The passage of time is different in Cairo: not administered in eye-dropper doses of nine-to-five days, but in large sun-drenched dollops you just absorb, like a plant. Looking in the mirror, I noticed that while my stem was holding up, the face showed little sign of springtime blossom. There was ruefulness in the eyes, as if they were apologizing to themselves. I like to think of myself as a truth-seeker, a lover of reality, dedicated to the exploration of inner and outer worlds. So I went to my desk and located the business card of a well-known plastic surgeon. Reality is an elusive companion. I want to look my best when I run into it.
I met Doctor M some years ago when a friend took me to a luncheon at his weekend villa, a place with palm groves, stables and a pyramids view. A maid served iced lime juice as we gathered in the doctor’s study, where he’d prepared a slideshow of his handiwork for his dozen or so guests. He showed us pictures of remarkably large breasts awaiting reduction, and hawkish noses turned pert, but he was justifiably proud of the children he’d rescued from deformity due to burns or cleft palates. It was fascinating, if a little gruesome before lunch. I left the study to use the bathroom and encountered the doctor in the salon on the way back. I think he was waiting for me; he certainly flirted. He was older and handsome but bore an uncomfortable resemblance to my father. Besides, he was married and his wife was in the next room.
