Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves

 

By Andrei Shkarubo

 

 

А flurry of interest rolled through the plane, and Andrei opened his eyes: an air-hostess was pushing a trolley with the duty-free liquor, a signal for the rite of mid-air refueling of the Russian holiday-makers, bound for the Egyptian Red Sea resort of Hurghada.

 

A whiff of whiskey soon hit his nostrils, and reassured, he closed his eyes and slipped back into his reveries.

 

He had already had a drink that day - customary for those going on holiday - with his colleagues. It’s not that he cared much for this custom any more – he just liked the kids who had recently come to work at his human rights NGO -- decent, competent and seemingly unspoiled by ambition – in Russian “ambitsia,” a quality essential if you want to climb the career ladder, but totally worthless if you’re setting out to fight the wind-mills of the Russian state.

 

Touching glasses, they had wished him a good time on the Red Sea and cautioned in mock concern against swimming with topless nymphs and picking poisonous corals for souvenirs. Andrei had smiled to himself, envying them their excitement with life.

 

It was his boss, though, who had objected strongly to his vacation abroad. ‘You can’t leave me alone,’ he had said gruffly, ‘with our conference on the Russian secret services just a month away’.

 

‘You are not alone, now that you’ve hired a bunch of bright kids.’

 

‘Oh, come on,’ the boss had grimaced. ‘You know that in critical times I can rely only on the one who’s stuck with me from the very beginning.’

 

Andrei had said nothing for a while, then had burst out: ‘When you, Sergei Ivanovich, get sick and tired of our Russian realities, you go to your family in Paris. And where am I to go, pray tell?’

 

A heavy silence had fallen, and Andrei had quickly regretted his outburst: It wasn’t for the easy life, but for safety that Sergei’s family had fled to France after the murder of their son. The dejected silence had been finally broken by a heavy sigh, and the boss had said: “Ok, but do take care, there’s no guaranteed safety for us abroad.”

 

The hot air of the Egyptian night and the pungent smell of the sea dissolved Andrei’s reveries and, like the magic carpet, transferred him instantly to the Ali Baba Hotel in Hurghada.

 

While checking in, he spotted a pretty young girl, obviously Russian, sitting in the administrator’s chair. Surprised, he observed to the male clerk handling his registration: ‘You have a beautiful administrator. A Russian?’

 

‘Yes, just like our new hotel owner’.

 

‘You mean they’ve bought out the Ali Baba?’

 

‘Yes, and the neighboring Jasmine Hotel, too’.

 

‘No problem with the forty thieves yet?’

 

The Egyptian only smiled as he handed Andrei his key.

 

 

 

It turned out to be a poor joke, he discovered the next morning, when – while looking for a place on the beach – his roving eyes could not avoid the sporadically sprawled anabolically inflated pig-like carcasses of the Russian “banditi” and the big shiny naked breasts of their vacant-faced strumpets. Steering clear of these prime specimens of the Putin “middle class”, he selected a spot among the elderly Germans, closest to the awninged site where mattresses and towels were issued by two sturdy-looking Egyptian youths.

 

Having settled on his chaise-longue, he was about to crack a book, but suddenly put it down unopened to review the unsettling clues of the last few hours: The tranquility of his longed-for two-week escape from Russian realities seemed in danger of unraveling. The realities of the moment required some serious reflection.

 

First of all, it was now becoming clear why they had given him only a cursory customs check back in Moscow, instead of the usual – for him – routine of rummaging through all his luggage, scanty as it might be; nor had they planted any “companion-friend” to keep an eye on him, particularly during his outings to the city. There was simply no need for that: The whole Jasmine-Ali Baba compound was theirs; and their forty-odd goons could certainly be counted on to do their best to make him feel “at home” – their home.

 

What he hadn’t figured out yet was what their plans were for him: Keep an eye on him? Coerce him? Frame him? What?

 

They had already tried several times before to compromise him while he was abroad, usually as a terrorist or a drug trafficker.

 

The last time he had been in such a fix was in the Canary Islands, when the Russian travel agency had put him up in a crummy club-hotel owned by a Russian citizen instead of in the 4-star hotel promised by the contract, after which his holiday had turned into a nasty thriller in which every movement of his, bowels included, was closely monitored by the Spanish police.

 

When their clowning ardor had reached an ominous peak, Andrei had called his close friend in Washington, just in case, and detailed for him what was happening, after which the Spanish lifted their surveillance, apparently fed up with playing the fool in the frame game of the Russian secret services.

 

On his return to Moscow, Andrei, seething with anger, had tried to “get even with those bastards,” and had filed a suit against the travel agency they had used as a cover in the set-up for breaking the contract and lodging him in a club hotel where hot water and clean sheets had been a luxury.

 

After six months of legal wrangling, the federal judge had thrown his case out, pronouncing with the gleeful smile of a chronic drunk: “Mr. Shkarubo has only himself to blame. He wouldn’t have any such problems if he spent his vacations at home”.

 

Having reviewed his past experiences as well as his present situation, Andrei concluded that his suspicions needed to be validated, and that he should “touch the web of the spider” to find out where it was lurking.

 

With that, he decided to close his mind to all his problems, and concentrate instead on his ultimate escape - Nature.

The slight breeze still retained its morning chill, which pleasantly tempered the scorching African sun. For a time he gazed blankly at the sea, which -- with its gentle surface ripples – was more reminiscent of a huge pond than a sea.

This impression was intensified by a small heron perched on the anchor cable of one of the tour boats at the nearby pier. The bird sat completely motionless, as if inanimate, a ship’s ornament stirred to life only occasionally by swelling waves set into motion by boats embarking with the next group of divers. Even at such moments, it easily -- almost imperceptibly – managed to keep its perfect balance on the swinging cable by subtle changes in its posture, then would freeze again into stillness, having no apparent intention whatsoever of escaping to a more hospitable perch.

He felt a sudden kinship with this bird, so poignant that he had to close his eyes.

 

The restaurant had just opened when Andrei entered, but already three diners had settled in, three attractive girls, obviously Russian, patently not Muscovites, whose gloss -- which often hid their emptiness -- Andrei detested.

 

Having filled his breakfast plates at the buffet, Andrei approached their table, and -- addressing the eldest of the three, a prim-looking blonde in her mid-twenties -- asked: ‘May I?’

 

The blonde gave him a quick once-over and, obviously unimpressed, announced firmly: ‘There’s no extra set on the table’.

 

‘I’ve got my own set,’ he replied, expressionless.

 

Her two younger companions bent instantly over the table, and -- biting their lips -- shook with silent laughter at the pun. “Set” in Russian is not only a table setting, but is also street language for “a set” of male genitalia.

 

The blonde fixed stern grey eyes on Andrei, but his face radiated naïve innocence. The ensuing heavy pause forced him to retreat with apologies.

 

When he appeared on the beach the next morning, Andrei was pleased to find that his restaurant ploy had apparently worked: a muscled Hollywood-style athlete was strutting up and down past Andrei’s chaise, eying him with scornful amusement before sitting down beside his girl-friend to keep a fixed eye on Andrei from a distance.

 

Soon after, yesterday’s blonde and her two companions suddenly appeared and chose a place a few feet away from Andrei, but he seemed too preoccupied with reading to take any notice. The girls began quietly playing cards, shooting occasional glances at Andrei; the two younger ones often grinned for no apparent reason.

 

After a time the girls grew restless, and began taking frequent dips in the sea. Before resuming her prone position on the chaise after each excursion, the blonde would take off her bra and, standing at Andrei’s feet, start brushing her long hair.

 

Why this sudden show of interest after yesterday’s cool reception? Had they decided to recruit the services of these apparently naïve country girls “in the country’s interest”? Andrei could only guess.

 

In any case, to avoid these disruptions, Andrei finally covered his eyes with his T-shirt and feigned sleep. But the rising heat soon forced him to take his own body to the sea for a cool off. He picked up his diver’s mask and snorkel, and with an air of somnambulism picked his way over the beach toward the surf.

 

Although skin diving no longer excited him, and he had long ago given up hunting for sea shells and other exotic mementos of the sea, he still practiced the sport as a form of exercise. But as he dived this time, he was attracted by a small, palm-size piece of cream-colored coral which offered a perfect nature-fashioned comb, old-fashioned, exquisitely latticed with rare teeth. Without giving it a thought, he tucked the piece of nature’s art into his swimming trunks to keep his hands free for diving, and then completely forgot about it.

 

That is, until he was about to take an after-beach shower and started peeling off his trunks, then froze, gaping at the florid irritation that now covered his genitals…

 

The silver lining of this embarrassing act of revenge by the captured coral against its human captor was that Andrei now had a winning edge in his battle of nerves with the stern-faced blonde, who under the vigilant eyes of the Hollywood athlete continued her topless exercises the following day.

 

Failing in their mission to entice Andrei, the girls nonetheless succeeded in attracting the riveted attention of the two Italian youths whose job on the beach was to stir in the vacationers’ listless bodies a yearning for sports activities, and whose rake-thin, rickets-riddled physiques, shoulder-length hair, and gondola voices singing : “B-a-a-llo, str-e-e-tching, wasser-byke…” still managed to lure few takers.

 

Walking the beach this time, and singing their serenade to sport, they spotted one of the younger girls coming out of the water. Fixing their prurient gaze on her arresting teen-age physique, the two skinny machos turned their loose, languid steps towards her, their broad smirks intended to embarrass her; but the girl, changing neither pace nor direction, flashed a counter-smile, and reaching one of them, sarcastically patted the lower part of his abdomen.

 

The gesture was so demeaning that it had a crushing effect on both would-be lotharios, whose punctured virility stepped aside to let her pass. An Egyptian under the awning with the towels witnessed the incident, and jeered in mock falsetto: “B-a-a-l-o-o, str-e-e-ch-i-i-ng”. The young Italians scurried away, hiding their faces in their long hair.

 

The girls never turned up again after the lunch break, and their place was taken by a young red-haired Russian Mafioso and his dish. Lying on his chaise with his back to her, the red-head was unabashedly eying Andrei with the bemused expression of a predator for its doomed quarry.

 

Apparently they had been told to stop creating these “cherchez la femme” charades, surmised Andrei, and have chosen to strike in the open, the way it’s done nowadays in Russia.

 

In the growing tension of the moment, he hardly noticed the appearance of a third actor on the scene, a stately-looking Egyptian under the mattresses-and-towel awning, whose role there was uncertain, since neither the supply nor demand for mattresses and towels had increased. Nor did the emergence of another native invoke the attention of the banditi. That is, not until another of their gang came to take his place beside Andrei, and beaming broadly, taunted him with a ‘Still afloat, shit-head?’

 

To the surprise of them both, the answer came from the imposing Egyptian, who sprang up noiselessly behind the Mafiosi and said in clear Russian: ‘This chaise is occupied’.

 

The gangster froze, blank-faced. To make his message unmistakeable, the Egyptian picked up Andrei’s sandals and dropped them on the chaise targeted by the thug. This deliberate gesture further baffled the bandit. He shot glances first at the Hollywood athlete, then the red-head. Both hurriedly hid their faces behind their magazines.

 

The thwarted intruder spotted a few empty chaises further down the row, and was about to head there, but the Egyptian shook his head in mock sadness: ‘Sorry, Pal, this stretch of the beach is full. Ali and Mohammad’ -- he indicated the two sturdy youths under the awning -- ‘will show your place’.

 

The bandit, turning to the Egyptian, acknowledged as much: ‘No need for the guards of honor, boss. You won’t see me here again’.

 

Walking back to his room in the Ali Baba Hotel, Andrei, deeply intrigued, was musing it all over: Who was the Egyptian who could make the Russian mafia shit-scared – must be the Egyptian security service – but how did they manage to detect this incipient conflict brewing? To keep a low profile watching it, and to take everyone by surprise – questions were piling one after the other in Andrei’s head when to his attention came yet another Egyptian curiosity: two sleeping cats, a red one and a black one, cuddled together in one of the decorative jugs lying on its side on the perimeter of the flower bed. He couldn’t help smiling at their affectionate embrace: each had one of its paws stretched indolently out of the jug, while the other encircled his mate.

 

A profound serenity crept over Andrei. He suddenly felt certain that no banditi would be allowed to break the peace of this ancient land. His vacation would be a restful one.