After three weeks of ramshackle Arabic lessons and strolls around Zamalek, Tarek turned to Quinn one morning as they drank yet another glass of coffee in their favorite stall on the main drag.
“I am sorry, Mr. Ezra,” he said.
Quinn looked at him. “Why? What’s up?”
Tarek shook his head. “In my culture, I must invite you as a guest to my home. But Mr. Zahir has said that I can only offer you the Arabic lessons. Nothing more.”
“Oh, I’d love to visit your home, Tarek!” Quinn exclaimed. “I really feel like I haven’t gotten to know Cairo at all. Just this little patch of Zamalek, which doesn’t seem quite real, you know? Doesn’t feel like the genuine article.”
“You are correct. Zamalek is not Cairo. It is Cairo’s imitation of Paris or London. Cairo is there.” He flung a hand out, pointing ac
