13

“That’s life for you: when it gets sweet it turns sour; when the going gets smooth it turns rough; just as you begin to look up, the shit hits the fan!”—Abbas Mahalawi

“He agreed to leave her with you just like that? He really is a Jew!”

That must have been the third time Zeinab asked me that, her incredulous face expecting a different answer. But I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. The proof was right in front of her eyes: Batel, sleeping like a little angel in her crib. Frankly, I too still found it a bit hard to believe. I couldn’t imagine what Zananiri told his wife in order to convince her to leave her baby with us as a “marker” until he returned to Egypt with my money. Did my threat scare them that much? It must have, since they had just left Batel with me without a fuss before they boarded their plane. But he also must have felt it worth risking not just his daughter’s but his own and his wife’s lives for the sake of the fifty thousand pounds, plus the diamonds that he’d earn from our Heart of Palm deal. I’d do it too, if I were in his place.

The baby began to cry. Zeinab picked it up and cradled it. She kissed its angelic face on the mouth and lifted it up and down in the air a few times. When our eyes met, I smiled and said, “Take care not to drop her. Batel’s worth her weight in diamonds. Easy goes it, Zeinab!”

She laughed. But I didn’t miss the tears at the corners of her eyes. She must have been thinking of Lady. Maybe it was my imagination, but I even thought I heard her whisper that name as she kissed and cuddled the baby. I wasn’t going to bring up the subject, but it was she who asked whether it was normal for Jews to abandon their daughters this way. I pointed to Cicurel’s daughter, Nadia, who vanished right after his murder and whom nobody had asked after since. Zeinab wasn’t convinced. I shrugged and turned my thoughts to a space between heaven and earth: the flight path of the plane the Zananiris had boarded the day before. Surely he must be in Europe by now—maybe already in Belgium, getting the diamond cut.

Zeinab could never let go of a question once she got hold of it. She had to get to the bottom of it and she’d circle around it, fly off, and then strike like a nettled bee.

“And this Nadia, Cicurel’s daughter, where do you think she is now?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone as though talking about the weather. “Suppose she just popped up here one of these days, what would we do with her?”

“Come on, Zeinab! I’ve told you a thousand times that Paula and Cicurel’s brothers inherited the money ages ago. We practically own the villa now, and we got the gold and diamonds. Why should we get ourselves all worked up about this Nadia, who doesn’t even live in Egypt anymore? Just drop the subject once and for all. She doesn’t even know that her father named her in his will. We have the papers, and the only other person who knew the secret is dead. As for Zananiri, we hold all the cards.”

“May the Lord rest your soul, Hassanein. I wonder whose turn it’ll be next.”

There she went again, her cold flat voice reminding me that she still held the trump card. Although I was certain she’d never play it and put my life on the line, for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, her threat made me feel weak.

“Now you listen here, Abbas. If this business of yours could hurt Batel in any way, I swear by God I won’t let you get away with it. You know what I’m capable of!”

The next morning, while Zeinab and I were seated around the breakfast table, the doorbell rang long and persistently. It was Fahim, earlier than usual. He looked grim. Without saying a word, and refusing our invitation to have a seat, he shoved some dishes aside and spread open the Al-Ahram newspaper on the table. Zeinab and I stretched our necks over it fearfully, as though approaching the edge of a cliff. I quickly scanned the article, which took up a large space on the front page. Zeinab gasped as her hand flew to her chest. Fahim recited the headlines aloud.

“Deadly tragedy strikes. TWA Flight 902 crashes near Dalangat, Buheira Directorate, killing all fifty-five persons on board. The plane burst into flames thirty-two minutes after takeoff from King Faruq Airport. . . . The movie star Camelia was among the forty-eight passengers. . . . King Faruq expresses his deepest sorrow.”

“How awful!”

“Damn Camelia and Faruq! What happened to Zananiri, Fahim?”

I snatched up the newspaper and read the names it reported from the passenger manifest. Jacob Abraham Zananiri and his wife appeared about halfway through the list. Their names jumped out at me as if they’d been written in a larger and bolder font than the others. My large diamond now lay in some field! I shot out of my chair. My heart sank to my feet and my ribs nearly burst. I collapsed back onto the chair. My tongue felt thick and my head feverish. Everything I’d planned and worked so hard to get had just fallen into the government’s lap.

“They found all the suitcases open. Everyone’s belongings were stolen. The police found nothing valuable. The bastard peasants took everything: money, jewels, watches. They even tore the earrings from the women’s ears.”

Fahim must have read my thoughts. He was now seated with his legs crossed. I got up again and, like a drowning man grasping for his last breath, I lurched toward him and grabbed his jacket collar. “Are you sure this isn’t a pack of lies?” I shouted, as though he were somehow responsible. He merely nodded and patted my hands and my shoulders. Fixing his eyes on mine, he said, “Have Zeinab make us some tea so we can talk.”

“What about the baby girl in there, Abbas? What are you going to do with her?”

Neither Fahim nor I responded. Damn that Batel. What good was she now? Not even two years old and already a burden, even an accusation. She was the last thing I needed right now. I couldn’t get my head around it. A fortune I’d sweated for and staked everything on for years goes up in smoke in a plane crash in Buheira. Somebody up there must be laughing. Or was it planned? By Pouli, for example? Did Zananiri pull a fast one on me and not board the plane after making sure his name was on the passenger list? The plane was actually headed to Rome and not to Brussels, contrary to what he told me. What else did that sly Jew hide from me? Who robbed all the passengers’ suitcases at the same time?

“How can we be sure Zananiri was actually on that flight?” I asked Fahim.

“I already called the airline company. They told me that all the passengers on the manifest had been on board except for one: a young journalist by the name of Anis Mansour. He’d given his ticket to Miss Camelia.”

I felt the ground sway beneath me, forcing me to sit and hold my head between my hands. The information Fahim gave me on Zananiri passed before my eyes like film credits: an only child with no siblings, no other living relatives, a wife who conceived their daughter in middle age after a decade of despair at not being able to have children. Zananiri himself was a mystery. Secretive, guarded. In addition to his administrative job at Dar al-Maaref, he secretly traded in portable valuables being shed in large quantities by Egyptian Jews at the time. He amassed a fortune through this trade and acquired a lot of real estate in Cairo and Giza. . . . Wait! Could Fahim be behind this? Could he be in cahoots with Zananiri and have staged some kind of charade?

A brief silence fell until it was interrupted by Batel’s cries.

“Where did that bastard Zananiri keep his money, Fahim?”

He jerked his head toward Zeinab, whose eyes were still combing the newspaper as though she might find what we’d lost in between the lines.

“Zeinab, go make us some tea. And while you’re at it, check to see why Batel’s crying. Maybe she needs to drink or eat something. Hey! Shake a leg!”

Zeinab scuttled out of the room. Half an hour later, she returned carrying cups of tea, her face filled with anxiety. She left and returned again, holding Batel.

“What are you going to do with her?” she asked, shifting her eyes between me and Fahim. “I knew you were up to something fishy when you brought her home, but I’ve grown attached to her. I can’t let her go.”

I looked at Fahim, who nodded. He stood up and calmly removed Batel from Zeinab’s arms. Zeinab cried out and rushed to block his way to the door. “Tell me what you’re going to do with her!” she shouted. “Who else is in on this diamond scheme? How are you going to use her now?”

I lit a cigarette in order to keep my temper under control and keep my voice steady enough to calm her, so Fahim could get out the door with the child.

“There is no scheme, Zeinab! The newspaper’s right in front of you. But Batel is evidence, and we’ve got to get rid of her now and forever. Fahim knows the owner of an orphanage in Rod al-Farag. He’s going to take her there. The diamonds and gold and the money we were going to get from them flew out the window with that plane crash. We’re left with zilch. Now get some sense into your head and let us deal with this.”

Zeinab didn’t give in easily. There was a wet sheen to her eyes, which bulged in a way I’d never seen. I began to worry about what she might do. Some tears escaped as she silently reached out to stroke Batel’s face, then looked at me pleadingly. I took hold of her shoulders and gently pulled her to my chest.

“We can’t have anything more to do with that girl. Nothing good will come from us bringing her up and spending a lot of money her. She’s bad news, Zeinab, just like Cicurel’s daughter. Remember, just after he wrote his will out to Nadia, he was killed. She’s a jinx, like all Jews, just as you always say. She’s got to go before things get worse.”

After Fahim left, carrying Batel, Zeinab took to her bed with a face streaked with tears. I couldn’t get a wink’s sleep until dawn, when I dropped off for an hour or two at most. Images of Zananiri’s lifeless and probably bloated corpse kept appearing alongside Cicurel’s Heart of Palm. That breathtaking jewel had evaporated into thin air or lay incinerated among the debris of the burnt-out airplane. Or maybe it rolled under the feet of some peasant tilling his field near the scene of the crash. Maybe he smashed it with his mattock without knowing it. In the morning, Fahim and I were going to take a little trip up to Buheira to ask around. Fahim has ways to dig up information. Surely if the diamonds were there to be found, we’d find them.

My thoughts were interrupted by a violent coughing fit. I got out of bed and paced until it passed. Suddenly I heard loud and persistent knocks on the door. I found Zeinab there before me, pulling her scarf over her hair as was her habit before opening the door.

“Where’s Abbas Mahalawi?”

I approached warily. A police officer stood at the door with three plainclothes men behind him. As soon as he saw me behind Zeinab, he strode across the threshold to the middle of the room and shouted to his men, “Search the place!”

Zeinab screeched, slapped her cheeks and pounded her chest with the palm of her hand. She never could stop these rural habits. Keeping my voice firm and steady, I said, “I’m Abbas Mahalawi. Could you please tell me the purpose of this search?”

“Monsieur Jacob Zananiri filed a complaint against you. He accuses you of abducting his daughter Batel and threatening him.”

A bark of laughter escaped my mouth before I could suppress it. I shot Zeinab a look that said “I told you so” as I sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and tried to collect my thoughts.

Of course they wouldn’t find anything. Fahim had placed her in the orphanage yesterday afternoon. But if I’d waited a day or caved into Zeinab’s pleading, we’d be spending the rest of our lives in Tura Leman Prison. My thoughts turned to that son of a bitch Zananiri, who’d reported me to the police before leaving so that he could get his daughter back and rip me off at the same time. He knew I would never be able to report him in connection with the theft of Cicurel’s gold and diamonds. But when did he report me? And how? I turned to the officer, who seemed more reasonable now that they couldn’t find what they were looking for, and feigning both surprise and annoyance, I asked, “Who is this Jacob Zananiri, officer? And what’s this business about his daughter?”

“He’s an accounts manager. Actually, it was his neighbor in Bab al-Shaariya who filed the report. Qasr al-Nil police station received instructions to investigate today. As for Zananiri, he and his wife died in the airplane accident yesterday, God rest their souls. Now, if you would come with us, sir.”

I accompanied them to the police station to complete the rest of the formalities. Zananiri’s neighbor couldn’t identify me, of course. In fact, I sensed he was no longer interested in the matter now that Batel’s father and mother had died. He spoke at length, but not coherently. Maybe, like me, he feared having to take responsibility for the orphaned daughter. Also, he probably had no proof of any kidnapping or threat. Surely Zananiri wouldn’t have divulged anything about our agreement. Before long, Fahim appeared at the station with a lawyer. Zeinab must have phoned him as soon as I’d left with the police. On our way out of the station, he confirmed that he’d left Batel with the orphanage, meaning that the link to me was broken. They would never look for her there. But he also felt it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to go up to Buheira right way, as we’d planned.

“Even if they closed the file against you, they could still be watching. They’re craftier than the devil and they know how to connect the dots. So you stay put and I’ll send some men up to sniff around in Buheira and Damanhur without arousing suspicions; then I’ll fill you in on what they come up with.”

After three weeks, which seemed like years, Fahim’s men returned empty-handed. They couldn’t come up with a single thread leading to the whereabouts of my gold and diamonds or a possible thief. So much for the Zananiris, their luggage, and my late fortune. As for Batel, as Fahim learned from his lawyer, the case of her alleged abduction was stamped “unsolved.”

About a month later, in one of our last nights in my small apartment near the northern tip of Zamalek, we were awoken again by pounding on the door. Zeinab leapt out of bed, slapping her cheeks in alarm. Before opening the door, she whispered, “If they found Batel, we’re done for!”

But the visitor turned out to be a surprise of a different sort. Hassanein’s young wife stood at our threshold holding her child, Tarek, clearly at her wits’ end and begging us to allow her to spend the night at our place because there were new tenants in her apartment. I hesitated before inviting her in, because the last thing I needed was more disruptions. But Zeinab stepped in front of me, pulled her inside, and set her mind at rest. That was not how Zeinab usually behaved with strangers. Hassanein’s wife asked us desperately whether we knew where her husband was.

I surprised myself by how coolly I handled this. “Why, he’s in Brazil,” I said. “He emigrated there.” To my surprise, Zeinab stepped in to back me up. “May he return safe and sound and rich!” Her quick wit never ceased to impress me.

You might have thought I’d punched the poor woman. She burst into tears and wailed. She didn’t have a clue as to what or where this “Brazil” was. The following morning, at Zeinab’s prodding, I arranged with Abdel-Naim to put her up in a small room in Imbaba for some months until the tenants’ lease to Hassanein’s apartment expired. Then I discovered that Hassanein had sold his apartment back to the landlord and had taken out a lease on it instead, which meant that his wife and child had to remain in Imbaba. Meanwhile, Zeinab and I became preoccupied with Paula, whose health had taken a serious turn for the worse.

Then one day Fahim interrupted me in the office.

“You have to get married, Abbas.”

“This isn’t the time for that, Fahim. You know business comes first for me. When things settle down some, then I’ll think about marriage.”

“Marriage is business, too. You should marry Madame Paula as soon as possible.”

“Paula? Have you lost your mind? She’s practically at death’s door and—”

“Which is why you have to act quickly. You’ve got to marry her and have a child with her too.”