The high street had transformed since the discovery of not one but three vaccines, banishing the evil virus into history. Just as well too, thought Lachlan as he dodged through the throng of shoppers crowding the narrow pavements of his small seaside town. The country and possibly the world had been on the verge of financial collapse when the second wave hit six months after the first case.

That was then, this was now. No more social distancing, none of those horrible, garish face masks and thankfully no restrictions on travel. Lachlan was desperate to get away from this place and continue his cultural exploration of the world. As he negotiated the crowded thoroughfare, he passed one shop which was conspicuous by its lack of patronage. It was the old toy shop which had stood empty for a couple years even before the virus struck, closing many of its neighbours so that the street once resembled a scene from an old western movie.

He seemed to recall that the shop had an unsavoury past, something to do with the death of not one but two owners in a short space of time. Since then it had remained empty, a silent memorial to the two tragic incidents. The windows had been covered with large strips of white lining-paper. Posters had been pasted to and removed from the outside advertising such delights as the local slimming club and at least three visits by the annual circus. Dirty grey strips of horizontal and vertical paper the remnants of previous flyers, decorated the glass like grim abstract art.

Today, however, the outside of the glass was shining, pristine having been carefully cleaned and polished. The privacy had been maintained, though, not by the wallpaper, but by carefully placed pages from a newspaper, stuck to the inside of the glass. There wasn’t a single gap in the arrangement and not one page overlapped. What caught Lachlan’s attention was the text that appeared on the paper. It was beautiful; swirling letters, lines and dots covered the pages interspersed with photographs. The pictures showed images of immaculately dressed men with dusky skin, thick dark hair and exotically dressed women with piercing brown eyes. In several places he noticed the familiar red, white and black of the Egyptian flag with its golden eagle of Saladin.

Lachlan was obsessed with the language and culture of the region, so much so that he had planned a trip there before the dreaded virus had curtailed all of that. Instead, he had thrown himself into learning the language, both online and with his many friends from places like Tunisia, Lebanon and, of course, Egypt. He longed to walk the streets of Cairo, Tunis and Beirut and drink strong coffee with his friends. There was a desperation about him to converse face to face in his newly discovered tongue.

As he stared in awe at the neatly arranged pages, picking out words and even sentences, the door of the shop opened and a short, stocky man stepped out into the street, sporting a thick black moustache. Instinctively, Lachlan turned to the man, bowed his head slightly and said “Salam Alaikum.” A huge beaming smile appeared on the leathery features of the man and he immediately replied with, “Wa Alaykum as-salam,” grabbing Lachlan’s hand from by his side, and shaking it enthusiastically.

“Good morning sir, your Arabic is very good. I am from Cairo, have you been to Egypt?” the man enthusiastically reverted to English while vigorously tugging on Lachlan’s hand like an old fashioned water pump. Lachlan’s voice vibrated as his whole body shook with the man’s vigour.

“No, I’m afraid I have only been to Hammamet in Tunisia on holiday, hardly a cultural enlightenment.”

“Ah Tunisia, a beautiful little country with a big heart, the Arab spring started there you know,” he enthused, finally giving Lachlan’s arm a rest. “Unfortunately, it ended in my country. My name is Masuda, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, err.” The man hesitated waiting for a response. Lachlan gathered his composure with a shake of the head and re-took the man’s hand in both of his own.

“Lachlan, pleased to meet you sir,” he said, shaking his hand warmly before letting go.

“Would you like some coffee? I have some on the hob, ” Masuda enquired politely.

Instantly the vision of thick black liquid boiling in a tiny pan appeared in Lachlan’s head and he accepted the invitation without hesitation. Before long the two strangers were deep in conversation. Masuda explained that he had moved to the UK after Al-Sisi had gained control and brought his wife and in-laws with him. He was an accomplished artist in Cairo with a successful shop and frequent exhibitions. The inside of the shop had been turned into a gallery and studio.

Lachlan noticed that the old shop window contained a large canvas on an easel with an accompanying stool and a table covered with tubes of paint and brushes. Masuda, aware of his new friend’s interest in the window, set about explaining his plan.

“I bought this shop for a song, no one seemed interested,” he continued, obviously ignorant of the shop’s chequered past, “I have no outside space here so I am making the window my showcase. I shall sit there and paint just like I did in the old country. In Cairo, people used to gather around and watch, at the same time looking at my other creations. It was a very successful marketing ploy.” Masuda explained to Lachlan who was riveted by the old Egyptian’s recollection of his past life,” sadly, my mother in law and wife succumbed to the virus and my father in law died of a broken heart on losing his wife and daughter, so now I am alone,” he continued with a far away look in his dark intelligent eyes. “I had already bought the shop with the last of my savings so decided to carry on”. He added shaking himself out of his morose state.

“I am very sorry for your loss. What are you painting?” Asked Lachlan, leaning into the recess of the window to inspect the canvass. With a wave of his arms the old man ushered Lachlan into the space behind the easel. The sight that met his eyes was spectacular. The artist had completed a scene around Tahrir Square with the imposing Mogamma Building in the background and the statue of Umar Makram on its red plinth. What grabbed his attention though, was the space in the middle of the canvass. This was obviously reserved for the head and shoulders of a portrait. Masuda detected the gaze of the other man and noticed his slight puzzled look at the gap in the centre of the painting.

“My neighbour’s daughter, ” he said in a low melancholic sigh, “the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on.” With that he drew a large brightly coloured handkerchief from the pocket of his paint-splattered dungarees and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound. All that had been painted of the girl was the side of her neck and one beautifully shaped ear, her jet-black hair pushed behind it. She wore a black round necked sweater into which the lines of her graceful neck flowed.

Lachlan was in love instantly. As if by magic, he had already seen what no one else could yet see. Taking a sip of the sweet, black liquid, he savoured the tingling sensation it had on his tongue and throat. Closing his eyes, the vision came to him like it had so many times before.

“What will you do when she is finished?” he asked, shaking himself from the trance the painting had placed him in.

“I shall sell it to the highest bidder, they will come from far and wide but not until she is complete. You have heard the expression ‘The Face That Launched a Thousand Ships’? Well, she has the eyes that would sink those vessels with one look,” Masuda enthused his chest puffed out with pride.

“It certainly is a beautiful piece of art,” the young Scotsman was compelled to agree, “may I watch you complete it?” He added, trying not to sound pushy.

“Of course. my friend. You and the whole town for I plan to open on Monday and I shall be sitting where you are, summoning my beauty,” the old man boasted slapping his friend on the back. Their intimacy was palpable for such relative strangers. Looking at his watch, Lachlan realised that he was thirty minutes late for work.

“I am sorry but I must go. Thank you for the coffee and tour of your new enterprise, ” he uttered, shaking the man’s hand, preparing to leave.

“Thank you sir, err… La… err, my friend, ” the old man stuttered struggling to recall his friend’s strange name.

“It’s Lachlan pronounced Lack Lan, ” he reassured his elderly companion. He drew shapes in the air with his finger, “like much and won’t in your language,” he continued, smiling.

Masuda’s eyes lit up, “lak lan, ah yes, I see,” he cried mirroring the young man’s actions, “nice to meet you Mr much won’t, haha.”

That night the young man was visited again by the siren of his dreams and yet again, she was walking away from him. Far from being alone, as she had been in previous dreams, she seemed to be surrounded by an increasing number of attractive young admirers. He recognised the elegant neck and exquisite ear, from the painting, a work of art in its own right, as she turned to go with them.

He arose that morning desperate to catch a glimpse of the old man’s work. Unfortunately he was out of luck as there was no sign of life in the gallery on that Saturday nor the following day. For two more nights he was tormented by the raven haired beauty. Each night the number of admirers grew until he could hardly see her for their clamouring demands for her attention.

By the time Monday came, he was prepared to break into the tiny shop to catch a glimpse of her partial likeness. That was not necessary however as, on arriving at the premises, he was preceded by a handful of curious onlookers. They were watching this strange old man sitting with his back to the window applying paint deftly to the canvass in front of him.
The small crowd eventually dispersed and Lachlan had a ringside view of his friend’s creation which, by now, had the elegantly pointed chin and full lower lip like the bud of a deep red rose. Instinctively the old man turned and nodded at his new friend. With one last lingering look at his precious, he turned and made off down the high street to work.

His every thought was with her, impatiently anticipating the old man’s brush strokes. As he sat at his desk, he contemplated the fact that she was incomplete and therefore alone. She was an undiscovered star in the galaxy, waiting for the astronomers telescope to pick her out. While she was like that she was his but equally, he contemplated, with some dread, the fact that once she was whole and the world’s eyes met hers, she would be history to him. He knew that her eyes would be the last objects the old Egyptian would recreate, to make the spell complete; the spell which had enchanted his slumber for years.

Every day for two weeks Lachlan turned up at the window, receiving the nod of acknowledgement from the painter, and the crowd would grow bigger. Every night, her fantastic alter ego would be followed by more suitors. Back in the street, people started jockeying for position to get a good vantage point of the emerging beauty. Most of the gathering now consisted of attractive smartly dressed young men with whom Lachlan could never compete.

Then, on the final day, the day of truth, the old man began on the eyes. The assembly of fans gathered with bated breath at the anticipated completion of the beauty, just as the artist had predicted. Lachlan was pushed further to the rear of the throng by the increasing numbers of admirers, in a mirror image of his dream.

Suddenly there was a gasp from the horde as the old man stepped away from the canvass and the image of the muse was revealed. Far from revelling in her beauty, Lachlan stared into those beautiful onyx jewels adorned with sweeping black lashes below the pair of ebony eyebrows struck by the brush of Monet himself and cried. He cried for what was lost to him and what was lost to her. He wept for her innocence and credulity, he wept for his own deprivation.

Lachlan turned and walked slowly away from his discovery knowing that his time had gone and she was now out in the open to the adulation of the world. He acknowledged the fact that she deserved it for, as the old man had rightly said, she was indeed the most beautiful person, inside and outside, he had ever encountered.