Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Tori is the one who says yes. A young yoga instructor with flaxen hair and deep dimples,
Tori has more reason than most to blot herself out of Cairo; she looks like California. I once
rodethesubwaywithToriandwatchedtendrilsofattentionwindaroundthepoleshegripped
while looking only at me. The “I'm on a mission” walk: that's how Tori gets down the street.
To hide under
niqab
, we must first find one. We try Ataba, a shopping complex that's
Vegas-brightonaTuesdaynight.There'snoclarityatAtabaonwhat'sastreet,what'sastore,
what's a lot, what's a place where cars won't hit you. Finally, we find a dingy mall where a
man on the third floor sells the full getup. I watch this man's face closely as Tori tries it on,
receding under layers of jet-black fabric. He's not amused. He's not bothered. He just wants
to make a sale.
The sale is made, and we head to the subway, passing a woman in
niqab
who's sound
asleeponthegroundbyhertarpoffruit.“Lookatthat,”Isay,pointinglikeakid.Ican'thelp
it; the idea of feeling relaxed enough to fall asleep outside in this furious city—even when
cocooned inside all those layers—is just unfathomable to me. But we don't have to fathom.
We have the material. We can get under there ourselves.
Tori presses down the camera's shutter, but nothing happens. The camera refuses:
SUBJECT IS
TOODARK
.Iam the subject, and Iam too dark. Iam darkness with a slit foreyes. Only when
we leave Tori's dim bedroom and stand in the kitchen will my camera cooperate. I still can't
tell whether the person in my photos is Tori or me.
The
niqab
has one too many layers. There's the priestly tunic and then a ninja-like veil
that fastens right above the ears, covered by another veil with an eye screen. Our worst-case
scenario—that the
niqab
will slip off in a crowded, male, outdoor scene—feels quite likely
now that we're in costume. If I don't grip a handful of my long tunic, it's going to trip me.
Plus, my vision is confined now—a forward tunnel, subtly dimmed. Though I do notice Tori
slip a water bottle under her cloak.
“I have this fainting problem,” she says.
Tori and I are headed to Cairo's largest outdoor market, and she thinks maybe I should
know that my companion will slip out of consciousness if she gets too parched. I decide
against telling Tori that I, too, have a fainting problem. Mine is a new fainting problem: All
that doctors can tell me is that anticipating stress and pain may trigger it. Fear is another trig-
ger. I fear fainting. Fear of fainting recently made me faint. I try not to think about triggers
and fears as Tori and I step outside. We pass from her dim living room into an entryway,
where the slam of an upstairs door and heavy footsteps send Tori rushing like a crazed ninja
downthestaircase.Sheleavesmeonthelanding,graspingforafistfuloffabricandthecour-
age to move quickly in
niqab
.
