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145 P A u l i n E k A l d A s Cumin and Coriander t hE oil sPl At t Er Ed as she slipped another falafel patty into the frying pan. One drop stung her cheek and she brushed the pricking sensation by rubbing her shoulder against it. Faten was almost finished. The stuffed cabbage was done, the vegetable tagen needed just a few more minutes in the oven, and the spinach phyllo triangles were all set on the counter. Once she fried the rest of the falafel, she would be able to pack up and go to the next house. Mr. David’s kitchen was large, with lots of counter space and a new oven that worked easily. The gas was hooked up so she didn’t have to worry about replacing the butagaz cylinder. The American University in Cairo had built this new building in luxury style. Mr. David’s apartment had a huge terrace, almost as large as the apartment itself, with a view of Zamalek’s landscape of old villas. Sometimes , Faten would take a minute to step out onto the terrace and let her eyes roam over the city. Despite the growing population and the many new buildings, most of the villas had been able to salvage at least a small garden with orange or guava trees and perhaps some fl wers. There were also several new boutiques like Mobaco, Concrete , and New Man, where the upper-class and foreigners shopped. Faten preferred being in the kitchen, the feeling of space around her as she maneuvered, a circular dance from refrigerator to counter to oven. She took out the last falafel, still crackling from the hot oil, and placed it on the paper towel along with the rest. It was almost two T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 146 o’clock. She was running late and would have to hurry. She wondered if she should spend the two pounds on a taxi to go downtown or if she should wait for the minibus that cost forty piasters. She looked at the money Mr. David had left for her—forty pounds when he owed her only thirty-five, twenty for the food and fifteen for her salary. He was always generous. She would take a taxi. This morning she had been late because she got into an argument with the taxi driver who stopped for her. He had arrogantly insisted that she pay him four pounds when she knew that two was fair. Finally, he waved his hand, encircling the whole area of Imbaba, and stated with assurance that any foreigner he picked up would pay him no less than five pounds. She muttered under her breath, “God save us and protect us,” and told the man to go on and find his foreigner; she did not want to delay him. Faten took the vegetable tagen out of the oven and placed it alongside the rest of the food. Then she covered everything with tin foil since she knew Mr. David would not be home for a while. She was grateful to be working for him. He was a young man and not married. He never complained about what she cooked or how she cooked it. Often, he would not give her a list for the next week and accepted whatever choices she made for him. How lucky, she thought, the woman who would marry him. Not like Mr. John, who insisted she use less and less oil. Now he only left her two drops to cook with. And when he was home, he would hover about her. How did he expect her to make the phyllo or the eggplant with no oil? The food came out dry and brittle, nothing to soften the palate, to make one desire it. She wanted to stop cooking for him, but she was reluctant to give up any of her jobs. She didn’t know what might happen tomorrow. She still hoped that she might be able to take her daughter, Houria , out of the public school and put her in the private school with her brother, Mahmoud. Houria—it meant freedom. When her son was born, her husband filled out the birth certificate and afterwards told her the child’s name. Then, she became “Om Mahmoud,” the mother of Mahmoud. She had not expected anything different for the [18...

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