Though she was indeed dead-tired in a way she suspected had less to do with age and more to do with having been slipped some kind of medicinal Mickey, Eugénie El-Masr Flagg played possum throughout the clumsy ordeal as the two “caregivers” hefted her out of the policy-mandated wheelchair and, with much grunting and oomphing, flopped her onto the bed. Eugénie watched them through cracked eyelids and fought a drowsy smile, pleased to make them earn their pay.
“Whew!” said the stout gal, panting as she tugged her seafoam smock down over the iceberg of her body. “Like lifting a giant sack of Jell-O.”
The skinny gal, tucking the starchy sheets, said, “She’s not doing it on purpose.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Doesn’t have the wits for it anymore, according to her husband.”
“Husband?”
“Yeah, the guy who dropped her off just now and, like, skedaddled.”
“Who, that younger guy? Kinda too pretty with the eyelashes? That was no husband. Guarantee you won’t see him again.”
The skinny gal drew the curtain all around the bed with a whoosh. “She’ll perk up,” she said, her voice and footsteps trailing out into the hall, and the stout gal went thumping out after her saying, “Wanna bet?”
With a yawn, Eugénie dismissed such impertinence as ignorant, as unworthy of the notice of a woman of business, thrice-divorced and blissfully unattached, a woman who’d once been told by a lovelorn Saudi prince that she had a face fit for framing between the wings of a beaded headdress with a golden cobra for a crown (though Eugénie, with her foreign education, had always considered herself more French than Egyptian, more a woman of the world). Groggily, she rolled toward Tei and was surprised to find his side of the bed empty, the sheets cold, when normally he lingered until she awoke. With his jagged black bangs and the upward tilt of his lashes, even now, twenty years later, he still looked the part of the gypsy-oriental waif, though his bronzy-buff skin had lately turned dull as if he hadn’t quite managed to scrub off the sand-dust from the alleys of Cairo. And where was he now?
Up to something, no doubt, he and those other two—Angus Rai and that flinty little Choi—off hatching some absurd new plan of escape. But why? Eugénie had demanded nothing up front, only service toward their debt and some consideration for their upkeep. Did they suppose it was such a bargain to house and clothe and feed them? Did they imagine they could’ve made it on their own? To think of all she’d done for them, the risks she’d run, the life she’d given them here in San Francisco and the life she’d spared them back in Cairo.
How relieved she’d been to leave that dusty city behind, the ashes of the Firebird still smoldering. And if she’d lured the best chefs and entertainers away from rival clubs owned by men, what then? And if she’d pitted suppliers against each other and driven hard bargains, what then? And if she’d pushed her staff and demanded perfection, what then? She relaxed her standards for no one, least of all herself, and she scorned threats and the cowards who made them. Cowards had set the Firebird ablaze. “A kitchen fire,” said the police report, “falafels up in flame,” though the Firebird did not serve falafels.
The day after the fire, determined to show herself, Eugénie had freshened her face and styled her hair in a twist and donned her pantsuit of emerald Shantung. And she’d had her chauffeur, Farid, drive her in the Rolls to Khan el-Khalili and escort her through the old bazaar with its ripe-smelling crowds shuffling up sandy dust that shimmered in the heat like sun-spice. Dust cloaked the pomegranates and eggplants in a uniform gritty gray; dust muted the wooly blues and crimsons of the Turkish blankets strung up in a wall; dust dimmed the shine of the copper and silver trinkets piled high on canopied tables; goat carcasses drooped from hooks in the sultry air, gathering dust. Within minutes of her arrival, Eugénie was ready to go.
But goose-necked Farid, the fool, had wandered off past the barber’s booth and was now seated straight-legged on a mat in the ear-cleaner’s stall, the soles of his pointy-toed leather babouches presented rudely to her view. Disgusted, Eugénie got a good grip on her purse and elbowed her way through the rabble in the direction of the parked Rolls, but paused at the sound of drumming in a clearing up ahead, a rhythm to snap the fingers and sway the hips and set the feet stepping in time.
Drawing closer, she glimpsed through the crowd a spectacular boy of maybe fifteen (or twenty?) dancing to the drumming of a Chinese girl (maybe twelve) in a red cheongsam hemmed to mid thigh. The boy twirled, his baggy purple pants riding low on his hips, his frayed purple vest flying away from the jut of his ribs, flecks of mirror stitched into his costume winking and skittering in the sunlight. At a cue from the drum, he snapped to a stand-still—arms up, head back, brow pearled with sweat—motionless except for a vibration in his hips. The onlookers whooped and clapped until, finally, the dancer broke into a backbend and then rolled upright and melted into another spin as the rhythm pulsed along, coins flashing in the air to land ching! in a basket at the drummer’s sandaled feet.
Eugénie, always scouting, edged closer for a better look at the talent, and the talent seemed to spot her in kind. A languid rhythm took over, syrupy and seductive, and the boy locked his lush-lashed almond eyes on Eugénie and danced in place withfluid undulations up and down his undernourished frame, willing her forward. And Eugénie did step forward, and forward again to the front row, and even granted the boy a sliver of smile. But just then—she felt it!—something brushed against her rump, shattering the spell, and she twisted around and spied a scrawny, dusky youth with a shock of golden hair darting into the throng.
Instinctively, Eugénie stuffed her hand inside her purse and patted around—and clenched the empty lining in her fist. No wallet. She looked up and felt her blood sour to venom at the sight of dancer and drummer scampering off with their basket of jingling coins.
After the pickpocketing, on top of the fire at the club and her latest divorce, Eugénie knew it was time to put an ocean between herself and Cairo. And she knew, days later when he still prowled her mind, that she had to find that dancing-boy and take him with her. Bathe him and feed him and have magnificent costumes designed for him and captivating music composed for his shows, put his magic to work in a new club abroad, her next great small perfect empire. Hunting the boy down was no trouble, but Tei insisted he’d dance for no one unless his two young cohorts, pickpocket Angus Rai and drummer Choi, were brought in on the deal. To smuggle all three of them into the States would be pricey—their debt to her would soar—but, reluctantly, Eugénie agreed. They’d come in handy one day. People always did.
As to where abroad, San Francisco had served her well on two honeymoons, and it was there that she purchased a vintage movie theater and went for broke remodeling it in grand Arabesque style. Heavy on the risk, but in America one could do so much on so little money down in simulation of the rewards to come. She hired troupes and soloists of every stamp—Tahitian and flamenco, capoeira and bharata natyam, hip-hop and burlesque—to spark public interest and share Tei’s spotlight.
That city, with its special demographics, was the ideal niche for a marquee male belly dancer, though for tourists and those with starchier appetites, Eugénie recruited a bevy of danseuses orientales. Within a year, Chez Eugénie International Cabaret was a hit, a Bay Area destination, a gushing cash cow (if only, acting as her own broker, Eugénie hadn’t poured quite so much milk down the stock-market drain…).
The house band, too, she’d hand-picked, all five pieces doing their warm-ups on stage: the oud-player tinkering with his lute’s tuning pegs, the kanoon-player plucking at his zithery strings, the pockmarked violinist and the fezzed keyboardist racing each other through scales. Choi sat tapping her fingernails on the side of her doumbec and glowering across the house at the open double doors where Angus Rai—who’d blossomed beefily into a bouncer, his honey-molasses skin and vanilla-caramel hair like flypaper for the gaze—basked teasingly at his post.
Ignoring their petty spats, evening-gowned Eugénie greeted her way through the tables, beckoning to her staff for a fresh linen napkin here, a refill of pita chips there, more water, more coffee, whatever was required.
Mortifying, in later years, to feel that first hint of steam boiling up hot under her pores, to have to bolt backstage to the staff restroom and gasp over the sink in muggy distress—cursing this tiresome female process—until relief came in a flood of perspiration, sweat trickling down her face and neck and dribbling into the corset that, more and more, molded the continental drift of her figure into a compact Pangaea.
She wasn’t the only one getting older. Tei, too, had depreciated. How long could he expect to remain the star? A year ago, given the choice of bussing tables or washing plates, he’d submitted to the latter, little desiring to tidy and fetch for those he’d once dazzled from center stage. No big surprise when Angie and Choi had run off together, leaving Tei to shoulder a threefold debt. With interest.
How far they’d all come from Cairo. Not once had Eugénie revisited that city except in her mind. By daydream she’d arrive in the cool of sunrise, the colors still vibrant, the dew-damp dust still at bay as the muezzin sent up a yearning drone to snake-charm the faithful out of bed. Strolling through the maze of empty souks, Eugénie would thrill to the earth-smell of fresh produce and the yeast-smell of fresh bread, to snatches of laughter and good-humored insults. Cedar bowls heaped with spices and rose petals masked the stench of camels honking their impatience for breakfast. Shopkeepers swept their floors, daily hourly minute-by-minute battling the Cairo dust. Khan el-Khalili, awaking for business as it had done now for over six hundred years.
Yet how quickly the day overheated and spoiled. Staggering with the weight of her wrapped and bagged purchases, parched with dust and jostled by beggars and rogues, once again she’d overstayed the promise of the morning’s fertile hour and was left longing, more than anything, for relief.
And no sooner does she wish it than, as always—appearing like a djinn, floating toward her through the crowd in his tattered purple costume—here comes Tei bearing a gilded glass of steaming mint tea. Eugénie drops her bags and takes it; Tei waits, watching to make sure she drinks. And why not drink? One sweet scalding sip, and the swelter lifts; a Nile breeze frills through her lungs with a perfume of cinnamon and oranges and roasting coffee beans. The marketplace breathes, vivid with new prospects. Dustless.
Tei and his potions. And where was he now? Without him, the bed—the room—seemed strange. Eugénie curled up around his pillow and plunged a hand into its fluffy depths, her breath slowing and deepening, her eyelids growing heavier as she twisted a fistful of feathers at the pillow’s core. Oh, but he owed her. Owed her everything. And she would make him pay.
END
