30. Cairo, 1996 - Makeover
In which Eleanor realizes the power of appearances.
Cairo's fashion police come to call. Eleanor's "makeover" draws admiration...and judgment. 
Eleanor
“You can look now,” Fiona says as she removes the scarf she threw over my mirror with a flourish.
I gasp. I barely recognize the face looking back at me from the mirror. And it isn’t just the contact lenses. I’ve never had hair and make-up done so elegantly, even for the University formal with Alasdair, or the matric dance1 at St Anne’s.
Fiona puts her hands on my shoulders as I look, puckishly poking her face over my shoulder and giving me her dimpled grin in the mirror. “You scrub up well, your majesty. I think even the formidable Tannie Magda will agree. Who knew there was such a regal glamor queen hiding underneath the modest clothing you wear.”
I reach back and squeeze her hand in awed gratitude. “And who knew that hiding inside down-to-earth Fiona is a fairy godmother with a talent for stunning make-overs! Even my nails are a marvel.” I hold them out and turn them over once again. Fiona had done them yesterday while we practiced for final orals together.
“I blame it on my older sister. She’s the princess in our family, and insisted that I do her hair and make-up for all her formals at school and Uni. So I’ve had plenty of practice. Now stand up and let me take a proper look at you.”
I comply. She steps back, arms across her chest, and looks at me appreciatively.
“Turn,” she orders. I turn.
“I declare you done. Let’s go show the boys.”
Cam and Oliver had declared, on hearing that Fiona was “dressing me up” for some “diplomatic high-society thing” that they had to see this. I wish I was going out with them and the others tonight to celebrate being done with exams. But no, duty calls. I’m headed to a reception at the Ambassador’s residence in Ma’adi for South Africa’s Minister of Culture, who is on an official visit to Egypt. Magda had made it clear when we spoke last week that my presence was required, even though my final orals for my first year at the Council were also today, and I knew I would likely be pretty exhausted after them.
“It’s black tie, Eleanor,” she had added, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “You do have formal evening wear, don’t you?”
I do.
When I walk into the lounge, Cam and Oliver both stand up. Cam gives me a long, appreciative whistle. I feel myself blushing a deep red. I’m wearing the deep wine red, empire waist, floor length grown Mahdi had insisted on getting me. “It’s just you, Elle,” he had said, pulling me into him, his voice husky. “Red is just your color. And it shows you off to perfection.”
“Now we see Eleanor the diplomat,” Oliver remarks. “And yes, what Cam didn’t say,” he elbows Cam in the ribs, “you look stunning, Elle.” He turns to Fiona, “And you are full of surprises, too, Fi.”
“Just keeping you on your toes,” Fiona grins impishly.
“I wish I were hanging out with you guys tonight. It will probably be a lot more fun than this thing,” I say a little wistfully. But a part of me is also very curious about tonight. This will be my first ever diplomatic black-tie event. This is the life I’ve chosen, and being full-time at the Council, I haven’t really had to do much regular diplomatic work yet.
“Right,” Cam says, “I’ll call you your carriage then, your majesty,” and he gives me a mock bow as he heads downstairs to call a taxi. I collect my handbag and wrap. I don’t want to be sleeveless in the streets of Cairo, even Zamalek. When we get downstairs, Cam opens the taxi-door for me, and gives me another mock bow as I settle myself in.
“Tell us all about it tomorrow,” Fiona says.
The three of them wave me off.
Here I go.
I find Magda outside in the garden when I arrive, early, as instructed. She looks me over head to toe. “Excellent, Eleanor. Very well done.” She herself is in a silvery black sheath dress that slims her otherwise matronly figure. For once she’s let down her shoulder length gray hair; it softens her face. “Now, you’re not likely to know anyone, as you haven’t been doing contact work. So just stay with me this evening. I’ll introduce you as we go, but your main job tonight is just to watch and learn. And of course, show off your Arabic.”
I do as instructed.
About half way through the reception, I feel a light tap on my shoulder and turn to find Basant smiling at me. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” she says in Arabic.
“And I didn’t know you were going to be here either.” We give each other a cheek-to-cheek air kiss.
“You haven’t met my husband, Mohammed. He’s a big radio personality. He owns a number of radio stations—so we were invited.” She waves to where I see the Ambassador standing.
It’s strange to see her in this glittering context. We know each other from our volunteer work at the Zabaleen school in Muqattam. I go there one afternoon a week to read to and tutor the kids. That Egypt couldn't be further from this Egypt. The Zabaleen are Coptic Christians, and the refuse collectors of Cairo. Their donkey carts, piled high with bags of trash, are just a feature of life in Cairo. They cart the trash to Muqattam, where their pigs feed off the organic refuse, and the kids and women sort through the rest. So they are generally despised as unclean by Muslims, because of their pigs, even though they are the ones who keep the city clean. I’ve bought beautiful rag-rugs, hand-made paper, and embroidered cards from the gift shop that the community is creating with donor funds.
I introduce Basant to Magda, who immediately knows who her husband is. They chat for a while, then Basant gestures to a knot of women standing around one of the tables scattered throughout the garden. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.” I look at Magda, she nods, and I move away with Basant.
As I stand next to Basant, just listening, an older woman on my right touches my bare arm and says in English “You are beautiful, yes, but you should also do your arms.” I look at her confused. Do my arms? What does she mean? She taps my arm with her heavily be-ringed fingers, “Too much hair. You should wax your arms.” I just look at her, trying to process what she’s saying. She holds up her arm, gold bracelets tinkling, “See, smooth,” she strokes her arm with her other hand.
“Oh, Jamila,” Basant reaches across me and lowers the other woman’s arms. “You and your old fashioned ways. And Eleanor is from South Africa, they have different traditions there.”
“Hmm,” sniffs Jamila, “she would still be more beautiful with smooth arms.” I pull my wrap around me, hiding my arms. I don’t like this attention. “But tall though. Nice and tall.”
“Ignore her, Eleanor,” Basant says softly in my left ear. “She has a son and she sizes up every woman of marriageable age as a potential daughter-in-law. She hasn’t found one who is perfect enough yet.”
Suddenly I’m back at St Anne’s, Mrs Wellington telling me to pull my dress down. I don’t like the feeling of being sized up like a horse for sale.
“Thank-you,” I turn to Basant. “I don't think I've ever been judged for my arm hair before."
Basant sighs, the corners of her mouth turning down. "Welcome to high society events in Cairo. It's a whole different world, isn't it?"
I glance around at the elegantly dressed guests mingling in the beautiful garden, the soft glow of Arabic lanterns creating a magical atmosphere. "Yeah, it really is, isn’t it?"
I know that receptions like this are an essential part of diplomatic life, and that a large part of my job wherever I get posted after Cairo will be to organize such events myself. But tonight I feel keenly how I move between worlds here in Cairo. I can go almost anywhere—but I belong nowhere.
It’s an unsettling feeling.
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Bonus Material
Eleanor gets dressed up
The Zabaleen: Without them, Cairo isn’t Cairo.
Equivalent to American Prom