If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English

by Noor Naga

I agreed with Madame Fadya initially—she was agreeing with me, after all—but the longer she spoke, the more uncomfortable I grew. I started to think she was gullible and dim-witted for treating my account without skepticism. After all, I was skeptical myself.

QUESTION: How many questions can you ask before you expose who you are? ________________________________ I’m caught between my desire to understand and my desire to appear as though I already understand.

When the foreigners left, it all went to shit. When it all went to shit, the foreigners left.

QUESTION: Can a man and a woman fetishize each other in equal measure, or must one always be outdone by the other?

What if female arousal is just the belief that you will not die at this man’s hands?

QUESTION: If a fly rubs its hands delightedly all over your excrement, is it a compliment or an offense? ________________________________

birds would not build their nests with it. I tell her that if a bird builds a nest with even one of your hairs, you get a migraine.

He is punishing me for something, and I am letting him. He is weaponizing all his losses against me, and I am wanting the abuse, or, at the very least, accepting it as mine.

QUESTION: Who does a nude belong to—the one who takes it or the one taken?

QUESTION: Is it arrogant to grieve the loss of what you never had?

QUESTION: If the beast is already in your house, does that make the wilderness safer? ________________________________

QUESTION: If an Egyptian cannot speak English, who is telling his story?

We fall asleep in each other’s arms. We watch a film together and fall asleep in our outdoor clothes, in each other’s arms, her scratchy head beneath my chin. The grief numbs us both.

We used to sit in the wind of the balcony, celebrating the meal, me facing her, her facing this exact point on the bridge where I am standing now, certain I will see her. No one ever talks about the punishing aesthetics of being poor.

Only now, looking back, do I realize how terrible it is to subsist on just enough, without the joy of beautiful things.

The longer I wait, the greater the chance that I will see her. But the longer I wait, the longer I have been waiting on this bridge, and the higher the stakes are if I don’t see her.

It also seems certain, based on God’s ironic bent, that she will appear the minute I turn to leave, and I cannot be made a fool like that.