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Al-Ahram Weekly 4 - 10 November 1999 Issue No. 454 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 4 - 10 November 1999 Issue No. 454
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Crybaby
By Fayza Hassan
Thursday can be the best or worst day of the week: the best, if I have no urgent work to complete and can look forward to a long leisurely time, and the worst, if I have been talked into making professional appointments, especially early in the morning. Last Thursday was one of the latter. I began fretting on Wednesday evening, convinced that I would not hear the alarm clock or, alternatively, that I would wake up, remember that it was Thursday and turn the ringer off, forgetting my engagements. Of course I was ready on time -- I usually am -- and everything went as planned. At 4:00pm, however, I was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than to go home and take advantage of whatever was left of my day of rest.
I flagged several taxis down, none of the drivers who came my way had plans to travel all the way to Maadi. I did not blame them, since that morning I myself had decided against taking on the infernal traffic. Maybe, Thursday was their day off too, I reasoned. Finally a large taxi stopped and agreed to take me where I was going. As I embarked, I was surprised to hear the European programme blasting on the radio. I don't take taxis more often than I absolutely have to, but I have come to expect a totally different kind of broadcast on the sound systems of this type of transport. Although louder than I would normally have tolerated, I was so tired that the music actually lulled me, if not to sleep, at least into a kind of pleasant stupor, notwithstanding the rather jerky ride. I was semi-conscious of the two huge buses on each side of the taxi, which were seriously impeding our progress, and of Shania Twain belting God Bless the Child into my left ear, when I heard the sound for the first time. It was a baby crying softly. I had bought the Shania CD a couple of years ago and had not listened to it since, but could not remember this particular feature of the sound track. I dosed some more, but then the same baby sobbed loudly in the background of a Rod Stewart song. That was rather strange, I thought. Maybe the announcer's mother had been busy that day and the poor woman had been forced to take her baby with her to the studio. She could be too busy changing and feeding the child and had forgotten to adjust the loudspeakers.
The traffic was getting worse, and so were the baby's wails. I was wide awake now, having distinctly heard the sound coming from inside the car. I took a good look at my surroundings. The driver was definitely strange, I decided. He was wearing a long-sleeved blue and white shirt that advertised a yacht club in Marina. His hair was unruly and three days' worth of stubble sprouted from his chin and cheeks. More worrying, his eyes seemed to be staring at me in the mirror. His gaze was very still and not one bit friendly. He could very well have kidnapped a baby and be drowning out its sobs with the loud pop music. I discreetly looked into the back of the large station wagon but from where I was sitting, it was difficult to get a full view of the floor. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes to avoid a truck. The car skidded to a halt and the baby wailed pitifully. I was sure now that it was in the boot and had hit its head. Should I grab the driver from behind, I wondered, just call the police on my cell phone, or do both? The baby emitted a choking noise as we took off once more. "Stop at once," I screamed suddenly. "I don't want to hear any arguments. Pull over now." The eyes in the mirror came alive, but instead of the hoped-for terror, they rather expressed bewilderment. "Is there any thing wrong?" the man asked, reaching over to open the ashtray for me. "Look straight in front of you, " I shouted. I knew from watching movies that I should not allow him to turn around. "Stop and get the baby out," I ordered, feeling more courageous by the minute. "What baby?" asked the felon, pretending to be surprised. "The one you stole," I said boldly. "The one you are keeping in the boot." He burst out laughing. "We don't steal babies, Madame," he said, almost choking with mirth, "we don't know how to get rid of our own." As he spoke, he turned the radio off and I could distinctly hear the baby. "It's the brakes," he explained. "They make that sound whenever I use them." I watched him demonstrate the way his brakes worked. "Who in his right mind would enjoy hearing a baby cry?" I stammered. "Me," he said, chuckling. "I have eight of them and the sound reminds me of the number of mouths I have to feed."
I was really relieved to reach my destination. As the taxi began to back out of my street, I heard a woman's voice shrieking: "Watch out, get out of the way at once, the car is reversing, you are in danger." I ran all the way up the stairs, only pausing to catch my breath when I had locked the door firmly. Maybe next time I have to work on a Thursday I will not pamper myself and splurge on taxi rides. I will take my own car, with its normal brakes, and battle with the traffic. It will definitely go a long way toward preserving my mental health.
