Glass Collector (6 page)

“How tiny were the cups?” Shareen asks.

“About this big.”

Holding two fingers a thimble-length apart, Aaron can’t help straightening his arm to add to the miniature, ladylike size of the bone china cups.

Shareen tries hard not to look put-out, but by the time he’s finished telling her about Omar she’s overflowing with jealousy, not just because of the rich lady shoppers and their cups but because of the exciting life he’s been leading. Girls don’t go out on the carts and she’s never wanted to before, until now. She had no idea Aaron was having so much fun.

Blowing open his plastic bag while feeling puffed up by the effect he’s had on Shareen, Aaron turns his attention to the contents of the crammed boxes. He focuses on the task of spotting and deciding which of the discarded bottles to take. Before tossing the chosen ones in the bag, Aaron checks each of them to satisfy his curiosity as to why they’ve been rejected. Carefully touching the first cracked, greenish bottle, which has three rows of golden metal weave around the stem, he spots a small dent in the base, which means the bottle, when filled with perfume, could roll from a shelf.

The moment his rough fingers land on the cool, smoothly blown glass, a feeling of satisfaction spreads over him. Aaron likes working out how Omar thinks. Imagining himself touching the bottles as deftly as the perfumer while noticing that this ones’s wonky, that one’s uneven, the glass is too thin here, or the surface cracks are too visible there. And all the time, slivers of light from the green glass turn yellow, then gold, then green again as the color blends and melts into the winks of sunshine coming from the edges of the alley.

That’s the thing about glass, Aaron thinks. Even when it’s old and chipped, it’s somehow clean. The light leaves nothing for anyone to clear up.

The noise of zooming traffic fades and the sound of shattering glass increases as bottle after bottle lands in the plastic bag. With the sudden overpowering whiff of strange blossoms that might once have been used to bring the dead back to life, Aaron becomes lost to the world. Despite the push to do as much as possible in the least amount of time, he lingers over a heart-shaped bottle with an amber-colored stem.

“Give me that!”

Shareen’s hands briefly touch his when she grabs the bottle. Aaron looks up blankly. He’d forgotten she was there. The surprising touch of her soft skin was as hot and sharp as a wasp sting. Not since before his mother fell ill has he been touched by a girl—or in fact by anyone who doesn’t want to hit him. He stares at her, but she’s caressing the bottle with love-starved eyes. She wants to own it.

“See … ?” Shareen asks.

Aaron lowers his gaze to the bottle. Yes, the glass-blower has left a mark on the rim, but it’s a small one and hardly noticeable. Omar’s getting fussier about which bottles he decides are worthless. Just as Aaron’s surprised that Shareen noticed the blemish before he did, he’s angry with himself for overreacting to her brief touch.

Suddenly a taxi screeches to a halt, letting out a stench of exhaust fumes. A tall, broad-shouldered figure leaps from the car to peer down the alley. Aaron can’t quite make out the face but from the way he’s standing—elbows out, hands on his smart navy galabeya—he’s certain it’s Omar himself.

“Quick!” Caught red-handed, Aaron swings the half-full bag over his shoulder.

Shareen grabs the pile of folded bags from the floor and shoves them under her arm. In her rush, she knocks over the unsorted boxes, which crash to the ground with a rattle of breaking glass as Omar gallops toward them. She glances back to see a smile as treacherous as quicksand on his face as he jumps over broken glass, his hands out to catch her.

The sight of the alley walls disintegrates as a shaft of dazzling sunlight hits Omar’s contact lenses, blinding him, forcing him to pause and refocus. By the time he blinks a few times, Shareen and Aaron have gone.

They move like gazelles, the wide street juddering and thumping along with their hearts as they run. Dashing into an adjoining street, with huge grins pasted all over their faces, they dart between schoolchildren and push past shoppers. Their rasping breaths and pounding feet drown out the sound of the rhythmic clink of glass drifting from the bouncing bag on Aaron’s back. Even the traffic appears to fall silent the second they stop beside a snack kiosk several roads away.

Drained of energy while trembling with laughter, Aaron can hardly take in the sight of Shareen beside him. In a sweat, cramped up and hugging the thick squares of folded bags to her waist, she looks at Aaron and giggles with sheer excitement.

“I’ll have to go back and get the rest,” Aaron says, swinging the bag of glass to the pavement. His knee throbs as he looks back the way they came. “When Omar’s gone. No problem.”

“Are you serious? That guy’s a crazy man.”

“He’s not crazy, he’s clever, and he chases me at least once a week,” Aaron explains. “It’s a sort of game we play.”

“Has he ever caught you?” she gasps.

“No. That’s why he keeps doing it—I suppose.”

Sweat pours from Aaron as he swings the bag on his back again. At the same moment, a broad-shouldered man steps in front of him, shocking him into losing his grip. The bag crashes to the ground as Omar’s black eyes bear down on him.

“Come back to the shop. I want to talk to you.”

Omar’s stern voice and firm gaze let Aaron know he’s got him now and there’s nothing more to say. He trembles as he nods an agreement. Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shareen bolting down the street.

There’s a space at the far end of the perfume shop that is used for coffee breaks and storage. It smells and looks like a newly dug cave, complete with bare walls. Shovels and buckets that the builders have been using to dig below ground, to make space to store more vats of oils, are on one side. Leaning back against the uneven wall, on a stack of breeze blocks, Aaron wonders if there’s a hidden burial chamber nearby, the sensation of being in a passage leading to a tomb is so strong.

Omar has left him here to attend to something and, as time goes by, Aaron can’t help worrying about Shareen being alone on the street waiting for Lijah. Also, Lijah might just go crazy when she tells him what happened.

He can see that close by, behind the door and waiting to be shelved, there’s a collection of rose-colored glass bottles that are filled with dark oil.

Aaron’s heart beats faster and sweat sprouts like dew from his body. He’s scared, but the excitement of finally owning one of these perfect perfume bottles proves irresistible. His expert fingers race over the tiny bottles and a few seconds later two are inside the wide pockets of his jeans.

Aaron fondles the bottles in his pocket while eyeing those still on the floor. There are so many he doubts Omar will notice that two are missing. Suddenly he looks up, biting his lip in terror at the sound of quick footsteps coming toward him. As the small door opens, he is aware of a strong smell of cedar wood before he sees Omar in a smart navy galabeya. For some reason the man’s lavish leather sandals, studded with gold, prove what Aaron already knows: that Omar’s an important man. He sways for a moment, with his hands behind his back, before opening his mouth to speak.

“Now listen.” His hand out to prevent Aaron from escaping, Omar sighs. “This shop—our family business—we can trace back to the beginning of time. Since the pharaohs, there’s been perfume here.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows. How does he know that?

“Our task,” Omar goes on, “is to continue the practice of making the world more beautiful by spreading the power of these sacred oils, which are beyond the experience of humanity as we know it. You understand?”

“Yes,” Aaron says, pretending. What does that mean? He tries not to bat an eyelid, suffocated by the overpowering smell of cedar wood, unsure of where Omar’s going with this speech. A speech that has little to do with him stealing rejected bottles.

“The oils we use are distilled in the same way they have always been. They are part of Egypt, just as the cells in your body are part of you. In abundance these blossoms have grown along the banks of the river and been picked at the perfect time of the moon’s cycle through the heavens. The glass-blowers who create the bottles come from the same old families too. We’re connected by creating beauty. Adding to, not subtracting from, the world we live in.”

Omar stops to gaze directly into Aaron’s eyes. A powerful gaze that Aaron can hold only for a few seconds before looking away, embarrassed.

“You see what I’m saying?” Omar asks again.

This time Aaron doesn’t answer. Head down, eyes on the earth floor, he has the sensation of headlights burning into his forehead. Shocked by the even sound of Omar’s breathing and the depth of feeling behind his words, Aaron feels suddenly weak. This could go on for hours and Lijah will be in a temper, waiting outside.

Like Omar, Aaron loves glass and light and the colors that shine so brilliantly they’re like something from another world. He wants to hear all of this, but when is he going to tell him off for stealing the bottles from the alley?

“You think that when you hold something in your hands, take it home, and put it in your house, that it’s yours? Nothing on this earth belongs to you. You come with nothing. You leave with nothing. Things are just veils. Barriers to prevent you from seeing what’s real.”

In a fever, queasy and weak, leaning back closer to the gritty bumps of breeze block, Aaron can’t think properly. His mind spins from pictures of the bags of rubbish outside, to Lijah, and to the bottles in his pocket. Then to policemen with guns—Omar’s obviously waiting for them to come and take him away.

“You’ve gone green. Are you all right?” Omar whispers. He opens the door sharply. “Bring hibiscus tea with honey,” he calls to running footsteps.

By the time Aaron gathers the courage to look up, a decorative round tin tray with a small gold china cup—not a pink one!—floats past his face as the assistant hands it to Omar. The unlikely combination of being caught red-handed and then being given tea to make him feel better unnerves Aaron.

“Drink this and go,” Omar says. “But next time, think about what you’re doing and whether you’re adding or taking away from your own soul when you steal my glass.”

The moment Aaron realizes he’s been given a strange telling-off and nothing more, he unfolds his thin body, grabs the small cup with a rough, dirty hand, and gulps down the sweet tea. It’s sickly sweet and makes him gag.

He puts the china cup down with a clatter, grabs the bag of glass, and darts past Omar. With a single leap, he’s through the small door, racing past the glittering shelves. Barging through the big black doors, he bursts into the crowded streets of Cairo, with its honking cars and dazzling sunshine, and crashes straight into the side of the cart.

“Quick,” he gasps. “There’s a maniac after me.”

Lijah takes off with Aaron’s legs still dangling over the side of the cart, but the traffic is so dense the pony is soon trapped between two buses, like a slice of bread in a toaster. Before long they stop. Aaron glances back at the shop, expecting to see Omar and the assistant staring after them down the street, but the shop door is closed tight. He glances at Lijah, who gazes straight ahead at the traffic with a heavy, dumb expression.

In the back, Shareen leans toward Aaron and whispers, “What happened?”

Aaron shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Annoyed by his lack of an answer, Shareen pouts at the passing cars.

There are two hotel alleys to clear before they can return to Mokattam and, as the pony lowers his head to plod down the busy street, Aaron notices that he’s wobbling slightly as he walks. Pulling the load plus the three of them in this sticky heat is taking its toll on the pony’s thin body and now there’s a slight limp in his back leg.

“Did you give him any water?” Aaron asks.

A flicker of irritation passes over Lijah’s face as he tightens the reins, taking pleasure in forcing the pony to go from a slow walk to an uneasy, fast trot down the middle of the street. The pony stumbles more than once, as if trying to get rid of the cart, and attempts to turn into the traffic instead of the pavement when they come to a stop outside the next hotel.

Aaron hurtles from the cart to the alley in a desperate bid to find water to quench the pony’s thirst. With a
look at me
swing of her shiny hair, Shareen comes to life as she leaps down, hoping to find something expensive that a rich guest has accidentally thrown out.

Nearby, a talkative group of tourists spill from the hotel doors. One of the middle-aged men looks Shareen up and down as she runs toward the alley, eyeing her graceful steps and long, luscious hair and ignoring her filthy hands and feet and dusty, threadbare galabeya. Shareen pauses, catches his look and tilts her head to one side, which embarrasses him and his huge wife.

This alley’s cramped and smells of old meat. Aaron fumbles through the rapidly decomposing rubbish like a madman, scrabbling for plastic bottles that might contain a drop of water. Sticky marmalade jars, cracked glass candle holders, burnt oven dishes, and a split juicer are flung to one side as he grabs at warm, blue plastic buried in the mountain of filth. Bottle after bottle is ignored until he spots the dregs of jewel-like water swimming in pale, dented plastic.

Shareen watches Aaron with a vague respect as he dashes back to the street and pours the last drops into the pony’s reaching, gasping mouth.

“Omar must have said something,” she whines when he returns.

“Shut it!” Aaron turns on her. “Help me! The pony might die.”

Once Shareen understands the danger of the situation, she sets to work. They pick their way through trash, searching for bottles of water like a well-ordered team. Aaron takes one side of the alley, Shareen the other, but anxiety spreads as they discover that most of the plastic bottles are empty, dry as bones. In a fury they bounce them at the walls and as time wears on become more and more frightened the pony’s going to drop dead in the street from dehydration.