The residents of the Yacoubian Building roof had heard the news somehow and all stayed up. They opened the doors of their rooms and waited in silence with bowed heads as though at a wake. Some of them (those who owned tape recorders) played recordings of the Noble Qur’an at high volume, so that it echoed around the roof.
A little before the dawn prayer, Abd Rabbuh and Hidiya appeared on the roof, worn-out with pain and exhaustion, and all the residents rushed to give them their condolences, the sorrow rekindled. The men embraced Abduh and squeezed his hand (they were all sincere in their reaction, including even the most ferocious and aggressive among them such as Ali the Driver, from whose mouth the smell of cheap alcohol wafted as usual but who cried as hard as a lost child). As soon as El Shazli, the old doorkeeper, with his white mustaches and tall, emaciated figure, approached the grieving father and shook his hand — the two were bound by a special affection — Abduh embraced him hard, buried his face in his white gallabiya, and said with his Sa’idi accent, “My boy’s gone, Uncle!”
The women knew how to give expression to disaster. Their high-pitched cries broke out, shattering the peace, and many beat their cheeks hard till they fell to the ground. Little by little, the outpouring of grief grew quiet, and as usually happens on these occasions the men insisted to Abduh that he take his wife to rest a little as they had a hard day ahead of them, and in the end the two complied and went into their room. Their light remained lit, however, till the morning, as they did not sleep. In fact, they became wrapped in a long conversation that soon turned angry and eventually became a bitter and violent fight whose echoes could be heard all over the roof. Hidiya’s voice could be heard raised in reproach and challenge, while Abduh’s voice grew lower and lower until it became completely silent. On the following day, once the burial and mourning procedures were over, the roof people were taken aback to find a large truck pull up at night in front of the building. Then they saw Abduh helping the workers to move the furniture from their room. The residents inquired anxiously and Abduh informed them that they were moving to another room, in Imbaba. His face was dejected and his manner so off-putting as to stop them from showing their surprise or even from bidding him farewell with appropriate warmth.
“You’ve got off to a bad start, Azzam.”
“God forbid, Kamal Bey! I stand by my word, but the matter needs time.”
They were sitting in the Sheraton restaurant and the atmosphere was tense. Azzam started by talking about something else, but Kamal el Fouli frowned and said sharply, “Don’t try to distract me with other things! I’m not a child. You made an agreement and you went back on your agreement. I gave you the contract three months ago for you to sign with the Big Man and you’re playing for time.”
“Kamal Bey, shame on you to say so! I have to pass the matter by the Japanese partner and I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“What have the Japanese got to do with it? The contract’s between you and the Big Man for a percentage of the profits.”
“My dear sir, the Japanese have to know everything. If I did anything behind their back, they might cancel the agency agreement.”
Kamal el Fouli took a long draw on the waterpipe, then placed the big mouthpiece on the table and stood up suddenly. His son and the guards at the neighboring table rose too. He said resolutely, as he adjusted his clothes prior to leaving, “You’re playing with fire, Azzam, and I’m surprised, because you’re an intelligent man. You have to understand that the ones who put you into the People’s Council can take you out of it.”
“Are you threatening me, Kamal Bey?”
“Take it any way you like.”
Hagg Azzam rose and held out his arms to grasp El Fouli’s shoulder in an attempted embrace, saying, “My dear sir, please, don’t make a big thing of this.”
“Goodbye.”
El Fouli turned to leave, but Hagg Azzam held on to his shoulder and said, “My dear sir, everything’s give and take. I swear to Almighty God, I’m going to keep my promise.”
El Fouli shook his arm off angrily, but Azzam moved closer and whispered almost pleadingly, “Kamal Bey, listen to me, please. I have a request that will make things easier for both of us.”
El Fouli looked at him questioningly, the anger still on his face. Azzam said, “I want to meet the Big Man.”
“The Big Man doesn’t meet anyone.”
“Kamal Bey, please help me. I’d like to meet His Excellency and explain the situation myself. By the bread and salt we’ve eaten together, old fellow, don’t refuse my request.”
El Fouli stared at him with a deep, searching look, as though probing his depths for the last time. Then he said as he left, “We’ll see.”
It wasn’t easy for Hagg Azzam to just give up a quarter of the agency’s profits, but at the same time it wasn’t in his power to refuse outright. His assessment was that they would not start to attack him as long as they had a hope, even if it was small, that he would pay. He had requested a meeting with the Big Man and insisted, firstly to gain time, and secondly because he had a strange but firm feeling that if he could meet the Big Man face to face, he would succeed in persuading him to lower the percentage. He also had a final, important objective: he wanted to be sure that there really was a Big Man. Wasn’t it a possibility that El Fouli was using the Big Man’s name without his knowledge? Only a slight possibility, of course, but it was there.
It took a few months and a number of telephone calls in which Azzam put pressure on El Fouli to fix an appointment for him with the Big Man and then one morning the telephone rang in Azzam’s office and he heard the secretary’s smooth voice saying, “Hagg Azzam? Greetings. Kamal Bey will speak to you.”
He heard El Fouli’s terse voice saying, “Your appointment with the Big Man is Thursday at ten in the morning. Be ready in your office and we’ll send you a car to take you.”
Dawlat had laid her plan carefully and been able by means of influence and bribes to get all the officers on her side. As a result, they treated Zaki el Dessouki with the utmost boorishness and impertinence. They prevented him from using the telephone and exchanged comments at his expense: “He fancies himself a Valentino!”
“So you must be the famous Drinking Sheikh then!”
“I bet the equipment’s kaput and you have to do it by hand!”
They let out loud laughs, followed by a clearing of throats and bursts of coughing, Dawlat joining in the laughter to flatter and encourage them, and to gloat. Zaki said nothing. He didn’t reply to them. The wall that he had tried to maintain around himself had fallen and it was all over, and he realized that if he resisted, it would only increase their vile behavior. He also felt extremely sorry for Busayna, who never stopped sobbing. The officer who had arrested them said to him spitefully, “What do you say, Mr. La-di-da? Are you going to mend your ways?”
Zaki answered him in a low voice, “Your conduct is unlawful and I shall make a complaint against you.”
The officer shouted, “Still playing the big shot? You’re a real big-mouth. Have some shame, man! One foot in this world and the other in the next! Someone your age ought to be spending all his time at the mosque, not being brought in naked from on top of a prostitute — and still you have the gall to talk back?”
Busayna tried to plead with the officer, but he rebuked her sharply, saying “Shut your mouth, whore, or do you want me to make you out a morals charge right away?”
The two gave up completely and answered the officer’s questions. Zaki affirmed in his statement that the complaint was deceitful and that Dawlat was not living with him in the office. He explained Busayna’s being with him by saying that she was the daughter of a friend of his, that she’d quarreled with her family, and that he’d invited her to his apartment so that he could make peace between them. Then he signed the police report, as did Busayna and Dawlat (the plaintiff), who left after thanking the officers and satisfying herself that things were going properly. After all these insults Zaki swallowed his pride and started pleading with the officer until in the end the latter permitted him, grudgingly, to use the telephone. He called a friend of his who was a former Appeals Court judge and asked for help. The judge came quickly, his face still showing traces of sleep, and went to the office of the station head. The latter summoned Zaki, invited him to sit down, insisted on ordering him a cup of coffee, and gave him a cigarette (he had left his behind in the office during the brouhaha). Then the station head looked at him and said smilingly, in a quiet voice, “Naturally, I apologize for any affronts that my colleagues may have committed, but as you know the incident touches on morality and it’s a tricky thing. The officers here are jealous of our traditions and we’re all religious people, praise God.”