The Tomb Opens

Chapter One: Deadly Mission ---------------------------------------- Buttons are clipped, black hat is brushed, suit is ironed, tie, white shirt, and last but never the least, clean white gloves stretch and bend to accommodate my hands. I put on my polished shoes and I am on my way to my morning client Mr. Saqr, the immigration officer assistant, of the Canadian Embassy in Cairo. “Good morning, Saad,” all my early-riser neighbors greet me as I smile, nod my head and drive my cab through the narrow and bumpy road. I drop Mr. Saqr off at the embassy. “I need to leave in an hour, will you wait for me, Saad please?” he asks. “Sure,” I grab a magazine, stick my nose in the pages and wait for the 60 minutes to elapse. I am already prepared to hear “Oh my god, my dream came true”, as Mr. Saqr conveys the happy news of the visa being approved and issued. People tend to be so dramatic that I feel as if I am on Oprah. But to my surprise, comes the first Monday of June 2010; things change immensely. Maybe it’s due to the world’s economy crisis, that the dream train runs out of fuel and gets replaced by an ancient multiple-stops steam train. Instead of the happy tears, I see frozen looks on four faces shocked and taken aback upon hearing the unexpected news: "... and to facilitate such mission, we can arrange for a cab chauffeur to be with you at all times." Four iced-lemonades are offered to sooth the rising distress, as the four individuals try to contemplate what they just heard. Then four tall glasses get laid on the table, all licked empty. Nadeem, Ziko, Dr. Rashad and Salma accept what destiny has crafted for them and decide to go on their survivors’ mission uncertain what to do or how to do it. Mr. Saqr looks at me. “Sure, why not?” I agree too. Cairo wakes up on a sunny morning and I just can’t help but wonder why anyone would choose the snow over the sun. As always my mom’s voice pops into my head - happens all the time when doubts and concerns at work knock at the door of my brain. Without permission, also as always, she’d lovingly say, ‘you think you know better, ha? Just get busy 'حبيبي – habiby’ (my love), and do your job,’ I miss her though. I stop the cab and before ringing his cell, sturdy almost senior Dr. Rashad emerges from the four-storey brick building. “Good, you’re on time. You want to be respected; you have to be on time.” If I’m not mistaken, this is praise, yet somehow the mechanism that handles Dr. Rashad’s thick eyebrows seems to have only one setting: frowning. ---------------------------------------------------------------------