Rita

I’ve never met Rita. I never knew she even existed and yet last night she stormed my life out of nowhere and became a cornerstone of a friendship that lasted 15 years so far. I do know Peter, however, or so I thought. We met through a common friend. Peter sported a welcoming smile. He carried it with such confidence you had to believe it was a genuine smile. A familiar smile that reminded me of home, warm and inviting. Peter didn’t smile with his lips; his whole face smiled. Teeth showing and eyes sparkling, the whole nine yards. An irresistible smile, if one exists.

His voice was warm with a little crackle like a wood plane that needed sanding. He wasn’t loud, but he didn’t speak softly either. It made it very hard for his presence to go unnoticed. He wasn’t a flower on the wall, nor was he a performer in his own one-person production. You couldn’t help but see him, and you couldn’t help but be seen by him. A curious extrovert who could speak to anyone and everyone. You had to hear what he had to say, and he had a genuine interest in what others had to say. He was fair that way. 

Like myself, he is Egyptian. We even lived in the same neighbourhood in Cairo. He was also an Engineer, but then what does a self-respecting middle-class Egyptian do if he’s not admitted to medical school? Had he not been an Egyptian Copt, he would have made a marvellous Mohamed or Ahmed. I expected it to be another social encounter that would not repeat, but it was on that day Peter decided we would be friends. I had no say in the decision. Peter didn’t take no for an answer, and yet he did it so eloquently that I believed all along it was a mutual decision. Now I know it was an inevitability.

From that point onwards, and for the remainder of my time in London, I spent most of my weekends with Peter and his little family. In Peter’s house, food and wine were in abundance. We ate, drank, and shared memories of back home. We tried very hard to find the lost connection between us, but we could never place it. Given what we studied, where we lived, and our social background, we had to have someone in common, but none could be found. The uninformed would think this is normal in a huge city like Cairo, but they would be wrong. We soon gave up on finding a hidden connection and started building a new one.

I left London, but Peter remained in my life, and I remained in his. Every time I needed to go to London for work, I would see him if not stay with him. We would pick up right from where we left. We would talk about back home but in a general way. We both missed home, and we both knew there was no way back for us. We blamed it on politics, corruption, lack of opportunities, and our newfound love for Western distance and order. We reduced our missing home for the old recipes. Molokheya, Sayadeya, and obviously, the old chicken tray in the oven. We are both keen cooks and were happy to down a few bottles of wine while fighting in the kitchen over whose recipe is more authentic.

Years passed, and we held on to each other. I was in Paris, then I was in Italy, then I was in Grenoble and Italy, and Peter remained the fruit of the decade I lived in London. I stopped traveling to London as frequently, so he came to me. We would walk for hours and stay late with our glasses always full. If you had asked, I would have said there wasn’t anything about Peter that I didn’t know. I believe he would have said the same. Because who we became was an open book to the other. How did we become who we are was assumed but not fully understood. It wasn’t until yesterday.

We caught up on family holidays, back home stories, and our aspirations for the new year. I had meant to ask him if he got around to buying my book for a few months, but I always forgot. Last night I remembered he didn’t. “Man, come on, I can’t believe you are yet to read my book.” I was only mildly disappointed. I know how busy he can be with work, children, and continued education. I didn’t plan to stay long on that point when his words hit me. “I know, buddy, but please forgive me. Once I read about the disappearance of your brother, it brought difficult memories of my sister”.

I knew that Peter had a sister named Sandra. She lives back in Cairo with her husband and kids. I never met her, but I have a vivid image of who she is. “What’s wrong with Sandra, Peter?” I asked worriedly. I know how close Peter is to his family. “No, it’s not Sandra, man. I had… Have another sister, Rita. Like your brother, she also disappeared in 2002”. The calm with which he delivered this news seemed at odds with the gravity of what he said. “Peter, we have known each other for 15 years and this is the first time you have shared this with me”. He paused for a moment and then stated the very obvious. “You realize it was the same for you. I didn’t know about your brother until I heard about your book”. It was my time to pause for a moment.

He didn’t need to explain to me why he never shared. He didn’t need to justify his silence. He didn’t say how painful it was…is, I know. He didn’t blame me for not sharing. He understood. And all of a sudden, I realized a grief larger than mine. Not only did he have to deal with the sense of loss, he also had to face a conservative society. In my case, it was my brother who left. A man whose misjudgments would touch our reputation but not tarnish it. Rita, on the other hand, left her family to fend for themselves against the unforgiving, critical stare of society. I don’t blame her. In fact, a part of me admires her. What my brother did is much harder for a woman. Both Nezar and Rita found themselves cornered by society, and their only solution was to disappear.

Peter and I had a bond that we didn’t understand. Not all the talks we had were enough to reveal to each other Our Truth.  Because the truth is the friend that everyone pretends to like but few want to spend time with.