“Shokran.” I test out the word for myself, even though I can’t really see myself asking him to drive me anywhere. Dad is staying only long enough to see us settled, and Mom has to start almost immediately at the clinic. Where would I go by myself? Until classes begin at the American school in September, I’ll probably get a jump on my required summer reading (for once), watch movies on Netflix, and video chat with Hannah. I doubt I’ll have much need of Mr. Elhadad’s services.
Bags in hand, we follow the driver toward the exit, and as the doors slide back, we are assaulted by a heat that feels like standing in front of an open oven. Dry. Brutal. Mom insisted the two of us dress modestly out of respect for the culture, so my duffel is filled with tunic-length tops, loose-fitting jeans, maxi dresses, and cardigans for when I am out in public. I have no idea how I will survive the summer without shorts and tank tops—my Ohio summer wardrobe—when it’s so hot I can barely breathe.
Mr. Elhadad’s black sedan has a few small dings and a license plate that looks more like art than information, and we practically dive into the car to get out of the heat. Dad sits in the passenger seat, but as the car merges into the thick Cairo traffic, I’m not convinced there’s any advantage to riding shotgun. There seem to be no rules of the road. Cars stop abruptly in the middle of the street to let out passengers. Other cars weave in and out of traffic without warning, coming frighteningly close to my window. Pedestrians cross whenever and wherever they can. We pass a motorbike loaded with three guys, one of whom blows a kiss at me. Also, the honking is constant.
We stop and start, speed and slow, making our way down a corridor lined with apartment towers made of both ornate stone and bland concrete, their ground floors occupied by businesses, some of which I can’t identify because their names are spelled out in Arabic. Past ancient mosques and modern office blocks. Past older women laden with shopping bags and men walking arm in arm down the edges of the road. Past street corners piled with garbage bags. Cairo feels like a time-lapse video compared to my sleepy little hometown.
Finally we cross a bridge over a slender canal of the Nile onto Rhoda Island and all of us—even our driver—exhale and the world seems to slow down. Before we reach the next bridge, one that would carry us across the wider part of the river into Giza, Mr. Elhadad curves onto a road running along the western edge of the island. To the left are waterfront parks filled with leafy trees and slender palms, and piers where tour boats are docked. Mr. Elhadad comes to a double-parked halt in front of a yellow nine-story curved apartment building right across the street from the Nile.
My dad whistles low. “Pretty fancy view.”
“This is a very good area,” Mr. Elhadad says. “Safe. Many restaurants, shops, and cinemas. I am a big fan of American film. Steve McQueen.”
“Hell yeah!” Dad winces when he realizes he used profanity—Mom explained that swearing is not something Muslims usually do—but the driver only laughs and gives my dad a thumbs-up.
Mr. Elhadad unloads our luggage from the trunk of his car and accepts a tip of several colorful Egyptian bills from my dad’s wallet. The driver offers to help carry our suitcases up to the apartment, but Mom is already heading toward the front of the building, her bag rolling along behind her.
“I think we’ve got this,” Dad says. “But thank you.”
The vestibule is open and deep, with a bank of mailboxes and an elevator. Here we encounter another person who wants to help us carry our luggage. This time he’s a turbaned older man whose skinny dark legs stick out from the bottom of his galabia. He taps his chest and says, “Masoud. Bowab.”
“Masoud is the doorman,” Mom says as the man presses the button to call down the elevator. “As I understand it, the bowab is kind of a jack-of-all-trades paid by the residents of the building to act as a security guard, gather the mail, carry packages, and even fetch groceries.”
Masoud says something in Arabic and reaches for Mom’s bag, but she waves him off. As we step into the elevator, carrying our own suitcases, he sags with disappointment.
The elevator stops on the third floor and Mom does the honors of unlocking the front door, which swings in to reveal a huge, sunny apartment with both French and louvered doors that open onto a long balcony overlooking the river. There are two living spaces, a dining room, and two bedrooms, all painted pristine white and still smelling of fresh paint. My room is the last room of the apartment, on the curve, with its own set of doors onto the balcony. It’s enormous compared to my bedroom back home and excitement flutters inside me like paper in a breeze. I couldn’t bring many keepsakes—a few photos, my favorite books, and the pink Kelleys Island stone—so my Cairo bedroom is a blank slate.
The whole apartment is beautiful, but as the tap of our heels on the wood floor echoes through the empty rooms, Mom’s eyebrows draw closer and closer together. Whatever is bothering her is cut short when the call to prayer begins from a nearby mosque. The melody is as eerie as it is beautiful, but unsettling in the same way as the veiled women at the airport. Fear of the unknown. I don’t understand what is being sung—or why. A few seconds later, another call from another mosque begins, overlapping with the first like a song in rounds. The second call is different, slower and mournful. We step out onto the balcony to listen, and from a more distant somewhere, a third call drifts on the air.
“So we’re going to hear this five times a day, huh?” Dad slides his arm around Mom’s waist.
She nods. “The morning call happens before sunrise.”
“We probably should have considered that when we rented a place a block from a mosque.”
“Cairo is the city of a thousand minarets,” Mom says. “There are mosques everywhere. This is just something we’re going to have to get used to.”
“Those words”—he kisses her, then grins—“are going to come back to haunt you at four in the morning.”
“Hello!” A deep male voice calls out from the open doorway and a tall man with a thick black beard enters the apartment, half hidden by the potted palm he carries. “I am Mohammed Taleb, the rental agent. Welcome to Cairo.”
“Thank you.” Mom is polite, but her words are clipped, her tone frosty. And her eyebrows have resumed the position. This is Dr. Rebecca Kelly when she is trying not to Hulk out on someone. “Where is the furniture?”
“The furniture?” Mr. Taleb blinks and swings his head in my dad’s direction, but Dad just lifts his shoulders like can’t help you, dude.
Mom takes a file folder from her tote bag and holds up a screen capture from the real estate website that touts the apartment as furnished. “I paid the deposit for a furnished apartment.”
The rental agent places the palm on the floor. “Well, you see—”
“We have just spent two days traveling from the United States. We are very tired and we have no beds. I do not want excuses, Mr. Taleb. I want solutions.”