down the side of my body and adjust my headphones, the warmth of my skin beneath layers of clothes tempts me to keep my hands inside my layers but my inner-winter spirit resists. New comrades arrive and you become distracted in conversation.
A familiar Turkish melody graces my ears which makes me grin. My intensity today is beyond control and whether that is the result of the red bull or the cold weather it is affecting my game severely. After winning the first game you have the legitimacy to be confident in your evenings success bringing our score to 4:1. The second game commences and I attempt to calm myself by shuffling the cards and your iPad holds your attention with candy crush as a welcoming distraction from what must be a very boring game for you. You softly dance your finger vertically and horizontally on the screen and smile, I’m sure you feel my gaze, my uneasy confidence in tonight’s cards just hoping that I can deal myself a good hand. You glance up and exhale the burning remnants of your first shisha of the evening and decide to leave the candy crush behind because the screen is colder than the cards.
For the first time in the evening you notice me diagonally from you and you glance at the score sheet, raise your right eyebrow, purse your lips and inaudibly make the ‘tut-tut-tut’ sound clicking your tongue against the upper bridge of your mouth shaking your head slowly from side to side. You know that this kind of taunt will rile me up and as the chairs shift to allow for more players the cards have been dealt and I no longer feel the cold. I take the king spot by round two. The cafe calms with my intensity and my mind is focused again on the game. Om Koulthoum blasts from the TV and her throaty patriotic lyrics, the 3oud and violins fill the air, and I make my move, the deep pulsating tune of Egyptian musical royalty echoing in each strike that I make. That smile lifting from the left corner of your mouth conceding that I am indeed here to play. You text me to throw off my game, “where have you been?” and “someone is TRYING to win, trying and failing that is…” Ahh the machismo, the virile jabs aimed at stirring my inner lioness…I don’t think you have ever truly experienced competition like this before and you are secretly enjoying it.
Restless legs and my curling toes makes my mind wander to other thoughts which apparently works toward my advantage; maintaining my lead above not only you but the whole table for several rounds. The warmth from my body once again inviting me inside the layers of my jacket and this time I give in placing my hands along the sides of my torso for several minutes. I close my eyes from the relief and I picture in my mind other activities that would give me warmth. The tap of the towla trays subside and the table cools, along with the weather, they have just finished swallowing my homemade brownies and drinking their hot beverages which invokes a feeling of simple pleasure that radiates warmth from the table. Your finger still dances away on the screen of your iPad and you avoid my stare only sharing your gaze for a moment with me. You try to distract me with a playful nudge on my now icy toes and I smile. You close your cold hands around your cider and sip tenderly.
You wave your hand dismissively at the call as if you don't care. I shiver down my spine and my body convulses slightly making my hand shake, you touch my hand and I can't believe how warm yours are and you smile and say that mine are not that cold. Even my toes begin to numb and my shoulders rise to protect my vulnerable neck. The bitter taste of nescafe mixes beautifully with the sweet chocolate brownie crumbles in my mouth and I close my eyes from the satisfying combination. In the 13th round after losing consecutively you put aside your iPad and begin to play the table. My lips quiver from the inhale of icy air and you rub your hands over your legs to warm them; my hands are naturally guided to my face in an attempt to warm my flesh, this attempt is unsuccessful because they are icier than my other extremities, and yet I can't take my finger off of my lips for some strange reason. Double round and you and I are neck-and-neck with one-point difference…Defeated in more than just the game of cards, I pull ahead with the daunting score of 4:2. My toes have been numb for at least 20 minutes and my pinky toes on both feet are completely asleep, so when I stand to leave I can't feel parts of my feet and I feel awkward in moving. I signal five to you with my long slender fingers and you grab my hand to part and squeeze it twice as we both slowly rise from the table. It was not my best performance, and the cold was definitely a distraction, but I couldn't think of a better way to depart Cairo for the holidays so I felt satisfied with my one win. I open my eyes and find myself back in my bedroom with my hot coffee, icy toes, and humming headphones and I smile…
Chapter 4:
Through the open balcony door, day came, the world was silent and deep down there in the city’s caverns cars stood still, but since it had rained during the cool December nights pools of water and diesel oil filled the streets and hung in the air. A bus stopped, two women entered they appeared as if they were cleaners, yet the modest morning light made their unpainted faces into works of art. The city yawned drank coffee and began the bustle of commerce...
It has since been a year from those cold December evenings when we dueled our minds and skills in the dingy, off-the-path cafe. A whole world away on the same streets, I'm remembering our challenge was never finished as a familiar mint tea taste fills my mouth. This taste will always remind me because I never drink mint tea unless I partake in shisha and it has been a year since I have. My memory wanders upon the evenings spent in laughter, the sounds of the bustling cafe, the men sharing each other’s company after a day’s work, the brotherhood-the comradery, and the bonds of friendship formed over plastic cards. I remember my teacher; he sits in my mind here at this glassy table, a mirror into the past. The man that looks back at me through minty shisha smoke is not much older than I, for here in this space he is livened. The spirit of competition carves years off his face. Him but not really him, the face that looks back is not his but the face of another; here they sit in the cafe unmoving, my brothers separated by time.
The morning passed uneventful and yet my mind continued to trail back to that cafe! I was haunted by an unfinished battle not yet won and not yet lost, a prize unclaimed, a glorious dance between teacher and student unperformed like a note in a masterful opus.
I yearn to go back to that hallowed space and find closure to this memory. When I emerged from the car I remember the light banter that would always accompany the 10 minute drive we made from my house to the cafe and I smile at the cab driver, he looks at me strangely but I digress. The woodwork had been newly painted, a bright red color on the door of the bathroom, the walls were faded, the sidewalk was over grown with weeds, and refuse piled outside. It was the same, but so different. El muzika channel played as usual and I remember how I used to complain about the repeated songs. I recognize the waiters and they recognize me, they smile thinking that I will be joined by the ol' gang they bring chairs to the table and I fail in my attempt to convince them that I would be sitting alone. Nearby a young business man and his colleague shift in their chairs and ask the waiter for a towla board. I silently watch them play, the dice and chips slapping noisily on the wood and I remember how I had mastered the game even to the level of beating the champ! How long it has been since I played! I sit for an hour, watching, listening, remembering and find myself even more dissatisfied than I was that morning. No closure is to be had when the battle has yet to be won, sitting there I am reminded of my teachers taunting smirk and I am filled with the same zeal, adrenaline, and thirst for victory.
I go to sleep upon arriving home and play over the games in my mind trying to remember your tells and devising scenarios to defeat you. Shifting between consciousness and dreams I feel more unsatisfied than ever. Shall we meet on the field again, or will this battle remain forever unfinished; will I be taunted by your teasing smirk each time I taste green tea or will I forget my desire to defeat you; will the smell of shisha be a constant reminder of those nights amongst brothers, those nights of music laughter and cards? Will this memory remain memory or will we have the chance again to draw swords and find a winner? Will the student best the teacher? Only time will tell...
Chapter 5:
These nights of chatter online, the back-and-forth teasing slowly torments me like a cat begging for tea biscuits at my feet. We equally provoke one another and goad on the rivalry that is now over 4 years old! This unfinished match of skills 4:2 is like a cloud above us haunting every conversation. Other players constantly reminding me of blithering unfinished animosity like a puzzle laying on the coffee table collecting dust under coffee rings and decorative ash trays. We contemplate the what-ifs and I am plagued by your inability to confess your side of the wager, teasing me and impelling me further in the contemplation of expectations. If you had won would you have asked me to leave the game and not play with you any longer? Would you have requested that I make you brownies for a year? Would you have given into my desire and taken me to the other game anyway? My mind rifts into many sections each prize that I can imagine you wanting less likely to be reality…
Our friendship has grown in many ways, my family getting larger and moving across the ocean has permitted an evolution into much more mature phases. Changing from a teacher-student dynamic to a male-female friendship, advancing into a familial kinship despite the intense forays into each other’s thoughts, and even dissipating at times into silent stretches that last months punctuated only by a funny meme that I send you to brighten your day or a picture of my child to share in my joy. The underlying allure, magnetism and enticement slowly resurfacing like a dragon that has been buried in a cave for centuries; stirring, awakening, desiring ravenous conquests into innocent villages plundering through caves and expelling powerful and forceful bursts of fiery ferociousness onto the innocent landscape. Each time we mention the game, the unfinished duel this dragon stirs savagely inside me. You brag that you are out in the café playing unconsciously and even you admit that you miss my presence at the table. I get online to practice playing and it is really just that, practice, instinctive robotic and mechanical. I easily overtake these competitors which inevitably leads to a sense of bereavement as if I am mourning the loss of a gift. It saddens me to play online, but it’s the only practice that I can get, and I fantasize about the day when I can join the table back in Cairo and continue our not-so-innocent rivalry.
In early winter, after eating a shrimp dinner that prompts memories of Ta’ta, I get online and after the cordial exchange of daily news that doesn’t particularly thrill either of us we get on the subject of cards, which is typical because you admit that you are out in the café right now playing at the ‘other’ game that I never got to experience. You know that when you mention this to me it will fill me with a frenzy of emotions because it is one of the many things that I desired most out of our playful rivalry, yet you mention it anyway I think to provoke me, which I get the feeling brings you a sense of pleasure. Through the goading and elation brought on by this amusing topic I finally get you to confess what you wanted as your prize if you had won: you would have taken me to the game anyway because it would have pleased you to see me advance to that level. Of course as I had expected, but surprisingly I secretly felt deflated, I kind of wished you had desired something more mischievous and maybe you had but saw the options I had mentioned and acquiesced for the sake of finality. In any case we made a plan that I would join you in the game when I came to visit after Ramadan.
The post-Ramadan Eid holiday in Cairo is more wondrous than I feel I can describe, however, in an attempt to paint the scene for you I will offer my anemic description. The raucous almost riotous bawl of traffic is the first thing we as foreigners notice because it is such an assault of the senses but despite the off-putting affect that it leaves initially on the body when interwoven with the celebratory spirit in the air it paints a picture of the biggest street party in the world. The flickering lights bring on epileptic spasms of the optical nerve much like a fog machine at a dance hall. The burnt acidic exhaust smell burns the hairs off of the inside of one’s nostrils making dull smells of jasmine petal necklaces (often sold for pennies during this time of year) practically impossible to smell which is why the more pungent musk incense is burned in almost every apartment creating a mystic hippie vibe. The steady continuous and yet punctured and arrhythmic squeaking of deep and high-pitched car horns permeate the air along with the more rhythmic Tabla (bongo) and compliment the sound of the kids one-stringed oud peddled by street merchants. This creates an off-beat island rhythm that invariably makes one want to dance as they walk.
\When you reach the inside of the café the waiters are all dressed up having spent their eid’diya on pointed shoes in fake leather and white crisp cotton button up shirts. Smiles everywhere as the men gather in the a7wa, their families customarily with aunt’s, sisters, and grandmothers leaving the men uninhibited by duties during the late evening hours and free to gather amongst themselves. Catching up with those they’ve lost touch with during the year they gather in groups as large as 20 and as small as four all coming to the a7wa for shisha, shay, m3a elshella. Playing kochina, towla, wa tarneeb and using the latest catch-phrases from tv and music, predictably talking about the ridiculous corruption in politics and crime rates escalating, and scoffing at the scandalous new movies that become gradually more indecent.
It’s usually mid-summer so the desert breezes circulate the cigarette and shisha vapors to create balloons of menthol infused smoke. The crushing sense of crowds in the café during the day is very distracting and the overwhelmed short-staffed waiters who usually provide excellent service dissolve into the background so going at night is essential; it’s cooler and traffic has usually subsided enough so that you can hear the sultry instrumental tunes and the obscured moonlight is generally enhanced with fanouz lanterns emitting deep purple and green glows manipulated by iron wrought illuminations and colored glass.
I am overcome with anticipation, my craving for real competition and desire to reconnect inundated with my love for Cairo during this season. Motivated to assert my dominion in the café, to see friends and to feel the familiarity of the waiters; both of these desires are bypassed by my appetite for two things, the minty salty tobacco taste of shisha streaming down into my lungs complimented by a bitter green mint tea and of course seeing my teacher. I fantasize for weeks about the upcoming trip and plan consecutive nights for combat; contacting all the players and making sure they free up the whole week, renting an apartment near the café to avoid long late night trips back to the apartment, and planning different swag gifts from the States for each of the guys. The plane is scheduled for departure and he sends me a message exposing his eagerness to take me to the New Cairo game. We called a draw in the competition since we both chose the same prize and simply decided to schedule two nights to go.
All Rights Reserved
Prologue:
After many years in Cairo I have had the friendship of people from various lands that speak in different languages and hold dissimilar values. I was sustained by one piece of inestimable good fortune, I have the friendship of a man who possesses immense patience and wisdom with a gentle but unyielding fortitude; and even though I cherish the many who entrust me with the stories of their life's journeys I have not necessarily been impacted by them personally. When someone shares in your passions, or at least enjoys them with you then a part of yourself awakens, and for whatever reason the universe aligned and brought me a teacher. For those of you readers already corrupting this into a seductive tryst let me redirect your focus, this is a story of a grown man and grown women experiencing a non-sexual genuine friendship. I am fit, slim, and slightly muscular and outwardly I have always considered myself of average attractiveness however, I have been told almost monthly while living in Cairo that my white skin and blue eyes are coveted on an immeasurable level and if I chose to show my deep red wavy hair it would have a devastatingly tempting effect on even some of the most principled men. Choosing to cover myself is as much for their safety as it is for my own. He has deep almond colored hair, tanned white skin and dark features comparable to Turkish and European features. Tall, slim and exuding masculine but not a doggish personality. As far as I can surmise we are both attractive but it has never been a factor in our friendship, and if it had he had been very skilled at hiding it.
It's ironic that I use that terminology ‘teacher’ because I myself am a teacher by profession and take pride in impacting the lives of others through methodical advice and wise words of my own, as well as, pushing people to go outside themselves and experience things that they might have never voluntarily chosen to do. A mentor/student relationship is easily corruptible and the exchange of spirit is often-times received with judgment; however, the benefits are too high to count, especially when the age is significant enough to view the two as equals but to also establish a clear veteran in the equation. This gentleman has taken under his wing a valuable apprentice and though he may not see it, the challenge of such a task as this will make him–an already clearly grown man-to experience growth of his own. The exchange of knowledge and wisdom is only a sliver of the benefits offered by such a friendship and further understanding of each other and our combined life’s experiences would make for serious competition if we were to join forces.
It happened so quickly, a connection was made, and little did I know, then, that this would be one of those friendships that never expire. I tend to migrate towards people whom I can learn something from and more often than not, once they teach me what I want to learn the friendship fades. This was different, each time I met with him I became inspired; inspired to write/create and impassioned with an inner desire to push myself. It is a gift to meet someone who appeals to the writer in me and since I have known him my inner author has awakened. He encourages this part of me, reading each word I write and in that regard I have awakened his inner-reader. This connection is not temporary, which is more than I can say about my previous teachers. I can fairly measure the expiration date of most of my friendships and I do not see ours. He has at least 10 years on me, but I know that’s why I am capable of respecting him. These 10 years are more than an arbitrary number; it’s a collection of experiences that have shaped him into a complete man. From life I can say with a fair amount of certainty that meeting another complete person is both a rare treasure and pleasure.
Feeling alive and open to once again put ink to paper, to paint the world as I see it, I can see my surroundings in a way that most can only view through images. Exhilarated as I am to find an intellectual equal who challenges me I find myself with the burning urge to compete with him. I take the challenge to his field of specialty and subtly convince him to mentor me in a game of cards. In the months that followed I studied him-his strategies, likes, strengths and weaknesses, and little idiosyncrasies. He takes on the role of “teacher” with pride taking in my successes as his own as we triumph at times in oppositions to one another. For some reason, during this process, he began to underestimate my skills and did not recognize my potential. Which is a coincidence since the name of the game is estimation.
Chapter 1: Graduation Day
You sit at the other side of the table, unfazed and undisturbed by the trivial and mundane commotion occurring in the obscure cafe-the whirring of the coffee machines, the chatter of the businessmen unwinding from the week by playing cards, the somewhat indecipherable Arabic hymns of the Nasser era. You sit staring downward silently moving your lips to the symphonic tones and gesture to the waiter for something hot to drink. Even though the roar of the cafe makes relaxation impossible there you sit, calculating and calm, brooding and mysterious, positioned upright in your chair despite the lax posture of those around you.
It could have been the intensity of my stare, but you suddenly moved your eyes upward and caught mine off guard. You notice that I was looking at you, bobbing my head to the symphonic oud music emanating from the tv trying, myself, to concentrate even though the sounds of the cafe around me were making it very difficult. You raise your eyebrows and simply smile with your shisha lay rested on your bottom lip. You were probably thinking about your next move but your eyes said different, instead of casting them towards your cards you fixated on mine and despite my looking away when I returned my gaze to the table your eyes were still looking at my face. The sudden ease of your expression suggested a playful side to your personality that I had never noticed before and even though you were here playing a game every week I always pictured you so seriously. Slightly compelled by your stature and skill I would have never expected you to be able to tease with such enjoyment. You send a discreet smile my way as you lay down your cards, winning yet another round and you stifle a laugh satisfied with your victory over me.
The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans and the cool breeze from the fan overhead takes my senses by surprise and I inhale sharply trying to recover from my defeat. I make a silent covenant with your gaze that one day I will beat you at your own game, and my competitive urges will feel a sensation of satisfaction in that achievement. You smirk as if you understand my frustration at losing and grin at my eagerness to challenge you as if I am not in your caliber. Wanting to enjoy my time I attempted to distract myself with the writhing blurred bodies on the TV screen but I couldn't get your cheeky attitude out of my mind, no one had ever felt this confident in challenging me before. I must admit that in my professional and even throughout my personal life many are intimidated by me, but you smile beneath the billowing smoke clouds as if you are far more learned than I, as if there is a secret that you could teach me, as if you are the one whom I should be intimidated from. I must admit this is a strange sensation, to be bested by anyone is annoying, but to be defeated by a man feels particularly scintillating and intrigues me. It makes the dance of competition far more enjoyable and the thought of defeat wildly devastating.
You steal your gaze from mine acknowledging this unspoken challenge and you re-adjust in your seat signaling that the "game is on," and as I shuffle I do my best to give you my intimidating face and you still scoff as if I have much to learn. I must admit this just urges me on, this teasing of yours, this idea that you are superior bothers me so and I deal the cards while pursing my lips and thinking to myself…” You cannot let him walk away from this table thinking that he has beaten you.” The cards dance round after round and I follow you closely, edging up to your score, slowly bringing myself into your periphery on the table of battle. Seeing the difference in score you attack, taking me on as an equal…The dance continues and your experience overcomes me, and even though you won an understanding is made between you and I, an understanding that one day soon I will surpass you and that I am a worthy opponent.
Chapter 2:
After several weeks from my graduation day, it is understood at the table when I enter the cafe that I am no longer "the student," and in spite of the recognition you still seem to believe that I am unworthy. I admit that there are still things I must learn, but at the game itself I surpass many at the table with the exception of yourself. I see you now as my greatest competition and since the silent challenge has been accepted I eagerly await the days that we meet to duel both our minds and the game. I envision you when we exchange short communiqués during the week and as the challenge comes closer I expect so does your excitement, so when you saw me today your eyes lit up anxiously awaiting the trial of cards about to unfold…
We have made a little wager with significant and yet unknown results, the evening before we volleyed provocations to one another, taunting and measuring metaphorical limbs, and concluded the conversation with a bet: if I gain 3 wins over you, then you have to take me to your Friday night game with the varsity group. This is particularly advantageous for me because I can overcome some stereotypes of female competitors to a very male dominated corner of Cairene culture, the a7wa. Additionally, it would give me the opportunity edge past you in a neutral playing field where people don’t know me and therefore do not try to pacify me by ‘letting me win.’ True competition.
The other segment of this wager is if you win 10 games over me, you chose the number to be so far above mine to make me feel trivial and insignificant, but I let you because I really crave to go to this new battlefield. The stakes are by far the most frustrating part of this wager because you refuse to tell me what you wish to receive if you are to win. As mysterious as this is, naturally my imagination runs wild with the possibilities, I don’t think you will win so am unworried.
The weather has cooled so that when I pick up the plastic cards in my exposed hands I shiver throughout my whole body, the shisha man comes by to take my order and I feel relief in the shaking as he holds the hot coals by his side close enough to warm me temporarily. My usual order he has memorized by now so really his presence at the table marks simply a reason to extend a greeting. We have moved indoors so the music is somewhat louder and still there you sit exuding such confidence in your impending win that your expression reflects every smirk possible on a man who believes himself to be superior. I must admit this unnerves me every time, it doesn't put me in a foul mood, no, it burns the fire inside me so that I no longer need my jacket. It fuels me, this smirk of yours, makes my adrenaline pump and motivates with every part of my being to prove that you are wrong and that I am indeed a worthy opponent.
The players gather round and the game begins, each time the cool plastic cards come into my hands my body is sent into a dichotomy of sensory bombardments between the fiery attitude, the tepid tea, and the icy cards I am experiencing an assault on my senses. I can tell that our co-players aren't wise to our little arrangement which feeds my desire even further; the tease itself spurns me forward. My toes curl within my shoes as the temperature drops and my skin crawls under the layers of clothes. I remember your banter the night before in one of our virtual chat sessions and my toes curl even further, my finger-tips numb and that smile… not outright just to the side directed right at me as if you know every card in my hand and can predict every move I make. Seeing as you taught me this is not a big surprise but I yearn to shock you and not play as you imagine, however winning with this strategy is out of the question.
Round one proceeds as expected, the shisha arrives and your smirk is met with the slow exhale of water tobacco…the smell of mint reaches my nostrils and makes me laugh because it reminds me about conversations of tea and the warm sensation one gets when drinking a hot beverage on a cold evening. I bite my lip as I pick up my cards unsatisfied with what fate had dealt me and I glance over the table and find you stone faced as usual, probably thinking to yourself "she can't read me, I'm too good at this game." I smile at this thought because I have the perfect cards for dash call which means that in points I may overtake you even if you have the bigger estimate. I edge closer the table and glance at you, urging you silently to take the call. Seeing my expression your left eyebrow raises as if to say, "let's go!" I wait for the risk, my heart skips in my chest and I catch my breath. I drink my now warm tea, hoping to mask my excitement. I know that you can read me well, the months I spent studying you, you were studying me too. The round plays out and our scores are so close. You re-position yourself in your chair thinking of the hidden stakes of you winning our little game (that you have yet to tell me).
The shisha becomes stale in my mouth and the tea grounds lay in the bottom of my cup. You glance at me in a quizzical manner, your one eyebrow raised as if to say, “I didn’t teach you to play this way,” your lips purse and tighten as I take you by surprise. I enjoy these moments, even though they unnerve me. You place the straw from your Pepsi can lightly on your mouth and swallow the brown liquid. You sit back in your chair and twitch your left leg from side to side, and whether it is from the cold coursing through your body or nerves I notice and when you scoop the cards off of the table with your right hand you know that you have been beaten…I smile in your direction and you know I have taken away your “8” call, robbing you of your victory. Game 1 ends and the score is 1:0… You order your second round of shisha with dissatisfaction and smile at me, leaning your head away from the table so that only I can see it, “I’ve got you!”
You go into the next game and your legs have stopped twitching, you sink comfortably into your chair and drink from your shisha, but you bite your bottom lip and look at your cards intensely squeezing your fingers around them as if you are protecting a treasure. In the second round your teeth play with the plastic on your shisha lay and the table begins to claim their stakes you say “Dash call” while the others, including myself, verbally battle for our cards. Round after round and you inch ahead of me in points but not so far as to ensure victory. Then “8” I slide ahead with 122 point as your friend of 20 years that shares your namesake attempts to outwit me and fails. I clench my teeth as the score remains close, trying to distract myself by listening to the music in my headphones. I graze your foot under the table by accident and momentarily get you to glance up at me from your Ipad-softly resting in your lap. “Pass,” “Pass,” “Pass…” The table is hot tonight everyone vying for the king spot currently occupied by you as we both yo-yo back and forth in the position. We are truly the ones to beat…
In the 9th round you soar past me with a superb 8 and comfortably rest 40 points ahead. You take such pleasure in my subsequent stages of frustration engaging in full-on attack. You roll up your sleeves as if you are about to get dirty. Double round and I get excited hoping that you will lose so I can catch up. The game continues at a glacial pace and you ease into your chair with a sigh of relief as you claim victory. The café grows louder as the crowd rolls in from the workday; I remember thinking that this traffic is odd for a Monday. The music from the television grows louder to overcompensate for the chattering voices and the dice hit with force on the backgammon (towla) trays. The raucous laughter increases and the sound comforts you, this truly is your element.
You prove this with two wins in a row and the night ends 3:1… We stand to leave as you bundle yourself against the cold and mid-yawn you grin at me as if I have much to learn. Until Thursday my friend…we depart.
Chapter 3:
Today I am home alone. My first day off for the Christmas holidays and I am purposely doing nothing even though I have at least three hours in my not too distant future reserved for packing. I sit on my bed covered in blankets to protect me from the cool winter weather, with my hot cup of coffee listening to music trying to put off the inevitable. The combination of these three elements transports me back to last night, the coffee the music and the cold transports my mind body and senses back into the cafe where I lost once again to you. But something has changed, my normal competitive frustration is lacking today. If it had been any other day I would be seething right now in my loss, going over every detail of the game and preparing a new strategy; this time I'm not. I would describe my thoughts today as reflective more than analytical and the elements about last night that I begin to remember come pouring out of my fingertips.
The evening began before I even went to the cafe, the back and forth repartee between the two of us had not ceased since our last meeting, the main subject of which is your refusal to tell me what your end of our 'agreement' is. The secrecy is tantalizing and you enjoy the teasing that results in not revealing something I want to know. More and more the redundancies of my life simply fill the space between going to the cafe and playing cards which has become my secret guilty pleasure. Sitting and competing in cards, observing the everyday patrons around me has awakened my desire to go back in time and choose to become a writer. Like the infamous Naguib Mahfouz who got his inspiration from his notorious long walks throughout Cairo mine come from my visits to the a7wa and of course the friends who share the evenings with me every week.
You pick me up in your car and as I walk down the stairs I wonder if you are going to continue our convivial banter and try to intimidate me; when I get in immediate warmth overcomes me and the soft dulcet tones of our conversation puts me in a relaxed mood despite our upcoming challenge. After the week that I had at work I was mentally exhausted honestly, but on the way to the cafe my spirit lifted. We arrive at the cafe and I notice that you have become more relaxed in my presence as if we have known each other for years, you place your belongings on the hard red cushion of the wicker chair in the cafe which is now freezing from being outside on the porch of the cafe. Inadvisably that is where we choose to sit, being the first to arrive, and later on in the evening we suffer from that decision because even though the temperature begins the night at a cool 60 degrees around 7:30 when we start the game it plummets down to the low 40s as the desert breeze flows in around us. I too feel more relaxed in your presence, the familiarity of you has increased as our conversations have become more regular and I get to know you as a person not just an acquaintance. Despite you thinking that I give you too much credit I am certain now, since our friendship has grown, that you are exactly the man that I have observed you to be which just increases both my respect for you and my curiosity.
I feel calm here, relaxed and happy. The air is filled with a sweet minty smell impossible to bottle. It isn't a big space and not small either, it's simply cozy and nestles on the corner of an intersection diagonally from a mosque. It is a haven, my own respite from the world, I feel release here from my stress and anxiety and I can be myself which in Cairo is a rare moment for someone like me. More than anything I feel that I am loved here, I feel the camaraderie that I miss from my military days when a man and a woman could just be without expectations, pretensions or cultural obligations.
Whenever I arrive I am greeted by the waiters who have loyally served my order of red bull and shisha for over a year. Sometimes I feel calm and calculating and other times wild and dangerous but all parts of me are welcomed at Cafe Soraya and I don't have to think about anything, which for someone of my intellect is a blessing.
I enter tonight’s game numinously, our banter increases as does your teasing which still affects me in the manner that you intend it to and beneath my smile my teeth clench every time holding back retorts that would be culturally inappropriate. I could feel your eyes measuring me before the game had started and that knowledge emboldens me and makes me want to put on a show. The cafe is buzzing tonight, the usual faces trickle in and my icy hands find no solace in any of the warm crevices of my body. Both you and I find various ways of keeping warm; you constantly move your legs to the beat of the music blaring on the television and I keep my fingers moving with my dancing pen. Our comrades light up their cigarettes and do their best to look intimidating, the exhale of shisha and cigarette smoke create a pungent aroma in the air that is simply hypnotic; the thick smoke hovers over the table like a rain cloud about to poor on my good mood. I don't know if it was because of the weather or the distracting deep murmur of the cafe but I do not begin the game well this night. I stare at the fiery ends of the cigarette across the table and imagine the warmth that it must be exuding…
Conversations fill the room, complaints of work and random attempts at friendly insults were the theme of the evening but in the broken Amiya and English the men seemed more excited than usual perhaps because of the impending Christmas holidays. In any case the louder noise at the cafe motivated the table including yourself to play the first game of the evening more aggressively than normal. You slap and rub at your legs attempting to get comfortable and I smile with thoughts that my pen refuses to reveal.
My score plummets and I see a way to take advantage of losing. I think to myself, "if I keep decreasing then he will focus his attention on the others at the table." You look puzzled at my choice to lose, not knowing why I continue to play poorly. Of course you probably attribute this to my inexperience and you do not realize that I am falling behind for a reason. You debate the plays with the others in your rhythmic Arabic, gesturing with your whole body as you speak trying to make your point. I can tell by the tone in your voice that you are confused about my losing and I must admit I am nervous about falling too far behind. My shisha coals dwindle and I simply inhale minty air, which in Cairo is already polluted with enough smoke that tobacco is not necessary to achieve poor lung capacity. In round 7 you soar ahead and I begin to climb towards you like a panther stalking its prey.
At this point you don't even consider me as competition since my score is so low, I have reached my goal. Taking myself out of competition allows you to relax into the game and become comfortable. The pounding seductive beat of Jannat’s new album comes through my headphones and I turn up the anthem. I deal the cards and you lose the round, the scores inch closer between you and another and I sit comfortably back watching you battle each other as if it is my own personal theatre of gladiators...
The cards are not on my side tonight and the combination of noises assault my senses. The double tap of dice from the towla trays, the teeth grinding sha3by music from the screaming television, the deep male murmur of the patrons, the screeching of breaks and honking horns of the cars just feet away from where we sit, and the reading of the Qu'ran blaring from the megaphone of the nearby mosque all combine resulting in the constant beating behind my eyeballs. Oh how I long for silence and warmth back in your car. I reach down the side of my body and adjust my headphones, the warmth of my skin beneath layers of clothes tempts me to keep my hands inside my layers but my inner-winter spirit resists. New comrades arrive and you become distracted in conversation.
A familiar Turkish melody graces my ears which makes me grin. My intensity today is beyond control and whether that is the result of the red bull or the cold weather it is affecting my game severely. After winning the first game you have the legitimacy to be confident in your evenings success bringing our score to 4:1. The second game commences and I attempt to calm myself by shuffling the cards and your iPad holds your attention with candy crush as a welcoming distraction from what must be a very boring game for you. You softly dance your finger vertically and horizontally on the screen and smile, I’m sure you feel my gaze, my uneasy confidence in tonight’s cards just hoping that I can deal myself a good hand. You glance up and exhale the burning remnants of your first shisha of the evening and decide to leave the candy crush behind because the screen is colder than the cards.
For the first time in the evening you notice me diagonally from you and you glance at the score sheet, raise your right eyebrow, purse your lips and inaudibly make the ‘tut-tut-tut’ sound clicking your tongue against the upper bridge of your mouth shaking your head slowly from side to side. You know that this kind of taunt will rile me up and as the chairs shift to allow for more players the cards have been dealt and I no longer feel the cold. I take the king spot by round two. The cafe calms with my intensity and my mind is focused again on the game. Om Koulthoum blasts from the TV and her throaty patriotic lyrics, the 3oud and violins fill the air, and I make my move, the deep pulsating tune of Egyptian musical royalty echoing in each strike that I make. That smile lifting from the left corner of your mouth conceding that I am indeed here to play. You text me to throw off my game, “where have you been?” and “someone is TRYING to win, trying and failing that is…” Ahh the machismo, the virile jabs aimed at stirring my inner lioness…I don’t think you have ever truly experienced competition like this before and you are secretly enjoying it.
Restless legs and my curling toes makes my mind wander to other thoughts which apparently works toward my advantage; maintaining my lead above not only you but the whole table for several rounds. The warmth from my body once again inviting me inside the layers of my jacket and this time I give in placing my hands along the sides of my torso for several minutes. I close my eyes from the relief and I picture in my mind other activities that would give me warmth. The tap of the towla trays subside and the table cools, along with the weather, they have just finished swallowing my homemade brownies and drinking their hot beverages which invokes a feeling of simple pleasure that radiates warmth from the table. Your finger still dances away on the screen of your iPad and you avoid my stare only sharing your gaze for a moment with me. You try to distract me with a playful nudge on my now icy toes and I smile. You close your cold hands around your cider and sip tenderly.
You wave your hand dismissively at the call as if you don't care. I shiver down my spine and my body convulses slightly making my hand shake, you touch my hand and I can't believe how warm yours are and you smile and say that mine are not that cold. Even my toes begin to numb and my shoulders rise to protect my vulnerable neck. The bitter taste of nescafe mixes beautifully with the sweet chocolate brownie crumbles in my mouth and I close my eyes from the satisfying combination. In the 13th round after losing consecutively you put aside your iPad and begin to play the table. My lips quiver from the inhale of icy air and you rub your hands over your legs to warm them; my hands are naturally guided to my face in an attempt to warm my flesh, this attempt is unsuccessful because they are icier than my other extremities, and yet I can't take my finger off of my lips for some strange reason. Double round and you and I are neck-and-neck with one-point difference…Defeated in more than just the game of cards, I pull ahead with the daunting score of 4:2. My toes have been numb for at least 20 minutes and my pinky toes on both feet are completely asleep, so when I stand to leave I can't feel parts of my feet and I feel awkward in moving. I signal five to you with my long slender fingers and you grab my hand to part and squeeze it twice as we both slowly rise from the table. It was not my best performance, and the cold was definitely a distraction, but I couldn't think of a better way to depart Cairo for the holidays so I felt satisfied with my one win. I open my eyes and find myself back in my bedroom with my hot coffee, icy toes, and humming headphones and I smile…
Chapter 4:
Through the open balcony door, day came, the world was silent and deep down there in the city’s caverns cars stood still, but since it had rained during the cool December nights pools of water and diesel oil filled the streets and hung in the air. A bus stopped, two women entered they appeared as if they were cleaners, yet the modest morning light made their unpainted faces into works of art. The city yawned drank coffee and began the bustle of commerce...
It has since been a year from those cold December evenings when we dueled our minds and skills in the dingy, off-the-path cafe. A whole world away on the same streets, I'm remembering our challenge was never finished as a familiar mint tea taste fills my mouth. This taste will always remind me because I never drink mint tea unless I partake in shisha and it has been a year since I have. My memory wanders upon the evenings spent in laughter, the sounds of the bustling cafe, the men sharing each other’s company after a day’s work, the brotherhood-the comradery, and the bonds of friendship formed over plastic cards. I remember my teacher; he sits in my mind here at this glassy table, a mirror into the past. The man that looks back at me through minty shisha smoke is not much older than I, for here in this space he is livened. The spirit of competition carves years off his face. Him but not really him, the face that looks back is not his but the face of another; here they sit in the cafe unmoving, my brothers separated by time.
The morning passed uneventful and yet my mind continued to trail back to that cafe! I was haunted by an unfinished battle not yet won and not yet lost, a prize unclaimed, a glorious dance between teacher and student unperformed like a note in a masterful opus.
I yearn to go back to that hallowed space and find closure to this memory. When I emerged from the car I remember the light banter that would always accompany the 10 minute drive we made from my house to the cafe and I smile at the cab driver, he looks at me strangely but I digress. The woodwork had been newly painted, a bright red color on the door of the bathroom, the walls were faded, the sidewalk was over grown with weeds, and refuse piled outside. It was the same, but so different. El muzika channel played as usual and I remember how I used to complain about the repeated songs. I recognize the waiters and they recognize me, they smile thinking that I will be joined by the ol' gang they bring chairs to the table and I fail in my attempt to convince them that I would be sitting alone. Nearby a young business man and his colleague shift in their chairs and ask the waiter for a towla board. I silently watch them play, the dice and chips slapping noisily on the wood and I remember how I had mastered the game even to the level of beating the champ! How long it has been since I played! I sit for an hour, watching, listening, remembering and find myself even more dissatisfied than I was that morning. No closure is to be had when the battle has yet to be won, sitting there I am reminded of my teachers taunting smirk and I am filled with the same zeal, adrenaline, and thirst for victory.
I go to sleep upon arriving home and play over the games in my mind trying to remember your tells and devising scenarios to defeat you. Shifting between consciousness and dreams I feel more unsatisfied than ever. Shall we meet on the field again, or will this battle remain forever unfinished; will I be taunted by your teasing smirk each time I taste green tea or will I forget my desire to defeat you; will the smell of shisha be a constant reminder of those nights amongst brothers, those nights of music laughter and cards? Will this memory remain memory or will we have the chance again to draw swords and find a winner? Will the student best the teacher? Only time will tell...
Chapter 5:
These nights of chatter online, the back-and-forth teasing slowly torments me like a cat begging for tea biscuits at my feet. We equally provoke one another and goad on the rivalry that is now over 4 years old! This unfinished match of skills 4:2 is like a cloud above us haunting every conversation. Other players constantly reminding me of blithering unfinished animosity like a puzzle laying on the coffee table collecting dust under coffee rings and decorative ash trays. We contemplate the what-ifs and I am plagued by your inability to confess your side of the wager, teasing me and impelling me further in the contemplation of expectations. If you had won would you have asked me to leave the game and not play with you any longer? Would you have requested that I make you brownies for a year? Would you have given into my desire and taken me to the other game anyway? My mind rifts into many sections each prize that I can imagine you wanting less likely to be reality…
Our friendship has grown in many ways, my family getting larger and moving across the ocean has permitted an evolution into much more mature phases. Changing from a teacher-student dynamic to a male-female friendship, advancing into a familial kinship despite the intense forays into each other’s thoughts, and even dissipating at times into silent stretches that last months punctuated only by a funny meme that I send you to brighten your day or a picture of my child to share in my joy. The underlying allure, magnetism and enticement slowly resurfacing like a dragon that has been buried in a cave for centuries; stirring, awakening, desiring ravenous conquests into innocent villages plundering through caves and expelling powerful and forceful bursts of fiery ferociousness onto the innocent landscape. Each time we mention the game, the unfinished duel this dragon stirs savagely inside me. You brag that you are out in the café playing unconsciously and even you admit that you miss my presence at the table. I get online to practice playing and it is really just that, practice, instinctive robotic and mechanical. I easily overtake these competitors which inevitably leads to a sense of bereavement as if I am mourning the loss of a gift. It saddens me to play online, but it’s the only practice that I can get, and I fantasize about the day when I can join the table back in Cairo and continue our not-so-innocent rivalry.
In early winter, after eating a shrimp dinner that prompts memories of Ta’ta, I get online and after the cordial exchange of daily news that doesn’t particularly thrill either of us we get on the subject of cards, which is typical because you admit that you are out in the café right now playing at the ‘other’ game that I never got to experience. You know that when you mention this to me it will fill me with a frenzy of emotions because it is one of the many things that I desired most out of our playful rivalry, yet you mention it anyway I think to provoke me, which I get the feeling brings you a sense of pleasure. Through the goading and elation brought on by this amusing topic I finally get you to confess what you wanted as your prize if you had won: you would have taken me to the game anyway because it would have pleased you to see me advance to that level. Of course as I had expected, but surprisingly I secretly felt deflated, I kind of wished you had desired something more mischievous and maybe you had but saw the options I had mentioned and acquiesced for the sake of finality. In any case we made a plan that I would join you in the game when I came to visit after Ramadan.
The post-Ramadan Eid holiday in Cairo is more wondrous than I feel I can describe, however, in an attempt to paint the scene for you I will offer my anemic description. The raucous almost riotous bawl of traffic is the first thing we as foreigners notice because it is such an assault of the senses but despite the off-putting affect that it leaves initially on the body when interwoven with the celebratory spirit in the air it paints a picture of the biggest street party in the world. The flickering lights bring on epileptic spasms of the optical nerve much like a fog machine at a dance hall. The burnt acidic exhaust smell burns the hairs off of the inside of one’s nostrils making dull smells of jasmine petal necklaces (often sold for pennies during this time of year) practically impossible to smell which is why the more pungent musk incense is burned in almost every apartment creating a mystic hippie vibe. The steady continuous and yet punctured and arrhythmic squeaking of deep and high-pitched car horns permeate the air along with the more rhythmic Tabla (bongo) and compliment the sound of the kids one-stringed oud peddled by street merchants. This creates an off-beat island rhythm that invariably makes one want to dance as they walk.
\When you reach the inside of the café the waiters are all dressed up having spent their eid’diya on pointed shoes in fake leather and white crisp cotton button up shirts. Smiles everywhere as the men gather in the a7wa, their families customarily with aunt’s, sisters, and grandmothers leaving the men uninhibited by duties during the late evening hours and free to gather amongst themselves. Catching up with those they’ve lost touch with during the year they gather in groups as large as 20 and as small as four all coming to the a7wa for shisha, shay, m3a elshella. Playing kochina, towla, wa tarneeb and using the latest catch-phrases from tv and music, predictably talking about the ridiculous corruption in politics and crime rates escalating, and scoffing at the scandalous new movies that become gradually more indecent.
It’s usually mid-summer so the desert breezes circulate the cigarette and shisha vapors to create balloons of menthol infused smoke. The crushing sense of crowds in the café during the day is very distracting and the overwhelmed short-staffed waiters who usually provide excellent service dissolve into the background so going at night is essential; it’s cooler and traffic has usually subsided enough so that you can hear the sultry instrumental tunes and the obscured moonlight is generally enhanced with fanouz lanterns emitting deep purple and green glows manipulated by iron wrought illuminations and colored glass.
I am overcome with anticipation, my craving for real competition and desire to reconnect inundated with my love for Cairo during this season. Motivated to assert my dominion in the café, to see friends and to feel the familiarity of the waiters; both of these desires are bypassed by my appetite for two things, the minty salty tobacco taste of shisha streaming down into my lungs complimented by a bitter green mint tea and of course seeing my teacher. I fantasize for weeks about the upcoming trip and plan consecutive nights for combat; contacting all the players and making sure they free up the whole week, renting an apartment near the café to avoid long late night trips back to the apartment, and planning different swag gifts from the States for each of the guys. The plane is scheduled for departure and he sends me a message exposing his eagerness to take me to the New Cairo game. We called a draw in the competition since we both chose the same prize and simply decided to schedule two nights to go.
Published 5th Apr 2016
| Edited 12th Jan 2017
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