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catearsandchaos · 6 years

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This is my piece for the Secret Snow Angel I participated in! I was the Snow Angel for the wonderful @youre-mostly-water and although I should have been around much more than I was, it was lovely talking to her. It has been such a fun experience this year to meet someone new and learn something about them.

This is a little something that I’ve been working on and off since the start of this. It just four non-connected drabbles surrounding the ideas of love and Christmas, set in four different genres (period, post-apocalyptic, fantasy and modern). They were all a lot of fun to do and it gave me a chance to do some things I’d never done before. Including writing a piece where I don’t kill anyone off, which I only do once in a blue moon, as well as try a few genres I’d never written in before.

So here goes nothing. I hope you enjoy it, @youre-mostly-water !!!

Snow falls outside. Inside, a crackling fire provides a backdrop to the gentle murmuring of the ballroom. Polite applause bounces between marble pillars as the current dance ends and bows are exchanged. Young girls are huddled in groups of fluttering fans and rustling skirts, while the older women look on disapproving at every stammering young man who dares to approach, egged on by his friends to ask for the next dance.

Politics is discussed over glasses of whiskey and cigarettes while gossip circulates behind gloved hands. Even Christmas Eve provides no respite for those that live in these worlds. The politics of man stops for no celebration while the gossip of women blooms. The New Year beckons on the distance, the exciting promise the turn of the century- the 20th Century calls with its siren song.

Tucked away in a corner, hidden from the room and from the world, is a giggling couple, closer, perhaps, than proprietary would allow with hands clasped tightly and shoulders touching. They share whispered promises of forever, heady dreams of marriage and children, a grand old house in the city with an even grander Christmas Tree, where they will be the envy of all. They share their promises of love with every word and every touch, every glance and movement. Their love lives in stolen moments, so very precious in their rarity. Christmas Eve finds a quiet simple love blooming in a quiet simple corner, a haven of peace as the snow falls outside. *** She never admitted that Christmas Eve after the apocalypse was fun. There was little chance to find a festive spirit underneath the constant barrage of gunfire from up above. The mutants had been advancing on their stronghold in The Basement for the past few weeks and the air is tense with worry. Business has been slow, it’s so cold that long journeys are unwelcome and many hunters are waiting until the spring to restock and replace their arms, preferring to wait out the winter chill in their safe houses. She fiddles with a broken pistol, paying little attention as she pokes her tools around the trigger, attempting half-heartedly to fix the crooked pull. The tell-tale creak of the entrance sends a gust of chilling wind whipping through The Basement before the cover is pulled shut with a solid thud. The whispers spread like wildfire. There’s snow on the surface. Only a light fall, it’s mostly melting as soon as it comes into contact with the ground but snow hasn’t been seen around these parts for years. A group of children- ragged clothes and bare feet- scramble for the entrance and the fastest of them is halfway up the ladder before the hunter yanks her back down again. It’s not safe out, he tells her; the snow is not worth the risk of being caught by a mutant.

The children are disappointed, but they are eventually encouraged back into the basement and most of them dash to the far corner, collecting as many pieces of white cloth as they can beg and borrow from family and friends to drape over boxes and old mattresses, creating a winter wonderland of their own underground. Most of these children have never seen snow. Most of them have never seen above ground, outside the four damp walls of The Basement.

Christmas is always an odd time of year. Regret isn’t a productive emotion in The Basement. The apocalypse has come and they left their old life behind the minute they retreated down here and sealed the gates shut. But Christmas leaves a faint air of melancholy and hearts seem to soften for a few days. At least, that is the excuse she gives, when she asks herself what exactly she is thinking as she shoulders an old rifle and slings her coat around her, battling through the crowds to the exit.

Twenty minutes later, she slides the cover open again and with a muffled thump and handful of snow lands in the basement, covering the ladder in a soft white powder. There isn’t much, barely enough to make a couple of snowballs, but in the chill of The Basement it doesn’t melt. Mud-streaked and pitiful though it may be, it’s a beautiful sight. She retreats back to her shop, sliding her rifle back under some boxes as the children make noises of delight, giggling as they reach out to touch the snow and find it cold and damp to the touch. And if after that, the air of The Basement seems lighter and more carefree, well she won’t be the one to mention it.

***

The tavern is full when they arrive. It’s Christmas Eve and most people are out, determined to be merry and chase away the winter’s chills with copious amounts of alcohol and good company. The group is just happy to find seats and a place to rest their feet, cramped though their table may be, mismatching chairs pulled around a small wooden circle just about managing to hold 6 mugs of the establishment’s finest ‘ale’. It’s a dubious murky colour and the smell is strong enough to peel the paint off the wall behind them- although by the looks of things it doesn’t need much help on that front- but it is alcoholic and cheap, and those are the only two criteria that matter at this juncture.

When a mug is lifted in toast, the rest follow swiftly. It is their first Christmas together as an adventuring party, a ragtag group of misfits and loners who have found a family in each other to replace those they have lost or left behind in distant lands. They drink in comfortable solidarity, sharing tales and barbs of battles fought, an easy teasing that puts them at ease for the first time in many months, the solidarity of four walls surrounding them and the floor beneath their feet. They know that evil does not stop for Christmas, and soon there will be some new foe to fight, as there always is, a continuous pattern that finds them trading sorrows and discomfort for problems they can fix.

But tonight they spend a few coin on drinks of an uncertain nature and a bit of time in the company of those that they love. Although they are not connected by blood, they are family nonetheless, and Christmas has always been a time to spend with those that are held most dear.

***

The coffee shop is open late. Elle has never been more thankful for the unfair demands of corporate chains on their workers as she is now, skidding into the cafe at 11pm on Christmas Eve. There isn’t a single other light on High Street, every other shop closed for the weekend, and even the shop emits only a gentle orange glow. It’s deserted at this time, no one but Elle and the barista behind the counter, who looks half asleep propped up on one elbow. She feels almost guilty as she approaches, a handful of loose change jingling in her pocket with every step.

“Um. Hi.” She waves awkwardly. “A, um, a latte, please. To go.”

The girl behind the counter starts, the arm holding her head up slipping and her face hitting the counter with a bang that echoes around the abandoned shop.

“Oh God! Are you alright?” She darts forward, hands stretching out as if to pat the barista, offer comfort or to check for injury, Elle isn’t sure which. The barista pulls back with a groan, wiping at her nose with bloodstained fingers.

“I’ll- I’ll be fine. Just a nosebleed. It’s my own fault for falling asleep on the clock. A latte, you said?”

Her voice is rough and sleep drawn and she fumbles around the coffee machine, one hand still stemming the flow of blood with her sleeve.

“Never mind about the latte, you need to sit down and wait for your nose to stop bleeding. You shouldn’t have broken it, not from that height, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Elle flutters around, resisting the urge to take this girl she’s just met and sit her in one of the booths near the corner, leaving her with a hot drink and plenty of sugar, and to let her sleep until the end of her shift. It certainly looked like she needed it. As it is, she digs in her backpack for a packet of tissues, handing them over as the barista slips onto a stool behind the till, looking just about ready to doze off the moment her feet life off the ground.

Silence descends, and Elle might have found it awkward if she wasn’t too busy looking closely at the barista, ready to spring into action if it looked like she might slip off the stool in a daze. As it is, neither of them notice the door opening until a throat clears behind them. Elle barely spares tall, dark and handsome in his business suit a glance, instead levelling her best glare upon the barista, who is now attempting to find her footing. She none so subtly pushes her down and turns her best customer service smile onto the gentleman stood behind her. She suspects it looks more like a grimace, if she is honest.

“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”

“Black coffee.” The answer is short and abrupt, barely out of his mouth before he strides away and leans against the far wall, already engrossed in his smartphone. Elle rolls her eyes when she is sure he can’t see and turn back to the coffee machines. She squints. How is she supposed to know which one of these silver monstrosities will make a black coffee?

She picks up the cup she is fairly certain a black coffee is served in and begins working her way down the line, peering closely at each machine in an attempt to discern its use. She is more than amazed when, 3 minutes and 5 failed attempts later, she hands over a black coffee to the suited inconvenience. The till is a whole other challenge and it takes her 30 seconds of focused staring until she works out how to charge for a coffee. The whole system seems far more complicated than it has any right to be to Elle, but she hands over the right change with a strained smile and a ‘Merry Christmas, sir’, collapsing in relief when the door swings shut behind him.

The café is quiet again, but for the sound of… giggling? Elle whips her head around to find the barista slumped against the counter, laughter muffled behind both hands as she gazes at Elle, eyes dancing with mirth.

“All right then,” challenges Elle. “Let’s see you do better.”

The barista pushes herself up from the stool, still laughing in short bursts. In what Elle is sure must be a time worthy of a world record, the barista has cleaned the machine, prepared Elle’s latte and pulled up the cost on the till, placing the steaming cup in front of Elle. Elle holds up her hands,

“I admit defeat. That was considerably better. How much do I owe you?”

It is only after Elle has paid and found her way back to her apartment and the stack of last-minute Christmas preparations that she notices the message scrawled along the side of the cup in a neat, precise hand. There’s a number underneath the message.

You look cute when you’re concentrating. Perhaps I’ll teach you how to use the coffee machines next time you stop by.

Sara

Elle has a feeling that she might be drinking far too much coffee in the upcoming weeks.

#Morven's Writings #Secret Snow Angel

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dragnews · 6 years

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Foreign Belly Dancers? Egyptians Shake Their Heads (and Hips)

Cairo Dispatch

The arrest of a Russian belly dancer exposed simmering tensions in Cairo’s belly-dancing scene. Critics say foreigners are sullying an ancient art form. Many Egyptians love them.

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The Russian belly dancer Ekaterina Andreeva, known as Johara, at a wedding in Cairo a few months after her arrest.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

CAIRO — When undercover police officers in Egypt swooped on an upscale nightclub on the Nile last spring and arrested a Russian belly dancer, the focus of their investigation was her costume — and what, if anything, lay beneath it.

Was the dancer known as Johara, whose sizzling video had become an overnight sensation, wearing the right “shorts,” as modesty-protecting undergarments are officially called? Were they the right size? The appropriate color? Or was she, as some feared, wearing no shorts at all?

Johara, whose real name is Ekaterina Andreeva, 30, insisted on her innocence, but still the police marched her off to jail, where others argued over her fate.

Russian diplomats paid a visit. Her manager and her husband back in Moscow pressed her case. In her dingy cell, Ms. Andreeva gave an impromptu performance for a dozen fellow prisoners, mostly prostitutes and drug dealers.

“Those women treated me so well,” she recalled. “They asked me to dance, and then we all danced together.”

A belly dancing workshop at a hotel in Cairo.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

The Egyptian dancer Randa Kamel leading a workshop attended by many Eastern European women.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

After three days, it seemed she would be deported. But at the last minute, a mysterious white knight intervened — a Libyan businessman with powerful connections, she was told — and she was sprung from jail.

It was a drama worthy of belly dance, a centuries-old art form that has long thrived on sensual intrigue. During the Second World War, German spies mingled with British officers at Madam Badia’s cabaret; in the 1970s, dancers performed for American presidents.

In recent decades, belly dance has inspired conflicting impulses among Egyptians, who see it either as high art, racy entertainment or an excuse for moral grandstanding.

But Ms. Andreeva’s plight also highlighted a rather touchy issue: If Cairo is the global capital of belly dance, then why do its hottest new stars come from everywhere but Egypt?

Kiev to Cairo

The Ukrainian dancer Alla Kushnir, a law graduate, appeared on “Ukraine’s Got Talent” with an extravagant belly-dance routine that set her on a new career path.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

At a wedding in a plush Cairo suburb, a barefoot Alla Kushnir shimmied onto the flower-strewn dance floor, a whirlwind of quivers, twists and furious gyrations.

Young men in tuxedos, grinning widely, clambered over one another for a better view of the belly dancer. Little girls in party dresses scurried behind, imitating her moves. A group of veiled women at a corner table clapped in approval.

“Coming to Egypt was my dream,” said Ms. Kushnir, 33, who hails from Ukraine, while stuffing her outfit into a suitcase afterward.

Foreigners have dominated the top flights of Egypt’s belly-dancing scene in recent years — Americans, Britons and Brazilians, but especially Eastern Europeans.

The foreigners bring an athletic, high-energy sensibility to the dance, more disco than Arabian Nights. Their sweeping routines contrast with the languid, subtly suggestive style of classic Egyptian stars. Some are overtly sexual.

Ms. Kushnir trying out accessories for her performances at her apartment in Cairo.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

Participants in Ms. Kamel’s workshop during an outing near Cairo.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

Growing up in the port city of Nikolayev, Ms. Kushnir, 33, dreamed of being an archaeologist. She graduated in law. But in 2010, she appeared on a TV show, “Ukraine’s Got Talent,” with an extravagant belly-dance routine that set her on a new career path.

In one performance, she wore a black veil with a tray of burning candles on her head; in the other, she writhed in a pool of water supported by semi-naked men.

Then Ms. Kushnir moved to Cairo, the Broadway of belly dance, where she became a true star. She sometimes performs five times a night at upscale weddings and ritzy parties, where top performers can earn $1,200 or more. One of her videos has nine million views on YouTube.

Purists bemoan the foreign invasion as a cultural travesty. They accuse the outsiders of trampling on Arab heritage for profit and pushing the dance form in a brash direction. Even some foreigners agree.

“In many cases, we lack the nuance, subtlety and grace of Egyptians,” said Diana Esposito, a Harvard graduate from New York who came to Egypt in 2008 on a Fulbright scholarship and stayed to pursue a career in belly dance.

Ms. Esposito, who performs as Luna of Cairo, noted that there were still thousands of Egyptian dancers. But most are in the lower rungs of the industry — seedy cabarets near the Pyramids or tourist traps on the Nile.

“It feels like the Egyptian dancer is an endangered species, which is very sad,” said Ms. Esposito, who recently moved back to Brooklyn. “Sad for the art. Sad for Egypt.”

Even so, Egyptian dance still has one undisputed queen — a dancer who by wide agreement stands above them all.

The Last Egyptian Queen?

Egyptian dance still has one undisputed queen: Dina.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

It was just after 3 a.m. at the cabaret in the luxury Semiramis Hotel when Dina glided onto the stage, glittering in the spotlight, as a 17-piece band struck up.

Bow-tied waiters bustled about. Puffs of cigar smoke lingered in the air. The audience — Arab couples, Western tourists, as many women as men — watched from red velveteen booths, utterly entranced.

A legend across the Middle East, Dina Talaat Sayed has danced for princes, presidents and dictators in a career spanning four decades. “Ah yes, Qaddafi,” she said with a wry smile, recalling the deposed Libyan strongman. “Funny man. Very funny.”

Ms. Sayed also knows all about Egyptians’ conflicted attitude about her profession.

“Love and hate — it’s always been like this,” she said. “Egyptians cannot have a wedding without a belly dancer. But if one of them marries your brother — oh, my God! That’s a problem.”

Amie Sultan, a prominent Egyptian dancer, with a costume designer. She comes from a wealthy Egyptian family and trained as a ballerina.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

Participants in Ms. Kamel’s workshop.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

The stigma is part of a creeping puritanism that has stifled the arts in Egypt in recent decades. Now even a hint of a kiss is forbidden in Egyptian movies, song lyrics are sanitized, and moral vigilantes hound artists through the courts.

A pop singer, Shyma, is languishing in prison on charges of “inciting debauchery” for a sexually suggestive video; in 2015, a belly dancer was barred from standing for election because she “lacked a good reputation,” a judge declared.

“Egyptians see an Egyptian dancer as a hooker,” said Bassem Abd El Moneim, Ms. Andreeva’s manager. “But a foreigner can be a star.”

There are exceptions beyond Ms. Sayed. One prominent dancer, Amie Sultan, hails from a wealthy family and trained as a ballerina. Another, Fifi Abdou, an Egyptian national treasure viewed with both affection and mockery for her boisterous personality, has been reincarnated in retirement thanks to social media.

Recently, Ms. Abdou, 65, perched before a pair of iPads as she broadcast to her three million followers on Facebook and Instagram in an hourlong stream of affectionate babble, air kisses and trademark catchphrases.

“Scooze me!” she exclaimed randomly as the screen filled with red hearts. “Salma! Love you, love you, love you!”

But for many Egyptians, the price of a career in belly dance can be too high.

Randa Kamel, who runs a major belly dance school in Cairo that attracts students from across the world, was beaten as a teenager by a father who disapproved of her dancing. Even now, her 17-year-old son hides her profession at his private high school, and she pulls off her glittering fake nails before meeting his teachers.

“That’s why I don’t go on TV,” Ms. Kamel said. “I want my son to have a good life. There’s a certain amount of fame that is not healthy.”

A participant in Ms. Kamel’s workshop performing during the closing ceremony.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

Ms. Andreeva, the briefly jailed Russian belly dancer, still isn’t sure what spurred the police raid in February, but she blesses the day.

Since then, bookings have soared, her appearance fee has doubled, and she is sought by the rich and powerful. Recent clients include the family of a major steel tycoon, the daughter of Egypt’s prime minister and an exiled cousin of the Syrian president, Bashar al-Assad.

Official concerns about her act — and her “shorts” — appear to have vanished. The shimmering dress she wore in the video that landed her in trouble has become a major part of her act.

Even the police chief who kept her in his jail has become a fan, and booked Ms. Andreeva for several family weddings, said her manager, Mr. Moneim.

“She’s famous now,” he said, as he whisked her between gigs on a Friday night. “People love that.”

Ms. Andreeva admitted that it was hard to match Egyptian dancers on some levels. “We are technically good, but they have that Arab soul,” she said.

But she compensates by channeling the sheer, raucous energy of Egyptian audiences. “There’s an emotion here that is incredible,” she said. “It makes me feel like a rock star.”

An array of belly dance costumes on sale at Ms. Kamel’s workshop in Cairo.CreditLaura Boushnak for The New York Times

Nour Youssef contributed reporting.

Produced by Mona Boshnaq.

Declan Walsh is the Cairo bureau chief, covering Egypt and the Middle East. He joined The Times in 2011 as Pakistan bureau chief, and he previously worked at The Guardian. @declanwalsh

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dani-qrt · 6 years