“Would you like to meet the horse? the woman asks with a tinge of excitement in her voice. With me are three women, all pretty, all ecstatic, and one is married to me. It’s 9 p.m. I’ve had a long day in the office and all I want in this life is a hot bath and a call from the Malaysian undersecretary of trade. Two megalomaniac shirt makers in Napoli are worried about a shipment of hemp fabric, which again has been dyed in the wrong color. It’s my entire fault, because I wasn’t in Penang at the right time, and the guy I sent couldn’t tell pink quartz from twilight rose to save his life; But first things first . The horse.
Somewhere near the pyramids, there is a black stallion of exceptional allure, and he wants to make my acquaintance, preferably over the weekend, depending on his schedule. I am supposed to ride that particular stallion to my wedding, either that or a white mare that is in Minya looking for a stud and taking dance lessons. No, wait. I am taking the dance lessons, not the mare. The mare is trying to get pregnant and will be back in Giza three days before the wedding. Too tight, everyone thinks.
The three women have been at it for two hours now. They’ve come early to make the wedding plans and are waiting for me to finalize. That’s what I do these days, FINALIZE. I get a list of options and I tick one. Or I demur, and then tick one. We’ve discussed at length the flowers, the decorations and the color scheme. The rings will be blessed by a multi-faith synod, a former communist and two National Democratic Party (NDP) mid-ranking officials.
The NDP was my touch. For getting water into the Sinai and a multinational tricycle compound into Nubia you deserve something, I said. The theme is now clear. We’ll sit in a European tent and eat Bedouin food, and then we’ll move on to a Bedouin tent and have European appetizers, or is it the other way around? I pretend to know. I cannot say no. Who would say no to three zealous women who haven’t slept for three days? Who would say no to three lovely creatures that are looking at me in heartfelt anticipation?
“No I say. “I am not riding a horse. Silence as three pretty smiles freeze on three pretty faces, as if with a flick of a switch. The princess has married an ogre, two of them think. Sweetie is having an off day, my wife thinks. We’ve been married three or four months now, but arrangements for the wedding are still in progress. A former Kefaya member is calling everyone to invite them. He sounds very formal on the phone. I’ve asked him to get their addresses and political affiliations in case I need to run for parliament in a hurry. After all, running for the parliament would be easier than this, and cheaper. And you can just drive there. No one has ridden a horse to parliament since Orabi, and he was just showing off on his way to Abdeen.
I haven’t been on a horse since Bolivia, and I was 20 back then. Give me a caleche, a carriage, a buggy, whatever the horse is ready to drag. Anything on two wheels will do. “Tell you what; I’ll drag the caleche myself with her on it. We’ll save money and time and I will get some exercise out of it. I am breaking their heart. I’ve been breaking everybody’s heart of late. I wouldn’t wear the maharaja’s turban brought especially from Uzbekistan. I wouldn’t call the Dalai Lama’s secretary to know if he was free. And I wouldn’t reserve Beit El Suheimi for the rehearsal dinner. I’ve been an ass, and now I am being an ass who’s supposed to get on a horse.
It’s not that I am being difficult, but weddings are for women, not men. We come along just as supporting actors, movie extras, bodyguards, grooms too. I never dreamt of what I’d wear for my wedding. I never fantasized about a wedding. And now I am in the middle of one, and it’s getting out of hand. Photographers have been interviewed in Zimbabwe. They were too expensive and busy with the Contessa. A pop singer from Spain said she may or may not come. The food is sorted though. The guy in Rio is going to come as soon as the festival is over. He’ll bring with him the linguica for the feijoada. The invitations are being typed in Nebraska, in a little shop that gets recycled paper from a nearby Indian reserve. At some point, I will have to call the Malaysian, but about what? I cannot remember.
