The Poet of Shoubra Street

Short Story Part 3 of 4

Chapter 8 

After a night of fitful sleep and frenetic dreams, Ibrahim rises from his bed earlier than usual. Munira has just woken up and is busy taking care of their youngest child, who has been having a fit from a bad dream. She is surprised to see Ibrahim awake so early, and even more surprised that he is already getting dressed to head out into the always bustling streets of Shoubra. 

Ibrahim is feeling distracted, hurried and bothered by a gnawing sense that something isn’t right. He has been sweating, tossing and turning all night, and now he has a headache, and a runny nose, and he keeps yawning. What is going on with me? He wonders. Perhaps I just need a strong coffee to pull myself together. And then, perhaps... no, just a coffee will do, I’m sure. 

Munira watches him and frowns as her husband quickly dresses and descends the stairs to the street below. Always a good Muslim wife, she lets him go without inquiry. But she knows something is wrong, and her eyes dart anxiously as the door closes behind Ibrahim. 

Ibrahim enters a nearby coffee shop on Shokry lane. Even at this early hour, it is already filled with people sitting at tables, either reading from a book or writing in one. The cozy ambience of the shop and the nutty scent of coffee beans enters his nostrils. He inhaled as steadily as he could, and it soothed him a little bit. 

Ibrahim ordered a strong Turkish style coffee from the young man running the shop. “Just your strongest finely ground beans and hot water,” Ibrahim requests. “No sugar.” 

The young man looks calm, competent, and relaxed, and Ibrahim finds himself getting irritated again. Why can I not feel as calm as this common shopkeeper? He thinks to himself, annoyed. What has this barista accomplished that I have not? What is going on with me? He decides to channel his anxiety into creative expression, something he had done before when faced with difficult moods that wouldn’t seem to pass. Ibrahim collects his hot steaming coffee, sits at a table beside the window, and takes out his journal and pen. He begins to write. 

Ibrahim wishes to write a poem about his dreamy experience with the poppy tears the day before. How he witnessed himself as if from above, and how it was a different Ibrahim he saw: a more confident, happy and accomplished Ibrahim. He wants to begin the path of becoming this happier, more self-satisfied man. He begins to write, halts and takes a drink of coffee. He waits for the hot liquid and its magical caffeine to do its work. He waits, tries to write again, and takes another sip. 

Damn, Ibrahim thinks to himself. I don’t seem to have any inspiration. In fact, he still feels bothered, irritable and achy. But Ibrahim is a determined man, and he stolidly remains at the coffee shop all morning, trying to write. By his third cup of Turkish coffee, the morning light is getting high in the sky, and another barista had come in and replaced the young man. Ibrahim looks at his journal. He has written a single verse all morning. It reads: The man who is not me but better, the man in my visions is...? 

He isn’t happy with even that one half sentence. He has been working all morning, drinking coffee and fidgeting, and this is all he has accomplished! What sort of a poet cannot write a single stanza in an entire morning? It was then that the thought came, unbidden. Maybe I just need to re-immerse myself in the world of the imagination, in the magic of the poppy tears... 

Once the thought of the poppy powder enters his mind, it becomes an obsession. Ibrahim can no longer focus on writing, can no longer enjoy his coffee, and can no longer even focus on his schedule for the rest of the day. He would have to clear all his meetings. Only one thing matters to him now that his mind has settled on it, like a hawk who has locked in on a mouse. He knows deep down that if he just had a little more medicine, all his problems would be solved. He would ascend to become the man he was destined to be. A greater Ibrahim. He leaves the shop with his last coffee still unfinished and heads directly to Razi’s house. 

Chapter 9 

The Cairo Public Transportation Authority had introduced a bus network two years ago, and Ibrahim takes advantage of it now, to get to Razi’s as quickly as possible. He doesn’t think beyond that one goal: get to Razi’s. The shiny new bus fleet were Detroit-built GM “old look” transit buses, sleek and streamlined in the same vein as streetcars you’d imagine in San Francisco or Rio De Janeiro. They are painted blue on the bottom and white on the top. Ibrahim rides in the first row, fidgeting and anxious. 

After what seems like an eternity, but in actuality is only about 15 minutes, the big blue bus arrives at Ibrahim’s stop. He thanks the driver and hurries out, making a beeline for Razi’s house. When he arrives and knocks on the door, he is greeted by Razi’s wife Khepri. 

“Salam Alaikam,” Ibrahim. Are you looking for Razi? 

“Wa Alaykum as-salem, Khepri. Yes, I am here for Razi.” 

“Well you are in luck then. Razi just arrived back at the house with his friend Zayn. They are visiting in the study. Please, go in.” 

When Ibrahim enters the study, the air feels dank and dusty, and the curtains on the windows strain the golden Egyptian sunlight into a bruised dim beige. Still, Ibrahim is in high spirits, or at least hopeful he will soon be in high spirits. Razi and Zayn are lounging on plush chairs, nursing cups of hot black tea, sweetened thoughtfully by Khepri with sugar and mint. 

“Ibrahim, my friend! Zayn and I were just thinking about yesterday, how you drifted so far away from us, how you seemed to fly in your visions like an egret!” The men all shared a laugh. 

“Razi, my friend. Zayn. I must ask of you: have you any more of that magical medicine you could offer me? I can pay,” said Ibrahim, jangling a pouch of coins in his trousers. 

Razi looks uneasy; he has never seen Ibrahim behaving so desperately. It is unlike the dignified and eloquent man he has gotten to know over the years. Still, friends were friends, and proper etiquette and hospitality were paramount. 

Razi interjects before Zayn can respond. “Ah, of course, my friend. And I will not let you pay me while you are a guest in my house. Come, sit, let’s all embark on this journey together. Perhaps we’ll meet you up in the sky Ibrahim!” The men laughed. Ibrahim hesitated, shifted. He wants to ask something but is unsure how to phrase it. 

“Friends, he says. “I want to go farther into my imagination than ever this time. I want to dive so deep inside myself I will never have to struggle to write a poem ever again, never sit with writer’s block while composing a story. I want to go all the way inside.” 

“You’ll need more then,” says Zayn, pragmatically. “Quite a bit more, honestly.” Razi looks unsure, but nods. 

“Yes, y-yes,” Ibrahim stammers. “A bit more. Why don’t you make me one of those lines of powder you described before? We can do it right on this table, the three of us together.” 

“The three friends,” says Razi, quietly, looking unsettled. He takes a deep breath and collects himself. After all, Ibrahim is a grown man who can make his own decisions. “Zayn, go ahead and prepare our lines.” 

“Remember, friend, I want to go far,” Ibrahim reminds him. 

Zayn reaches in his pouch and proceeds to prepare three lines of poppy tears. One of the lines is longer than the other two, almost twice as long. “That’s yours,” he says, gesturing to Ibrahim. 

“Ah, but friends, your lines are much shorter than mine! Surely you don’t want to cheat yourselves like that.” 

“If you are to go deep within, we’ll need to be more alert to look after you,” says Zayn, always practical. “But we will still receive plenty of medicine, friend. Do not worry. Simply enjoy the experience, and you can tell us all about it afterwards.” 

Ibrahim is not going to argue. He is not going to make any more small talk either. He has a one track mind. “Ah, yes, you speak the truth Zayn. Are we all ready? We shall do them all at once.” 

The men nod to one another. “So, I simply inhale it all through my nose?” Ibrahim askes stupidly. The men nodded again. “Here, use this,” said Zayn, as he produced a small, hollow bamboo shoot and handed it to Ibrahim. He and Razi already have theirs. They look each other in the eyes one last time, then bend their nostrils to the table and inhale the drug. 

Ibrahim is a disciplined man when he wants to be. Once he decides to do something, he always finds a way to do it. And though he is a novice with the poppy tears, he finds a way to snort his entire long line of powder. Half way through he switches nostrils and stubbornly continues, though his sinuses burn and his head feels like it is caught in a haboob. At last, the job finished and the line completely taken up, he leans back into his chair and closes his eyes. 

The pain in his sinuses crescendos but quickly subsides. Where moments before there was discomfort, anxiety, restlessness and irritability, there now floods into Ibrahim’s senses a feeling of pleasure and total well-being so divine, he hardly believes he is still tethered to this earthly plane. He feels himself recline further into his chair. He vaguely senses his head loll to one side. He feels... simply amazing. Presently he begins to have another vision. 

Ibrahim finds himself floating inside a bustling cafe, above the tables, chairs, and customers. It is so life-like, he can see each of the customers so clearly. He gazes out the front window and is surprised to see Razi walking there on the street, holding hands and nuzzling his face into his wife Khepri’s….wait, no, this is not Khepri he is cuddling up to! 

Rather, Razi is walking with a beautiful young woman wearing a flattering sundress that shows off her generous curves. Ah, thinks Ibrahim from inside the vision, this woman is not from Cairo, she is not a traditional Muslim woman. Perhaps she is one of the free women from Alexandria or Damascus, and she must know Razi from her past somehow. Ah, look how happy Razi looks! Like a teenage boy on a date, he looks so alive and full of vigor. 

It is then that the vision takes a dark turn. He looks beyond the street to a small vegetable stall, where Khepri just so happens to be picking up some produce brought in daily from the nearby farms. Ibrahim winces from within his vision as he sees her look up to see Razi with his beautiful foreign mistress. Shock, then a look of total despair as tears begin running down her face… 

Razi! Ibrahim is calling to his friend as he gets closer to him. Razi! 

Ibrahim wants to salvage what is left of this situation and see if he can help guide his friend back in the right direction. 

Razi hears his name being called and he turns around. 

Ibrahim! He hears his name being called…

“Ibrahim. Brother. Ibrahim!” He is jolted back to reality, back to Razi’s study and the chair he had sunk into, by a firm hand on his wrist. 

“You had gone very deep indeed brother. We were beginning to worry. Are you okay?” asks Razi. 

“Yes,” replies Ibrahim. “I had the most wild dream. It was so real. You were there Razi and….” He stopped. “Well, it was a dream or, or something anyway.”

“What did you think?” Razi wants to know. “Did you find inspiration?” 

Ibrahim can only nod weakly, his mind still on fire from his vision which had seemed so much like real life.

“Razi, brother, do you have paper? And a pen? I did have a vision, and I must write it down! I must compose this story while it burns so hot within me!”

Razi promptly brought Ibrahim a pen and paper, and, like a good friend, a cup of tea. Ibrahim is still high from the poppy powder, and he feels no discomfort or exhaustion as he passionately composes his short story, based upon his drug-induced vision and the intense feelings he could sense from the main characters, both of whom he knew. He writes this story about a friend of his who is lost. Deep in love with a woman who is not his own. He recalls the details of his vision, and doggedly writes it all down before he can forget.

Chapter 10

Ibrahim stays at Razi’s house until the early hours of the morning. Eventually he returns home and sleeps for some time, barely noticing his sleeping wife, visiting and revisiting the vision he had in dreams. He wakes up and immediately continues to compose this short story of his friend who is having an affair. He doesn’t name anyone in the story but he knows the unforgettable truth, this story is all too common in the streets of Shoubra. Too many men are found training their wives to be submissive and veiled, while they walk the streets with “free women” who come in from Europe or other neighboring areas unencumbered by the strict laws of these lands. 

Ibrahim has been writing for the whole day and into the night. He finds himself stuck to his desk, seldom even coming up for a breath of fresh air. Munira periodically comes in and brings him tea and food, being careful not to bother him while he is writing so frantically. 

Hours later, with the night moving closer to the dawn, he puts the pen down and gazes at his creation. He feels so proud. He knows what he has written is excellent. He gathers up his story and heads to Razi’s home. 

He arrives to find Razi and Abbas together in the study, staying up late playing poker and drinking tea, and even sharing a couple bottles of Sakara, a locally brewed Egyptian beer. They know it is frowned upon by many in their community to drink alcohol, but their naturally rebellious souls are already high on poppy powder. By the time Ibrahim emerges into the study, they are boisterous with intoxication and excitement. 

“The Poet of Shoubra!” exclaims Razi, as Ibrahim enters the study. “Come now, you have to read to us what you have written! We know you have been tucked away with pen and paper.” 

“You must, yes,” agreed Abbas 

Ibrahim is still buzzing from his own creative fire. He does not argue with them. Rather, he takes a seat, drinks a sip of mint tea and recites his story. As he reads, the two men sit stony silent, completely rapt with attention. 

Chapter 11

Razi is stunned and visibly shaken when Ibrahim finishes his story. 

"That was a magnificent piece my friend,” says Abbas, as Ibrahim folds the pages and lights a cigarette. “Your imagination is… transcendent, brother. Out of this world. The stories you write are greatly detailed, so real…”  

“Tell me Ibrahim, what gave you the inspiration for this story?” Razi wants to know. “Is this perhaps based on an experience you had, or, or is it inspired by someone that you know” 

“Me?” exclaims Inbrahim, “No, not me. I wouldn't say it’s exactly a friend either. I mean, not a real friend. It just sort of appeared to me in my vision when I took the poppy tears, and so I wanted to write about it. I know that this sort of thing takes place in these streets more often than not, so it was important for me to write about these hidden tales between the cracks of real life. Situations that readers can really feel, and maybe even see themselves in the story and characters.”

“I see.” Razi said with a wry, strange smile on his face “Well then, nicely done, my friend. Excellent work.”

As the night continues its inexorable trek towards the dawn, the men continue to laugh, smoke and drink, more than they probably should. There is a feeling of giddiness amongst them. Giddiness, and something else, something deeper and darker. Something ancient and mysterious, something impossible to define. 

Chapter 12

The next few days are utterly euphoric for Ibrahim. Everywhere he goes, he carries his story with him, and shares it with anyone who will listen. He even pays a young villager to make hand-written copies of the work, and hands them out to admirers. The story is wildly popular with the people of Shoubra, probably because it sheds light on an uncomfortable reality which is so often ignored. Ibrahim’s reputation as a rare, resplendent talent is gaining steam. 

Ibrahim walks the streets with a constant smile on his face. He feels ecstatic and fueled by all the positive feedback from his colleagues and friends. He feels genuinely proud of himself. He feels like he is finally, actually getting somewhere in the literary world. He is no longer just a one masterpiece type guy, a one trick pony.  He feels confident that he has turned a corner, that he will now be able to produce and create as much excellent art that he wants. No more paralyzing writer’s block. No more fruitless mornings feeling restless and frustrated in cafes. Ibrahim is thrilled with his newfound creative energy and potency. 

One clear and crisp Cairo evening, the four friends, Ibrahim, Razi, Abbas and Zayn are drinking tea and smoking hash. Razi has been acting funny all night, sort of shy and withdrawn. Ibrahim is concerned for his friend.

“Razi, tell me, what is it that worries you this night? You look concerned about something.” 

Razi looks at Ibrahim, and Ibrahim thinks he even detects a few tears in his friend's eyes. 

“Come,” said Razi, “come take a walk with me.” 

The men disappear into the night, while Abbas and Zayn lean back, kibitz and smoke.

The story continues next week with part 4. Thank you for reading.