We let Samir walk between us, although most of the time the throngs forced us to move single file.
What couldn’t I write about the hours that followed, about the various markets or about how, after we had left the heart of town and were walking along a wide street, some young fellows blocked my path and indicated — or so I read their flurry of gestures — that I should check out a brush, a little plastic tub, and other housewares they were offering for sale. Their spiel grew more and more energetic, almost menacing, until Samir thrust them aside with a single motion of his arm and a few soft-spoken words. They fell silent, but as we moved on began shouting something that Sheila didn’t understand and that Samir refused to translate. Those weren’t real vendors, just poor crazy kids, he said.
I understood Sheila’s fascination, of course, and certainly ought to have reacted with greater discretion, but nothing could have saved me from the hurt I felt from the first moment on. It made no difference at all what I did. Every bit of attention Sheila gave me was purely diplomatic in nature, crumbs from the table. At first I thought it would be better for Sheila to take the lead. But watching her sashay ahead of Samir in her tight jeans, tossing her hair back, and once even coming to an abrupt halt for no good reason, so that Samir ran right into her … I knew very well just how resolute Sheila could be.
I first realized that I was in the way, that I was irritating Sheila, when we got to the Al-Azhar Mosque. I hesitated to follow Samir’s example and shove my best pair of loafers (for which I’d paid just shy of two hundred euros) into one of the pigeonholes, where anybody could grab them instead of his own shabby slippers and scram. “You’re nuts,” Sheila hissed, hurrying off in her stocking feet behind Samir. Suddenly the men sitting at the entrance and watching me remove my shoes were my enemies.
When he was tired, simply worn out and in need of sleep, that’s when he went to the mosque, Samir said. No place in the city was as pleasantly cool and quiet as this. I was entering a mosque for the first time and uncertain what was allowed and what wasn’t. Anyone watching us would have thought it was Sheila who was our guide. The sight of several men asleep on a red carpet with a yellow design was simultaneously both unsettling and comforting. Upon discovering my shoes again, I turned downright cheerful and was prepared to accept Sheila’s flirting with greater composure. That didn’t last long. When we stopped at a booth of perfumes and scents — it had turned dark by then — Sheila and Samir started conversing in Arabic. Samir had the vendor open practically every little flask for Sheila, and at one point even asked him to mix two or three scents — which had to have made him a real expert in Sheila’s eyes. She agreed with his opinion every time. Samir insisted on buying three flasks for her as a gift — they weren’t expensive, in fact — and filled in the tiny labels himself, both in Arabic and in roman script. They moved on without ever turning around to look for me. Samir corrected Sheila’s pronunciation and praised her extravagantly for the progress she was making.
I made several attempts to send Samir on his way. He had been so helpful the whole day now.… I wanted to go back to the hotel and then have dinner again at the Fish Market. Samir, however, had already reserved tickets for us, a performance of Sufi songs and dances — we didn’t dare miss it.
This tourist spectacle took place in an old fortress. I barely remember the space itself, but I do recall working my way to a niche as far forward as possible, in the firm belief that Samir and Sheila were right behind me. At first I thought the two had vanished. But then I spotted them directly across from me. Sheila was standing in front of Samir, but so close that it looked to me as if she were leaning against him.
Later, in a tiny restaurant, we ate pizza from tin plates and drank almost frozen beer. Samir told a legend about taking the measurement of the Pyramids, which Sheila had already heard in the Arabic version. It was truly pleasant when Samir gave you his full attention. And along with jealousy I likewise felt regret at how much I was missing because Sheila was thrusting herself between us. I was just about to ask him if there would soon be a book where I could read about his story, when Sheila announced that the following morning she would be visiting the Egyptian National Museum instead of accompanying me to the German school for girls.
The worst part was that Sheila was right, of course. Since I always read the same stuff and couldn’t always come up with new answers to the same old questions, Sheila’s presence in the audience had become more of a hindrance by now, turning me into a man of few words, which isn’t like me. Repetition leads to disenchantment, of course. All the same I regarded her decision as a betrayal.
The next morning, in the middle of breakfast, Sheila suddenly noticed Samir on the far side of the road, his gaze fixed on the hotel entrance. Although he had arrived an hour before the arranged time, Sheila ignored her hot pancakes, hastily downed her coffee, and moments later was bounding down the hotel stairway. It annoyed me that she kept pointing at me, until Samir spotted me too and offered the hint of a bow. I waved back.
I was angry at having to pack Sheila’s things for Alexandria, too; I was scheduled to read there that same evening.
Later I vented my anger on the German teacher at the girls’ school. It is really comicaclass="underline" Everyone makes fun of the question about what an author really means, and in the next moment someone asks that very question, and nobody notices.
At lunch — we had agreed upon the pizza place from the previous evening — I made the mistake of telling Sheila about one of the schoolgirls. She had worn a headscarf and had looked tired. Unlike her classmates she remained seated when she spoke. I left it to her to explain to the teacher what the relationship is between the written word and its meaning, and that whatever the writer himself may claim is irrelevant. Then she spoke about truth, and how truth is always an agreed-upon arrangement. What took place between the two of us wasn’t flirtation, but rather — or so it seemed to me at least — our amazement at an intimacy attached to her every word, an intimacy that seemed to come out of nowhere. I can still see her smiling and nodding when I laid into her teacher yet again. I told Sheila that I would have loved to get to know the girl, but that we didn’t even manage to say good-bye to each other because I hadn’t wanted to risk speaking with a schoolgirl.
“Why was that?” Sheila barked at me. “Why didn’t you try to meet her?”
“I was afraid it might arouse suspicion,” I said. “I didn’t want to embarrass her.”
“Oh pooh, ‘embarrass’!” Sheila exclaimed. “So what if it had aroused suspicion.”
I assumed the matter was behind us, but Sheila wouldn’t let it go. It was unsettling to watch her get worked up like that in front of Elisabeth and Samir.
I then had to leave for an interview at the Goethe-Institut library. Samir promised to get Sheila to the train station on time.
At two on the dot I said my good-byes to the journalist. Elisabeth came over and sat down beside me.
“The driver will let you know when he’s here,” she said with a smile. I nodded. We fell silent.
“I hope I didn’t make a mistake,” she said, “in introducing you two to Samir.”
I found her insinuation tactless. “We’ll see,” I said.
“Did Sheila tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Sheila’s not coming along,” Elisabeth said. “We’re trying to resell her train ticket. I thought …”