There is a knock at the door of the room. I open it for Uncle Kareem, the constable. He is wearing a black military overcoat on top of a white gallabiya. He has a thick moustache that stretches across his upper lip. Father welcomes him and nods for him to sit down on the edge of the bed. I go back to my desk. He has his back to me. I can smell that odor of his military overcoat that I like so much. Father sits with his legs crossed on top of the bed. He turns his body a little until he is facing both the constable and me. He rests his back against the headboard of the bed.
The constable takes a pack of Hollywood cigarettes out of his pocket. He offers one to father, but he declines. Instead, he gets out his own box of black cigarettes. It has a yellow wrapper with a red Abyssinian head in the middle of it. The constable lights a match and extends his hand. Father tilts his head forward, moving his cigarette close to the flame. He holds the tip in the flame until it starts to glow. I bring over the ashtray from the desk and put it down on the bedspread between the two of them. The constable crosses his legs, locks his fingers, and wraps his hands around his knees. A gold watch flashes from his wrist.
He looks around, then says: “Don’t you have a radio?”
“It’s being fixed.”
I know it’s not true. Father sold it a long time ago. The constable goes on as though he doesn’t believe father: “There’s a Philips radio that only costs 12 pounds.”
“So it costs a month’s salary?”
“You can pay it in installments.”
He suggests to father that they play a round of dominoes. He pulls a handful of evenly cut clippings of thick grey paper out of his pocket. Father straightens out the covers. He pulls up the long head pillow, folds it, and puts it between himself, and the young man. He asks me to bring his glasses from on top of the desk. Kareem puts the papers on top of the pillow. Father picks up one and studies it. The constable says they are tickets from the train he takes to visit his mother. He shuffles the tickets together like playing cards and puts them on top of the pillow. Each of them picks up seven of the strips of paper. Father rests his cigarette at the edge of the ashtray. He lines them up on the palm of his hands and slants them up in order to keep them out of the other man’s sight. The constable does the same thing. He takes out a paper and puts it down in the middle of the pillow. He says: “Double ones.”
Father notices that I’m watching the game and scolds me. He tells me to finish my homework and get my satchel ready. When one of the domino papers falls to the floor, I run to grab it for them. The words “From Al-Mattareya to Lemon Bridge” are written in black letters on one side. On the other side, little circles have been drawn and filled in with a copying pencil. To the side, the ticket puncher’s mark takes the shape of a small triangle.
Father picks out one of his tickets. He puts it by the pair of fives, saying: “Double twos.” The constable plays one of his. Father has to draw from the stack of papers. He tells the story about the spider we found in the toilet. Kareem says that they like to sneak into the warm places in the body, especially between the legs or under the knees. It hides there until it’s warmed up, then it bites and kills. Father says it’s just a particular type of spider and it is harmless, and then he throws in: “The apartment has to be painted.”
The young man says: “Or you could look for another place.”
“I’m right there with you. . but where? We thought housing would be cheaper after the English left Cairo. Instead, prices are on fire.”
“Sir, have you heard of the Waqf Ministry’s low-cost housing projects?”
“Yes. The ministry limited the rent of a single room in them to five pounds. That means the whole flat could go up to twenty or thirty pounds a month. So what is the clerk who only makes ten or fifteen pounds a month supposed to do?”
“Double fours and one! I’ll talk to Hajj Abdel Razik for you.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a big trader in the scrap metal market in Boulak. He’s constructing a building at the end of Nuzha Street.”
He tells him that he started out as a traveling salesman of bottles. Before the war, he made a pact with a drug company to supply it with ten thousand empty medicine bottles. One sold for two millimes. He was going to make ten pounds out of the whole deal, but suddenly the war broke out and the company tore up the agreement. He had to work in English army camps. After the war, the cost of everything rose and the price of an empty bottle hit four piastres. He sold his whole stock to a brewery for 400 pounds and came out with a tidy sum.
Father says: “Everyone’s making money like its growing on trees.”
The constable shakes his head. He says that luck needs pluck and that he knows someone who bought salvage items from the British camp for a hundred thousand pounds. One of the things he got was huge iron barrels. When he opened them, he found them filled with car tires that he turned around and sold for fifty thousand pounds.
I cough harshly. Father gets up and goes to the door of the balcony to crack it open so some of the cigarette smoke can escape. Kareem says that people are forming co-ops now with several members, where each one pays a certain amount every month, and they all pool their resources. Father keeps quiet and says nothing.
The constable mixes up the domino papers and puts them down on the pillow: “If you have anything left over from your sugar coupons or the ones for eighteen liters of oil, I am ready to buy them.” The math teacher yells at me: “Stretch out your hands.” I unfold my cold hands with their palms facing down. He raises the ruler in the air, then swings it down with its edge across the back of my hand. I tell him I’ve brought kerosene coupons with me. He pulls the ruler back.
A commotion in the neighborhood. Screams, from more than one person. The noise dies down after a while. The constable says: “That’s the guy who has two wives.”
Father asks about the neighbors from the balcony facing ours. The constable says it’s a medical student living with his two sisters, who spend all their time on the balcony waiting for Mr. Right.
“And the girls at the first house on the street?”
‘They’re the children of Sabri Effendi, the clerk in the Justice Ministry. The oldest one is named Siham. She’s always standing in the window. She’s waiting for Mr. Right too.”
“What about the woman up above us?”
“She’s hot, don’t you think? She’s a nurse. Seems to be a widow or a divorcée. She lives alone with her little son.”
Father says: “If only I could find a nice young lady that could put up with my crustiness and raise the boy for me. I’m tired of the maids and cooking ladies.”
“And you’d marry her?”
“Yeah, as long as she couldn’t have children.”
“I might be able to find you someone back in my hometown.” I fight violently with the cooking lady’s son. Basima treats him as though he’s her son. I wait in the morning until she leaves the bedroom and goes to the bathroom. I go in to complain to my father. He stands next to the bed and fastens his hernia belt. His face is in a frown. On the night stand next to the bed there is a small bottle with a picture of a lion on it.
The constable leaves the room and comes back with a section of cloth and two pairs of pyjamas. The cloth is thick and dark brown. Father says as he studies it: “Is this cloth for curtains?” The constable says: “It could work for a suit.” He unfolds the two pyjamas. One is white with stripes and shiny metal buttons. Father says: “This is for prisoners of war.” He tells me to try them on. They fit me. The other pair is pale yellow with buttons from mother of pearl. He says they’re lighter and can be worn in summer. Father tells him to bring them back on the first of the month.