by Andrew Madigan

The waiter, an enormous Russian with a large square head and ill-fitting dinner jacket, set the plate before me.

"Here with your food."

"Thank you."

"Yes."

I lowered my face toward the gnocchi, closing my eyes against the steam. It looked perfect. Gorgonzola cream sauce with walnuts. A hint of fresh coriander? "Smells wonderful."

The waiter collected himself, eyes closed in deep thought. He floated, high above the Caucuses, back to high school English lessons. "Is cheese."

Indeed. It had taken several days to find a meal like this. There were five-star hotels, of course, where most things could be easily procured, but I wanted to avoid them. I had my reasons.

So instead of running for the nearest glittering high-rise with an English nametag, I stuck close to the ground. I stayed in two-stars rats’ nests squatting at street level, much like the filthy mendicants and twitchy con artists loitering outside the front doors. Two stars, one for each broken light fixture.

I ate koshary and falafel from cafeterias and food stalls. Watching great slabs of beef and chicken rotate on spits in the open air, wreathed in flies and smog, I thought it best to avoid meat. I made myself at home in squalid neighborhoods where the dining establishments were rich in humidity, the smell of sewage, chipped plates, atrocity bathrooms, dilapidated furniture. There were transliterative malfunctions as well: Ahmed‘s Foot Cart; Eat hand Drink Diner; a smorgasbord of gaffé s and restaurats. It was a hardscrabble life. Still, it was preferable to those effete climate-controlled hotels where heavily cologned waiters constantly hovered. I didn’t want that.

But let me tell you about the beer.

It was my first morning in Cairo. I was awakened by the sound of two men fist-fighting outside my window. I don’t think it was the grunts and yelps, or the thuds and slaps of fist against skin; what woke me was the melon-crunch of skulls being introduced to the sidewalk. I went to the window for a better look. The pavement was splattered like a Gallagher show. The combatants had been pulled apart. One man held a clump of his opponent’s hair, and possibly scalp; the other was missing several prominent teeth. Hard to cuddle with Morpheus after that. Even the cockroaches were lined up on the windowsill smoking French cigarettes and discussing man’s inhumanity to man.

I threw on my cleanest dirty clothes and headed out for breakfast. In the sepulchral elevator, there was an overflowing ashtray bolted to the wall just below a Thank You For Not Smoking sign. Yeah, this is Cairo. I stubbed out my Lucky and walked into the lobby.

"Mr. Daniels?" The concierge, Ali, was running at full speed.

"What is it?"

"I having note for you, sir. Read."

I began to read.

"No, sir. Out loud. Like this."

"You want me to read it out loud? What if it’s private?"

"It is not private, sir." Ali smiled big and wide, as if chewing a white picket fence. He wore a ragged red cutaway blazer with gold buttons, a matching brimless cap, plaid shorts and rubber sandals.

"’To Mr. Daniels. My name Rose. I came all this way Egypt to meet you. Please call me at xxx-xxx-xxx.’"

"Well, sir?"

Clearly, Ali had written this message himself. He was her pimp, brother, cousin, something. "Ali. My name is Daniel. Daniel Smith. First name Daniel, no s. Okay?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Daniels. You will be meeting her?"

"I don’t think so."

"Very good, sir." Ali extended his right hand, smiling to the point where the corners of his mouth threatened to tear. He wanted baksheesh, which in Cairo means a modest gratuity for causing you immense irritation. I dropped a few coins into his palm.

I was about to set off, but I hesitated. "Ali?"

"Yes, sir?"

"What’s a good local beer?"

"Stella, sir. Very good drinking beer, sir."

I squinted at the urchin, uncertain that I should take his word for anything. "Does your brother-in-law own the Stella brewery?"

"No, sir."

"Your uncle, grandfather or any other relation by blood or marriage?"

"No?"

"Do you know the owner or anyone currently on the board of directors of the corporation?"

"No, sir."

His elastic smile was gone. I had confused him. Good. Point, moi. Ali put on a strange new mask that might have been his actual face.

"Why all these questions, sir?" He smiled, halfheartedly.

"Nothing, Ali. Just a joke. So, where can I get some Stella?"

"Oh, very close, sir. Right across this street outside, and down the block, then on the left, sir. Very close and easy."

"Thanks, Ali."

The hand. The coins. The old smile. Point, Ali.

I stepped outside and parted the morning smog, a gray curtain that obscured the city. I lit another Lucky. There was little reason not to smoke here; the pollution would get you sooner than 60-a-day. Asthmatic coal miners had a better survival rate.

I wasn’t going to drink the Stella right away; rather, I merely intended to be prepared. You never knew. This would be the place to mention that I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t drink my breakfast. Rightfully speaking, I don’t eat it either. I inhale it. For that matter, I exhale it as well. A balanced diet.

Walking at a leisurely clip for 40 or 50 meters, I found myself basting in sweat. My feet and legs were beginning to chaff, my face a pair of parboiled potatoes, my vision blurred, my skin bristled. Summer in balmy North Africa!

It became clear, after another half hour, that Ali’s "close" and "easy" were relative terms, their meanings easily mangled. Having learned English by watching CHiPs and Dallas, reading Cosmo international, and chatting up Filipina chambermaids, there were sizeable gaps in his fluency.

I hailed a taxi. Even if the shop were just a few meters away, it would be worth it.

"Liquor store? Beer? Can you take me? It’s supposed to be right around here somewhere?"

"Of course."

I closed the door.

"Ten American dollars."

"Er, no?"

"Not American?"

"No?"

The driver turned to me and pressed his face close to mine. He searched my physiognomy for ethnic and socioeconomic barcodes. "Ten Egypt Pounds. Finish price."

"The book says less than one pound is a fair price." I reached for the door handle, which was missing.

The driver laughed. "Old edition, maybe. Eight pound, like this."

"Why don’t we use the meter?"

"It’s broken."

"I see." I leaned forward and saw a brightly lit green power button on the upper-right-hand panel of a brand new meter. It was "broken." The driver must have borrowed Ali’s English-Arabic dictionary.

I pulled out my cell phone. "Why don’t I ask the tourist police?"

"Okay, okay. No need for doing. One pound. Special price. Fast fast."

Mahmoud introduced himself. After much twiddling, he found an English-language radio station, which he turned up well past the distortion barrier. It was difficult to hear the music above the dashboard’s epileptic spasms, but it was a rap of American provenance. The singer was imploring an unknown interlocutor, presumably a woman, to perform a number of activities that ran afoul of Islamic law.

"Yes yes. You like?"

"Not particularly."

"I turn up, yes?" He did. "Bump me, hump me, doncha wanna jump me. Oh, I like this!"

"Do you understand the words, Mahmoud?"

"Oh, yes. Very good lyric."

"Right." There were prayer beads hanging from the rear view mirror, a prayer mat folded neatly in the passenger seat. He turned the music all the way up. The windows jitterbugged, the speakers did a foxtrot, and the prayer beads performed an elegant soft shoe.

"Cigarette?" he asked.

"Sure. Thanks."

"Take two. Best American friend."

"I’m not American, remember?"

"No problem."

We passed the InterContinental Semiramis. I’d like to stay there, I remember thinking, if I can get something started. If business is good. As it turned out, I would soon be frequenting the rooftop bar and the English pub on the 7^th floor. Those were good days. Seven-course meals, expensive wine, new clothes, private cars. Now it’s back to the fleabag hotels, the clip joints, the roadside food stands.

"Could you put the air conditioner on?"

"Broken."

"Open the windows a little more?"

"Too much of flies and dust. This okay like this." As if to prove his enthymeme, Mahmoud flicked cigarette ash out the half-inch opening. When I tried, the ash blew back into my face.

I closed my eyes and sank into the seat. Cigarette smoke and the punge of camel dung were my blanket and pillow.

I must have dozed off. I finger-tipped specks of grit from my eyes. "Did we just pass the Semiramis again?"

"No, of course not. Almost there. Two, three blocks."

It would have been quicker to walk. Goats, beggars, merchants, bicycles, pedestrians, chickens, shoeless children playing soccer: deposits of fat in the municipal arteries. The only way to drive here, it seemed, was as fast as possible for thirty feet, screeching halt, as fast as possible for ten, honk, curse, get out of the car and chat with an old friend, fire up the barbeque, read the newspapers, screen Betolucci’s 1900...

"Here now. I park."

"Okay."

I stepped from the car, stretched, and looked around. My hotel was across the street. We'd circumnavigated the neighborhood and returned to the start.

"Mahmoud? This is where you picked me up."

"No, sir. No. Other side of the street. Too hard to cross on foot. Too much of dangerous. This much better."

Yes, much better. I was starting to like him. When I was just starting off, I had used similar tricks. Would you like a tour of the city? Do you need a nightclub guide? I speak the language and know everyone… Sure, I only knew three people and eleven Arabic phrases, but by the time they got wise they were back home in Akron, Slough, Wellington.

"Come, come. Have another cigarette." Mahmoud slid one behind my left ear. "Best American friend." He tried to hold my hand, which was common enough between Egyptian men, but I demurred. We settled for several robust handshakes.

"Here, right here. Go in."

"You’re quite certain this is the place?" I was staring at a large red hand-painted sign. MYSERY OF ARABIA. Was this a misspelling of mystery or misery? Inside, there were hookah pipes, small carpets, brass knickknacks, newspapers, gum, candy. I was reminded of a favorite imposture. Berber carpet? Turkish, Persian, Afghani war rug? Come with me. Don’t trust these locals. Come, come. Inside, the mark was told that hospitality came before business. Tea, biscuits, cold water. Then the topless girl would come out, or a large bowl of oregano, and the inevitable Polaroid. Fifty Pounds or we call the police. Now! You’ll do ten years, minimum. Some of them would start to cry or beg. Some acted tough. Have you ever seen the inside of an Egyptian prison? 20, 30 to a cell… This generally got things moving along.

"Come, come."

Inside, there were two unsmiling men wearing filthy white tank-tops. Mahmoud greeted them with elaborate gestures, exhortations, and embraces. They laughed and looked in my direction, joking in Arabic.

I had some idea what they were saying. Nothing too mean. Mahmoud was like anyone else. Wanted to make a quick buck. I was a rich American, after all, from what he understood. Of course, he understood very little.

Hmff. Sorry for laughing. You know even less than Mahmoud. Listen, never trust anything I say. Remember that. It wasn’t really my first day in Cairo, and I spoke more than a few stock phrases lifted from a guidebook. I did a course in Arabic, actually. At Oxford, mid-70s. Somewhere along the way, my English accent became rather neutral. Some people mistake me for Australian, Irish, Dutch. I can hardly remember which expressions are English anymore. I’ve been away for so long.

"How much beer you wanting, sir?"

"Six should do it. Thanks."

I lit a Lucky and held up a 20-pound note. I couldn’t be bothered to haggle. The cabal was unusually silent. Seconds later, one of the men shoved a ball of currency into my hand. Mahmoud carried a brown paper bag, of Stella presumably.

"Come, quick." The driver grabbed my arm and led me to the car.

I turned back to the package store. "Sukran. Salaam." My accent was impeccable.

Although it was still morning, the men had been hastily locking the iron shutters of their shop. They exchanged bemused glances. I laughed boisterously.

Who are the easiest marks? People with Canadian flag patches sewn onto their backpacks. Why? Because they’re not Canadian. They’re Americans who think they’re too clever to be swindled, which is precisely what makes them so vulnerable to people like me.

Mahmoud was quiet on the drive home. He crouched down in his seat, and kept the radio at a reasonable volume. He even took the most direct route, which meant 100 meters in 25 minutes. Time enough to drink two Stellas, smoke three Lucky’s.

As we passed the Semiramis, I winced, remembering the security team that had ushered me from the hotel disco to the front gate. I’m using Ali’s definition of "usher," which has a more aggressive connotation than you’d find in Webster’s. I’d found myself with a broken wrist, an empty wallet, a torn blazer. Almost immediately, my name and photo had been circulated among the better hotels. I was out of work.

In front of the hotel, Ali turned off the car and stared at the floor mats. After a few moments, he spoke. "I remember you, sir. From the big hotel."

"From the big hotel."

"Thought maybe you’d left Cairo."

"Nowhere else to go, Mahmoud."

"Home?"

I shrugged. "Not much for me there, I’m afraid."

"Where you have been?"

"Here and there."

He nodded. "50 piastres."

I handed him two pounds.

"Sir?"

"You earned it. I enjoyed myself immensely."

"Can you afford it?"

Patronized by this urchin? I probably deserved it. "Sure." I laughed and got out of the car, damp brown bag tucked under my arm.

I watched Mahmoud drive away. He’s a good man, I remember thinking. I’ve been fairly lucky so far. No prison, no deportation. Just a few bumps and bruises. Always nice to play the tourist and see what kind of nastiness the locals throw at me. Great way to learn new tricks. I’m getting back on my feet now. Things are starting to go very well. My luck is changing. Soon, very soon, I'll be back in the good hotels. Inshallah.