© Amitabha Chatterjee

We sat on the first floor of Pizza Hut, watching the Sa-fin-khas, while I mashed a banana in a bowl and fed it to Carolina.

Marisel called.

'I am done. The photographer wants me there immediately.'

'Okay, we shall start now.'

'Can't wait, I will ask the hotel to get me a cab.'

'All right, we'll see you there,' I said to the disconnected phone.

When we finally reached the studio, after navigating the traffic on Cairo streets, Marisel was ready. She looked gorgeous. The make up artist had certainly delivered a fine painting in return for the five hundred-dollar fee.

'They will send the portfolio to the hotel tomorrow.' We walked down the staircase, and onto Kasr El Nil. I felt conscious walking with her, as she exuded a new confidence. Heads turned in her direction. Pedestrians made way for her to pass.

'Can we go somewhere now, or do you have another appointment?'

She threw me a questioning look, and shrugged her shoulders. As if on cue, a taxi screeched to a halt next to us.

'Khan el Khalili?'

He nodded with a smile. Here was another gullible tourist!

We had been advised by Luis's wife that even if we didn't buy anything, a visit to the historic tourist market of Khan el Khalili was a must. After paying fifty pounds to the taxi driver, we got off, and were immediately accosted by the owner of a papyrus shop.

'Original babyrus, my friend. Very expensive, but you my brother, I give good discount.'

'Thank you, I don't want any.' We tried to walk away.

'God make Indian and Egyptian brother. Amitabh Bachchan ... you know Amitabh Bachchan?'

I had to nod.

'Namak Haraam, Kabhie Kabhie, Roti kapda aur makaan - I love his movie. I have collection.'

It was true. Egypt had a huge fan following of this celebrated actor. His movies from the '70s still played in Egyptian theatres.

'Amitabh Bachchan - Muslim.'

'No,' I said, 'he's not.'

'Yes, yes, he say namaz in movie.'

'He's an actor. He will say anything.'

'Enta Muslim?'

I felt it would make him happy to hear that I was a Muslim, having shattered a cherished belief already. So I nodded.

'Al Hamdulillah!' God be praised. 'My brother, I give you special. No, forget these ones--these from banana, I bring from inside-special for my brother from India.'

I was trapped. He emerged, holding three papyrus paintings. For the next five minutes he found a willing listener in Marisel, and my head swam with Tutankhamun and Nefertiti, how the heart was removed to be weighed against the feather after death, and how Nephthys got Osiris drunk, and the consequent seduction resulted in Anubis, the jackal-headed embalmer.

Finally, he looked at me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

'My brother, this babyrus special. I keep for myself. I no sell. But I give to you. You special, and madame--always in my heart. When you come Cairo again, bring me something special from India. My name Nasser-I wait for you here-this my shop for one hundred years. My grandfather make.'

Looking at his moist eyes, I had no option other than to take the three papyrus paintings from him.

'How much should I pay you?'

'No money, my friend. No money. Is gift-from your Egyptian friend. One for you, one for Madame, and one for sweet child. Mashallah!.'

'No, please take something. Surely, you must have paid for them yourself? Please let me give you something. I insist.'

'No, no. Nasser no take money from brother. Nasser give life for brother.'

'Please, Nasser.' I took hundred pounds from my pocket, and tried to put it on his palm.

He let out a laugh.

'My brother, this babyrus special--much more than hundred bound. I give gift.'

'Well, how much?'

'This babyrus in market five hundred bound for one. But you my guest, I give you for one hundred each. But please no tell anyone. Nasser in big broblem.'

We gave him the three hundred pounds and walked out. I carried the papyrus with much care, lest it get damaged from mishandling. After purchasing another special item--an eighteen karat cartouche for Marisel, we tried hailing a taxi to return to the Hilton.

'Tahrir?' I called out aloud to one taxi. I wanted to agree on the fare before sitting inside. Also, I didn't say Hilton, afraid that the fare might shoot up.

As we waited, a boy of about fifteen came up with a bunch of papyrus paintings under his arm.

'Babyrus?'

I shook my head. They looked very similar to the ones I had. Definitely made of banana, I thought, not the real papyrus I had bought.

'Real babyrus--no banana like this,' he said, pointing to mine.

'This is real,' I insisted.

He shook his head and pointed to his own. 'This real.' We couldn't tell the difference. We tried for about five minutes.

'How much?'

'Twenty bound.'

'Five,' I bargained, 'I will take ten.'

He agreed immediately. My reasoning was that since I couldn't tell which one was real and which was not,--and, in the worst case that they were all fake--at least the cost per papyrus would turn out to be three hundred plus fifty divided by thirteen papyrus paintings. That worked out to less than thirty per piece. It was better than living with the guilt of having paid a hundred each for fakes.

I didn't try challenging my brother Nasser in his hundred-year old shop. He would probably have managed to sell me another three.