Chapter 3: The Secret

I woke up one morning with a sense of doom.

I literally had a feeling it was coming. Right as soon as I saw Frank land on my windowsill I could already smell the mahshy and hear eight loud concurrent and incoherent conversations over the sound of a blaring TV set. I usually run over to him in jittery anticipation of my next message, but this time I edged over hesitantly, looked in the message that was attached to his leg, and sighed painfully. Ok, so it's iftar at the family gathering tomorrow then. "Oh lord, see me through this one more time," I prayed.

Now I spend most of my time within the confines of my dusty, dimlylit flat. It's not that I have some sort of phobia about the outside world, but the minute I step out, my alleged mental issues become more apparent to me in relation with everyone else. And what's worse, I feel like everyone around me immediately knows this without even speaking to me; complete strangers throw looks and glares that give me the impression I'm walking around in a big yellow chicken costume. When I'm home, I'm in the company of my records, films, books; and all of them reassure me that I am not alone in my bizarre state of mind.

Beads of sweat started forming on my forehead, as I rode in the taxi on the way, hugging the giant watermelon I bought as a present so as not to walk in empty-handed. The thing is, I love my family and know they love me, but if there's any place in Egypt where I feel most out of place it's there at the family gatherings.

Soon we found ourselves on the Sixth of October Bridge. It had been a while since I had left the house- let alone taken this particular route- and I couldn't help but notice that the amount of billboard advertisements had tripled. They were everywhere you looked, slamming into your conscious and subconscious one after the other. Phones, cars, chicken drumsticks. Washing detergent, cooking oil, soda drinks. Buy me, buy me, buy me. After only a few minutes I couldn't help but feel as if some slimy corporate weasel was sticking his finger in my ear and fondling my brain.

Celebrities and models posed with dramatic, unreal expressions. You could literally see a dialogue balloon coming out of their mouths, saying "That's right, I sold out."

It is a perfect example of the total and highly acceptable dishonesty that plagues civilizations. Politics and advertising: complete crap yet we continue to not only accept them, but support them too.

"You see that guy, can you believe that he's selling out like that?" I asked the driver in my best Egyptian street accent, pointing up at the billboard.

"Who? Him? Very good actor," he boasted, giving me a big thumb up.

"Yes, yes, but do you think he really likes Coke? Don't you think he is being dishonest?"

He gave me a long look, trying to decipher what I was saying and eventually replied, "No, how do you mean? He's getting paid," then continued with a confrontational glare, as if to slam his point home. I shrink in my seat and regret speaking. Chicken costume, chicken costume, chicken costume. After picking up another passenger along the way, he turns the knob on the ancient tape player and a Koran recitation fills the car.

"Are you fasting today?" he asks as he quite clearly eyes a girl passing in front of us.

"Alhamdulillah," answers the young, well-groomed passenger in the back.

"What about you?" he asks me.

"No, I'm not. And could you please turn that down a little?"

He pauses and then completely ignores my request by asking, "Why don't you fast?" It really amazes me how people don't understand that this is a highly personal question, especially for a first encounter. If I asked him some19 thing like, "So how's your wife in bed?" it would not be taken well, would it? I hesitate for a while, arguing with myself about telling a lie just this once to escape an already stifling car ride, but I eventually give in to my own terminal honesty. After all, I wasn't really going to see this guy again anyway.

"No. I don't fast."

"Oh, I didn't know you were Christian."

"I'm not."

If looks could kill I would be...well, dead. I hear him mutter something and try to ignore a few mentions of my mother and grandmother as my costume gets bigger and more yellow. Aside from the fact that there is dishonesty everywhere, there is also a surprisingly low tolerance for honesty these days.

The taxi screeches to halt as two guys jump in front of our vehicle while trying to cross the road.

"Why you son of a...I swear to God, I SWEAR TO GOD if I wasn't fasting..." screamed the driver from out of his window.

"You son of a what?" shouted one of the young men, infuriated at the "near" insult, "I swear to God if I wasn't fasting, I would rip your throat out old man!"

"Astaghfaro Allah," fumed the driver and proceeded.

After what seemed like eons of uncomfortable silence, he finally drops me at my destination. I hand him the agreed upon amount, and he looks at it as if I just handed him fake plastic dog poo. "I want 10 pounds more; the road was more crowded than I thought it would be," he sternly declared. I smiled and handed the extra money to the dishonest bastard. "How delightfully relevant..." I thought as I walked up to the entrance in my big yellow chicken costume.

The taxi zooms off, leaving both me and the giant watermelon covered in black dust. Just as I was wiping myself off, a huge arm wraps around me and pulls me into a bear hug; it was my uncle Mohsin who had apparently just arrived now too. I let myself go into the hug and take in a lungful of dry sweat mixed with cigarettes. Finally we let go, he makes fun of my giant watermelon, and I laugh uncomfortably, then I see his wife standing next to him and immediately find myself in the predicament I find myself in with all female relatives; do I go in for a hug or the distant handshake? I opt for the safer of the two options but end up getting pulled into warm cleavage, and the three of us start walking up the steps of the building together.

A few moments of awkward silence passed, mainly because my mother had informed me over the phone the previous day that she suspected he was cheating on his wife. He is of the seemingly religious type who always spends hours at Islamic teachings and the mosque, but it turns out that at least half of those times he was with the other lady, and only recently has he been taking many suspicious "business trips."

For a second, I imagine him at the mosque praying piously and then an hour later wearing leather underwear and pouring hot wax over the other woman as she sensuously strokes the zebeeba on his forehead, but then my eyes accidentally meet his, and I get freaked out by the feeling that he knows what I'm thinking.

Thirty minutes later, I'm in the armpit of the evening. Right before iftar, the 15 or so people are making small talk and catching up. At this point I try to be as politely silent as I can be, recovering from being pulled roughly into about five large cleavages and having my hand crushed in a few tough male handshakes. Like I predicted, the scene was one of chaos; think Bosnia or Palestine on a bad day.

Literally dozens of conversations were going on at the same time between people in completely different areas of the room, with topics ranging from last night's football match to the rumours of the president's demise to how young people today have no morals. Everyone talked loudly and gestured as if they were on a stage performing in front of millions. I could even overhear some people talking about other people who were present in that very same room! For a moment I imagine getting up, taking my clothes off, and dancing wildly like a chicken, just to break up this madness. Right on that note my mother suddenly took a seat beside me and asked, "So Selim, how's everything?" I got caught off guard as I was still thinking about dancing like a chicken.

"Great, can't complain..." I replied.

"How's your bastard father?" she asked nonchalantly. This was usually the first question asked to me, usually in those exact words. She knew that I had no information about him; he was hardly in the country and even when he was, I stayed as far away from him as I did everyone else, unless something unavoidable occurred.

"Well, you know, he's still a bastard," I answered, equally nonchalantly. I once tried to defend him a few years back, not because I felt offended, but more because I just had enough with that sort of thing and got my ass handed to me through a torrent of abuse. So I decided to just go along with it and make as little fuss as possible.

"I'm sure he is...you know some bastards don't change, I just wish you don't have that gene..." she said.

"I don't think I do, mother..."

"Good. And he's still happy with that bitch?"

"I guess so."

"She was his secretary right?" she casually asked, as if she didn't know.

"Yes, you know she was his secretary, mom..."

"And she stopped working right...She just stays at whatever home they are in around the world?"

"I guess..."

"Yes, of course...that makes sense...that's the only kind of woman your father would want...a characterless, opinionless, stupid, unemployed bony bitch..."

I nodded uncomfortably.

"But mark my words...it's still not going to last...he can't be lived with you know," she warned.

"Yes, I know," I chimed.

"At some point she will go insane and leave, or he will find someone younger and stupider and with even less opinions."

I nodded once more then, trying to change the topic, I asked, "So how was Alexandria?"

"Lovely, you really should take holidays there more often; I went and checked on our apartment."

"We have an apartment in Alexandria?"

"You silly boy, of course we do! But it's been closed up for the longest time so this was the first time I visit in years. Do you know what I had to do? I had to hire a carpenter to break the door down because your absent-minded uncle, God knows where his head is at these days, well actually I think we all know...but anyway he lost both keys to the apartment..."

"Really?"

"Yes, so anyway I hired this carpenter, whose shop I found near our building, to break down the door. Oh, he kept banging at that lock for a long time with his hammer, I thought that the whole door would break apart at any minute, but finally he managed to get it open. I gave him 50 pounds. But he's Coptic you know..."

"So?"

"Nothing, I'm just saying. And after I check that everything was fine, I had managed to get hold of a locksmith to fit in a new lock. Now he was a blacky AND Coptic, but he was good at his work. They're very handy people with these sorts of trades... Anyway, you know who I met there?"

"Who?" I enquired without any sort of enthusiasm or objection to the string of political incorrectness I had gotten used to.

"Little Mona!"

"Who?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten her; you two used to play together all the time when you were kids! Whenever I told you we're going to Alexandria you used to shout happily 'Mona, Mona!' because you two had so much fun together. Of course, she's not 'little Mona' anymore, she's a whale now. I don't really know what happened to her, she used to be so pretty up until a few years ago and everyone in the family thought that you would both get married someday, but definitely not anymore, not since she became a fat monster. And she's giving her mother such grief because she's still unmarried... well between me and you who would want to marry her anyway, but its not like her mother needs any more grief, what with her son getting close to his thirties and still without a degree..."

I sipped nervously from my cup of tea.

"And how is the teaching going?"

I took another nervous sip to give myself time to prepare a fresh answer. I had to make sure to include extra bits of information at every gathering so as to avoid suspicion. I wasn't comfortable with this, of course, but I really had no other choice. Still...I found comfort in the fact that it had some faint element of truth in it; I actually did go for an interview at a school once I graduated. Unfortunately, when asked why I wanted to be a teacher, I went on and on about the state of the world and how I wanted to empower the future generations...when I should have just said, "Well, because I love kids so darn much."

"Well...it's going really well...there are a lot of smart students this year..." I lied.

"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Hoda's granddaughter is enrolling in your school next year, so I want you to take extra special care of her. You know how Hoda is; she devotes her whole life to her children and their children ever since she got divorced. But it serves her right anyway; she didn't have to go crazy and just leave him, so what if he has an anger problem, at least he was a man who was with her...You remember tant Hoda, right?"

"Vaguely...which grade is her granddaughter enrolling into?" I enquired. "Um...third grade, the one you teach."

My mind switched into problem solving mode. This is the risk you run when you decide to tell a big lie for a long time...

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, I don't teach third grade anymore. I teach second grade."

"Oh...no, wait...wait a moment, no she is going into the second grade actually, I got mixed up with tant Maha's granddaughter who is enrolling at another school in the third grade. Well, that's perfect then!"

I was unprepared for this, I had to think fast.

"Yes, but..." I stuttered, "I forgot to tell you that I am teaching the, uh...second grade for the...special students."

"Special students?"

"Yes, you know...students with mental disabilities..."

"You mean...retards?"

I let out a long breath to compose myself. Only at my family gatherings can the words "Coptic," "retard," "ugly" and "blacky" be thrown around so negatively and casually at the same time.

"Yes, but mother no one calls them that, they call them 'special'..." "Why are you teaching retards, for goodness sake? Did you do something wrong? Is that why you've been downgraded to teaching retards?" "No, not at all, actually..." I blurted, already regretting this particular cover-up story.

"If you want I can make a phone call to the principal and have a word with him..."

"No, mother, listen to me....this is not a punishment, it's actually the opposite. I had to take special training and many other teachers wanted this position...but they chose me because I was the best." If you're going to do something wrong, do it right and make yourself look really, really good. I felt my nose getting longer as she studied me in disbelief.

"It's even a higher paying position!" I exclaimed.

"How much higher?"

"Mom, I'm not going to discuss my salary with you..."

"Why not? I'm your mother! What, do you think I'm going to ask you for money?!"

"No, no, of course not but..."

"I have a lot of money of my own, you know! I just want to know how well you're doing."

"I'm doing very well, and let's just leave it at that," I said with a confident smile that I knew would shut her up. It was completely bogus, of course...

At that moment the door opened and Khaled, her husband, walks through the door hunched over as usual. Khaled had some kind of consulting position at some big oil company and worked terrible hours. He was, however, highly respected in his field as opposed to in his own home. His face lit up when he saw me.

"Selim! What a pleasant surprise!" he beamed as he rushed up to hug me.

"Habibi, did you lock the car?" my mom asked, barely looking in his direction.

"Yes, dear," he said to her, smiling at me and shaking his head jokingly. "Are you sure?" she demanded.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, you also said you're sure last week, and you found it open in the morning, when anyone passing by could have just taken anything from inside. Can you please go down and check?"

Khaled's eyes fell to the ground, defeated, as he turned and walked back out of the house, before he even had a chance to take his jacket off. This sort of exchange was a common occurrence between them. I liked Khaled, because he seemed to be a nice, polite man who didn't argue with my mother. At the same time I felt sorry for him, much the same way you'd feel bad for killing a bug in your mother's house, just because it's freaking her out. That kind of injustice is never good, but it's for your mother after all... I decided that this would be a good point to get the spotlight off me once more.

"So...this thing with my uncle is pretty unbelievable..." I whispered to her, baiting her with juicy gossip.

"I know..." she whispered as she moved herself closer to me, completely falling for the trap, "I wouldn't have believed it had I not heard it with my own ears."

"How did this happen?"

"I have no idea. The man has gone crazy, he has simply gone crazy," she declared, shaking her head from side to side.

"Well, do you know if he's just cheating or married to this new woman?" "No, no one knows. Actually that reminds me, no one knows about this so don't repeat what I told you."

"Of course...so even grandma doesn't know?"

"I think she knows, but she's pretending in front of everyone not to know."

At that point loud commotion signalled that the meal was about to be served. I suddenly found myself in an empty living room talking to an empty chair. I decided to wait for Khaled- who seemed to have been completely forgotten by the others as usual- to arrive again, and then we walked together to the dinner table.

"Why aren't you eating?" my grandmother shouted into my ear as she leans over just inches away from my face, drenching the entire left side of my head in mucus and bits of rice. I restrained myself from wiping away the things that were now sliding down my neck so as not to offend her, but instead motion manically to the pile of bones and leftovers on my plate. These were the only occasions when I neglected my vegetarianism and ate meat, in fear of causing a family crisis.

"You have to eat otherwise you won't be strong!" she explained. God damn it, I'm a middle-aged, unemployed psychopath, I think physical strength is the least of my concerns right now I think to myself, but nod politely anyway. My other extremely fat aunt chimed in, "Yes, you must try my kobeba," with half a chicken wing hanging out of her mouth.

A few moments later my grandmother leaned in again and asked, "How is the school? You're still teaching young children, right?"

"Yes, grandma...it's going very well."

I decided to neglect mentioning the "special" kids again...my mom would complain to her later about it anyway.

"That's lovely dear...and what are you teaching now?" she asked. I felt like avoiding another round of lies, so I decided to jump from being in the interrogation room to the sewing circle.

"I teach English grandma...so...uncle Mohsin is taking a lot of business trips these days..." I mused.

"Yes..." she replied cautiously, suddenly avoiding my eyes, "He's working very hard, the poor dear."

"I'm sure he is... I'm sure he is..." I snickered, waiting for some kind of signal that she knew.

"Of course..." I mused, "It's strange that he never used to take business trips at all...and now one week he's in Sharm el Sheikh, the other he is in Hurgada..."

"Yes, well his engineering company is branching out to new locations, Alhamdulillah."

"Yes, yes..." I replied, then I decided to just go for it, "Grandma...I know."

"You know what dear?" she asked, nervously. She SO knew... "I know," I repeated, looking deep into her old eyes for confirmation. She stared at me for a few seconds then leaned in and sneakily whispered, "How...do you know?"

"I overheard a conversation he was having with her out in the hallway. How do you know?"

"He...he told me about it a while back. But listen Selim...don't tell anyone you know, especially his wife." "Does she know?"

"She knows, but she doesn't know that anyone else knows."

I nodded silently and went back to the feast on my plate.

After massacring half the poultry and cow population of Cairo, we headed into the living room for some more absurd discussions and the obligatory Ramadan TV programs. As I walked into the other room, I got pulled in the other direction by my younger cousin, who wanted to catch up with me since we hadn't met since last year. Now my cousin is a very nice young man, but he is of the kind who smokes hashish everyday, drinks, and dates loose girls...but come Ramadan he is the martyr of martyrs and gives you the impression that he is so close to God it makes you want to cry and ask for his blessings.

"Did you see the new Booby ads for Melody TV? It makes me sick!" he declared solemnly, shaking his head.

"Didn't I see your picture with her posted on Facebook when she was in Marina last summer?" I bluntly asked. He grinned sheepishly and replied that he did it just because his friends wanted to...then very skilfully decided to put the spotlight on someone else. This must be a gene in the family.

"Hey...you want to hear something really, really unbelievable?"

"Sure," I replied.

"But you have to promise to keep this a secret between us, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm serious! You have got to promise me."

"I promise."

"Uncle Mohsin has a second wife now."

"What?" I exclaimed, startled by this new added dimension to the saga.

"Keep it down!" he whispered, "Yeah, he has a second wife."

"Are you sure? How do you know about this?" I enquired.

"He told my dad a few months ago. He had to, because they work at the same company, and he was telling his wife he was taking all these fake business trips. Anyway, my dad told my mom, and I overheard their conversation from my room."

I nodded mechanically as the puzzle began to clarify. "Wow...it's so strange...do you know how he met this new wife? I find it hard to believe he picked her up at a bar or something!" I exclaimed. "No, apparently they met at a corporate function a while back. She is one of the secretaries in a different department...and she's divorced..." he whispered into my ear, "They got introduced and when she found out he was an engineer, she asked him to come over and take a look at a crack in one of the walls in her house, you know, to check if it's safe or need to be rebuilt... and that's how it started."

"A crack?"

"A crack."

"She asked him to come over and take a look at her crack?"

"Yeah, that's right," he confirmed, expressionless.

I used every single ounce of willpower to stop myself from bursting into the kind of laughter that I would not be able to stop. My lips were literally quivering, yet my cousin had a dead serious expression on his face.

"And...you don't see anything strange about this?" I asked, still holding myself back.

"No...what do you mean?"

"Never mind," I replied, pulling him into the other room with everyone else and thereby ending the conversation.

Just as I took my seat, my mother crept around the group and whispered into my ear, "I forgot to tell you, you're invited to a wedding with me." "Whose wedding?"

"Tant Sawsan's daughter."

"Who's tant Sawsan?"

"You don't know her."

"So why am I going?"

"Because I want you to go with me," she explained.

"Be quite everyone, it's starting!" my uncle shouted out as he turned up the volume.

"Khaled's not going with you?" I asked.

"No," my mother replied as she left and took her place in the group. Everyone settled down as we got focused on the new Ramadan programs on TV. Two hours later, and I've already lost half my brain cells and the rest were going quickly. I started frantically scratching my head and looking around the room for anyone even remotely disturbed by the retarded, onedimensional characters and plots, but all I saw were robotic smiles and the television glare reflected in focused eyes.

Why is this even remotely interesting? Nobody talks like that! Not everyone in the world dramatises, cheats, robs, lies, connives, and not everything is about love and divorce! I argue in my head.

Then it hits me like a truck. I scan the room again slowly with a terrified expression.

Oh my God.

Oh my...God.