Chapter 14

KHOZEM AND RASHIDA IN CAIRO

27th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(October 10, 1996)

The blinds blocked the sunlight leaving them cool despite the crippling heat. Rashida wore a robe in the messy living room. Her roommate had left for work. Khozem lay on the living room sofa, snoring, and Rashida fought the temptation to wake him. Talking to Khozem was like talking to a wall. For him, being together was some sort of goal in itself.

She walked along the sofa and picked up his clothes. He at least showered every day, but the clothes were getting dirty and smelly. ‘Just like a man,’ she thought. She had somehow known about men prior Khozem’s intrusion. ‘Filthy,’ ‘lazy,’ and ‘Neanderthal’ held some truth. She looked at him and shook her head.

She went to the kitchenette and made strong coffee. From the counter she smirked. She had resented men in general as they were corrupt and drunk over their own power. Khozem represented this power, and yet he seemed no more than an infant. He helped himself to food. He used the shampoo. He dried himself with her towel. A problem child, and she knew it. But with the fixity of his future position, Khozem had nothing to lose. He got up at noon, prayed towards the East, and listened to the radio, prayed at night, and asked for a long kiss before bed.

Rashida poured herself some coffee. She shook his arm but nothing worked. She poured cold water over his head.

“Wha? Who? Oh, man,” groaned Khozem.

“That’s what you get.”

“I was having such a strange dream.”

“Save it. Get up and brush your teeth. Take a shower. This has gone too far.”

“Oh, I have been dreaming about you.”

“That line doesn’t work anymore. Now get up and get dressed.”

Rashida ripped off the blanket that covered him. His body lay naked as he fought for the blanket.

“You dare sleep in the nude in my place?”

“Give me back the blanket... , “ fought Khozem.

“Where do you think you are? Some kind of brothel?”

Khozem ran to the bathroom, and Rashida laughed.

“It’s not funny,” yelled Khozem.

“You ought to lose some weight. Maybe go on a diet.”

“You didn’t see much did you?” asked Khozem from the bathroom.

“All of that manhood.”

“You’re not supposed to know such things.”

“Take a shower quick. You’ve worn out your welcome.”

She heard the shower. She hoped Khozem would regain his senses and return to the university.

“Can you hand me my clothes, please. Not that it matters.”

Khozem’s hair was combed neatly. A red towel hung around his waist. Rashida fed him his soiled kurta.

“We need to talk,” said Rashida.

“About what?”

“You’ve been here almost a week, lying around like a lump, not doing anything.”

“Should I be doing something?”

Khozem came out fully dressed.

“First of all, call the university and tell them you’re safe. They must be worried.”

“I don’t want to talk to them.”

“If they don’t hear from you, they’ll call your father.”

“Let them call...”

“Let’s try this using that tiny brain of yours. See, you won’t get into trouble. I will.”

“Nonsense. They have no clue where you are.”

“So you mean I should be running away, always in hiding, like some sort of fugitive?” asked Rashida.

“As long as you’re with me there is nothing to fear.”

“My roommate is getting suspicious. She wants you out. The visiting-brother act is crumbling. All you do is lie around. You don’t clean up after yourself.”

“Consider it done. I will clean up my mess from now on.”

“Khozem, you can’t stay here. You know that.”

“Then we can live together elsewhere.”

“I need a job first. I’ve been out every day. No one wants to hire a person without a degree, especially a woman without a degree. The rent is due in a few days. Getting a job is my first priority, not housing you.”

“I understand.”

“This whole charade will cost us plenty. Now what I suggest is you do something. How about finding a job?”

“I have a plan in the works.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when you return.”

“This is exactly the problem. You’re not active.”

“By the time you get back, I will have thought this plan through.”

“At least do one thing for me.”

“Anything, my sweet.”

“Go and wash your clothes downstairs.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Don’t call me ‘my sweet.’ Now move out of the way. I need to shower.”

“Believe me,” said Khozem. “I’ve figured things out. I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure you do,” called Rashida from the shower.

She left an hour later dressed professionally.

“Have a good day,” said Khozem before kissing her.

“Without a job we can’t stay here,” she replied.

“Hurry back soon so I can discuss this. Aren’t you curious?” as his hand slid down her arms.

“Not really.”

“You should be.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours. Try getting out of the apartment.”

After performing ablution and morning prayers, Khozem borrowed Rashida’s bathrobe and laundered his clothes. Cairo had jolted his entire outlook. This Cairo, however, neglected its Islamic foundations as their citizens applied themselved towards hedonistic prosperity. Khozem figured Allah was not the first priority here. Living a prosperous life had long been the first, and within the Egyptian population stood a rebellious force waiting to topple the moderate government, just like the Iranian revolutionaries in 1979. A slight tension covered the solemn faces of the pedestrians.

While the news of the university depicted the routine of the men’s campus, the news of Cairo seemed infinite, like the confusion of the streets. In every direction tan buildings wiped out the empty spaces. The tenements along the horizon usurped the sanctity of the sun. Now Khozem had options. He felt encouraged by it. He had control. He could go anywhere. He could change himself. He could be another person. He could put Islam on the back burners and explore. Yet he knew his ultimate fate rested with his father’s position.

He wanted Rashida by his side, and no one else. Hence the construction of an unique design: Allah first, Rashida second, and his father third. The plan placed importance on piety more than predeterminism. He worked on the details as his clothes dried. He rehearsed the new proposal for Rashida. He listened to the hourly dramas on the radio. When Rashida returned he was sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

“At least you’ve washed your clothes,” she announced.

“How did the search go?”

“The rent is due.”

“Come sit by me.”

“I’ve been trying hard, but nobody’s hiring.”

“In crisis there is opportunity,” said Khozem.

“I know all that. If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.”

“When one door closes, another one opens.”

“Slow and steady wins the race. Oh Khozem, I can’t come up with the rent.”

He brushed her hair aside and kissed her cheek.

“Is that supposed to make everything go away?”

“Nothing ever goes away. We might as well enjoy our time here.”

“Khozem, we need shelter and food. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to go back?”

“I’m not going back. Can’t you understand how I feel? Do you feel the same way I do?”

“I think so. You give me no choice.”

We’re in this together. Let there be no more affirmations about how we feel. Such feelings are now implied wherever we go.”