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Authors: Sandor Jaszberenyi

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“OK. Anything else?”

“Yes. Take that ring off.”

“Will do.”

I had grown a serious beard since the turbulence broke out; I couldn’t be bothered to shave, and there was nobody to tell me it irritated them. I gazed at myself for a while in the mirror before turning on the warm water and soaping up my face. I noticed the ring on my finger as I shaved off the first swath of lather. I gave it a pull. Indeed, it was still stuck tight. I picked up the soap again and began rubbing my finger. I grabbed the ring and began to tug, but it wouldn’t come off. I had to go to the kitchen for a knife, and used that to get some soap between the skin and the gold—only after this did it slip from my finger, leaving a green stain in its place.

The Ramses Hilton was the most expensive hotel in town, and I couldn’t really afford it. Still, I took a taxi from Dokki all the way to the 6th October Bridge. I tried to pay the driver extra money to take me all the way, but he was afraid of the demonstrators. I would have to walk, though in this neighborhood there was still no fighting. Both Tahrir Square and Mohamed Mahmoud Street were cordoned off.

There weren’t any bellboys by the entrance due to the tear gas. Other than that, the hotel continued its business undisturbed. The guests here were primarily parachute journalists. They all occupied the rooms facing the square. With a good lens and use of the hotel’s stable Internet connection, they could read from cue cards and broadcast live without ever having to go down into the fray.

From the tinted top-floor windows I could see the entire city on both sides of the Nile. Downtown was dark; from the twenty-fourth floor the burning barricades down on the street appeared like small dots of light, though the sound didn’t reach that high.

The restaurant was totally empty. I took a table by the window and looked at my watch: it was nine o’clock; I was right on time. The waiter brought me a menu.

“Dining alone tonight, sir?”

“No, I am waiting for somebody.”

“Very good. Shall I bring you a drink?”

“A bottle of cabernet.”

“Egyptian?”

“Please.”

Omar Khayyam was the only cabernet sauvignon in the country, and I knew I would pay a minimum of 200 Egyptian pounds for it at hotel prices. The waiter left. I reached into my jacket pocket, took out the lens Sahra had asked for, and placed it
on the table. Out of boredom I scanned the Twitter feed on my cell and retweeted a government official’s statement on the news about the country’s economic affairs. The waiter came back with the wine, poured a little in my glass, and waited while I tasted it. I checked the time: Sahra was already twenty minutes late. I tipped back the wine and let him fill the glass. I continued to browse the news networks. The fighting around the country had intensified, at least according to Twitter. Young men had been bussed in and paid to attack the crowds with rocks and sticks.

I spent another twenty minutes like this. The waiter watched me from the bar. I refilled my glass, then looked up Sahra’s number and dialed. It didn’t ring. Instead a female voice informed me in Arabic that the phone was turned off, but they would send a text message alerting her that I had called. I tried several times more, but it didn’t ring once. I drank another glass of wine. The waiter approached.

“Excuse me, sir, but theoretically the kitchen closes at ten. I can ask the chef to wait, however.”

“No worries. I don’t think she’s coming.”

“There is a revolution. It’s possible she couldn’t get into the city center.”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you care to dine?”

“No. Just the check please.”

“As you wish.”

I phoned one final time, again to no avail. I paid for the wine and rose from the table. I had to wait for the elevator; the fires were burning below, flaring up, then calming. Out on the street the wind was strong: my coat fluttered like a black flag as I crossed the bridge. On Twitter I read that the hired thugs were also attacking journalists; two Polish reporters and a German photographer had been killed. The next morning the Ministry of Health confirmed the story.

*
Translated from the German by Gabriel Charles Rosetti

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sándor Jászberényi
(pronounced
shahn-door yahs-beh-ray-nyee
) is a writer and has worked as a foreign correspondent in the Middle East and Africa for leading Hungarian newspapers, and has contributed reporting to the
New York Times
and the
Egypt Independent.
He has covered the revolutions in Egypt and Libya, the Gaza War, the Darfur crisis, and the conflict with Islamic State—interviewing armed Islamic groups in the process—and has also reported on the war in Ukraine. His first collection of short stories,
Az ördög egy fekete kutya
(
The Devil Is a Black
Dog
), was published in 2013 in Hungary (Kalligram) and forthcoming in Italian (Edizioni Anfora) and other languages. Jászberényi divides his time between Cairo, Egypt, and Budapest, Hungary. His stories and poems have been published in English in
AGNI
, the
Brooklyn Rail
,
BodyLiterature.com
, and
Pilvax.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

M. Henderson Ellis
is the author of
Keeping Bedlam at Bay in the Prague Café
and
Petra K and the Blackhearts
(both New Europe Books). A Chicago native and graduate of Bennington College, he lives in Budapest, Hungary, and edits fiction and nonfiction at
wordpillediting.com
.

BOOK: The Devil Is a Black Dog
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