Chapter IX

“Alright, alright. I’m coming”

He sat upright in his bed, and saw that Mr. Salama, who was the doorman at the Windsor hotel, was already up, dressed, and polishing the only pair of black shoes that he owned, to the impeccable shine that they always had.

“Good, you’re up”, said Mr. Salama. “Take the cup of tea from your uncle, will you?”

He shared no blood relation with Ismail, the man who was standing at the door, carrying the tray with the small, glass cup of tea, but he considered him to be family nonetheless. Mr. Salama was the only relative he had – he was his real uncle, and had been taking care of him since he was two years old. Ismail was the elevator operator of the hotel, and he lived in the small room next to theirs. He always brought Mr. Salama a cup of tea in the morning, from the nearby coffee shop, before they went to work together.

“You can see your face in those shoes, Mr. Salama, I really don’t know why you spend so much time polishing them”, said Ismail.

“It’s important. You should do it too.”

Although his duties as the hotel doorman were rather limited – since, his was a simple job, he still took great pride in every responsibility that he had, and consequently, it was very important to him that his shoes were always in an immaculate condition.

He took the cup from Ismail and handed it to Mr. Salama, who took a sip of the tea and then put it down, and began to tie his shoelaces.

“There’s a five piaster coin on the table. Buy some bread and cheese, have some of it for breakfast, and save the rest for dinner. Ismail and I will have our breakfast on the way to work today, and I’ll come back with lunch at noon, alright?”

He nodded to Mr. Salama, who picked up the cup of tea, and left with Ismail.

It was a bright, sunny day in Cairo, with a few clouds in the sky. Through the window, he felt the cool breeze that marked the arrival of the beginning weeks of winter. He was glad that Mr. Salama had to go to work today. It was Saturday, and he usually had this day off, but the doorman whose shift it was today, had called in sick, and because of this, Mr. Salama would not spend this Saturday morning making him read books, as he usually did. He hated Mr. Salama’s lessons. Why does he insist that I read so much? It’ll never be useful to me, he thought.

He took the coin from the table and went out onto the street. He did as he was instructed and bought the bread and cheese, came home and made himself breakfast, before going out again to find his friends.

They were playing football, as per usual, at their new favourite spot. They always used the slippers of whoever volunteered that day to be the goalie, to mark an imaginary goal post. The goalie, that day, was one of the two girls that belonged to their group of friends. There were five of them in total, six with him included.

They liked this particular spot to play football in, because there was a high wall there, which served perfectly as their makeshift goal post.

“Hey! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home reading?” shouted the girl who was the goalie of this game.

“The old man is working today!” he shouted back, the joy this statement brought him, clear in his voice.

“Great! Come, stay over here! You can be my defence, they’re playing terribly today.”

He ran over to her and took his position as a defender in the game.

The game was going well, and he was performing admirably, and enjoying himself. He saw the ball fly towards the goal, and he lunged his foot forwards to intercept it. He was successful, and the ball soared high in the air, and disappeared behind the high wall.

“The ball! We don’t have another one”, said Sultan, who was the boy whose attempt at scoring he had disrupted. “Go get it”, he added.

Sultan was two years older than the rest of them, and was sort of the self-proclaimed leader of their group.

The wall was too high for him to climb, so he followed it around the corner looking for an entrance. He hoped there would be a doorman working there, and that he would be kind, like Mr. Salama, and would not give him too much trouble about returning the ball to him.

He came to a large iron gate, which was open. Inside, he could see an ocean of apricot trees, which stretched farther than he could see. There was a small, shiny gold sign on the wall beside the gate. In bold, black letters, it read:

GROSVENOR HOUSE

He couldn’t see anyone around – there was no doorman. He entered the estate slowly, afraid that he might hear someone shouting at him at any moment, and he really didn’t want to get into any trouble. He snuck over to the side of the wall where he thought he might find the ball. The apricot trees were everywhere, and the orchard that housed them was too large for it to be possible for him to find the ball. Still, as a child does, he searched anyway, expecting that he would find it, and that he would emerge as the day’s hero to his friends.

He searched for about twenty minutes; his determination to find the ball was unshaken. As he brushed aside the leaves of one of the apricot trees, he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hi!” she said, cheerfully.

Behind the leaves of the apricot tree was standing a blonde, blue-eyed, young Englishwoman.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble, Miss, I swear! I’m just here for our ball! Sultan… he kicked it over the wall.”

“So why didn’t Sultan come to get the ball?” she asked, smiling.

“Because…well, he always bosses everyone around”

She placed a hand on her forehead to shade her eyes, squinted, and began to look around her. “It’s going to be rather difficult for you to find the ball with all the apricot trees around”

“Yes, I know, I’ve been looking…” he replied, lowering his eyes in disappointment.

“Well, I don’t have a ball to give you, but I do have lots of books! Would you like one?”

He remembered Mr. Salama’s lessons.

“No, that’s alright. My uncle, he always makes me read, history books and science books and encyclopaedias. Every Saturday.”

“Those are important. But what about storybooks?”

His eyes lit up.

“Storybooks?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course! Haven’t you read any? Well, this won’t do at all. Here, come with me.”

She took him by his hand and led him inside the house, to her father’s study.

“Which kinds of stories would you like?”

“Hmm…” he said, thinking about it. “Do you have any stories about the stars? I really love the stars.”

“The stars? No…I’m afraid not. How curiously lovely you are”, she said, and put her hand through his hair. “I do, however, have many, many, adventure stories about the Arabian Desert! I’m planning a trip there, you see. I’m going to be the first ever Englishwoman to have crossed the Empty Quarter”, she added, and handed him a great pile of storybooks.

“I’m Lyla, by the way. What’s your name?”

Lyla would one day tell the nomad all about the charming young boy she’d met in her apricot orchard in Cairo, and the nomad, enchanted by the story, would name his falcon after the boy.

“Thalam”, he said.