Being Abbas el Abd by Ahmed Alaidy

Author:Ahmed Alaidy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2006-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Don’t believe her.

She’ll bury her talons in the flesh of your back and make off with your exhausted mind.

This is the truth in all its cruelty, so do as you damn well please.

“WHAT EXACTLY IS GOING ON??”

says Hind as she appears over my shoulder, and the other Hind says: “Who’s this?”

“Let me introduce you.”

I indicate each to the other simultaneously, saying: “Hind.”

So they both say, at the same time: “And what’s your name?”

And they answer as one: “Hind.”

If this were a silent cartoon, there’d be a ? over their heads in a shared “thinks” balloon.

The misunderstanding lasts for several moments and then the Hind who dubs herself in English says: “I’m Hind el Ghazali… . And what’s your name?”

“Hind el Sabalibi.”

The perfect weird name for what you get given by someone whose hobby is incapacitating lizards.

I point to el Sabalibi and address myself to the other one: “Hind’s a colleague of mine at work.”

Then I point my open hand towards the el Ghazali broad and direct my words in the opposite direction: “The Hind I’ve been telling you about,” I say, appending a warning look. Hind el Ghazali says to Hind el Sabalibi: “So what do think of what he’s been telling you about me??”

“I swear, sister, men ought to be doused with dirty kerosene and set fire to, like on a holiday or whatever.”

Hind el Ghazali shoots me a glance of appeal and says in a what-the-hell’s-going-on kind of voice: “Absolutely. You’re so right.”

“Sure. I tell it the way I see it and no beating about the bush.

Like the proverb says, ‘Forget the toy-boy, just get the toy.” “You think so??”

“Sure. Everyone knows that. So anyway, what are you going to do about him?”

I interrupt.

“Okay, Hind. That’s enough.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Wait for me downstairs. This won’t do,” and I give her breasts a meaningful look till she understands and says: “Aaaah! Sorry! I’ll be waiting for you downstairs then,” and she turns to the other Hind and kisses her (Mwah! Mwah!) and whispers to her commiseratingly: “Filthy bastards!”

I watch her descent. Meanwhile Hind el Ghazali is pulling her leather bag off the back of the seat.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going where I’m going. What business is it of yours?”

I sprawl on the neighboring seat, make a gesture with my arm feigning indifference, and say: “I was wrong to think of telling you about how you could screw him then.”

Just tell any female there’s a weak point, a chink in the wall through which to get at the person who done her wrong, then leave her to think about it.

She comes to a standstill right where she is and says: “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Let it go. It’s not important.”

“Are you going to talk or shall I go?” Ah well, if you insist.

I ask her: “Where does he call you from?”

“From the street, or on his cell phone.”

“So there you are. You just said it.”

“I don’t understand a thing.”

As she says this she’s sitting down.

“It’s obvious my friend isn’t pulling this trick just on you.

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