Viva la Cairo (685 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: fiction
Rating: 1.96 on 22 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Corn Nugget (View user info) at 2005-01-17 21:58:09 EST
Let me introduce myself. My name is Mahmoud, I am from Egypt, and I was born in 1936. I was raised by my mother, for the most part. My childhood is punctuated by brief glimpses of my father, who was often too busy with his textile mills to have much concern for me, his last born son. The memories I do have of him revolve around his showroom floor.
For our family, art was not found in the Mona Lisa or the Last Supper- it was found in the fabrics that hung in neat rows along the showroom walls. Each of us admired something different about the industry that supported us. My mother loved the colors and patterns. She loved sitting with her husband and discussing the newest designs, and helping him decide which had the most potential in our market.
My oldest brother, Ahmed, loved the product of the fabric. He fell in love with the money that each transaction left at our feet. He saw beauty in the ledgers. I'd often find him in the cramped office, pouring over the accounts receiveable section of my fathers record books.
Fatima, who was cursed with unseeing eyes, had a passion for textures. She could discern the difference between a high quality sample and an imposter. For this reason alone, she was a valueble member of our household. While my mother could offer her opinion on the visual astetics of any given fabric, Fatima knew, by touch alone, which would be the best selling material.
I saw the beauty in the faces of our customers. I would lay awake at night, remembering the glint in their eyes when they selected the most modern and desireable designs. I'd imagine them taking our fabric to an esteemed furniture shop. They would be swelling with pride at their marvelous fabrics, eagerly awaiting the carpenters approval.
All of the women I loved were customers. It was impossible for me to lust after a woman who hadn't stood in my fathers showroom, admiring the handywork of the weavers from our factory. It could be said that I fell in love for the first time when I was 16.
She came in with her husband, and while I can remember her in amazing detail, he takes no space in my memories. He is simply a blur who stood next to an austere and charming woman. Her scarf was made of fine green silk, and she had expertly arranged it to allow for a hint of dark hair to show near her temple.
It wouldn't have excited me more to have seen her completely nude. This hint of hair, and the knowledge that she had defiantly let it show, was more than enough to excite me. I spent quite some time staring at this hair, admiring how it shone in the showroom lights, wondering how long it was, and then picturing myself slowly undressing her, taking the scarf off last, and savouring the moment of beauty when her raven mane would flow free from the silk that had bound it for too long.
As my fantasy came to a close, I allowed myself to look into her eyes. She stood near the back of the showroom, one hand gingerly wrapped around her husbands arm, while her other hand explored the textiles laid out before her. Her eyes were dark, and lined with khol. I could tell, simply by looking at her eyes, that she was truly admiring the fabrics for what they were, instead of the status that could be affored to her by having them.
Ahmed and my father stood to the left of the couple. Father ran his finger along the back of the sample, turned it over, and explained how they could see the quality by looking at the back. He spoke of the latest french fashions and designs, and bragged about his best-selling merchandise.
The husband nodded and commented, fully engaged in the explanation my father offered him. He must have been imagining how his house would look if it were beautifully adorned- picturing the envious expressions of his friends and family when they saw the luxury he could now afford to adorn his home with.
The wife was not listening. I was not surprised at my fathers ignorance of her reaction. He mistakenly believed that selling to the husbands was the most effective way to unload fabric.
Even at 16, I knew otherwise. I knew the women ruled the house, and I knew the final decision would be hers alone. A smart woman was always cunning- she would allow her husband to believe that all decisions were his, but a smart businessman would always know to sell to the woman, while feigning loyalty towards the husband.
Ahmed and father took turns hammering technical terms into the husbands scull, while the wife slowly wandered around the shop, looking at everything with a glow in her heavily lidded eyes.
I willed myself to settle down, gingerly pressing against my manhood in an attempt to release some of its pent up energy. I thought of the most horrible things imaginable, I thought of Allah looking down at my passionate existance with disdain, and I recalled the sound of my mothers voice as she recited the Koran each morning.
Once I was sufficently composed, I approached the woman. I stood just inside of her personal space, almost close enough to touch her.
"It's amazing- the depth found in something that once seemed so ordinary". I had been waiting years to use this line. I had heard it said long ago by a harried old man who had shuffled into our showroom one spring morning. The minute he uttered the phrase I felt the little scribes in my brain go to work, recording it exactly as it was said.
She turned to me, startled. Her eyebrows danced up in surprise as her lids dropped to conceal her emotions. "Yes, it's nice", she replied, a blush spreading over her cheeks.
We spent nearly an hour looking at fabrics together. Our silence was painful, expecially in contrast to the men. They had started bargining over something, each trying to lower or sustain the price of a particular style of material. It felt as if we were angels in a den of wolves.
Inadvertantly, my brother Ahmed insulted the husband, which provoked him to retrieve his wife from me, and rush out of the store. An hour passed, while father and Ahmed argued and bickered, and I cried silently for my first lost love.
(char develp: Mamud- largely ignored by his father (due to lack of talent), babied by mom, deep-seated appreciation for women. Women he loves he never speaks to, but goes into their lover/husband/boyfriends body to experience these women. First love is only woman who finds out whats giong on, grows to love mamud more than her husband)
***
Over the next few months I was consumed with finding her again. I looked into every face and searched for recognition, I looked for the wayward hair that casually stuck out near her temple I looked for the quiet appreciation that warmed her eyes.
I had been looking for her for so long that I started believing that I'd never find her. As it always seems to be with things you desire- I found her after I stopped looking.
Mother had sent me to the butcher, with orders to buy lamb chops. I was always the one sent to the butcher, because our servants could not be trusted to pick the best meat. They would often return with meat that reeked of rot and dirt. I gingerly walked across the bloodied butchers shop, being careful not to misstep or accidentally touch a red spattered wall or countertop. The smell never failed to make the bile raise in my throat, nor did the flies darting about fail to make my stomach flutter.
When I saw her, my stomach fluttered as if the room were dense with flies. My mouth dried as if someone had mistakenly put salt in my tea, instead of sugar. The shop blurred in and out, with only my love as the steady focus. Her gaze rested on me, and we started to become one.
I started to feel her mental energy. I started to go into her.
Then her husband stepped between us. It felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck the butchers shop. A bright white light exploded around me, and as my vision cleared, I saw myself.
Somehow I knew what had happened. Somehow I wasn't surprised by it, either. It was as if I had always known I'd one day gain the ability to leave my body. It felt very similar to the day my voice finally morphed into a mans voice. It was beautiful, exciting, and expected. Long overdue, even.
Without hesitation, I turned to my love, who was suddenly my wife, and ushed her out of the shop with a firm hand. She didn't argue or resist. She was a woman who obeyed her husband, as I had expected she would be.
My desire was the desire of a young lovers. I wanted nothing more than her body. I wanted to enact my fantasy in the real world. The problem I was faced with was complex. I knew nothing about her, most importantly, I didn't know her name, or where we lived.
I leaned close to her ear, and whispered, "Pretend we are strangers, and you are leading me to your home. Pretend we've never met". She turned her head just a bit, I saw her jaw tighten, and her face drain of color.
"As you wish, sir". Her pace quickened, and I knew it wasn't with desire or anticipation- she was insulted and angry, yet I knew she'd never voice this.
She led me through the bustling city, avoiding beggars and cripples that littered the alleyways, shooing the stray cats away before they ventured too close and dodging the cars that rallied along the busy streets. We came upon an apartment building, and she rushed up the steps, polietely nodding at the doormans family, who sat beneath the interior stairways.
She pushed the button for the elevator, and we stood, waiting. I was riddled with anxiety and hormones, and she continued to contain her feelings by pursing her mouth, and furrowing her brow. When the elevator arrived she let me step in first, and as I stood inside the small shaft, looking out at her, I saw the disgust rimming her eyes.
At the same time I was both crushed and elaited by her hatered. It's an awful feeling to know that the woman you love has nothing but disdain for you, and it's quite another thing to know that it is not you that she hates, but your rival.
I was both her lover and her husband. I was myself and my enemy.
She stepped inside of the elevator, forced to stand close due to the small size of the lift, and the absence of a door. We watched the cement walls pass us by as we rode to the 8th floor.
When we stepped into the hallway before her apartment, she turned to me, took a deep cleansing breath, and said, "Sir, this is where I live. Won't you come in?".
"Is that what you want?" I asked.
Her words contridicted her body, "Yes, I would want nothing more". She unlocked the door, and led me in.
She hurried into the kitchen, talking in hushed furtive tones to the servant standing before the stove. She was apologizing for not bringing the meat home for dinner. She lied, saying that the butcher had nothing of quality, and they would have to prepare a more simple meal for the night. She offered another lie, telling the woman that her husband was ill, and she would be tending to him for the afternoon.
The servant looked toward the doorway, where I had been standing. I quickly backed away from the kitchen, afraid of her strong, inquisitive stare.
My wife led me down the hallway and into the bedroom.
In the time between entering the apartment, and entering the bedroom, she had composed herself fully. Her emotions didn't show through, the light had returned to her eyes, the polite smile re-appeared on her lovely face.
"And, miss...", I coughed, "What is your name?"
"Zeniab, sir. And your name?" She started to untie her scarf, I hurried to stop her.
"Do not pretend you don't know my name- everyone here knows who I am. I am famous! I want to hear you utter my name... say it." I sounded rediculous to myself, I was embarrassed by the charade I was putting both of us through, but it was my only option.
She feigned a flirtatious giggle before answering, "Of course, Yasir- I know your name. You are quite well known here for your kind heart and good deeds."
I started to undress her, leaving the scarf for last- just as I had always dreamt of. The fantasy was ruined by her lack of enthusiasm and obvious distaste for the act of sex. I felt as if I lost my virginity as I raped her of her dignity.
After the act was done I hurriedly dressed, and left her apartment. I didn't bother waiting for the elevator, I catapulted this old, husbandly body down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I willed the tears away from my eyes, I contained the sobs that tried to manifest themselves.
I ran out past the doorman and his family, ignoring his attempt to bid me well. I shoved myself through the market crowds, and I found myself back at the butcher shop.
I saw me sitting on the floor, in the middle of the shop. There were three men standing over me, alternativly fighting with each other, and yelling at me. Relief flooded through, I calmed down, and approached me. I took my arm, pulling myself up, and walked out of the shop. The men yelled out to me, requesting an explanation, to which I replied, "God works in mysterious ways, now leave us be".
(the begining of this story can be found here: http://www.ubersite.com/m/44414)
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-05-05 18:17:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-01-18 23:31:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Seriously, this was friggin' awesome.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-01-18 23:30:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was an awesome story...I liked it a lot better than the first part (though that was pretty good too).
However, what's all this I hear about "it will all make sense if you read the first part"? Bullshit! This story made total sense on its own. Only after I read the first part did I have questions. These questions need answers!
I'll just read the next part when it shows up and figure it out from there...
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-01-18 11:09:21 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Try a vanity press to publish. It'll cost you, but at least you get published. http://www.iuniverse.com is one that most people that I know use.
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2005-01-18 10:14:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
This is what I'm attempting at writing, in book form.
I had to post this little bit to make sure it was liked before I could convince myself it is worth DOING.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-01-18 10:02:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Read the first one (thouroughly this time). It all makes sense now. The possibilities are limitless for a series here.
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2005-01-18 09:48:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice.
You should try submitting your stories to literary magazines. There's a book called "The Writer's Market" that lists various zines and publishers that you can submit your writing to. Check it out.
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2005-01-18 09:46:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Durae- I haven't tried yet, I have no idea how to get published.
Bob- This is actually part 2, if you read that first story (which I linked at the bottom), it will make sense. I was going to link the first part at the top, but I know a lot of people won't read Part Two's, so I got sneaky and just attached it at the end.
Submitted by Feijuada (user info) at 2005-01-18 08:45:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 for having good reviews.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-01-18 08:21:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm a bit confused with what happened at the butcher's shop. Did he "quantum leap" into the husband's body, "morph" into an object of the woman's desire, or enter a delusional state where he thought that he was irresistable, but was actually wronging her?
Submitted by creep_firebombing (user info) at 2005-01-18 07:53:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck sakes. I couldn't come up with stuff as good as you if someone WAS paying me.
Submitted by Durae (user info) at 2005-01-18 01:44:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Have you tried to get published yet?
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-01-17 23:27:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Hey, if there's a solid story here (and there certainly seems to be), I'd pay you to write it.
Of course, my finances are rather low at the moment, so you'd get about $3 a week. Percentage-wise, in terms of my total income/net worth, it's a lot!
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2005-01-17 23:08:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
solid.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:53:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Pre-emptive +2. I'll read it all later.
Back to paying bills....lousy short attention span.
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:53:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Will someone pay me for writing? I mean, hire me as their writer?
I ask this, because the other day I was talking to someone, and he said something along the lines of, "Corinne, you are so smart and interesting and beautiful and capable and worldly, WHAT are you doing working at Best Buy? What do you REALLY want to do??" (he didn't say EXACTLY that, but that doesn't matter... the point is, I was asked "what do you want to be when you grow up?", and I realized that I AM grown up, and I'm not who I want to be).
ahem
Anyway, I want to be a writer. So, someone start paying me.
Submitted by loki (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:44:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:36:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
GAH! DAMN DAMN DAMN
Sorry... Um... shit...
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:36:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Score.
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:31:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nice.
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:30:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked where this took me. You're a wonderful writer.
Submitted by Saxon (user info) at 2005-01-17 22:24:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow damn good read.