Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Mahmoud, my driver, has been waiting outside. He's actually the driver of an American wo-
manwhoassuredme,jottingdownhisnumber,“There'snothingwrongwithhiringababysit-
ter.” I dislike being babysat, both as a traveler and as a woman, but Tori and I agree that a
jam-packed subway car is not the place to go in our loose-fitting disguises.
I tried to warn Mahmoud, who speaks taxi English, before I disappeared inside Tori's
apartment that I would not look the same when I came back out. I would be in
niqab;
I
would be bringing another woman, also in
niqab
. Did Mahmoud understand he would soon
no longer see me? I didn't think so.
It's no small relief, then, when Tori and I come down the street, clutching each other like
grannies, to see Mahmoud watching. I lift my hand to wave, and he does the same. Tori and
I climb, without a word, into his back seat.
How is Cairo so quiet today? Fridays are always subdued, but never like this. You could
hear a scarf hit the ground in Cairo today.
“Esmee Tori,”
my friend introduces herself in a breathy whisper. “My name is Tori.”
I would love to know how all this unfolds in the mind of our driver-babysitter. Is he draw-
ing, in his imagination, a face to match the voice of the new presence in his car? Thankfully,
there's no sign that we've spooked Mahmoud. On the contrary, he's on our side, telling Tori
in Arabic that we forgot gloves. Women in
niqab
wear black gloves. All we can do is bunch
up our sleeves now. I look over at Tori. There's only one thing to look at: her eye screen.
Tori's eyelashes have poked right through the mesh.
The hardest thing is not speaking. I keep wanting to say things to Tori while we walk down
a street crowded with goats and men about to shear them. But talking is the surest way to
expose ourselves, so we say just a few things, like “Hold my arm” and “I'm still nervous”
and“Ifeelthingsslipping”and“Shh,”adjustinggraduallytothenewcodeofsilence.Weare
entitiesthatwaddleandwatchbutdonotspeak.Wewaddlecarefullyandwatchhard.Iwatch
the faces of the men who pass and seem focused on goats alone. I watch them tug the ears of
goatsthatbleatasiftheyknowit'sshearingday.Everythingaboutthisfeelsprecarious.Ifeel
things slipping—and by “things,” I mean veils, both of them, neither of which I can fix now,
because the car is far behind us and Mahmoud has opted to stay there. Still, I'm so tempted
to say one last thing aloud to the entity floating beside me like a steady boat: “Nobody sees
us.”
What they see, all they see, is
niqab
. They see
niqab
move; they see it has a twin; they
seecaution,codependence.There'snothingmore,though,totakefromourimage.Onlookers
quit looking. Passersby pass right by. They beige out, resume daydreams or scan the air for
otherthings,thingswithcolororcurvesornoses.Iwatchithappenoverandoverthroughmy
eye slit, scrutinizing the gaze of every person we walk by. And no matter how many people
lookboredofus,nomatterhowmanyeyesglossover,I'mparanoidaboutthelookthatsome-
