Dust Hustlers of the City of Gold

Cairo, which has more than 300,000 inhabitants, has the most villainous population in the world.

– Napolen Bonaparte, 1799

When the driver reaches our destination, I want you to hold your passport in your teeth and run out of the car with your hands raised, yelling “don’t shoot!, don’t shoot!, I am on the VIP list!” I’m kidding!, of course, Vic says, there is no VIP list. He laughs from the front seat where his hands & knees are braced against the dashboard. The taxi appears to be swimming upstream against waves of automobiles, motorbikes and donkey carts. At the airport, Vic prescribed a Xanax with a swig from his flask of arak anise brandy and now, thirty minutes later, it is impossible to tell if his recommended medication is helping ease things along or spinning them ever more dangerously out-of-control. 

Here’s what’s going to happen, Vic says while half-turned towards the backseat. When we get to the Ritz, our driver Mahmoud will triple our agreed-upon cab-fare. I’m going to call him a liar, a cheat & a terrible merger-into-trafficker. I mean, use a blinker, bud. Then Mahmoud’s going to announce a blood feud between his house and yours, but this is okay, because you bought the blood feud-free travel visa. Besides, you’re wearing the disguise I gave you. Okay, I can see the Ritz up ahead on the Corniche. Curb’s approaching. Scoot over to starboard side and put your hand on the door handle, Vic says. Now!, now is your chance!, open the door and run towards the hotel security at the gate!

The cracked sidewalk resembles something picked-up and dropped. Above, heavenly lights of the hotel are suggestive of salvation but between here & there is a massive wall decorated with barbed wire. Vampiric figures slither within the shadows this side of the wall. Where are you from?, they ask. America? Deutschland? Viva Frances? Come with me, they say, I have special treasures. Just look. One look. Come, please…

Where is security? Where is Vic? The taxi still idles, rattling, with one wheel on the curb. The passenger door swings open and Vic bursts free with a eyes as full of fear as he is of arak. The taxi driver exits from his door and is yelling at Vic in guttural Arabic as frenzied traffic whips past on the Corniche with horns blaring. Hotel security in cardigans & berets arrives, recognizing Victor Neverman, or at least his foreign nationality, and take control of the scene, yelling Arabic at the driver. Their words are indecipherable, but their intention is clear: this offensive effendi is under their protection. Mahmoud realizes his cause is lost and drives away with a final curse. Relieved, Vic shakes hands with each of the security men, palming each a fold of local currency. Shakran, shakran, as-salam alaikum, he says. The money he gives them is far more Egyptian Pounds than he recently refused the taxi driver, but Vic is a man of principle. These security guards earned the baksheesh. 

We are guests of Francis Wilbury, Vic says to the gatekeepers. And friends of the mighty Khalid al-Bātin!, he adds. Access is granted. Vic turns with his back to the entrance and holds his arms wide as a sign of welcome. Welcome to Cairo!, he says. There’s a reason I didn’t say those words until we reached the Ritz. Because we were not welcome. Not out there, we weren’t. But here, he says, it is different. As he speaks, Vic walks backwards in his desert boots and linen suit, his hands still trembling with adrenaline. There are 10 million people in the city of Cairo…, Vic says as he walks under the date palms towards the porte-cochère. Are we deserving enough to be amongst the few who can experience the luxury of the Ritz-Carlton? Of course not. But here’s what you must realize about Cairo, he says as he points back to the Corniche. The Cairenes do not wear seatbelts when they drive through the chaos of the streets, do they? No, because what is the point when the gods have ultimately already decided their fate? Maktoub!, it is written! Well, those gods could have easily struck us down in the streets, couldn’t they? There were plenty of opportunities to smite us where we stood. And yet our lives are spared. Unsmitten. You see, the way I justify our privilege is those neighborhood gods must want this gin & tonic just as desperately as we do. 

Mister Victor, the doorman smiles, Khalid told us of your coming. He says you will find your friends in the hotel lounge. Excellent, thank you, Vic says, palming more baksheesh before leading the way into the grand lobby of the Ritz. The crowd within is stiff in formal attire. Black jackets & sequined gowns. Vic is in his disheveled suit of off-white linens with shin-stains of splashed puddle, ass-stains of leaned-against filth, collar-stains of Turkish coffee grinds and a beard which wanders as a mangrove forest across the weathered landscape of his sun-ripened face. Vic is oblivious with how out-of-place he is, which is nothing new. Vic finds himself at home any & everywhere because he believes himself to be a man of two worlds: that of the rogues & that of the establishment. But Vic Neverman does not quite belong to either. Best not tell him. 

Quite the worldly jet-set crowd, Vic says. When the United Nations decided to hold a conference to discuss slowing the collapse of civilization, of course they decided to throw the party within the decay of Ancient Egypt. Look around the lobby and you’ll see the ebb & flow of globalists, urbanists, not-in-my-backyarders and certainly a few high-priced hookers. There’s going to be some Emirati bankers lurking around. They own much of Egypt these days. Saudi construction companies are here, competing with the Chinese for African infrastructure contracts. Building castles in the sand, roads to nowhere, new cities no one will live in. The staff working the crowd are on multiple payrolls. From the whirling dervishes to the waiters, they are all likely sniffing keyholes for MI-6, reading lips for the Mossad, eavesdropping for the CIA, sending homing pigeons to the Muslim Brotherhood only to be intercepted by Qatari falconers. Everyone is doing the hustle. For tonight, the Cairo Ritz-Carlton is at the heart of international intrigue! Who am I working for?, ha! I am still shopping around my gathered intelligence, he jokes, but I have made inroads with a representative of the Azerbaijani Embassy… 

The casino you will find beyond the front desk, Vic points the way. That is where they have the ATM, naturally. Upstairs is the Italian restaurant. Best choice of wines in the city. Out the back in the garden is the Lebanese restaurant. You must try the sayadieh. And here we have the hotel lounge. Word to the wise?, he says. Don’t shun the local well liquor. Egyptians might not partake in alcohol, but they’ve learned the best way to undermine western occupying forces, from the Romans to the French to the Brits, is find ways to get them drunk through locally distilled spirits. Compare the price of the imported gin. A shot of Hendricks goes for around $30 USD. Meanwhile, the Nile-flavored bathtub rotgut is $2 for the same pour. Vic turns to the bar to order two gins & tonic. Local gin. He asks, what’s a little temporary blindness? Might offer us unique perspective.

Francis Wilbury emerges from the rabble. An American diplomat with an eye for style, he wears a dapper suit and a subtle cologne. Vic!, buddy, how was Alex?, Francis inquires. Salty, Vic says. The Mediterranean air did me good. I went into the subterranean catacombs looking for the tomb of Cleopatra and unintentionally interrupted an initiation ceremony of a serpent-worshipping cult. I claimed to be Richard Burton reincarnate and they allowed me to leave after signing an NDA and giving them the rest of my falafel sandwich. Tell you what, though, dude, I have been back in Cairo only an hour and my lungs have already been re-corrupted breathing-in the hyena-scat-scented desert sand. Yeah… I’d rather be back in Alexandria. 

How’s the conference?, Vic asks. Good!, Francis says. Or shall I say as good as could be expected. There is an underlying dread of too little too late. I’m preaching positivity, starting now we must work together, so on, but I’m preaching without a choir. American involvement at the conference is minimal. Even then it is cynical. The world is trending isolationist. And I am viewed as the manifestation of American greed regardless of my message. Ergo: yes, the conference is going as good as could be expected. 

Francis becomes distracted in the near distance. I am being summoned, he says. Let me find you later. As the diplomat departs, Vic explains, Frank’s a prince among thieves. Trying to play the game when no one else is abiding by the rules. Watch now, these jackals who approach. Grover and Wilhelmina Bonneville. Americans who treat the fall of mankind as a spectator sport. Grover, the corpulent man in the ferret toupee, made his fortune selling opium to the Chinese before turning around and arming the Boxer Rebellion. They look young because they bathe in the blood of virgin starfish and have had more face work than the Sphinx. They were formerly married even though they have three grandparents in common. Wilhelmina is in the gown which looks like a rosebud vomitted itself inside-out. Look at the way she bats her eyes at every Tom, Dick and Horus in the room. She’s not going home with Grover tonight! Ha!

Victor!, Grover Bonneville says without offering a handshake. He’s dressed in a tuxedo with a struggling cummerbund, waving around his champagne flute as if he were constantly mid-toast. Grover says to Vic, you appear to have gone native, hmm? You belong to the desert! 

Oh leave him be, Grover, Wilhelmina says with a forced laugh. Can’t you see?, Victor is an immersive tourist, she says. Monkey pee, monkey poo, as they say. Vic, she says with a faux sincerity, we were going to take this party to the garden. You and your friend must join us. Grover do refreshen our glasses, would you?  

Grover waves over a waiter to ask for the bill, but first two more champagnes and… Vic what are you two drinking? Vic turns to the waiter and says, gins & tonic. Doubles. Hendricks, please. Thanks, Grover.

We went next door to the Egyptian Museum today, Wilhelmina says. Truly do not understand what all the fuss is. 5,000 years of civilization and the national dish is stuffed pigeon? 

Civilization isn’t linear is it, dear?, Grover Bonneville says. Even the United Nations knows we’re on the downturn. But I do believe this entire brouhaha is misdirected. Hmm? There is no money in saving civilization. Where is the money…?, Grover teases, hmm?, it is in salvaging civilization. This is the lesson to learn. There’s an ancient Egyptian obelisk in New York’s Central Park. Does that sound like America’s interested in saving Ancient Egypt? Or salvaging a bit for ourselves?

The gins & champagne have arrive. Vic says, not a moment too soon.

Wilhelmina proposes a toast by raising her champagne flute, saying, I’ve always thought Shelley’s words best captured the spectacle of Egypt. Darling, would you do the honors?

Grover Bonneville appeases his cousin-ex-wife by reciting a portion of the poem by Percy Blysshe Shelley: 

Bravo!, Wilhelmina clinks her fingernails against her champagne flute. Bravo. Encapsulates Egypt nicely, doesn’t it? Colossal wreck, indeed!

Vic’s courteous smile is barely visible behind his beard. Vic says, yeah, except Shelley never set foot in Egypt. “Ozymandias” is a name only used by Europeans for Ramses II. If you want a Shelley explanation for Egypt, look to his wife Mary’s work of Frankenstein. Just in the last two thousand years, Egypt has been ruled by Ptolemaic Macedonians, Romans, Arabs via Islamic Conquest, Circassian Mamelukes, Ottoman Turks, and British & American military overseers. Egypt is an unwilling collaboration of pieces, much like Frankenstein’s monster. 

Disinterested, Wilhelmina and Grover have already turned to lead the way to the garden when Vic cries out, Oh look!, it’s the Azerbaijanis! I’ve been meaning to swing by their embassy. Azerbaijan?, Grover chuckles. Now there is an idea for a country: Russia, but Muslim. I think I’ll take a raincheck!, hmm? Vic nods, saying, do excuse us, will you? Vic waves goodbye and leans-in to confide as he walks away. I didn’t see the Azerbaijanis, Vic says. I just wanted an excuse to take our gins and leave. But if you do see the Azerbaijanis, give the signal. Bark like a seal or throw an olive at my head. The woman I mentioned working at the embassy is Afiyat. You’ll know her if you see her and if you see her, throw two olives at my head. Don’t get too close though. She could suck your heart out through your earhole with a lingering whisper.

Vic opens a door to the pool deck and heads in the direction of music. A makeshift stage is facing the pool bar where dozens of tables are gathered to watch a performance of musicians and dancers. There is an oboe and other stringed instruments playing with the percussion of the dancers who are equipped with massive sticks. Tahtib, Vic says, it is an Egyptian martial art. Over here!, Vic says and guides the way to a table where hotel guests are seated. A dancer has approached the table and given his stick to Francis Wilbury who is expertly swinging the long pole over his head. Vic laughs, you can tell Frank is a couple martinis deep! Look at that coordination. Vic avoids the swing of the stick as he carefully pulls out two chairs at the table. Beside Francis is a woman covering her face in shame at Francis’ continued baton twirling. Vic introduces her as Deidre, a Canadian consulate attache. She flinches until Francis hands back the pole to the dancer. 

Vic twists either way to look for a waiter, but most of the staff are coal-mongers in heavy aprons tending to the hookahs stationed at every table. Vic asks, would you like to switch things up? Stella is the most popular domestic beer. Without it, the Allied forces in North Africa would’ve never pushed back the advance of Rommel and we’d all be speaking German right now. 

Deidre leans-over to speak with Vic, saying, Khalid said you created quite the stir at the hotel gates this evening. Khalid?, where is that dude?, Vic asks. He turns away from the Canadian to explain, Khalid is everywhere and nowhere. Frank says Khalid is a cigarette-smoking Sufi. A mystic. Frank says he once saw Khalid swallow a live scorpion whole. Turning back to Deidre, Vic says, Khalid is being overly dramatic. It was typical dealings with a Cairene driver. You know, Napoleon said Cairo has some of the most villainous people in the world? Mahmoud must have picked him up the airport too. It’s the mule-driver mentality of these cab drivers. Same with the conmen, those pickpockets waiting outside hotels, the papyrus sellers, snake-charmers, black market antiquity dealers. All of them doing the dust hustle. Vultures above, cobras below. I swear, extortion of foreigners must be Egypt’s number one export behind cotton and King Tut refrigerator magnets. 

Do stop, Victor!, Deidre pleads. You’re sounding like Grover! 

Gross, Vic says. Apologies. I will admit, for every seven villains like Mahmoud there is a real saint. Like Khalid al-Bātin. Where is our friend?

As the show concludes, Vic suggests a nightcap on the roof. He leads the way off the pool deck, back through the lounge and lobby to the elevator doors. The great halls of the hotel are still busy at this late hour. Vic says, night is no time to sleep. Not for Egyptians. It’s the only way to live away from the heat. Not to  mention they are all too stimulated to quit now. Did you see all the young Egyptians at the pool deck, sucking their shisha-pipes and drinking coffee? They won’t sleep until next week, Vic says. 

On the top floor of the Ritz is a nightclub with access to the rooftop. Arab businessmen dressed in either Italian suits or galabiyas sit before the stage where dancers perform to traditional Egyptian music. Vic orders a bottle of Egyptian red wine and finds a table outside overlooking the Nile River. There in the distance is Giza, Vic says, and on a rare clear day, you can see the silhouette of the Great Pyramid of Khufu. You should be here at sunset, he says. Cairo becomes golden. I mean, it’s all the jackal shit & dirt held aloft by the smog that reflects the light of the low sun, but the city becomes gold nevertheless. On the other side of the building you can see the old museum and Tahrir Square. Imagine watching the entire Arab Spring play out while sipping $60 double-gins & tonic. Follow the Nile a couple blocks south and you’ll find the infamous Shepheard’s Hotel, home of the Suffering Bastard cocktail. It is where the British officers would congregate during their occupations. The joke during the second world war was General Rommel, the “desert fox”, had run out of Rumple Minze in Libya and was launching an Axis tank invasion of Egypt and wouldn’t stop until the Shepheard’s Hotel hoisted a Nazi flag. Fuck that guy. The Allies stopped him. Churchill has said the Allies never had a victory until Rommel was stopped at El Alamein. After El Alamein, the Allies never had a defeat. 

Vic is the one who appears defeated. As he looks out over the city, his body slumps as if his bones have melted away. After a couple glances over his shoulder back at the club, Vic sighs and asks, what do you say we take this wine elsewhere? One of those bellydancers looks like Mahmoud in disguise and I’m getting nervous sitting so close to the roof’s edge.