Mustafa claps his hands together loudly, roars with laughter in a manner that causes a feeling of great unease to the man sat across the table from him who instinctively finds himself nervously shuffling back in his chair. Maybe he's thinking that as if by some minor miracle the inch or two he'd moved back is going to aid his cause in that very moment and make the world of difference to his safety. Times like these call for a woman's intuition to help you make a correct judgement call on what to do next. Sadly this wasn't a power he'd been biologically blessed with at birth. His feet were turning instinctively towards the exit powered by his subconscious mind whilst his brain was sat like a wind up toy waiting for someone to turn the key and make it spring into action. Mustafa stops his maniacal laugh dead, moves his vast mass against the table causing it to move forward with a loud scraping sound that sends several eyeballs darting the way of where the pair are sat. He fixes the man with a cold hard stare and jabs the fat index finger of his right hand down on the table like a Sultan might have done centuries before upon a territory on a map that he desires his warriors to conquer on his behalf before the sun sets on the day. “You want the truth?” He bellows at the man.
An image of Jack Nicholson pops into the mans head and he half expects Mustafa to go full on into the famous dialogue from A Few Good Men. Somehow despite the temperature of an Egyptian summer touching close to 40°C he felt his scrotum pull tightly around his balls as if they were now cupped in the giant hand that was now being lifted off the table and about to move Christ knows where. Still no one's turning the key, his eyes are fixated on the hand maybe hoping Mustafa has a penchant for performing magic tricks. Maybe he's about to lean across the table and pull a penny from behind his ear. Mustafa breaks his gaze and turns his head to the left and clicks his fingers for attention and a young boy of no more than 11 or 12 quickly rushes over and stands beside him. Mustafa speaks to him in rapid gunfire Arabic with a stream of words that to the untrained ear sound like they're all being rolled into one. Has he even stopped to draw breath once? the man sits wondering. Throughout the one sided exchange the boy nods intermittently. Presumably if there were punctuation points within what he's being told those nods were the key indicators. The boy gives one final nod to convey message understood and scuttles quickly off and vanishes out of sight.
Mustafa turns his head back to the man sitting opposite but instead of the eyes like headlights returning which cause the deer to stop dead in its tracks, he disarms the man with the huge grin which spreads across his face. “Don't look so worried Mr Calthorp, you British take everything so seriously. The truth is a dangerous thing. Let it mean whatever you want it to mean! During the second World War if you'd have asked a British soldier if he'd have killed a man he'd have probably told you something along the lines of I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say and shuffled nervously like you're doing now in your seat as if he'd been asked if he was still a virgin." Mustafa laughs heartily at his own joke. Calthorp smiles nervously.
"If you'd have asked an American soldier the same question he'd have told you that he'd killed two dozen men without batting an eyelid and reinforced his belief that the US was the finest fighting force in all the world. Ask a Frenchman the same question and he'd have told you how many of the local women he'd slept with!” He slams his hand flat on the table causing everything laid between them to lift and drop back down sounding like an untuned orchestra missing a conductor and once more laughs at his own joke for good measure. This time the laugh is met with one in return, albeit not one of full committal. Someone is at least starting to turn that wind up key in Calthorp's head.
“Tell me Mr Calthorp do you have any cigarettes about your person? Egyptian cigarettes are packed with what you might mistake for being actual camel shit. Don't ever say that to one of my fellow countrymen though. Whilst we all know it's the truth of which you are currently also seeking from my person, as a nation we don't take kindly to foreigners pointing it out.”
“Please, call me Frank and thanks for the tip I'll definitely try to remember that one for future reference,” he replies as he reaches his right hand into his trouser pocket and pulls out a packet of Marlboros complete with the famous red and white labelling and hands them across the table.
“Thank you, thank you Mr Frank. Frank like old blue eyes. Perhaps your mother was a Sinatra fan? But your eyes my friend they look more green.”
“Ahhhh… no such luck I'm afraid, the old man was a mad keen Leicester City fan and insisted on naming me after Frank Worthington and instantly regretted it when they sold him to Bolton Wanderers when I was about six months old. Then I was the constant reminder he didn't want.”
“Oh that is terrible news. Here we do not name our children after false idols such as your footballers. Mind you we probably have 25 million Muhammad's so maybe Frank isn't so bad after all. I'm sorry I do not know these teams of which you speak.” Finishing his sentence Mustafa takes one of the cigarettes out of the packet and moves it from left to right flat under his nose and inhales the aroma before popping it in-between his lips and lighting up with a match. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes as he does so and titling his head back slightly. Smoke then flows through his giant nostrils and his eyes open again like a mythical dragon awoken from its slumber as his head rocks forward back to its starting position. Calthorp takes a mental note that the packet hasn't been passed back and guesses that's the last he'll see of those but figures it'll be a small price to pay if he gets the information he needs. The thought had crossed his mind about offering him the use of his Zippo to light the smoke but something had stopped him from doing so. Maybe it was foresight. He's temporarily distracted by the sight of a stunning woman in her mid 20s who comes into view over Mustafa’s left shoulder. Clearly his eyes must have widened enough to make Mustafa turn his head to see what had caught his gaze. Catching sight of the woman he moves his chair back and manoeuvres his large bulk up from it and spreads his arms wide open.
“Jeddi!” She exclaims at him smiling before being lost somewhere deep within his huge embrace.
Clearly they're well acquainted, Calthorp thinks to himself. Letting her out from what can closely be described as an actual bear hug he turns back and announces “This is Heba my granddaughter. Her name means a gift from God. Heba, this is Mr Frank. His name is from a footballer who broke his father's heart.”
Calthorp wasn't sure whether that was meant as an eloquent attempt at an explanation or an old fashioned piss take, but either way it finds a smile on his face as he in turn rises from his own chair and extends his hand out of courtesy to greet her in a far more formal British manner. Heba looks coy as she first looks at her Grandfather for his approval and upon a nod of his head extends her own hand and only then do they shake. Calthorp ever the gentleman grabs a chair from an empty table beside them and places it in front of Heba for her to sit down on which she duly obliges. He can see her cheeks start to redden.
Mustafa remembering Calthorp's eyes opening wide like saucers at the sight of his granddaughter's entrance swiftly tells him “She is not for you Mr Frank. Don't get any ideas otherwise we won't be friends for long if you get my drift?” And once more the smile has vanished from his face as he fixes him with another cold stare to emphasise this most vital of points. Now it's Calthorp's turn for his cheeks to redden. He goes to open his mouth and begin to offer some form of apology for causing any offence when Mustafa laughs at him again.
“You British, you are all far too serious. I'm afraid you wouldn't last a month in our glorious city. Ahhh look what is arriving,” he says arms open in triumph like Christ the Redeemer has sat down and taken a load off as several staff bring out far too many trays of food as if he'd ordered for the entire restaurant and not just the two of them. Mind you here was a man that looked like he could eat a literal horse and still have room for dessert.
With all the trays put down Mustafa tips each one of the staff who all smile like kids on Christmas morning discovering a pile of presents waiting for them under the Christmas tree before departing. Calthorp's eyes are wide as saucers again as he takes in the vast array of food which must cover some 90% of the table. Heba says something to her grandfather in Arabic and looks at him scornfully before poking her much slender finger into his protruding stomach. Mustafa holds the palms of his hands up, tilts his head to the left with his lips pursed tight and shrugs his shoulders. Heba shakes her head at him disapprovingly. At least Calthorp knows where she gets the finger jab from, both equally as terrifying in their own way. These are two people you'd definitely not want to upset and moreover he suspected if you ever upset Heba then you'd have also upset her Jeddi.
“Please start my friend and eat much as you can see I'm already in trouble.”
“Thank you. You'll forgive me please but I'm not sure where to start.”
Heba looks at him and rolls her eyes. Clearly she has the same talent for language. Calthorp finds himself doing exactly the same gesture as Mustafa had done seconds before which brings about another laugh which seems to erupt from his stomach like a volcano has just gone off. The look on Heba’s face suggests she'd rather be anywhere else in the world right now. Her hand moves forward and picks up what looks like a small square of sponge cake with an almond pressed into the top and pops it into her mouth whole and begins to chew.
Mustafa speaks to her in Arabic again, her eyes roll back in her head, she sighs, gives a little shake of the head before standing and pouring the tea from a beautifully ornate silver berrad capped with a crooked spout that might be modelled on a wing chun move. She puts on quite the show as she starts off low and raises her hand higher so the hot liquid is streaming into the cup like a tiny waterfall jet. She finished each pour with a deft flick of the wrist. Calthorp secretly hopes Mustafa can't read his thoughts at seeing the wrist trick and desperately tries to think of something cleaner in his mind just in case.
“Shukran, that was incredibly impressive,” Calthorp says smiling at her.
“My pleasure Mr Frank,” she responds which makes him chuckle and a grin spreads across his face which he couldn't have stopped even if he'd have wanted to.
Seeing his reaction she inexplicably huff's, folds her arms and turns her head to look elsewhere. Damn it he thinks to himself, I really have to watch everything I say and do in this country or I do at least with this family. No wonder neighbouring countries have been going to war with each other for centuries over the smallest of indiscretions.
"I shouldn't worry Mr Frank, she gets it from her mother, who gets it from her mother. What do they call it in your country?"
"Hereditary?"
"Ah yes. It is, as you say, hereditary."
Heba sits, her leg closest to Calthorp deliberately now crossed away from him and she stares at something intently behind him. His eyes however are busy darting around the table trying to work out what to try first of the foods of all shapes, colours and sizes. Rather cowardly he decides to play it safe and picks up the same thing Heba had begun with. He lifts his hand to his mouth at the same time he's gone to make eye contact with Mustafa again, except his hand carries on past his mouth and into the air, quickly joined by his other one. Mustafa stops chewing his food and tilts his head to one side with a look of confusion when he hears the click from behind him and the cold steel pressing into his neck.
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