Mr. President, I went to great trouble and made great efforts in order to obtain a score of 98 (Humanities), and I was able, through God ’s bounty, to pass all the tests for admission to the Police Academy. Is it then just, Mr. President, that I should be denied admission to the police force for no better reason than that my father is a decent but poor man who works as a property guard? Is not the guarding of property a decent occupation, and is not every decent occupation to be respected, Mr. President? I ask you, Mr. President, to look into this complaint with the eye of a loving father who will never agree that injustice be done to one of his sons. My future, Mr. President, awaits a decision from Your Excellency and I am confident that, the Almighty willing, I shall meet with fair treatment at your noble hands.
May God preserve you as an asset for Islam and the Muslims,
Your sincere son, Taha Muhammad el Shazli
Identity Card No.19578, Kasr El Nil
Address: The Yacoubian Building, 34 Talaat Harb Street, Cairo
Like a victorious wartime general who enters in triumph a city he has conquered after bitter fighting, Malak Khilla appeared on the roof of the building to take possession of his new room in a happy and vainglorious mood. He was wearing his blue people’s suit that he kept for special occasions and had hung around his neck a long tape measure that was for him — like an officer’s pips or a doctor’s stethoscope — the distinguishing mark of his professional status as a master shirtmaker. That morning he brought with him a number of workmen to get the room ready — a smith, an electrician, a plumber, and some young male assistants to help them.
Master craftsman Malak muttered a prayer of thanks to the Virgin and Christ the Savior, then stretched out his hand to open the door to the room for the first time. The air inside was musty because it had been closed for a whole year following the death of Atiya the newspaper seller (some of whose effects Malak found and had one of the boys collect in a large cardboard box).
Now Malak stands in the middle of the room after opening the window and letting sunlight flood the place and issues detailed instructions to the workmen as to what they have to do. From time to time, one of the residents of the roof stops and watches what’s going on out of curiosity. Some watch for a short while, then move on. Others offer Malak their congratulations on taking possession of the new room and shake his hand, wishing him well in his enterprise.
Not all the residents of the roof, however, are so well mannered. After less than half an hour, word has spread on the roof and soon two individuals appear who do not seem to be the least bit eager to welcome the new arrival — Mr. Hamid Hawwas and Ali the Driver.
The first is a civil servant in the National Sanitation Authority whose boss got angry with him and transferred him from his hometown of El Mansoura to Cairo, so he rented a room on the roof where he lives alone, expending all his energy for more than a year now to get his arbitrary transfer cancelled and return home. Mr. Hamid Hawwas is a major writer of official complaints, and finds a genuine and all-encompassing pleasure in selecting the subject of the complaint and formulating it eloquently, then writing it out in a neat, easy-to-read hand and subsequently following it through to the end at whatever cost this may impose upon him, for he considers himself to be responsible to some degree for the proper performance of all public utilities in any area in which he may be residing, or even passing through. He always finds the time to make a daily round of the District Administration, the Governorate, and the Utilities Police, during which he pertinaciously and single-mindedly follows up on the complaints he has made against street vendors who may stand in locations far distant from his place of residence but whom, as violators of the law, he nevertheless believes it to be his duty to pursue with one complaint after another, never tiring and never despairing, until the Utilities Police finally move and arrest them and confiscate their goods — at which point Mr. Hamid watches from a distance, feeling the ease of conscience of one who has gone that extra mile to do his duty in full.
As for Ali the Driver, he’s an alcoholic, over fifty, never married, who works as a driver at the Holding Company for Pharmaceuticals, going straight from work every day to the Orabi Bar in El Tawfikiya, where he eats and sits sipping a drink until midnight. Loneliness and the cheap alcohol to which he is addicted have had their effect on him, making him gross, violent, and ever in search of a quarrel on which to expend his aggression.
Mr. Hamid Hawwas approached Malak and greeted him, then opened the conversation in an extremely refined way by saying, “About this room, my friend. Do you have a contract from the owner of the building giving you the right to use it as a commercial establishment?”
“Of course I have a contract,” answered Malak excitedly, and he pulled out of his small leather purse a copy of the contract that he had signed with Fikri Abd el Shaheed. Hamid took the piece of paper, put on his glasses, and examined it carefully. Then he handed it back to Malak, saying quietly, “The contract is invalid in this form.”
“Invalid?” repeated Malak, apprehensively.
“Of course invalid. According to the law the roof is a common resource for the residents and a common resource may not be rented out for commercial purposes.”
Malak didn’t understand and stared angrily at Mr. Hamid, who went on to say, “The Court of Cassation has issued more than one ruling on the issue and the matter is closed. The contract is invalid and you have no right to the use of the room.”
“Yes, but all of you are living on the roof, so why not me?”
“We are employing our rooms for residential purposes, and that is legal. You, however, are exploiting your room for commercial ends, and that is illegal and we cannot allow it.”
“Okay. Go complain to the owner of the place since he’s the one who gave me the contract.”
“Certainly not. The law itself forbids you to make use of the room, and we, as injured residents, are obliged to prevent you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’d better get a move on and scram or else!”
These last words were spoken by Ali the Driver in his husky voice as he looked challengingly at Malak. Laying his hand on Malak’s shoulder in a clearly threatening way, he went on, “Listen, sonny boy. This roof is for respectable folk. You can’t just turn up here in your own sweet time and open a shop, with workers and customers looking at the ladies going in and out. Got it?”
Malak, who now felt the danger of the situation, responded quickly, “My dear sir, all my workers are educated people, praise God! They’re the most polite and discreet people in the world. And the people living on the roof and their ladies have my utmost respect.”
“Listen. Forget the chitchat. Pick up your stuff and get going!”
“Dear me! What’s going on? Are you going to behave like ruffians or what?”
“That’s it, momma’s boy, we’re going to behave like ruffians.”
As Ali the Driver said this, he pulled Malak toward him by his collar and gave him a slap to announce that battle was about to commence. He conducted his quarrels with ease and proficiency as though he were carrying out simple, routine procedures or practicing a sport of which he was fond. He started with a well-placed head butt at Malak, followed by two punches to the stomach and a third, powerful and audible, that struck his nose. A thread of blood flowed down Malak’s face and he tried to resist by aiming a useless, symbolic punch at his opponent, but it missed. Then as violent blows fell on him, he started screaming in protest and chaos reigned, while the workmen, not wanting problems, quietly fled and people gathered from every direction to watch. Abaskharon appeared suddenly on the roof and started screaming and wailing for help and the fight continued until Ali the Driver succeeded in expelling Malak from the room.