Glass Collector (12 page)

“Did you leave the side door open?” someone says in a sharp, loud voice.

Aaron races for the wooden door. It’s locked tight. In a panic, he swings the bag over his shoulder and, heart thumping, flies into the corridor, where two men in builders’ overalls flinch in shock. Startled out of their wits, they press tight against the walls as he thunders past and out of the door.

“He’s just a kid,” one of them says.

With bottles clanking in his pockets and the brass lamp rattling in the bag like a door knocker, Aaron breaks out in sweat all over and soon the spot on his back where the rug heats his skin through the plastic is sopping wet. Taxis and brown bendy buses stream past carrying workers. Coffee and
shisha
bars are opening their doors and people are flinging last night’s rubbish in the street. Having stolen so much, Aaron keeps on running until he reaches Tahrir Square, the home of the Egyptian Museum. The gates are locked. The wooden box on the right where the tourists queue for tour guides is shuttered tight. The courtyard is empty.

Aaron pauses at the locked gates. He’s been in the museum three times. Twice with the Mokattam school when he was very young, and once when a tourist took pity on him and bought him a ticket. Each time he stepped inside he was shocked by the amount of stuff there and by the fact that there was a man in every room just watching the visitors to make sure they didn’t touch anything. Aaron shakes his head at the idea of such a lucky, easy job as he hurries past the high black railings and down a side road toward a shop that sells things he hopes the owner will want to buy from him.

Aaron drops his bag outside the shop window, which is crammed with racks of cartouches, silver ankhs, turquoise scarabs, rings, old books, framed prints, and bright scarves. A smell of coriander drifts from the restaurant next door as Aaron peers through layers of souvenirs at rugs dangling from the ceiling and pierced brass lamps with white tickets stuck to their sides. Try as he might, he can’t make out the prices and is about to give up when the owner arrives in a smart black suit, swinging a bunch of rattling keys.

“Don’t beg outside my shop,” he says firmly but with a kind smile.

“I wasn’t.” Aaron’s pleased to see him. “I’ve got things you’ll want to buy.”

Ripping open the plastic bag, Aaron drags out the silvery-gray rug and the brass lamp with its tangled lead.

“Where did you get them from?” The owner nods. “And don’t lie. I can see who you are by the quarry dust on your skin.”

The dust always gives him away.

“My grandmother needs to sell them,” he lies.

Omar’s words flood into his mind as he speaks: “Think about what you’re doing and whether you’re adding or taking away from your own soul when you steal my glass.” Leaning into the shadow of the doorway, out of nowhere, the thought comes to Aaron that he’d now rather take these things back than sell them to this man.

The bottles feel heavier than life itself in his pockets and all the energy drains from him, as if someone’s pulled a plug from his spine. He doesn’t want to be this greedy, desperate person who steals, lies, and begs. The person he is isn’t someone he wants to be. Aaron can see his own reflection in the man’s eyes. What he’s missing is a feeling that rugs, lamps, houses, cars, gold, and diamonds can’t make up for.

Rachel wouldn’t want him if she knew what he was really like. With the glare of the rising sun blasting his face like bullets from a gun, Aaron admits, “I stole them,” and swings the bag onto his shoulder.

“OK, so I’ll give you a hundred and fifty piastres.”

It’s not a great fortune. It’s not to be sniffed at either, but Aaron isn’t moved by the thought of that amount of money. “Nah. No thanks.”

Aaron turns away from the shadowy doorway. For the first time in his life, he knows what to do and it eclipses the need to make money from selling stolen goods. Walking back toward the museum, his steps are lighter, even though he’s sure God’s laughing in his ear. But the truth of that doesn’t bother him as he crosses the road and heads back to the perfume shop. Something deep inside him lifts and the thought racing around his head is that now—yes, now—Rachel has a reason to be proud of him. Omar will be pleased too that he’s going to give back the stolen stuff.

There’s nobody inside the shop except the tall, thin assistant, who’s shuffling papers beside the cash register. Going a ghostly shade of white, he stares at Aaron, scared he’s going to get clobbered with the bag. As he moves a step back, his round glasses slide down his nose. It takes a second for Aaron to drop the awkward-shaped bag and empty it on the polished tiles.

“Get out! Get out!” the assistant cries, springing to life. He grabs Aaron by the scruff of the neck and tosses him out of the shop. “Don’t come back or I’ll call the police.”

Aaron has no choice but to run for it as a small crowd gathers to see what’s going on. A woman pushing a sick man in a wheelchair gives him a filthy look as he charges past, with the sound of bottles clinking away in his pockets.
The perfumes … He didn’t get the chance to give the perfumes back
.

Schoolkids in navy uniforms swiftly cross the road in front of him as he weaves through their polite stares toward the safety of the alleys on Sadat Street. Their neat clothes and shiny skin bring a sudden freshness to the dirty street as Aaron puffs to a stop beside a souvenir stand. A rack of stuffed cloth camels greets him. Chewing on a piece of flatbread, the suspicious owner pokes his head between them and narrows his eyes.

“Do you want to buy some perfume?” Aaron takes one of the gold-netted rose bottles from his pocket and offers it to him.

The man takes the bottle and sniffs the stopper. “My wife has many perfumes.”

“And your girlfriend?” Aaron has seen this man chatting up every woman in Cairo. “What about her?”

“Ha-ha.” He can’t stop laughing, but the flattery has worked and he digs in his pocket for a couple of notes.

“It’s worth more.” Aaron reaches for the bottle.

“OK. OK.” The man’s face collapses as he hands him another note.

Now there’s enough money for Aaron to fill his face with a shawarma kebab and buy some for the family.

He heads for a pavement café. With the smell of roasting meat, onions, spices, peppers, and lemons drifting from the ovens, Aaron leans against the wall to eat his kebab. A plastic bag of meat-filled pitas sits at his feet. Yes, he thinks, he should have given the perfumes back too, but then he wouldn’t be eating this delicious kebab, would he? And he was going to give them to the shop assistant, but he didn’t let him, so his conscience is clear, which makes the kebab taste even better … for a moment. Despite Aaron’s best efforts, though, there’s a nagging feeling inside that he shouldn’t have five bottles of expensive oils in his pockets. Where’s he going to hide them? There’s no room left in the hole in the corner beside the wall. Perhaps he should try to sell them to passersby?

Wiping fatty kebab juices from his lips, Aaron takes the other rose-colored bottle from his pocket. He sniffs the rich scent, which is now mixed with the strong smell of onions on his fingers. To get rid of the onion smell, he rubs his hand on his dusty jeans and thrusts the bottle at a veiled woman with beautiful eyes.

“Very cheap price.”

She shakes her head and hurries past. An hour later Aaron’s still leaning against the prickly wall, offering the same bottle to everyone in his path, but by now the rose bottle is covered in grease stains from his filthy hands and looks cheap and nasty, despite the gold netting.

Clutching the plastic bag of kebabs, Aaron’s relieved to get a lift home to Mokattam on the Mebaj brothers’ cart. As he gazes at the dozens of desperate families clearing and sorting garbage, even the foul smell of rotting vegetables and rat-infested hovels is a tonic after the stress of trying to sell perfume on the hot, noisy streets of Cairo. Seeing all those people rushing everywhere has given him a headache. At least it’s quiet in Mokattam. Quiet until Shareen starts screaming. “Stop it. Go away!” Slumped on a pile of paper, she’s yelling at Lijah, who’s leaning over her with a cheeky grin on his face.

“Come off it. Everyone knows you’d rather be with me than with Daniel.”

Lijah presses his face closer to Shareen and cracks up laughing when she elbows him in the stomach.

“Try again,” he squeaks, doubled up. “That didn’t hurt.”

“Tell him to leave me alone,” Shareen calls to Joseph as Aaron jumps from the cart, swinging the bag of kebabs. But Joseph grins at his brother and they look at Lijah with an eerie respect as the pony clops past them.

“I’ve got the best kebabs,” Aaron says, hoping the food will tempt Lijah to stop tormenting Shareen.

“Have you got a spare one for me?” Abe appears from behind, kicking his ball in the air.

“You can have half of mine,” Aaron whispers. “I’ve already had a whole one.” He rips a meat-dripping pita in two and hands the larger half to Abe, who grabs it with both hands.

“Get your mother to kill that pig and you’ll have plenty to eat. Why does she keep it?” Lijah asks, turning to Abe.

Suddenly someone shouts, “He’s here,” and a feeling of expectation flashes across Aaron’s face. A few seconds later the lane’s crammed with desperate men, women, and children, gathering to watch the merchant rumble his huge truck over the unmade path like a minesweeper. The owner of two factories, Faisal makes a fortune from selling recycled material.

Aaron doesn’t stay to watch the haggling that’s about to take place as the merchant moans and groans his fat way into paying the smallest amount he can for the paper, metal, and glass they’ve sweated to collect and sort. The sound of arguing follows Aaron as he slips away from Abe and the stepfamily and dashes through the crowd, down the lane toward the church. Everyone he meets is heading the other way to see what the merchant’s paying out, so by the time he reaches the wide walkway it’s empty.

The faint smell of flowers takes over as Aaron sits on the brick wall to rest under the wide sky and blasting sunshine, happy to watch the pigeons. Happy to be near the blossoming bushes, clean paths, and high frescoes on the limestone walls. Away from the chaos, filth, and decay of the nearby hovels. It’s so quiet, it feels as if the world has ended. He’d like to curl up and fall asleep here, but before too long people will start walking this way after selling their trash to go to church and give thanks, and he must decide what to do with the stolen bottles. He could dig another hole, several holes, but in time someone’s bound to notice.

Scooping out the pale earth quickly with his fingers, Aaron rescues all the bottles but one from their small grave and tucks them inside the elastic waist of his jeans. He leaves one of the small rose-colored bottles behind because he likes the idea of someone discovering it in the future and wondering how it got there. The bottles next to his skin are warm and smooth, apart from a few scratchy crumbs of soil, and as he hurries past the church he’s glad that Hosi’s old shirt hangs almost to his knees. There’s one other safe place to bury them—the pigpens.

Struggling up from a long sleep, the smallest pig is curious enough to trot over and nose him, while the rest grunt, blinking flies from their eyes. Aaron resists the urge to jump over the makeshift fence and pet each one, telling them what he’s got. With a loud snort, the smallest pig thrusts his wet nose at the sky and drools.

Aaron moves the bottles from the waist of his jeans to his pockets, then fills the water trough and watches the little one drink from it greedily. “A bit of rose oil on your ears is what you need.” He whips out a bottle and waves it in the air. “Not that you don’t already smell nice, if you know what I mean.” Although he is tempted to sprinkle a few drops on the prickly skin and sniff the difference it makes, Aaron realizes that it would be a waste of perfume, considering the place stinks to high heaven of steaming dung. And anyway, time’s running out.

Behind the rickety shelter is an upside-down, moldy white plastic tub that’s been there for years. There’s no reason for anyone to come around here, so it’s the perfect place to hide the bottles and easy to lift out chunks of earth and pack the bottles in tightly. Feeling pleased with himself for choosing this spot, he stamps the earth flat, then manages to pops the plastic tub on top before hearing a flapping sound coming from the fence in front. Aaron peers through a gap in the shelter and his eyes narrow in fear at the sight of Shareen running away.

Aaron bites his lip. Was Shareen there all the time, watching him? That’s what he thought at the church and she hadn’t seen a thing. But this feels different. He hesitates. Should he dig up the bottles and take them somewhere else? Then run the risk of being caught red-handed? He could hide and hope she won’t grass him up? But he knows she will. She’s bound to. Shareen loves drama and telling on him will put her at the center of another good story. Now even the pigs have gone quiet and the sun has dimmed.

Before Aaron has time to decide what to do, Shareen and the priest are upon him. Father Peter is the youngest member of the church and his pale, nervous face is a good cover for his strong-willed nature. Dressed in black robes with a white collar, he’s so eager to do what’s right that he tends to overdo everything. When he spots Aaron, he crosses himself as if looking at the devil. Meanwhile, Shareen, who’s hovering in the background, has a satisfied grin on her face.

“Stealing isn’t something we do in Mokattam,” Father Peter says. “You must take the bottles back.”

“What bottles?” It was worth a try.

“You think no one knows about you, Aaron?” Shareen says.

It’s an empty question but one that changes his life for a long time to come. Within minutes the priest and Shareen have dug up all the bottles and a small crowd of people are rushing over to watch the action. At the front are Hosi, Lijah, and Youssa, their faces bursting with fury. Rachel’s standing to one side, looking disappointed.

While the priest takes in the situation, Aaron gazes at Rachel. Gazes so hard she turns away, embarrassed.