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Episodes from Egypt: The lousy Con-man

The second time I visited Egypt my airline had lost my luggage during my transit at Milan airport. It was then that necessity forced me out of my hotel and office and into the streets looking for new clothing. Fortunately, if you're a man, Cairo is the right place for clothing. All kinds of things can be purchased for a very reasonable price, which is by the way lower than the hotel's price for washing the clothing you already have, but I digress. I spent hours combing over trousers, shirts, leather jackets and shoes. Some of this material was Egyptian, some of it was Chinese, and some was so mysterious that the vendors ran for cover every time someone saw a police officer. I developed a sense of where to go and what to look for. My fascination with the clothing business ran from the other side of the table as well. My uncle owns a textile factory, and many of my other relatives work for him. For a while we were discussing exporting his product to Ireland, but somehow the idea never pulled through. I was disappointed, and when a stranger stopped me on the streets of Cairo and wanted to talk to me, it was his position as a manager in a clothing store that persuaded me.
He said his name was Hasoon, and he was probably in his sixties. We went down a filthy dark alley and were served lukewarm tap water on some patio furniture. I then agreed to going out to a pub with him, which seemed like an interesting thing to do in Cairo. It turns out that pubs in Cairo are generally consistent with the dark stone-age post-apocalyptic architectural style of the city, and they are populated entirely by males who commonly feed each other peanuts by hand while drinking lukewarm liqueurs. After the night was over, I dizzily offered to pay for the evening at about the same time that Hasoon asked me to do so. Finding this a strange coincidence and the price strangely high I nonetheless hid my annoyance and agreed to meet up with Hasoon another time.
Next time Hasoon took me to a leather manufacturer on the island of Zamalek and there we drank Sprite with the factory owner himself. I was impressed enough with this man's wares that I asked him to take my measurements and make a leather jacket for me. The English language came laboriously to the owner, who struck me as a very sensible man. Our conversation shifted towards exporting his products, and Hasoon explained that I had an uncle who was also in the business and the owner seemed quite pleased by all this. This was also a thread that I pursued again when I visited the owner twice more without Hasoon, but I digress.
I agreed with Hasoon that on Thursday evening, which is the last evening before the start of the Egyptian weekend, we would see what he described as a show. We agreed that we would meet at a certain time after I finished work and we would go. We did not, and to explain why I should go into some detail about what I did on Wednesday, which is that I went to a store and bought some innocent-looking Egyptian beer. The trouble with Egyptian beer is that the water it's made of is also Egyptian, and while the beer itself is not objectionable the process of drinking it has a strongly objectionable effect on the billions of tiny creatures that call it home. Those same creatures did not go out without a fight, for a day after I ruined their ecosystem by consuming it they showed their protests most distinctly and caused my body to quell their rebellion by developing a fever. That is how I was prevented from viewing Hasoon's show, and also the reason he suppressed his anger and expressed some understanding before asking me to pay for my ticket anyway. I decided to oblige, as it wasn't a lot of money.
I was becoming dubious of my elderly friend by this point, but patient as I am I stuck to the theory that perhaps he was genuinely interested in introducing me to Egypt's clothing industry. I was right about that, because on our next trip Hasoon enthusiastically insisted that we visit another shop owner, but this time in a more distant part of town where the buildings were smaller, and some were open like hovels. Hasoon seemed extremely keen on me purchasing a shirt, something I'd repeatedly told him I didn't want to do. The manager of the store seemed quite happy about seeing Hasoon, and they seemed quite pleased that I was there. I was told that this man, whose body had been deformed by a disease that made his chest resemble a pig iron smelter, was a very fine tailor and that he could perform all kinds of tricks on a conventional shirt such as mix different materials. Unfortunately for him, I am not the sort of person that lets money depart his pocket for the sake of compassion and the evening ended without a sale.
When we got back to the centre of town the old man told me he'd forgotten his wallet at home and that he wanted to borrow some money to eat kabobs. I agreed and handed him five Egyptian pounds, which is what a kabob would cost. I will never forget the look in his eyes as he looked into my wallet. He rejected the five pounds and said that he wanted "that other thing that I have", referring to a 20 Euro note worth considerably more. He conveniently evaded the logic of how he could spend Euros in Cairo just as I evaded giving him the note, and though I insisted we see each other again we never did.
In retrospect I have difficulty imagining how Hasoon saw our relationship. Perhaps he saw himself as an underpaid consultant? Or was he some kind of professional shill? No, it seems that the Russians would have the best way of describing our relationship. They would liken it that between a frayer and blatnoy. In most countries, you can meet interesting people. Adventurers. Entrepreneurs. Beautiful women. In Egypt you can meet a "friend". "Can I have twenty Euros, friend?" Fortunately, they aren't even particularly good at what they do.
At least I got a very nice leather jacket out of the experience.