I shall have to climb up to the roof and find a way to get in and down. I have no tools, no flashlight, no good knowledge of the house: Nabawiyya hasn't been here before me pretending to work for a while as a washerwoman or a maid; she's busy now with Ilish Sidra.
Scowling in the dark, trying to chase these thoughts from his mind, he dropped lightly to the ground.
Crawling up to the villa on all fours, he felt his way along a wall until he found a drain pipe. Then, gripping it like an acrobat, began to climb towards the roof. Part way up he spotted an open window, just out of reach, and decided instantly to try it. He steered one foot to the window ledge, and shifted his hands one at a time, to grip a cornice. Finally when he could stand with his whole weight, he slid inside, finding himself in what he guessed was the kitchen. The dense darkness was disturbing and he groped for the door. The darkness would be even thicker inside, but where else could he find Rauf's wallet or some of his objets d'art? He had to go on.
Slipping through the door, feeling along the wall with his hands, he had covered a considerable distance, almost deterred by the darkness, when he felt a slight draught touch his face. Puzzling where it could come from, he turned a corner and crept along the smooth wall, his arm stretched out, feeling ahead with his fingers. Suddenly they brushed some dangling beads which rustled slightly as he touched them, making him start. A curtain. He must now be near his goal. He thought of the box of matches in his pocket, instead of reaching for it he made a quiet little opening for himself in the hanging beads and slipped through, bringing the curtain back to position behind him slowly, to avoid making any sound. He took one step forward and bumped some object, perhaps a chair, which he edged away from, raising his head to look for a night light he hoped he would find. All he could see was a darkness that weighed down upon him like a nightmare. For a moment he thought again of lighting a match.
Suddenly he was assailed by light. It shone all around him, so powerful that it struck him with the force of a blow, making him shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Rauf Ilwan was standing only a couple of yards from him, wearing a long dressing gown, which made him look like a giant, one hand tensed in a pocket, as if he was clutching a weapon. The cold look in his eyes chilled Said to the core, his tightly-closed lips; nothing but deep hatred, hostility. The ensuing silence was suffocating, claustrophobic, denser than the walls of a prison. Abd Rabbuh the jailer would soon be jeering: "Back already?"
"Shall we call the police?" someone behind him said curtly. Said turned round and saw three servants standing in a row. "Wait outside," said Rauf, breaking the silence.
As the door opened and closed Said observed that it was made of wood in arabesque designs, its upper panel inlaid with an inscription, probably a proverb or a Koranic verse.
He turned to face Rauf.
"It was idiotic of you to try your tricks on me; I know you. I can read you like an open book." Speechless, helpless, and resigned, still recovering from the shock of surprise, Said had nevertheless an instinctive sense that he would not be handed back to the custody from which he'd been set free the day before. "I've been waiting for you, fully prepared. In fact I even drew up your plan of action. I'd hoped my expectation would be disappointed. But evidently no mistrust in you can prove groundless." Said lowered his eyes for a moment and became aware of the patterned parquet beneath the wax on the floor. Then he looked up, saying nothing. "It's no use. You'll always be worthless and you'll die a worthless death. The best thing I can do now is hand you over to the police."
Said blinked, gulped, and lowered his eyes again.
"What have you come for?" Rauf demanded angrily. "You treat me as an enemy. You've forgotten my kindness, my charity. You feel nothing but malice and envy. I know your thoughts, as clearly as I know your actions."
His eyes still wandering over the floor, Said muttered, "I feel dizzy. Peculiar. It's been like that ever since I came out of jail."
"Liar! Don't try to deceive me. You thought I'd become one of the rich I used to attack. And with that in mind you wished to treat me."
"It's not true."
"Then why did you break into my house? Why do you want to rob me?"
"I don't know," Said said, after a moment's hesitation. "I'm not in my proper state of mind. But you don't believe me."
"Of course I don't. You know you're lying.
My good advice didn't persuade you. Your envy and arrogance were aroused, so you rushed in headlong as always, like a madman. Suit yourself, do what you like, but you'll find yourself in jail again."
"Please forgive me. My mind's the way it was in prison, the way it was even before that."
"There's no forgiving you. I can read your thoughts, everything that passes through your mind. I can see exactly what you think of me. And now it's time I delivered you to the police."
"Please don't."
"No? Don't you deserve it?"
"Yes, I do, but please don't."
"If I set eyes on you again," Rauf bellowed, "I'll squash you like an insect."
Thus dismissed, Said was about to make a quick exit, but Rauf stopped him with a shout: "Give me back the money." Frozen for a second, Said slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out the two banknotes. Rauf took them and said, "Don't ever show me your face again."
Said walked back to the banks of the Nile, hardly believing his escape, though relief was spoilt by a sense of defeat and now in the damp breath of early daybreak, he wondered how he could have failed to take careful note of the room where he'd been caught, how all he'd noticed had been its decorated door and its waxed parquet.
But the dawn shed dewy compassion giving momentary solace for the loss of everything, even the two banknotes, and he surrendered to it. Raising his head to the sky, he found himself awed by the dazzling brilliance of the stars at this hour just before sunrise.
FIVE
They stared at him incredulously, then everyone in the café rose at once to meet him. Led by the proprietor and his waiter, uttering a variety of colorful expressions of welcome, they formed a circle round him, embraced him, kissing him on the cheeks. Said Mahran shook hands with each of them, saying politely: "Thanks, Mr. Tarzan. Thanks, friends."
"When was it?"
"Day before yesterday."
"There was supposed to be an amnesty. We were keeping our fingers crossed."
"Thank God I'm out."
"And the rest of the lads?"
"They're all well; their turn will come."
They exchanged news excitedly for a while, until Tarzan, the proprietor, led Said to his own sofa, asking the other men to go back to their places, and the cafe was quiet again. Nothing had changed. Said felt he'd left it only yesterday: The round room with its brass fittings, the wooden chairs with their straw seats, were just the way they used to be. A handful of customers, some of whom he recognized, sat sipping tea and making deals. Through the open door out the big window opposite you could see the wasteland stretching into the distance, its thick darkness unrelieved by a single glimmer of light. Its impressive silence broken only by occasional laughter borne in on the dry and refreshing breeze — forceful and clean, like the desert itself — that blew between the window and door.
Said took the glass of tea from the waiter, and raised it to his lips without waiting for it to cool, then turned to the proprietor: "How's business these days?"