Seeds of Wrath

Mister, Mister! Nice kind mister! I’m really shocked. Habir’s begging from me. And she’s begging in language that gives away how experienced she is. She wants money. She has learnt that someone like me is bound to have cash on him. She has learnt that persistent leeching works if childlike charm is added to the mix. She has learnt that dignity can’t satisfy hunger. What possible importance could the answer to a simple addition sum be to her now?

‘I haven’t got any small change,’ I reply sternly in her own language, something which she initially ignores. Her begging turns more clinging, more demanding and, in the end, so unacceptably insistent that I respond exactly as I have been doing for a long time to approaches of this kind. ‘That’s enough. I don’t want any of this!’

For a moment her facial features register bitter disappointment. Little Habir then lowers her head as if trying to look coy, bestows upon me a reproachful look and walks away. She does it so as to show me that begging and pride are two fundamentally different matters. Then, after just a few steps, she’s skipping along as happily and light-heartedly as can be and, just before going back into the building, turns round and sticks her tongue out at me.

This country’s determination to beg for handouts is something which used to amaze me but now I’m gradually slipping into equanimity. In the end I’m smiling about her clever bit of play-acting and just hope she carries on wanting to pass through the doors of this little school in both directions.

After the first reading lesson, during which the children read out extracts from a fairy tale, I say my goodbyes. Omar asks me if I have learnt anything and whether I’ll be coming back. This makes the others laugh. Even little Habir shakes hands with me. Now she’s just as she was at the start of my visit. Shy, tiny, fragile, unknowing and innocent. As I try in vain to encourage her to give a little smile, I think to myself how for her the classroom is a world with little in common with her own reality. But I hope one day she’ll hold this in her memory as a positive experience of learning and she’ll see that knowledge will in no way harm her own children.

In the short break I join Rania in handing out the money the kids need to get hold of the food from the supermarket, the food which they’d all previously written about as good for them. As robustly as I had subdued the child’s begging, I make it clear that protests about putting learning into practice were not permitted.

Rania’s warm farewell is sincere, and we agree to meet again soon to talk through how the day had gone. Once outside, looking back at this unusual little building, I slip into a state of sadness because I know that a fairy tale will come true for very few of the rubbish collectors’ children. And who knows when or for how long.

A few days after my visit to the settlement full of rubbish, Rania got in touch. She spoke in her typical confident kind. First she told me all about how stressful the supermarket excursion had been. The kids had been so impatient they’d gone the following day, together with another female teacher, and there’d been quite a few tears. Because each child had taken a wire basket, there hadn’t been enough money to get everything on the list. Then, on top of that, there’d been jealousy about who had the most or the biggest products.

Anyway, the outing was sufficiently useful for a compromise to be reached. First of all, the next maths lesson gave the opportunity to look at how much money each one of them had. Next they all bought exactly the same goods. Pedagogically valuable, was Rania’s smug verdict, and a warning about the implications of undertaking such an exercise. All the children had suddenly become extremely hungry and worried about the ‘use by’ dates expiring, or wanted to get back as quickly as possible to surprise their families. Anyway. They all wanted to get home fast.

I found myself smiling several times, and Rania agreed, however unusual this type of teaching was here, that she’d really had fun making this foray from class into the real world. Moments later she was back to being the confident teacher. She offered to get me a summary of current data and information about the Egyptian education system. And she started to apologise for what she saw as her disorganised thinking and comments during our conversation while sitting on the wall. She said the numbers she’d referred to, with a few exceptions, were right but not absolutely accurate. A different list would refer to reforms which had been planned by the central education authority. For the future. Whenever that might be.

‘Rania! It’s all been said,’ I remarked when I had the chance to break in on her efforts at greater accuracy.

In contrast to her usual style of holding forth, she remained silent for an unusually long time before asking a question which only those who’d read her story could possibly answer. ‘But has it?’

3

A belly button rules the world

Marusha. The very sound of her name stirred his favourite fantasies. He’d been trying for at least six months to get to meet this exotic woman. And now it was time. He took another look at the photos she’d sent him. She was young and bewitchingly beautiful. A creature of such perfection would be just the thing for a liaison of a couple of days if she was clever enough to be up for it. This was how he saw the spell she’d cast over him. Life was offering him yet another glittering adventure on a plate. That was the kind of thing he loved. Feeling chilled, tingling with sexual anticipation, he sipped on his tomato juice, his eyes on the stewardess as she moved down the aisle of the plane, her buttocks tracing horizontal figures of eight in the air as she went.

Marusha. She was tall, statuesque, with flawless, sun-kissed skin and passionate dark eyes. At first sight everything about her had ignited in him the most overpowering desire to get as close as close could be. That she was Egyptian was irrelevant. He knew nothing of this country and its people. Neither was it of any interest to him. If the Arabs decided to have a go, then the place and time was up to them. If the rumours were anything to go by, she was a valuable confidante with enough knowledge to report on the double standards amongst high-ranking military and political public figures whose unveiling could cost them their office and their lives.

Half an hour later the plane was on its descent to Cairo airport. He loved prospects such as this, when he was there to satisfy the appetites of greedy tarts. If they wanted to be on the title page, then he’d compose the necessary tribute. In the evening he planned to wine and dine, purr a few choice words and then spend the night with a dream of a woman with whom an entire nation was infatuated. He knew the effect he had on women. And he was smart. This little princess would be a push-over. Getting shot of her afterwards was another matter.

He’d planned everything with great care during his journey from the airport, that much was sure, because a disappointment would spoil the whole of the next day for him. The arrangements could get messed up, something the Egyptians seemed to be known for, and maybe she wouldn’t be able to oblige him on this particular night or she might be having her period. After all, he’d travelled the world. There were always surprises and so it was right and proper to put short-notice substitutions in place.

The man on reception at the luxury hotel had taken his details, checked his visa, taken the usual credit card imprint and started to pick out some tourist leaflets for him. ‘May I recommend….’

‘That’s kind of you,’ he cut in quickly. ‘I’m only here one night. I’ll just need a second pillow. That’s all.’ He gave a meaningful wink.

‘Sorry, sir!’ The receptionist said, not realising his mistake.

‘I’d like a second pillow.’

‘Sir, perhaps you’d like to go to your suite first. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need for a pleasant night.’

This Egyptian chap clearly didn’t get it and kept on smiling at him foolishly. Tonight I want to see one of the hottest women in this city lying next to me. That was the universally recognised translation of the pillow request, especially when it was accompanied by two hundred Egyptian pounds being pushed across the counter. Even then the half-wit didn’t get it. But he was prepared for this, as well. He had with him the details of the city’s bars where he’d find someone to sweeten his short trip if he couldn’t have Marusha. He went to his room, slept for three hours, freshened up both body and charm, dined on fish and then, as arranged, was sitting in the hotel lobby at seven on the dot.

‘Excuse me. Is it Herr von Eden?’

‘That’s me. Raring to go.’

‘Welcome to Egypt. Ahlan wa Sahlan, we said in Egypt. The Minister of Tourism sends his regards. He hopes your stay in our country will be most agreeable.’

Two Egyptian men had approached him. They didn’t look at all bad in their tailored suits, he thought to himself. Their German was almost accentless. They left the hotel together amid the usual meaningless pleasantries and took their seats in the black limousine waiting outside.

‘It is expected that the Minister will have difficulty making time to meet you in person today. However, he will definitely be available tomorrow afternoon at Sakara Country Club.’ One of the men, whose name he’d forgotten almost as soon as they’d been introduced, was sitting next to him and fussily putting papers in order.

‘May I ask if you have already made a decision as to whether you’d like to visit El Gouna and the Soma Bay on Sunday or Monday?’

‘Monday would be fine,’ he lied casually, although he knew full well that by then he’d be back in Hamburg with an exciting story on his laptop and another notch in his bedpost. ‘The team and the photographer are going straight to Hurghada on Monday.’

‘Exactly as you wish. We’ve prepared everything.’

‘An excellent choice,’ commented the driver. ‘Monday’s forecast for the Red Sea area is exceptionally good.’

While these two minions were ruttling on, he was contemplating with great pleasure how well his plan was going. Yet again. He saw himself as the Liar King. This was how he’d talked round his editor and publisher. These uncivilised North African idiots actually believed he’d come here to report on an exclusive new Egyptian resort for a men’s magazine with a global readership. Tits and tourism always sold well. If you went about it the right way. Hence the interview with the Minister to flatter him into opening the right doors whilst never intending to print a single word of his comments of little or no interest.

He imagined her standing before him. Marusha. She was the reason he was here. His official mission was her stage performance. Afterwards he’d pay her, with another tidy sum on top of that if it meant he could gift her fair and square with the force of his steely virility. He knew his craft. The following week the image of this diva from the land of the Pharaohs, this new age Cleopatra, would gaze out from the front page of his magazine, her scandalous revelations about the ruling elite made public. And his name would be in lights as the investigative journalist.

Their car, with its two-vehicle police escort, glided along the road called Nile Corniche and through Cairo by night. He looked out at the river, its magnificence making him feel like royalty entering the city, the water lit up by the mass of floating restaurants and small typically Egyptian sailing boats called felucca. They stopped outside a fashionable nightspot with terraces stretching towards the river banks, palms and other trees decorating its lawns. It was as if the red carpet had been rolled out for him as the chosen champion. He was buoyed up by his ingenuity and superiority in equal measure. Here he was. The conqueror. The hero. The stallion. He didn’t need to go on concealing his intentions for too much longer.

He’d helped himself twice to the sumptuous buffet. Grilled chicken with vegetables, a preventative measure against the diarrhoea which took hold so easily in countries like this. These upmarket surroundings really did create the right mood. Near the banks of the Nile, this well-known watering-hole had closed off part of its grounds. A bunch of tough guys with shaved heads were on the gate. Around two hundred guests had gathered beneath the protective white roof and sides of a contemporary Bedouin-style tent. Everyone was chatting, eating and drinking. He had to admit that the Egyptians really knew how to put on a good party. He savoured his second glass of Long Island Ice Tea, made with best imported alcohol, and feasted his eyes on the backsides and low-cut dresses of good-looking women once he got bored with the tourism sector business people.

He tolerated bad covers of old rock numbers and, even worse, the efforts at karaoke, meaningless speeches and a wedding ceremony, about which the only thing he knew was that the daughter of a stinking rich Egyptian was marrying an English good-for-nothing from an even wealthier family. He played the game well, gave eloquent answers to all questions put to him about himself and his trip and contributed suitable conversation topics. He had everything in the bag. He was ready.

In the bathroom which served first and foremost the ladies and their various deceits, both major and minor, he had tested out his professional equipment in secret. The thirty million megapixel camera in his souped up smartphone was ready for use, the battery fully charged and the lens cap, disguised as a cover, in place. He had to throw a few shapes on the dance-floor to some tedious music with overweight old dears and young chicks who did nothing for him at all but enable him to skilfully with the assembled company.

Eventually, just as his impatience and bad temper were reaching danger level, the father of the bride stepped onto the dance-floor. He had no interest in what the man said. He stepped back again. A burst of applause. The lights went out, torches flamed into life and the drumming picked up speed. The show started dramatically. All the guests were staring at the stage as if hypnotised. Suddenly she was there, resplendent in the glare of brilliant spotlights.

It was her. Marusha, the new queen of all Egyptians, sex on a stick, a woman hallowed, a breathtaking, full frontal attack on any man’s hormone levels. It was as if she’d stepped out of a Campari advert exuding a scent more wicked than any lustful sensuality he’d ever had a whiff of before. This fairy-tale creature was licensed to kill. This angel with the fabulous curves, clad in no more than a wisp of cloth, had been fashioned by the devil himself. Her long mane of dark hair swished wildly and every sinew, every muscle in her body moved with the rhythms. It took only seconds for everyone to fall spellbound. Eyes were transfixed in fascination, mouths fell open, intrigued. Marusha was dancing. Cleopatra had arisen.

This was why he was here. Perks of the job. Marusha. Absorbed in her own personal rapture, mistress of movement with no let-up, the smile on her face powerful enough to dispel stresses, strains and lies. It didn’t matter now how many photos he’d shot. He’d dived under a few elbows and forgiven trampled feet in his time. It was worth a few knocks to set this woman on the stage she truly deserved. The longer she danced, the deeper he sank into his lustful reverie. He saw her lying before him, naked, ready for anything; he slavered at the thought of love’s juices simmering nicely, moistening the flesh, sizzling, then an ecstatic union in the game of love with him in total control. The queen of the night would be his, and his alone.

Her performance was really far too short but he knew why. She would be dancing again, just for him. Energised, he watched her leave amid wild applause all round. She exited the dance-floor, flanked by two men. Like all the others who had been craning forward to see her, he gradually calmed down and savoured the knowledge that everything was as he wanted.

‘So? What did you think of her?’

‘This woman could resolve all conflicts. Do you know what I mean? Any! Absolutely any!’

‘Yes! We are very proud of her,’ replied the secretary to the Minister. ‘She is, well, how can I put it, seen not without controversy as an ambassador for an aspect of our culture which many truly enjoy.’

‘That’s an exceptionally poor joke on your part. Your President should think about taking her with him on every trip. She is powerful. She would have any opponent eating out of her hand. Or she could smooth over every disagreement with just a smile. Whatever you wanted.’

He always fell in easily with obtuse banter and came out on top when it came to guffawing and letching with a crowd of other men. Not much longer to wait, he reassured himself and viewed his minders as if he was the victor awaiting the prize. He chatted on for a while about inconsequential matters, had a couple more drinks and had just decided to make a move on a raven-haired Sudanese woman when the secretary’s driver came over to him. His pulse quickened.

‘Fräulein Farak awaits you in your suite. We have taken the liberty of arranging champagne and camomile tea. Should you have further wishes, do not hesitate to make them known to us.’

What an announcement. A divine prophesy. She was there. She was ready to receive him. It wasn’t the wrong time of the month, after all. The last unknown was resolved. He gave a polite, relieved thank you, took his key card and got into the lift feeling good. The Minister’s secretary had had him brought back to the hotel. Every detail had been taken care of. He was permitted to record the interview and was to let the lady know whether he planned another photoshoot with her, something still to be organised. His journey through Egyptian officialdom had annoyed him right from the start but nothing in this life was for free. He had won. That was what it was all about. A night of red hot passion now beckoned invitingly.

The lift’s bell sounded repeatedly as he went up through the floors. That was it – the huntsman’s call, a harbinger of the ancient art of seduction. Standing at the door of her suite, he mustered all his powers, did his neck relaxation exercises, took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves just enough to look casual, took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He walked towards her with his most meaningful look. ‘You must be…oh, pardon me. I know it better. You are Marusha. I’m delighted you’ve been able to make time for me.’

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ Marusha responded in the style of the grande dame. ‘Isn’t that what you say where you come from?’ She got to her feet.

She offered her hand and, as he took it, the electricity was palpable. The goddess of the night, the queen of the dance, this gorgeous woman was here, smiling at him, speaking perfect English, wearing a cracking little black number which suited her to a tee. ‘You already have a drink?’

‘I have, yes,’ she said, gestured towards the camomile tea and sat down again.

‘Good. That’s very good. If there’s something else you’d like, please tell me. Just say. Feel free to put our budget to the test. You’re to have everything you want. May I?’ With a couple of slick movements, he had plugged a microphone into his smartphone and placed the two items on the table, ready to start recording. He’d been looking at her in the meantime. She was wearing precisely four items of clothing. That dress, knickers and a pair of high-heels out of which he planned to drink the second bottle of champagne after the first round of sex. She came across as relaxed. But he knew she was actually nervous. Every woman was rather sensitive when put in this situation for the first time.

‘You’ll have to be patient with me. It’s my first interview. For outside Egypt. Oh, sorry! I meant with someone from Germany.’

‘No problem!’ he interjected and settled himself next to her on the sofa. How sweet, he thought, as his elation lubricated his lechery. She’s a media virgin. ‘The more relaxed you are, the easier it’ll be for us both. So don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Promise!’

As Marusha responded to his remarks with an enchanting smile of agreement, he could happily have made an immediate move but it wasn’t the right moment. First he needed to get her to like him, then to trust him, and finally to desire him. The camomile tea business bothered him, as did her body language, the legs crossed one over the other suggested a reticence, a girlish caution which was always a tease. The hunter held sway over the prey. But his approach had to be a careful one in spite of his slavering appetite. That was the skill. He called it reining in desire. It was so hard not to go straight for it when her charms, at close quarters, were even more sensual and desirable than on any stage.

‘Tell our readers about yourself. All I know is you’re twenty-nine, a beautiful woman and currently the most sought after belly dancer in Egypt.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Marusha. She cleared her throat, retreated briefly into a teenage shyness and sipped at her tea. ‘I don’t know. I just enjoy doing it. And, as a woman, I feel it’s important to stand firmly by the cultural values of our country.’

Well, something’s been standing firmly with me, that’s for sure, and will do so even better inside you, my girl, he said to himself lasciviously. But to her face he said: ‘Have you any brothers or sisters? Particularly sisters? Where are you from?’

‘I was born in Assuan. That is Upper Egypt. My parents still live there. I visit them whenever I can. I’m an only child and have spent most of my life in Cairo.’

‘I suggest, as I’ve given my word to the people who made this trip possible, we don’t talk about the crises in your country and not about the revolution, either.’ As his own private source of lust, he sat there wondering what it would be like to suck on her nipples.

‘I’m under no restrictions. I am who I am. If I’m expected to talk about the revolution, then we can talk about it on condition that it’s of interest to you and your readers.’

‘Politics is never as exciting as people, I always say. I’ve heard that you teach dance as well as performing on stage.’ He had helped himself to a whisky from the buffet bar and started to look at her with much greater interest so that she would realise how much he valued her and anything which concerned her.

‘That’s right. That’s my absolute passion.’

‘And your belly dancing courses are said to have become so popular that bodyguards are needed on the door at the fitness studios when you’re teaching the other women.’

‘Yes, that’s right, too. But to be honest, I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I’ve been teaching belly dancing for five years. All we want during the classes is to practise in peace. Get some exercise. And to shine a bit as women while we do it. Belly dancing is completely unsuitable for men. A few have had a try. It just looked so funny. Most of us just want some time out from the everyday. It’s the men who have a problem with that. Not us.’

‘And financially? I would like to think your commitment is worth it financially.’

‘I get by. I give private lessons here and there. That tides me over pretty well.’

He smiled at her for so long that she smiled back. That made a connection. Get over here, you minx and rub your gorgeous arse against my prick, his filthy mind ran on. At the same time he sought out, and found, her dark and lovely gaze in order to demonstrate the depth of his understanding of the point she was making. ‘Your classes bother one man in particular.’

‘Yes, he’s a respectable business-man. He reported me, the studio we use and the authority responsible for it. He lives mostly in Europe and carries out his business over there.’

‘Do you mean by that he should be more tolerant?’

‘I don’t know him. But yes. I know his name and where he lives. And on the face of it, that’s true. Both his daughters are, in any case, young, modern and open-minded. Quite the opposite to him. And they’re pretty. Maybe that annoys him.’

‘The minister’s secretary told me that this particular father thought up something very unusual in order to take action against you and your classes.’

‘Yes, he had scaffolding put up outside the studio, a huge hole drilled in the wall and then got the classes filmed. Supposedly as evidence for his complaint.’ Marusha uncrossed her legs, straightened her dress, and then crossed them again.

For a brief moment there he’d caught a glimpse of the grotto of delights. Happily she was wearing black, finely worked lace that fitted where it touched, a sure sign that she knew what she’d invested in those undies for. ‘And you reacted to this in an equally unusual way.’

‘Yes, once we’d discovered the hole, well, you couldn’t really miss it, we made our own video of the class and put it on the internet.’

He grinned broadly. ‘And almost a million clicked on it in a matter of days.’

‘That’s a real success story, isn’t it? Almost all those who clicked on it, then watched right to the end. He wanted to demonstrate how wicked and shocking we supposedly are. And we defended ourselves against that.’

She was speaking out as she really was. Wonderful. He was on to a good thing here. Of course, he’d also seen this little film show, amateurishly recorded but full of boobs and bums worth jumping on any intercontinental flight for so as to share the participants’ near lock-in. ‘But it all had quite the opposite effect.’

‘Yes!’ she said, the pride showing in her face. ‘Belly dancing has never had so much attention.’

‘The belly dancing itself, or you and your dance students?’

‘We didn’t edit anything out. If some of us are suppler in the hips than others, then that’s how it is. The ones who stayed at the back were new. They were a bit embarrassed. I think they were primary school teachers from a German school.’

‘So, is belly dancing a skill or is it culture?’ He knew perfectly well what his question meant as he began to outline the perfection of her body with hand gestures.

‘You mean sex or culture, stripping or culture?’

‘Ok, then! If that’s what you want to think!’

‘Sorry, what do you mean by if that’s what I want to think?’ I’m not with you. What do you mean?’

‘Egypt’s a rather conservative country. And Islamic at that. It must be quite clear to you that conflicts like that are going to crop up.’

‘That may be so but it’s not my problem. I respect our religion. We dance behind closed doors. And the women who come to my classes are there of their own volition. In this case it’s probably more a personal anger because his own wife was dancing with us. And in the front row. I’m sorry to say that. But it seemed to be necessary. I’ve found out since that he always books two seats on Egyptair and would rather do jigsaws when he’s at home. He shouldn’t be surprised that nobody wants to see him. But that’s his problem.’

During her little speech he made it clear how much he liked her answer. The fact that she’d been so open and willing to talk like this led him to believe that she’d also be prepared to reveal all about the secrets and preferences of a certain clientele in this country. Everything comes to those who wait. As a modern, self-assured woman, she was either incredibly naive or actually had no concerns at all about doing what she wanted, he thought to himself. It didn’t matter to him either way. His attention was caught by her long, graceful fingers and her nails, painted the same blood-red as her luscious lips. His mind conjured up some wild foreplay. ‘I don’t want to offend you. But aren’t you oversimplifying things a bit?’ This was it. This was the moment to gain her trust. He showed her all his understanding although something different was going on in his mind. He made his face look kind and friendly.

Marusha maintained the posture of the fine lady ready for any verbal attack. ‘I’ll say it again. We did not drill that hole. We wanted simply to show that we don’t do anything forbidden. We didn’t even have our belly dancing costumes on. Just normal bikinis and comfortable sports stuff. Including the two German women. So there. The bikinis were new designs from Italy, a really good label. But then they’re always the best fit. And the exercise we do on hands and knees when we move our backsides back and forth helps with better breathing technique during the actual dancing.’

This kitten really has class, he summed up to himself with relish. But she isn’t afraid to bare her claws, too. That’s the way! Just bend over now, you little devil, like in your exercise classes, he was thinking lecherously, just turn and show me your pretty little arse. We’ve talked for long enough. ‘Like I said. I didn’t want to offend you. Champagne?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘So, you’re facing this complaint coolly and calmly, are you?’

‘Yes. Perhaps someone should film what he gets up to when he’s abroad. If he can make a video, too, then things’ll be even. I have nothing more to say.’ Marusha took a deep breath and lay back voluptuously in the cushions. ‘Or maybe I do. A spot of champagne, please.’

Cheers, he said to himself gleefully, and filled her glass. Just drink it down, queen of the senses and mistress of the night, so that you’re nicely willing and compliant. ‘How would you yourself explain the enormous success of your classes? Doesn’t it also have something to do with the fact that the Islamists under President Mursi, and with them the greatest critics of this type of dancing, have been ousted?’