Cycladean simplicities which were like a fond embrace- for which I knew I should be longing when once more the miasma of Egypt had closed over my head.
-Clea, Lawrence Durrell
We were finally in the air, putting that summer in Cairo behind. The collapsed lung, the two hospital stays, the chest tubes and fluoroscope scans in Dr. Abu Sinna’s office. Cleared for take off, cleared to fly, on our way to Greece, and Lesbos. Not the Cyclades, but close enough.
We were seated next to another American, a man about fifty years old. Even before we’d leveled off he opened his briefcase and pulled out a bottle. Want a shot? he asked, Glad to be out of there. A journalist covering the Camp David mood in Egypt. Before the treaty signing but after the news was released. Egyptians expecting a peace dividend, a break from their war. Me expecting a vacation, a break from my pneumothorax.
If there had been a miasma that summer, I would not have known. My right lung had shrunk to the size of a peach so I wasn’t smelling anything, not the night blooming jasmine, the full, not even the ful, horse beans stewed all day with cumin. But maybe it would be waiting my return. Shem al naseem, they say, Sniff the breeze. Al-hawa hilwa, The wind is sweet, said Ahmad our bawwaab. Al-reeha wihsha, said KhairAllah when we passed a stinking camel carcass swarmed by vultures. Just don’t sniff any Egyptian wind too close, or let it close over your head.