This was a love story, or rather—almost a love triangle, and I remember this story, tucking it away in the hidden drawer of my memory.
A treasure chest of sorts, filled with beautiful and sad tales of unfulfilled love.
Or, that time, did it actually happen?
As always, it began suddenly and ended just as abruptly.
Once, having arranged a meeting with a buyer who had flown in from Russia, I was driving along Main Street, fuming at the clueless woman. I had explained to her a hundred times that parking in front of her hotel was prohibited, so she was supposed to wait for me on the curb at the agreed time and place, but my words were clearly wasted.
I drove slowly, carefully scanning the colorful, noisy crowd of strolling tourists, among whom there were unusually many Egyptians celebrating the end of Ramadan.
After circling yet again and confirming the woman wasn’t there, I was about to hit the gas when I suddenly noticed a tall, athletic guy watching me. I smiled, knowing my smile carried no consequences, as I planned to vanish from his sight forever in a minute.
But then something unexpected happened.
Taking advantage of my snail-like pace, he swiftly opened the car door and slid into the seat beside me.
— Good heavens, what a handsome guy!
Smiling, he said something in Arabic.
— Well, hello there, I don’t “speak Arabic,” only English… please. (In Arabic, there’s no “p” sound—they replace it with “b,” and they’re genuinely surprised when I grin at their “blease,” “Bebsi Cola,” “bajlusta,” and other unintentionally funny words with “p.”)
— English, please.
But alas, he spoke no language of the world except Arabic…
We drove on, and I listened to him like music, not even trying to pick out a single familiar word in his guttural speech. His voice was deep, resonant, captivating…
— Why bother? — I smiled to myself.
— Why know what the song is about if the music itself brings joy?
— I’ll stop the car soon, and he’ll walk away forever… — Not sad at all, because he was too young, too handsome, too foreign.
A loud exclamation interrupted my thoughts.
I stopped and waited for him to finish his passionate, incomprehensible speech and fade into oblivion. But instead, people approached the car, chattering cheerfully, surrounding us, and gesturing their desire to get to know me better.
— Oh… This is his entire family, — I realized.
The mother, draped in black robes, her age unclear at first glance, though something told me she could have been my high school classmate, or close to it. The father, in a white galabeya. Two schoolboys, a shy girl of about five, and a man of European appearance, closer to my age than anyone else.
— Well, great… I’m in trouble, — I thought, wanting to sink through the floor in my ripped jeans and oversized men’s white shirt.
— I bet the mom can easily count every wrinkle on my face.
You can hide your age from men, but not from a woman, especially not the mother of a boy… And what language would I even use to explain myself?
Suddenly, the man spoke in English! He introduced everyone, and yes, it was a family—mom, dad, their kids. And the dad’s brother… the uncle in jeans. They had come for the weekend from Mango City, Ismailia.
The handsome athlete and all-around great guy was named Karim, and his uncle, recently back from America, had an unpronounceable Arabic name. I eventually memorized it, but…
He remained in my memory forever as simply Uncle.
For the next three days, I visited them at their hotel, and Uncle paid for my “day use.” We all ate together, strolled the sprawling green grounds, played bingo, sat on the beach, and even swam once. Karim’s parents went on an excursion with the younger kids—suspecting Uncle arranged it—so I could comfortably wear my swimsuit without feeling awkward around Karim’s mom.
Karim was a professional athlete, swimming like a fish, gracefully and for hours.
In the evenings, we walked together, held hands, and parted for the night, laughing for no reason, and after his chaste kiss on my forehead, we said goodbye…
— I’ll burn in hell for this… and for my other sins, of course.
But we never went beyond those kisses, which didn’t upset me at all, because my thoughts kept drifting to someone else. To Uncle…
The situation was foolish and hopeless. And somehow unserious…
The holidays ended, and they left.
Karim called me several times a day. I’d put him on speaker, listen, barely understand a word, yet somehow understand everything… and feel a slight pang of sadness.
Uncle called too, and sometimes I didn’t understand him either, which was oddly frustrating.
I got annoyed at his inability to clearly pronounce English words with his Arabic accent. I was used to the Egyptian version of English… but his was different. Still, the language barrier didn’t crush my hope of continuing to get to know Uncle, naturally.
Then I got sick… my back, as usual, gave out. The pain was excruciating, and I was bedridden at home. I was living in Starry Sea at the time, with few acquaintances. I no longer worked with Adam, I was in a “cold war” with the developers, fighting for my rights, and Mary had flown back home. In short, there was no one to even run to the pharmacy.
The doorbell rang.
— Probably someone from the maintenance company with bills, — I decided not to get up. The pain in my back had slightly eased, and I was afraid to move.
The bell kept chiming its annoying tune. Who picks such awful melodies for doorbells?
— I’d strangle the jerk who chose it, — I sighed, crawling to open the door.
On the doorstep stood Karim and Uncle.
I froze…
How did they find me?
Once, while passing by my place, I had vaguely gestured toward it, mumbling something like, “I live here, not far from your hotel.” It seemed no one paid attention, and the city was unfamiliar to them, but they found me!
The Italian neighbors cheerfully pointed them to my apartment. I was the only Ukrainian in the building.
Karim was sent to the pharmacy, while Uncle unpacked bags of food, which was a lifesaver since my fridge was empty.
Uncle wasn’t exactly handsome, but there was something undeniably masculine about him that drew me in and made my heart race.
Well-built, tall, with strong features and intelligent eyes—like a loyal dog’s (would an Egyptian forgive me for that comparison?). And he had a beautiful mouth…
A sharply defined, smiling mouth.
His unhurried movements exuded the confidence of a man sure of himself.
In short, I think I fell in love.
Or came close to it…
They brought a chiropractor who fixed my spine. For three days, they gave me injections, fed me chicken broth and all sorts of delicious Egyptian treats, and I started to recover…
I spent a week with the two best men in Egypt.
I know this for a fact.
Attentive, selfless, and incredibly positive. They were unlike the men I dealt with daily in Hurghada.
Before leaving, Uncle made it clear that our next meeting would be just the two of us.
They left, and then a scandal erupted with the manager of Starry Sea.
— You can’t bring guests into a rented apartment, — Tom, or rather an Egyptian who’d taken an Italian pseudonym, lectured me.
— Absolutely no men, not even a doctor, can visit your apartment.
— Under no circumstances can men be guests of a woman, — he scolded me after the fact (why didn’t you say anything when they were here?). In the end, I told him where to go and had to find a new place to live.
Then the revolution started. President Mubarak was ousted… Chaos ensued, troops were deployed, and danger hung in the air.
Every day, I spoke with Uncle on the phone. He was worried, offering to come to Ismailia, but he couldn’t since tourist cities were closed to Egyptians. Traveling across the country wasn’t safe for me either, so we decided to wait.
Finally, I moved to a new apartment.
The next day, I lost my phone.
At first, I didn’t even realize I’d lost not just the phone but all my contacts. I didn’t remember a single number.
I went back to Starry Sea, leaving a note with my new number on the door of my old apartment and gave it to the Italian neighbors, but they were evacuating en masse for an indefinite period…
Dealing with Tom was pointless.
I tried to restore my number, but the offices were closed.
“Temporarily out of service due to technical issues.”
Soon, Ukraine announced the evacuation of its citizens.
The evacuation was widely publicized.
I think my men assumed I’d left, which is why we lost touch. Maybe Uncle didn’t look for me…
Or maybe he did, but couldn’t find me…
Soon, I flew home.
Back home, I made several attempts to recover my number, but since the SIM was registered to some hotel guide whose name I couldn’t recall, it was all in vain.
For a long time, I caught myself scanning crowds for familiar faces.
And to this day, I flinch at the word “Ismailia.”
P.S. Since then, I’ve written down phone numbers in a notebook…
0 comments