“So why are Russian women so easy?”
I blink helplessly.
“European girls too,” Ahmed explains, “but the Russians… When I heard you were from Russia I thought…”
Hurghada, frequented by Russians, is very near to Luxor. But in order to find out about Russians’ behavior in other countries you don’t have to go to where they are as their fame extends far and wide.
Later, in Luxor, I notice the special reaction to the mention of my homeland. Once I even asked a riddle:
“I’m not going to tell you where I’m from. But I’m from a country whose women are known to behave pretty badly when they come here.”
“I think I know where you’re from,” the Arab answered. “Are you from Russia?”
On the way from the souvenir shop I am once again attacked from all sides by all sorts of offers. The most tempting of them is to go down the Nile on a felucca, a small sailboat. And even though money is very tight I can’t resist the temptation and agree, won over by the discount.
But when I find myself in the felucca with the boatman, the price rises from ten pounds to forty.
“Ten pounds is the price if you can find three more passengers,” the swindler explains raising his eyebrows naively.
Angry, I leave. But I swiftly get caught again by another tempting offer.
“Khamstashara ginei? — Fifteen pounds?” I ask the twenty-year-old boatman for the fifth time.
And he answers for the fifth time:
“Aiva. — Yes.”
“And you won’t ask for more afterwards?” I finally ask him directly, in English.
“No.”
One-thirty p.m. I note the time so that the boatman will take me for a whole hour and not skimp.
Four-thirty p.m… I hang from the boat with my hand trailing in the cool transparent water.
“Look,” Ali points at a brown object floating nearby. “It’s a crocodile.” I don’t have time to be afraid before he starts laughing, showing an even row of white teeth, a bright patch highlighted against his darkly tanned face.
“They’re just palm branches.”
I splash water at him and laugh along with him.
He’s twenty-three and has a fiancée whom he’s known since early childhood. Their parents agreed a long time ago that their children would marry when they grew up. Now he just has to pile up some money and he’ll be good to go.
We sail to the opposite bank and go to find something to eat. Ali won’t let me pay for the kosheri but I treat him to some tea. We can’t stop chatting. I feel like I live in this city and that I just went off this morning with my older brother to work — taking tourists around on our family felucca. And that for some reason there aren’t any tourists right now so we enjoy our time together, just the two of us, having fun, joking and chatting. We splash each other and fearlessly swim around in the Nile. What do we have to fear when we’ve grown up on these riverbanks? This river is our homeland, it has watched over my whole life, and I am dear to it. How could it be otherwise when I have seen myself in it every time I look into the water to see directly into its eyes. When evening comes we return home. Mama feeds us foul, and I help her feed the animals and mix up the bread dough for tomorrow. I walk down to the river to get water, fill the clay water-jars to the brim; when I tire I dip a mug into these same water-jars drinking down huge gulps of the fresh water with its familiar dear scent, and then I go to bed. Today has been a good day.
On the threshold of Africa. Aswan
Ali tries to convince me to stay:
“Where are you going to go so late at night? Stay, you can leave tomorrow.”
“No, I’m going now. If I have to I’ll sleep somewhere on the way.”
For some reason I really want to go to Aswan right now. I head off towards the exit from the city. Luxor disappears along with the last rays of the sun. In the darkness mixed with the light of streetlamps I stand on the main road that leads to Aswan, Egypt’s southernmost city. There aren’t any roads that go further, just the water-route to Sudan.
Will I manage to cross any distance at all today? Will I manage to find a warm place to sleep? There’s nothing to do but once again, for the umpteenth time, to hand over my whole life into the hands of He Whom I trust implicitly.
An empty tour bus delivered me to Aswan at three a.m. Lucky for the policemen, this bus was driving past their post and generously agreed to take me along for free. Otherwise these guardians of public order, shocked by my appearance, would have had to let me get into some other random car since I categorically refused to go back to Luxor.
Aswan greets me with a warm southern night as if the true Africa were pressing me to her breast. Despite the late hour the streets are filled with people and the souvenir shops are open. I’m surprised, though this suits me. Where better to look for a place to stay than among people? I go down one of the main streets, walking past the cheery souvenir kiosks.
“Hello, hello!” a young Arab shopkeeper hails me.
This time I won’t try to avoid conversation. I’m right: a stool and a glass of hot tea are quickly produced for me. A few of the merchants, mainly young guys, crowd around me, asking questions and expressing surprise. One of them is already offering a present: a little scarab-beetle, one of the symbols of Egypt.
“Where will you spend the night?” asks the guy who first noticed me.
“In some cheap hotel,” I answer, seeing that none of my “admirers” have thought to invite me home, or are just shy.
The same Egyptian, very forthcoming, offers to accompany me. One hotel turns out to be closed and we go into another one.
“Hello, you are looking for a room?” The employee sitting behind the desk quickly gets down to business when he sees me. Another young, rather well-fed Arab stands next to him, elbows on the desk.
“Yes, I want your cheapest room.”
“Of course, forty pounds.”
“Oh, no, I’d like a room for fifteen.”
“We don’t have rooms for fifteen,” the well-fed Egyptian butts in; he is evidently the boss. The man behind the desk falls silent.
“But I will only take a room for fifteen,” I shrug.
“All right, we’ll give you one for thirty with no shower.”
“But I’ll only take one for fifteen,” I start putting on my backpack.
“My last offer — twenty.”
“I only have fifteen pounds.”
“I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
I turn towards the stair and my astonished companion follows me.
In the stairwell the fat guy chases me down with a serious, somewhat angry expression on his face, although he began the conversation calmly and wasn’t at all desperate to keep his customer.
“But where are you going? You won’t find anything cheaper!”
“Well, I’ll spend the night somewhere else.”
“Where?!”
“Well, probably in somebody’s house.”
“Whose?!” He is really surprised.
“Well, your place, for instance.”
The guy stares at me wide-eyed.
“Well, OK,” he says finally.
Now it’s my turn to be silent.
“Only, don’t get any ideas,” I decide to make myself clear. “I just need a place to stay, and that’s it.”
“I’ll give you a room,” he says and directs me down the hallway to one of the hotel rooms. “Here.”
It’s a little room with a bed, bedside table, dresser, shower and toilet.
“Oh, well, I feel bad, I’ll give you fifteen pounds all the same.”
We’re sitting in the dining room. Right now no one else is around. The young manager still hasn’t managed to overcome his amazement.