The
seasonal realist
By Khaled Diab
The
cockroach makes its way casually up his neck. His body convulses in disgust. It
walks along the crack running down the middle of his face – resplendent in its
brown armour, its glory redoubled by the reflection of its underside. It pauses
two-thirds of the way up as though it is waiting for something to happen. The
mystery behind the pause lasts only for a moment. Another cockroach appears at
the bottom of the mirror and races up the glass, following the path of the
first cockroach. The drowsy-eyed observer concludes that the pursuing cockroach
must be the male.
Soon enough,
he catches up with the female. He tries to butter her up with a few agile
manoeuvres – his wiry antennae fluttering seductively before her eyes, his walk
has that little extra bravado, his talk that little extra charge. She plays
hard to get and starts to move away. Never one to admit defeat, the male
cockroach carries on with his attempts to court her. The female cockroach turns
around and her antennae poke the air in outrage. The observer interprets this
to mean ‘Drop Dead!’
Ali watches
this endearing romance in disgusted fascination as it unfolds before him on his
bathroom mirror. His bleary-eyed indecisiveness doesn’t last long. “Shew!
Scram!” he says as he waves his arms intimidatingly.
Unintimidated,
the two cockroaches snobbishly size him up with withering glares. How dare he
disturb their peace. How dare this pathetic creature intrude on their privacy.
Doesn’t he realise that this is their summer retreat and that there’s no way a
non-entity like him is going to spoil it for them?
The
two cockroaches on the mirror continue their show of passionate sensuality. The
man, like a heartless and disapproving chaperon, decides to put an end to this
romance on the Riviera. “I sympathise with all dejected lovers. Allow me to put
you out of your misery.” He picks up the can, directs the nozzle at the two
cockroaches and lets loose two deadly squirts in cold blood. They fall off the
face of the mirror and land in a shallow pool, side by side, in the washbasin.
They thrash their dying limbs in frantic helplessness, grabbing on desperately
to the last vestiges of life – their kindred spirits seeping out with every
withering gasp. They face each other, their antennae lamenting a love affair
that, sadly, would never be – flushed down the drain for eternity. The ruthless
perpetrator looks on as their souls follow their dreams down the drain and
drift up to that sacred sewer in the sky.
The slayer of lovers shovels their limp bodies unceremoniously into the
open grave of the bin. His conscience unaffected, he cleanses his hands of all
signs of the massacre just committed – and he calls it hygiene! He picks
up his razor to continue his interrupted morning ritual. The razor rises and
falls with a constant regularity, swishing and swashing across the contours of
his cheek. The foam is wiped away and, with it, the fuzz, revealing a shiny
layer of smooth skin.
Before he is
done, and with half his face covered in foam, another part of his morning
ritual resonates painfully around his bedraggled head. The phone rings incessantly
in a desperate plea to be picked up. The migraine beats away unceasingly at the
insides of his skull, throbbing at the temples, in perfect synch with the
ringing phone. The migraine, now many years old, has decided that his head is
cramped living quarters. Tired of being stuck between two hemispheres, it now
wanted to break out and explore the world.
He
entertains the amusing idea of letting it ring itself hoarse. Amusing that is
in concept. Unfortunately, the reality is far removed from the fantasy: one
more burst out of those insufferable bells and his head would explode. He
rushes, Quasimodo style, to answer the shrill appeals of the phone.
He gets to
it just as the last burst of energy dies away. He picks up the receiver,
thinking there’s someone still hanging on at the other end, instead he gets
that deep groaning tone. Whoever was at the other end has obviously lost his or
her grip and, not able to hang on any longer, dropped into that dark abyss to
be devoured by the monster with millions of tentacles that the telephone
company keeps in its dungeons. As he puts down the phone, he gets a feeling
that the purring he can hear has a different quality today, almost a
self-satisfied one – taunting him for not having the reflexes and presence of mind
to get to the phone in time.
On his way
back to the bathroom he is amused by the thought. He imagines the ugly
monstrosity lurking deep under the telephone exchange, its cancerous web of
copper and fibre optics enveloping the city, with an ear in every home
listening in sinisterly to what is being said, bringing people closer only to
split them apart and put barriers up between them. It sits there, like a
bloated Jabba-the-Hut that dares not show its face nor speak its name,
suggesting things, influencing, moulding, whispering propositions through a
multitude of disembodied voices. He imagines the telephone company’s
management, dressed up as clergy, paying homage to their colossal master with
human sacrifices. Not doing so only brings forth its wrath: lines go dead,
calls are re-routed, and connections are severed.
Unfortunate
clerks and pretty secretaries, as well as subscribers who have fallen behind on
their phone bills, are offered in tribute to subdue, for a time, the beast’s
insatiable appetite. The clergy proceed solemnly down the narrow marble
staircase, bearing torches to light the way, their shadows dancing erratically,
almost devilishly, on the walls in contradiction to the earnest grace with
which they carry themselves. The doomed victims are dragged lashing and
thrashing down the staircase. Dazed, they realise the futility of their
struggles and resign themselves to their destiny. They no longer resist. Their
senses become more acute, perhaps latching onto the fact that they won’t be
operational for much longer. The whole scene takes on a surreal intensity. The
flowing white gowns of the priests become fluttering screens onto which their
thoughts are projected. One would expect them to see their lives flash before
them or to think about all those things that they never did or make a wish or
something. Instead, one looks at her husband’s toes protruding from the end of
the covers, twiddling in that way she so adores while he is fast asleep.
Another sees the furniture in her house repossessed because her family couldn’t
keep up the payments without her income. A fat man sees himself preparing the
dinner he would never now eat. He smells the savoury spices that give an
overwhelming deliciousness to the air, making his stomach rumble with pleasure.
It now grumbles emptily. Another man sees faces, lots of faces. He sees
gleaming white teeth. He loves gleaming white teeth. He sees a collage of all
the beautiful smiles he has ever known: strangers, ex-lovers, friends, and
family. A last man sees a blizzard in a snowscape. There is a dark pit in the
snow. The pit has him transfixed. He sees evil and doom.
Unbelieving,
he turns his eyes away. They lock in on the jumping shadows in morbid
fascination, widening in horror as he sees the devil incarnate leer back at
him. He screams out in horror and triggers off an avalanche of terrified cries.
The truce over, they start struggling once more to escape their captors. They
are dragged forcibly the last few metres to the pit where they are
ceremoniously and pitilessly dispensed off down the hole with a prayer for
their souls. Their screams fade away and are replaced by a satisfied pulsing
rumble that sounds something like the engaged tone you get on the phone.
Ali sees his
face looking back at him in the bathroom mirror: a schizophrenic face, half
clean and gleaming, half a white beard of foam, with an irregular crack running
down the middle.
The foam has
set and is now caked in on his face. He picks up the brush to lather it back
into vitality. He places the brush under the tap and turns it on. The tap gasps
thirstily and lets out a pathetic, empty, breathless sigh. He curses out loud.
His cheeks feel stiff and irritating, which makes him curse out louder.
His curses are
interrupted by a distant chirping sound. He wonders for a moment what it could
be. It’s his mobile phone. He can’t remember where he left it. He rushes out of
the bathroom and follows the noise. He finds the phone on the bookcase, next to
a book conveniently entitled What do you say After you say Hello. A book
not about telephone skills and protocols but about the unconscious scripts and
scenarios people set themselves and follow in their daily lives. Following his
own peculiar script, Ali picks up the phone, presses the green button and says
with a courteousness he does not feel “Hello!”
“Ali?”
queries a familiar female voice. Ali has always admired the way Noha radiated
warmth and cheerfulness, even down a cold telephone line, first thing in the
morning. She has a way of producing every word as if it was a delicacy
especially dreamed up and cooked with you in mind. He was particularly
impressed that she was able to do this with the chairman constantly breathing
down her neck about meetings and memos. Today her voice still carried the
individually-crafted label but it lacked the sunshine. Instead it was filled
with concern. “The boss wants to talk to you.” Ali doesn’t suppose it’s to
check up on his well-being and Noha confirms his hypothesis.
“So, what
does he want?”
“What else
would the slave-master want to talk to you about?”
“Can’t it
wait till I come in?”
“He said
‘Now’”
“I suppose
it’s not about that pay rise I wanted a couple of months ago.”
“What do you
think?”
“Wait! I
can’t talk to him like this,” Ali puts on a pretence of panic.
“Why not?”
“I’m not
dressed. God, My hair’s uncombed!”
In spite of
herself, Noha gives out a stifled laugh. “Trying to wheedle our way out, are
we?”
“I’m
serious. I can’t speak with his eminence with my face covered in foam.”
“He can’t
see you.”
“You’re
missing the point, I’d know. I’d be too self-conscious.”
Ali hears a
muffled buzz in the background. “Hold on,” says Noha.
A few
seconds later she is back on the line. “He’s on the verge of eruption. He’s decided
it’s best he doesn’t speak to you. He wants you to go down to this address and
win an order.”
“Give me the
address and I’ll go straight down there.”
“Be careful
Ali – he’s looking for an excuse to give your marching orders.”
Ali heads
back to the bathroom. He tries the tap once more. Nothing. He wishes his
landlord a short life and a lack of prosperity. He feels that neither wish will
be granted any time soon, people like him are a curse to humanity, but they
have a shrewd ability to ward off the curses of others, especially their
victims.
He checks
the pea-green plastic bowl he keeps in the bathroom for such emergencies.
Peeling plaster from the wall has dropped into the water. He curses again. In
the kitchen, he stands before an ancient refrigerator that he is sure he once
saw in a 50’s film. He removes a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He
turns and sees the decrepit cupboards sagging sorrowfully on the kitchen wall,
sighs and walks off.
Back in the
bathroom, he pours some of the chilly water into his cupped hand. Applying it
to his face, he feels an icy exhilaration that is not altogether unpleasant.
The razor is raised once more to his face and Ali butchers the rest of his
beard.
A few
minutes later, he is sitting enjoying a cup of tea made from the water that was
left over in the bottle after his shave. The boss man can wait. He flicks
through the newspaper. Wise, tolerant, pragmatic leader who can do no wrong.
War. Peace talks. Oxymorons. Sanctions. Break ups. Freedom fighters/terrorists.
Unification. Mergers. Monopolies. Genocide. Bombings. Refugees. Scandal.
Religious persecution. Ethnic cleansing. A regular day’s fare.
He hears his
glass of tea start to chatter on the table like an old man’s teeth. The couch
starts to tremble violently as if trying to throw him off. “Lay off the weed,”
he thinks. He gets up startled. The tea spills over the edge of the glass. The
dust on the floor is disturbed and hangs, suspended in mid air, flitting
randomly in a shaft of sunlight. ‘Earthquake’ flashes across his mind. He
stands unsteadily on the tottering floor. Plaster drops on his head. He panics.
He crouches down. No. Under table. No! No! Under doorway. Don’t go down stairs.
Buildings cave in around stair-well. “I don’t want to be buried under the
rubble.” Confusing the laws of physics, he goes out to the balcony, intending
to jump off as the building gets closer to the ground. He observes with a
feeble fascination the three buildings across the road swaying from side to
side like some sort of depraved chorus line. The shaking gets more vigorous.
The earth orgasms. The shaking starts to slow down and with it his pulse. The
ground stops moving. His muscles relax and he breathes out in relief. He goes
back in and sits down to regain his composure.
A loud crash
thunders through his flat. The floor trembles a little. He tenses up. A heavy
cloud of dust floats in and envelopes him. He sneezes. He hears loud screams.
He goes to the window to investigate. There is something missing from his
immediate field of vision. There seems to be more sun reaching his flat. Then
he realises. The building across from his is gone, swallowed up by the ground,
it lies as a mound of rubble in the middle of a gaping hole.
People
gather round like a swarm of ants, frantically removing the heaps of bricks,
hoping to salvage the survivors of this carnage – solidarity in disaster, the
brotherhood of the downtrodden. The ants form an irregular line. The futile job
of removing the huge mountain of rubble is underway. The bricks, twisted
concrete and other debris are passed down the line and piled onto the pavement.
The salvage operation gains momentum. The inevitable crowd of onlookers has
assembled, trying to piece together what has happened, loudly decrying the
tragedy. There is a constant frenzy at the expanding peripheries of the crowd
as newcomers ask others what is going on. To one side are the beleaguered women
in black garb: community self-help groups that appear in Death’s wake to offer
support to those who have suffered a loss. A large woman seems to be leading
the uneven chorus. They bewail all the poor souls lost under the rubble in such
a meaningless fashion. They scream out at the top of their lungs, slapping
their cheeks raw, crying, pulling their hair or their scarves, pulling at their
clothes as if to tear them apart; shouting out laments at their poor fortune.
“Ya Lahwi!” “Ya Mesbti!” “Poor Hamed!” “Snatched away too early!” “So young!”
“Not my babies!” filter up to Ali as he stands on his balcony.
He is
overwhelmed by the scene unfolding below him. Tears well up in his eyes. Being
relatively new to the neighbourhood he knew (No! knows) only two people in the
fallen building well. Abdel-Hamid and his mother. He first bumped into
Abdel-Hamid, who works as a credit advisor at a bank, at the local grocers.
They got chatting away and took an instant liking to one another. Mido, who
hated the paper-pushing tedium of his job, made up for it by living on the
edge. He drove recklessly, went to parties all across town, listened to loud
foreign music and drunk and smoked heavily. His loose ways were frowned upon by
the elders and wisers of the neighbourhood. Once he was almost beaten into a
pulp for befriending the local butcher’s daughter. Mido discounted the whole
incident with an “I knew it wasn’t wise but I just can’t resist the lure of
flesh.” Mido and Ali complemented and offset each other. They were partners in
crime. Mido, being a native of the town, knew all the best places to go and Ali
was enchanted by his liberal, laid-back crowd of friends.
Ali was
still mesmerised by the bright lights and allure of the big city. Mido was
getting tired of the emptiness of it all and he was sick of his freeloading
ways: drinking other people’s booze and gatecrashing parties. Another side of
their cosy arrangement was that once or twice a week Mido’s mother would invite
Ali round for dinner (Ali, a poor, lonely, overworked young man from provincial
Mansoura, who’d come to Cairo to struggle against the odds and eke out an
existence, appealed to her romantic disposition and she decided to become his
patron). At weekends, they would sometimes entertain women at Ali’s place away
from prying eyes. They had to be innovative to get the women down the street
and up to Ali’s place unobserved by the local hawks. Mido, in particular,
didn’t want word to reach his mother, it would break her dear little heart.
At a party
in Maadi, Mido introduced Ali to the hypnotic Mona. Her roaring hair and apple-green
eyes had an unapologetic sexual rawness about them that Ali had never
experienced before. Mona was a bored and bright literature lecturer. Her
colleagues and superiors found her so intimidating that they sidelined her,
forcing her to teach the most unchallenging courses on the timetable, which
frustrated her no end. Although she had advances and passes made at her
regularly at work, she blocked them all and kept herself to herself because she
found most of her colleagues repulsive and she knew that her sexuality would be
used by them to discredit her. But off campus, she was another creature
altogether. At first, playing the field suited both of them.
After they
made love for the first time, Ali, overcome with pleasure, looked into her eyes
and guilty images of trees of knowledge and fig leaves came to mind. Was sex
meant to be this unbelievably pleasurable? All his previous encounters with
women had been sad substitutes for this genuine article. But Mona needed no fig
leaf to conceal her desires. She was unashamedly proud of her sexuality. Ali
was, at first, surprised that Mona suggested they play the field, saying that
she found it hard to commit and they were young and should taste as many apples
as possible. Opening her heart to him, she explained how her sexuality was her
path to spirituality – and each man lit up a different part of her soul – and
those that didn’t never saw her again. But, with time, the two grew, without
saying it, increasingly monogamous – they were learning that their greatest
pleasure was with each another. Now, although there had been no official shift
in policy, they were effectively a couple. And, a few weeks ago, Ali suggested
to Mido that he needed to find a new venue to take his lady friends.
Now Mido and
his sweet mother may be under that rubble. Ali feels an urge to dash down and
help out. But his job, his chance to stay in Cairo, his whole future is on the
line today. If he doesn’t make good in today’s test he’ll be out on his butt
and in the street.
He hesitates.
He stands in anguish. He is tormented by the moral decision he is being asked
to make so early in the morning. He reproaches himself for not rushing down
immediately to aid the people. His thoughts are shattered by an ear-piercing
siren: the rescue team has arrived. Loud hailers ask the crowds to make way for
the authorities so they can do their job. Ali decides to leave it to the
professionals and heads off to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Mido is
probably at work. I’ll call him to see if he’s safe.” Ali picks up the phone.
No tone. The earthquake must have disrupted the service. Ali gets his mobile
and dials the bank. Thankfully their numbers are still working but they are all
engaged. Everybody wants to make sure their loved ones are OK. Ali eventually
gets a number that is not busy.
“Could I
speak with Mr Abdel-Hamid Hamdy, please?”
“I’m afraid
he’s out of the office visiting a client, sir.”
“When do you
expect him back?”
“We’re not
really sure, sir. Everything’s a bit confused after the earthquake. If you give
me your name and telephone number I’ll get him to call you back as soon as he
is available.”
“This is Ali
Amin. Have him call me on my mobile. He has the number. Thank you.”
He tries to
call home to see if they felt the earthquake and to tell them that he is OK,
but the phones are out there, too.
The streets
are flooded with people afraid to re-enter their buildings. The pavements
outside towers and high rises are inundated with bursting rivers of agitated
bodies. Ali navigates his way through the throng to the main street. Finding no
fareless taxis, he tries unsuccessfully to stop one with a fare. Failing that,
he waits restlessly for the 99 bus that will take him downtown to materialise.
Miraculously, the wait is not a long one today. He half pushes and clambers
onto the bus. The other half he is carried on the back of a human tidal wave.
Suddenly and
startlingly, a clipboard emerges from the inner crowds. Then the conductors
head, sweating profusely, squeezes out of a narrow gap between two skinny men’s
shoulders. Ali looks up at this three-headed monster as it asks him for his
fare. Letting go off the bar, Ali loses the precarious purchase he had. He
fishes around for change in his trouser pocket. The bus brakes heavily. Ali is
thrown back violently and everyone on the stairs nearly falls out onto the
road. A loud, agonizing screech of poorly oiled clogs travels through the bus
and down Ali’s spine. The bus stops dead. The conductor, in a loud, commanding
voice, tells all the passengers to get off the bus and another one will be a
long shortly which they can ride. Ali, frustrated by such trivial delays, gets
off the bus to try, once more, to flag down a cab.
All the cabs
disregard Ali’s vain attempts. Packed with passengers they whizz by him on the
outside lane, their drivers not even giving Ali a second glance. Many
excruciatingly long minutes ensue as Ali curses his rotten luck, public
transport, cab drivers and the day he was born.
Finally, a cab
that appears to be carrying no passengers emerges from the smoggy mists. Ali’s
heart fills with elation, his head is light with anticipation. Not only is the
taxi free, but it is also on the inside lane and making slow but steady
progress towards him. He starts to raise a hand to flag the taxi down.
Something peculiar about the scene gnaws away at the peripheries of his
awareness. Something’s wrong, disquietingly so… In addition to not having any
passengers, the taxi appears to not have a driver. Ali hesitates. His hand
falters. Driver or not he is going to stop it. He sticks his hand out. As it
approaches, Ali spots a little old man, his head barely reaching over the
dashboard, sitting awkwardly behind the wheel. The taxi comes to a gradual halt
and stops about twenty metres up the road from Ali. Uncomprehending and a
little annoyed by this, Ali dashes towards the stationary vehicle.
Ali opens
the door of the ancient Fiat, which is about five years his senior. The door
hinges are at the back and the handle is at the front making the door open in
the opposite direction to what one would expect. Ali gets in and greets the
ancient cabby, who seems old enough to have driven a chariot in times gone by.
The driver turns his head towards Ali and returns the greeting. His voice has a
certain rough, unpolished quality about it. He sounds as though someone has
poured a ton of gravel and tar down his throat, which is probably not all that
far from the truth. The dust and the air pollution provide the gravel, half a century
of dedicated smoking provide the tar. In fact, one would suspect that there is
more tar knocking about in his lungs than was used to surface the new ring road
around Cairo. Ali sits uncomfortably in the wobbly passenger-seat. The seat,
leaning hazardously to the left, threatens to spill him into the gap between
the two front seats. One thing he can be grateful for is that the gear-stick is
not floor mounted and will not dig into his thigh. The car bumps over a
pothole, the shock is magnified by the poor suspension and is carried via
express courier through every creaking, ill-kept joint to be delivered as a
powerful jolt to Ali’s buttocks. Ali winces in pain.
The driver
flashes a smile at Ali. Some people’s smiles are as sweet as honey, his is as
brown as thick molasses: generously coated over uneven, jagged teeth. He is
wearing thick glasses that magnify his eyes into a look of confounded
confusion. The thick lenses and the jerky progress the car is making do not
inspire confidence. Ali reads senility in the set of the driver’s face and
foresees trouble just round the corner. “Comfortable,” asks the driver over the
rim of his glasses. Ali grimaces in reply. “Have to get that seat fixed,”
remarks the driver indifferently as the car passes over another, deeper
pothole, almost dismantling itself.
That car
should have been written off centuries ago, thinks Ali. The cab cannot be doing
more than 20 KPH, although Ali can’t be sure as the speedometer is permanently
stuck at the zero mark. Angry motorists overtake the cab, honking their horns,
cursing and waving their arms angrily.
“Can’t you
get a move on? I’m in a hurry,” complains Ali impatiently. The cab driver
giggles to himself insanely. His laugh is mucous-laden and viscous.
“At this
time of morning and after an earthquake too!” he chuckles.
“Business!”
grunts Ali.
“I know how
it feels when your motor is all revved up and ready to go – you just want to
let it rip. A young lad like you needs to learn some restraint.”
“Listen, old
man, forget about the state of my motor. All right? Just concentrate on getting
this glorified cart into gear.”
“I know it’s
frustrating, especially when you’re so young. Try Viagra.”
“What?”
replies Ali annoyed and perplexed.
“If you’re
having trouble try Viagra, it’s great. I thought I was past…”
“I don’t
want to know. Be quiet and step on it or I’m getting out.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?
This is a bloody car, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can walk
faster.”
“It’s not
wise.”
“It won’t
kill.”
“No brakes.”
“Are you
nuts?”
“No, I’m
driving slowly.”
“You are
nuts. Let me out!”
“Don’t
worry.”
“In this
death machine?… With you? No way. Stop this car! Let me out!”
“I have
never had an accident with this car.”
“You have no
brakes! You’ve got to have an accident. It stands to reason.”
“An angel
watches over me.”
“Yeah, which
one?”
They are
approaching an intersection. A man on a bicycle dashes out into their path.
“Watch out!” yells Ali alarmed. The cab swerves round the bike and almost collides
into a truck in the next lane that is coming up alongside it. Ali’s heart
thumps and pounds in his ear as he sees the dented door of the pick up get
bigger and bigger. The driver tries to avoid a collision and loses control of
the car. The cab spins dizzyingly round and round and round. Ali feels sick. He
grabs for the latch, opens the door, and rolls out of the cab dazed, cursing
the driver loudly.
Through the
haze that has settled in front of his eyes, he sees a ghostly body approaching
him at superhuman speed. He gazes at it in bafflement. Bemused, he puzzles what
this optical illusion could be. He hears the horns section.
SHIT! That’s
no optical illusion. It’s a car. Ali’s finely-honed survival instinct kicks in
and he leaps out of the car’s path. Ali checks his watch. 10:00. Half an hour
late for the appointment that will salvage his career. Bloody marvellous!
Dejected,
Ali sits on a nearby bench and idly follows the traffic with his eyes. He
blankly counts all the dented cars that pass by him.
54… 55… 56…
Lose my job… Keep my job… Lose it… Keep it… Lose it! He gets up and continues
the rest of the journey on foot. ‘Lose my job’ rings loudly in his mind. He
walks mechanically along the busy streets. He blocks out his surroundings. He
is oblivious to the noise. Out of focus, the scene around him takes on the
quality of a speeded up silent movie – a farce. He feels an impulse to lay
down, like Harold Lloyd, on the tram track and wait for the tram to slice
through his body – if only they hadn’t uprooted it. Even if it was still there
it had become so unreliable before they abolished it that he’d probably have
had to wait hours for it to make its laboured progress to the spot where he was
lying, by which time he would have probably been removed off the rails by a concerned
bystander. Not the quickest way to go.
Ali sits in
the waiting room. He is not sure how he arrived there, but he has more
important matters with which to contend. Ali feels extremely nervous; more
nervous, in fact, than he has ever felt waiting for the dentist, even when it
involved major root surgery.
He thinks
the secretary can sense his agitation. He tries not to fidget and only fidgets
more. He finds her knowing look repulsive, not to mention disconcerting. He
feels unnerved. He can see the scaffolds being assembled in her eyes.
“Mr Samir
will see you now,” her voice betrays a sign of pity not unlike that expressed
to a condemned man by a sheikh just before his execution. As Ali walks into his
client’s office his mind is preoccupied with questions of sanity. “Am I
paranoid or is the world out to get me today?” He suppresses the thought as he
is asked to sit down. Samir seems non-chalant and unimpressed by Ali’s
presence.
“I detest
laxness. It gives the wrong impression to others. You don’t get far in this
world without discipline.”
“He doesn’t
waste time,” thinks Ali.
“Look at me. Dedication and devotion are the keys to my success. It’s an open secret, there’s no mystery or magic about it. There are many kinds of partnerships in this world – marriages, you can say. Personally, I’m married to two: my wife and this company. Which do you t