THE RAIN MISSED MY FACE AND FELL STRAIGHT TO MY SHOES (PART 3) Aqil comes in to see me one night when I’m working in the kitchen of Café Tangier. I got the job from someone Youssef knows who used to be in the military in Egypt. His father was something like a captain under King Farouk and he had to leave the country with the King during the revolution. Youssef’s friend got me a job serving tables at the Tangier and that was good money. Sometimes I could overcharge tourists, or foreigners who had just arrived in London, by one or two pounds and they wouldn’t notice because they couldn’t read the menu. But I can’t serve in the restaurant any more after the police came and found me and some Hungarian girls working without papers. So I moved to the kitchen. I can still work in the kitchen and probably no one will find me there. That’s what I mean by feeling like a criminal. I’m not doing anything illegal, I’m only trying to make a living. Washing up in a kitchen, my family wouldn’t believe it. That would be a disgrace. That’s why I don’t tell them what I’m doing. I tell them instead that I’m doing fine and I’m happy and making money. I can’t tell them I came to London to become a criminal. When I look at myself, I don’t see a criminal. I don’t see a good man. All I want is to live simply. I don’t want to get rich, suck the money out of this country. No one would believe that, they don’t imagine that at all. I want to tell them “I’m only trying to earn a living. You have to work too- I’m just working.” That’s what it’s like in the kitchen. Aqil comes by to tell me there’s a car coming in from France. His cousin is coming to London for the weekend to meet him and pick up a few days of work building around Holland Park. There are a lot of rich Arabs in Holland Park who pay to have work done. Some of them prefer to have other Arabs working for them. Some people say it’s because they want to give back to the poorer ones in London, to show their appreciation. But I think it’s because they want to be reminded of what things were like for them at home, when they had servants and maids. “We can go with them to Paris. It’s my cousin who moved to Syria, he speaks French.” “What would we do there?” “We could find something else there. My brother can help us find work.” “What kind of work?” “I don’t know. He says it’s better than here.” But I don’t speak French. I don’t know Paris at all. By now I’ve gotten used to where things are in London: where the money is, where there are jobs going and which ones are safe. That takes a lot of time to learn. I stand over the sink, with Aqil next to me hovering like he’s waiting for an answer right now. He’s sitting on the counter and his legs don’t touch the floor. I stop washing and hold my hands down to let some of the soap drip from my fingers. My shirt was white, now it’s grey, spattered with water from the sink. I’m thinking about Paris and what it must look like at night compared to London, if it also has Soho with mini cabs and empty beer cans and girls who look sick and counting the money in the till until midnight. And mothers coming over because they have no money and dying in the city. I hear Aqil’s voice mumbling, but I don’t hear the words clearly. I look over and see his lips moving with the same sound but I don’t hear his voice. I hear the words to an old song, one where the diva sings, “The world is a cigarette and a drink, when people abandon you…” and her voice moans with the floating sound of the strings. Most people would say she means the cigarette and the drink are all you have left. But I always thought she was saying that everywhere you can see chances. Everywhere you see little insignificant things that can comfort you. Maybe it’s a drink or a cigarette or a girl but when everything is lost, you find suddenly there are little pieces everywhere that give you hope, more hope than when things were going well. You can see hope in everything. This is what I’m hearing until Aqil jumps down from the counter and brushes his hands on his trousers. He starts to look apologetic as he turns to walk out of the kitchen. He pauses before the door to say “Youssef is coming with me,” and that’s the sound of the orchestra rising in a crescendo. I know I’ll be alone if I decide not to go with them. I couldn’t stand being alone. I turn to face Aqil and he can see on my face what I’m thinking: that I’m afraid to be alone. That I’m afraid to go to Paris. This is like everything else that controls me. I leave the restaurant early. There aren’t many customers anyway so I’ll finish washing in the morning. I stand in the doorway and I see the rain hitting the pavement in some spots where it’s lit orange by the street lamps. I remember then that I still have a hole in my left shoe, where the sole is split, and if I walk out like this the water’s going to soak through my sock and get my foot wet. I’m feeling sick now, sick in my stomach like I’m hungry or I have a hangover but I can’t get rid of the sensation. Even when I eat something. I’m just sick thinking of what Aqil mentioned. The idea of going to Paris. I buy four cans of cheap beer from the newsagents and I open the first one just as I’m stepping on to the tube to get me out of Stoke Newington and all the way down to south London where I can hide behind the warehouses and factories. My foot is already soaking wet. I wish I could have done something like the man who escaped Egypt with King Farouk. I could be running from something dangerous – that would be honourable. But I’m just running around looking for spare jobs and trying to avoid the police. If I was in exile with the King, no one would look at me like I was a criminal. I could say “I did it for my country,” or “I did it for my King,” and it would be glorious. English people would understand that’s something you have to do, to save your King, and that would be a good reason to be on the run or to be afraid all the time. That would be a good reason to hide my money and buy four cans of beer every once in a while and drink them on my own. Or a good reason to bring your mother over and watch her die, because that’s how people in exile have to live. My family could be angry at me but they couldn’t be ashamed of me because everyone would know I did it for my country first, and I was willing to die for my country. But I didn’t die and I escaped to London. That’s my fantasy. I’m still feeling sick on the tube, and people are watching me now drinking my beer and still wearing my dirty clothes from work. In front of me is a girl sleeping with her head resting on the glass. I can still see the oil from other peoples’ hair smeared on the glass but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. She’s very young, the girl, and starting to look pretty. I scratch my back through my shirt. Then I have to reach under my shirt to scratch the skin properly, with my nails. The girl opens her eyes while I’m still looking at her, but I forget to smile. She quickly shuts her eyes again, pretending to sleep. I don’t know what else to say to her, except “I had to escape from the revolution. They were going to kill me if I didn’t escape because I wanted to save my King. Because I love my King.” I only say that because I’m a little drunk by now. Otherwise it’s just my own fantasy. © Saeed Taji Farouky 2006 Return to writing & journalism
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