“The image of Alexandria is almost entirely literary,” he continued, in excellent English. “It’s not based on factual research. It’s based on novels and poetry, so there’s the illusion that the city can develop an economy around culture. But this effort is distorted by power struggles in the government and because of empty branding. The Bibliotheca is just another attempt to brand Alex as important for its heritage. The intention is good. How it functions is something else. The Bibliotheca attracts tourists, then has nothing to show them. They visit for a day, look at the library, maybe look at the city for an hour, eat fish in a restaurant, then jump on the bus to Cairo.”
I asked him to back up and explain how the problem reflected power struggles in the government.
“I work a lot with university students,” Baroni said. “On the surface they seem like students everywhere-the way they dress and watch MTV and use the Internet. But embedded in the educational system is a total lack of critical thinking. From the early grades on, schools fear analysis and criticism. Everything in Egypt-the government, the police—survives on this lack of criticism. Religious fundamentalism is another negative,” he added. “But it’s been caused by failed nationalism, by the whole baggage of untruthful socialism that started in 1952. As a result some students see fundamentalism as the only option. Islam gives them a magic potion—a way to express their criticism and dissatisfaction.”
Baroni swore he wasn’t naive. He had no messianic belief that he and ACAF could solve all of Egypt’s problems. Still he thought they had a role to play. “All hope is for the future,” he said. “Not the past. Not the present we have today. I do what I do because I believe that art helps and can offer an alternative education to the uncritical one they get at school.”
Back at the Cecil Hotel, the concierge passed me a note. I prayed it was news of my Libyan visa. Instead, it was a reminder from Michael Nevadomski that I had agreed to buy dinner tonight for Fidehla and a few friends. All part of my effort to touch base with Islamic terrorism.
Michael said we’d have to eat after the girls finished their evening prayers. They had chosen the old-fashioned supper club Santa Lucia, which had waiters in bow ties and bolero jackets and a menu heavy on Italian dishes. It had good wine, but Michael cautioned me not to drink alcohol, out of respect for the girls’ faith. What’s more, since Helima was a Salafi’ist, I shouldn’t touch her, not even to shake her hand.
I had to laugh at myself. In The Daily News Egypt, Riccardo Fabiani, from Exclusive Analysis, a British strategic intelligence firm, had warned that “worsening social and economic conditions in Egypt could fuel a reprisal of terrorist attacks on a large scale.” In his opinion the country was at risk for a “new kind of terrorism.” At the same time, a BBC World Service poll of more than 100 countries had revealed that Egypt was one of only two nations that didn’t have a negative impression of Al Qaeda. Yet here I was in this Muslim hotbed and the best I could manage was a rendezvous at a stuffy restaurant with an American undergrad and a few English girls in hijabs from the University of Manchester.
Despite Michael’s warning, I decided that I’d better arrive early at Santa Lucia and sneak a stiff drink. Our table was in a wood-paneled, beam-ceilinged nook. The place settings sported bone china, silverware, crystal goblets and starched napkins folded like origami birds. It seemed a shame to shake one out and plop it on my lap.
The restaurant had the aura of a men’s club on Ladies’ Nite. The scent of Shalimar overlay the tang of testosterone. Sedate yet seductive, the Santa Lucia was the kind of joint where a gent my age might wine and dine his much younger mistress. At nearby tables, grey-haired, brick-faced fellows appeared to be doing just that, and the soundtrack—Sade crooning “No Ordinary Love”—did what it could to help them get lucky.
Furtive as a relapsed alcoholic, I let the waiter spirit away my glass before the girls made an entrance with Michael. They created quite a stir. Fidehla and Helima, swaddled in black robes and hijabs, had brought along their roommate, Sarah. Born in Bahrain to a British father and a Filipina mother, she wore designer jeans and a pink Empire-line blouse that might have been a shortie pajama top.
I presided at the head of the table, like long-in-the-tooth King Lear among his three fractious daughters. Never have I wished so fervently for a second drink. I remembered not to shake hands with Helima. It required greater effort not to settle her onto my knee and cuddle her like a doll. Small and fine-boned, she had a lovely face—or sliver of a face—whose eyes appeared kohl-rimmed even without makeup. She handed me a brochure explaining Salafi’ism.
I said I’d read it later. Then I added, “Sorry about the music.”
She smiled sweetly. “It’s not your fault.”
The recorded soundtrack stopped and a live piano player struck up a medley of old torch songs—“September in the Rain,” “Stardust,” “The Summer Wind.”
“This is nice,” Sarah said. It was unclear whether she meant the music or the menu. The three girls ordered soft drinks, and Michael and I asked for fizzy mineral water.
“I Googled Martin Amis,” Fidehla told me. “I was wrong. He is a racist.”
“No,” I said. “He shot off his mouth and I’m sure he regrets it.”
“Who’s Martin Amis?” Sarah asked.
She and Helima, like Fidehla, hadn’t heard of him or the controversy he had sparked. And when Fidehla filled them in, they showed little enthusiasm for the subject. Food held far more interest. They were tired of cooking for themselves, they said, and were delighted to be eating out. But they weren’t very adventurous: They all ordered chicken.
I asked Helima about her family, and she said her parents had emigrated from Bangladesh. She had six sisters; all of them wore the hijab.
“How have you girls gotten along together as roommates?” I asked.
“Absolutely fantastic,” Fidehla spoke for the three of them.
“Will you room together back in Manchester?”
After an awkward pause, Helima said, “I’ll live with my family.”
“I’ll have my own apartment,” Sarah said.
“It never causes problems that Sarah doesn’t wear the hijab?” I asked.
“She’s not a Muslim,” Fidehla said. “But she respects our beliefs and we respect hers.”
“What if she were a Muslim and didn’t wear a headscarf?”
“You can be a good Muslim and not wear the hijab,” Helima insisted. But personally neither she nor Fidehla could conceive of doing that. It didn’t accord with their idea of Islam. They believed there would never come a time in their lives when they’d go without headscarves. Just as earnestly, they maintained that this didn’t mean they were intolerant of people who disagreed with them.
“I have a twenty-eight-year-old son,” I said. “Would you like to meet him? We can arrange a marriage.”
“That depends on what he looks like.” Fidehla caught the teasing tone in my voice and matched it.
I showed them a wallet snapshot of my younger boy, Marc.
“He’ll do fine,” Fidehla said. Helima giggled and agreed.
But when I reminded them that he wasn’t Muslim, Fidehla and Helima turned serious and said they wouldn’t marry a nonbeliever.
“Oh,