The Yacoubian Building

by Alaa Al Aswany

  Malak got more and more familiar with her until one day he suddenly directed a slow, appraising look at her full bosom and luscious body and then asked brazenly, “How much does Talal Shanan pay you a month?”

  Suddenly she felt furious and decided that this time she would put him in his place very firmly, but in the end she found herself answering, avoiding his eyes, “Two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Her voice came out with a strange-sounding rattle as though someone else were speaking and Malak laughed, came close to her, and said, advancing his attack, “You’re a stupid girl. That’s pennies. Listen, I can get you work for six hundred pounds a month. Don’t say anything now. Take your time to think about it—a day, two days, then come and see me.”

  2

  At Maxim’s, Zaki el Dessouki feels at home.

  No sooner has he crossed Suleiman Basha Square to the small passage opposite the Automobile Club, pushed open the small wooden door with the glass panes, and passed through the entranceway, than he feels as though a magic time machine has carried him back to the beautiful years of the 1950s. Everything at Maxim’s—from the brightly painted white walls hung with original works by great artists, the quiet lighting emanating from elegant wall lamps, the tables covered with gleaming white cloths on which plates, folded napkins, spoons, knives, and glasses of various sizes are set out in the French manner, and the way into the bathroom that is concealed from sight by a large blue folding screen to the small, chic bar at the far end to the left of which stands an ancient piano on which Christine, the restaurant’s owner, plays for her friends—bears the stamp of the elegant past in the same way as do old Rolls-Royces, ladies’ long white gloves, hats decorated with feathers, gramophones with horns and gold needles, and old black-and-white photos in wooden frames that we hang in the sitting room and forget about and which, when from time to time we do look at them, make us feel tender and melancholy.

  The owner of Maxim’s, Madame Christine Nicholas, is of Greek origin, born and raised in Egypt. She draws, plays the piano and violin excellently, and sings exquisitely. She has married a number of times and lived a gay and boisterous life. Her relationship with Zaki began in the 1950s with a passionate love that burned itself out and left behind a deep, unbudgeable friendship. Zaki will be preoccupied and go without seeing her for many months, but as soon as he feels oppressed or things are not going well for him, he goes to her and always finds her waiting for him. She listens attentively, gives him sincere advice, and commiserates like a mother.

  Today, no sooner did she see him entering through the door of the bar than she let out a cry of joy and embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she took his hands, leaned back, and examined him for a short while with her blue eyes, saying, “You look worried, my friend.”

  Zaki smiled sadly and almost said something but remained silent. Christine shook her head as though she understood, then invited him to sit at his favorite table next to the piano and ordered a bottle of rosé and cold hors d’œuvres. Just as dried flowers retain something of their old fragrance, Christine still bore traces of her former beauty. Her body was neat and svelte, her hair dyed and swept back, and tasteful makeup gave her lined face a dignified, refined cast. When she laughed, her face would fluctuate between the tenderness and tolerance of a kindly grandmother and that old coquetry that would sometimes return in a momentary flash, then disappear. Christine tasted the wine as the traditions of the table require, then made a sign to the ancient Nubian waiter and he poured out two full glasses. As he sipped the wine, Zaki told her what had happened. She listened attentively, then said dismissively, pronouncing the French words in her own specially smooth and musical way, “Zaki, you’re exaggerating. It’s just an ordinary quarrel.”

  “Dawlat threw me out.”

  “Just an impulsive act born of too much anger. In a day or two, go and apologize to her. Dawlat has a short temper, but she’s good-hearted. And don’t forget, you did lose her valuable ring and any woman in the world will throw you out if you lose her jewelry.”

  Christine said this light-heartedly, but Zaki remained gloomy and said sorrowfully, “Dawlat has been planning for a long time to throw me out of the apartment and the loss of the ring has given her the excuse. I offered to buy her a new ring, but she refused.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Dawlat wants to get her hands on the apartment for herself.”

  “Why?”

  “My dear friend. I’m not religious, as you know, and there are things I never give any thought to, such as the estate and the division of bequests.”

  Christine looked at him questioningly and he went on to explain, pouring himself another glass, “I have never married and I have no children. When I die, my possessions will go to Dawlat and her children. She wants to secure everything for her children right now. Yesterday, during the quarrel, she said to me, ‘I will never let you squander our rights.’ Imagine! Just like that, in the clearest way possible! She considers everything I own to be her children’s by right, as though I were just the steward of my wealth. She wants to inherit from me before I die. Do you understand now?”

  “No, Zaki.”

  Christine, who seemed to have become a little inebriated, shouted the last words, and when Zaki tried to speak, she interrupted him heatedly, “Dawlat could never think that way!”

  “After all these years, you’re still naïve. Why are you amazed at evil? You think like a child. You think that the good people should be smiling and jolly and the bad ones have ugly faces with thick, matted eyebrows. Life’s a lot more complicated than that. There’s evil in the best of people and in those closest to us.”

  “My dear philosopher, you exaggerate. Listen. Let’s bet a large bottle of Black Label. I’ll call Dawlat tonight and make peace between you. Then I’ll make you buy the bottle and don’t you dare go back on your word!”

  Zaki left Maxim’s and wandered aimlessly around Downtown. Then he returned to his office, where Abaskharon (who was aware of what had happened) met him with an appropriately sad expression on his face and prepared his drink and snacks quickly and fervently, as though offering condolences. Zaki took his drink out onto the balcony, still at that point harboring some hope of making up with Dawlat. He felt that in the end she was his sister and she couldn’t do him harm. Half an hour passed and then the telephone rang. He heard Christine’s voice, sounding embarrassed, say, “Zaki. I called Dawlat. I’m sorry. She seems to have really gone mad and is set on expelling you from the apartment. She said she’s changed the lock and she’ll be sending you your clothes tomorrow. I can’t believe what’s happened. Can you imagine, she talked about legal measures she’s going to take against you?”

  “What legal measures?”

  “She didn’t explain, but you’d better be careful, Zaki. Expect anything from her.”

  The following day Abaskharon appeared with a lad from the street carrying a large suitcase in which Dawlat had sent all Zaki’s clothes. This was followed by a series of summonses from the police station, as Dawlat had made a number of reports with the intention of proving her legal right to possession of the apartment and had got an undertaking of non-harassment from Zaki. Friends tried to act as go-betweens to arrange a reconciliation between the two, but Dawlat refused. Zaki called her several times on the telephone, but she hung up in his face and eventually he consulted a lawyer, who told him that his position while not bad was not especially good, since the apartment was rented in his father’s name and it was Dawlat’s right to live in it. He also stressed to him that the law moved slowly and that the proper thing to do in such situations was to use force. He ought—it was most unfortunate—to hire some thugs, throw Dawlat out of the apartment, prevent her from going back in, and let her go to court; this was the only way to settle such disputes.

  Zaki agreed to the lawyer’s idea and suggested that the door be broken and the lock changed on Sunday morning, when Dawlat normally went to the bank. He affirmed to the lawyer
that neither the doorkeeper nor any of the neighbors would prevent him from carrying out the plan. He spoke enthusiastically and seriously but in his heart knew very well that he would never do any of it. He would never hire thugs, he would never throw Dawlat out, and he would never take her to court. He couldn’t do it.

  Is he afraid of her? Maybe. He never confronts her. He always backs down in front of her and he’s not a fighter by nature; from the time he was little, he has hated conflicts and problems and avoided them at any cost. And in addition, he’ll never throw her out because she’s his sister. Even in the event that he should recover the apartment from her and throw her out onto the street, he wouldn’t be happy. His struggle with her saddens him because he cannot bring himself to think of her as a vicious and wicked person, whatever she might do. He cannot forget the way she once was, which he loved. How delicate and shy she used to be, and how she’s changed! He’s sad because his relationship with his only sister has deteriorated to this point and he thinks of what she has done and asks himself where she acquired this cruelty. How could she have brought herself to throw him out in front of the neighbors? And how was she able to sit in front of the officer at the police station and make out a report against her brother? Doesn’t she even once consider that he’s her brother and that he’s never done anything to her bad enough to deserve such a reward? And again, is a little property worth the loss of one’s family? True, the land that he’d recovered from the land reform has increased several times over in value, but all of it will go back to Dawlat and her children on his death in any case, so why all the problems and disrespect?

  Zaki felt the melancholy spreading little by little and throwing its black shadow over his life and he spent whole nights unable to sleep, during which he would stay up on the balcony till morning, drinking and smoking, and going over in his mind the events of the past, sometimes thinking that he had been unlucky from the time he was born. Even the timing of his birth had been inauspicious, and if he’d been born fifty years earlier, his whole life would have been different. If the Revolution had failed, if King Farouk had made haste to arrest the Free Officers—who were known to him by name—the Revolution would never have taken place and Zaki would have lived the life he was supposed to—Zaki Bey, son of Abd el Aal Basha el Dessouki. He would have made minister for sure, perhaps prime minister—a great life, truly befitting him, instead of a life of aimlessness and humiliation. A prostitute drugs him and robs him and his sister throws him out and exposes him to scandal in front of the neighbors and he ends up sleeping in his office with Abaskharon. Is it bad luck or a failing in his character that always drives him to make the wrong decision? Why did he stay in Egypt after the Revolution? He could have gone to France and started a new life, as many children of the big families had done. There he would certainly have attained a position of note as friends had done who were less than he in all respects. But he had stayed in Egypt and started to acclimatize himself to the deteriorating situation little by little until he had sunk to these depths. And then…why hadn’t he married? When he was a young man, many rich and beautiful women had wanted him, but he’d kept refusing marriage until the chance was gone. If he had gotten married, he would now have grown-up children to take care of him and grandchildren to play with and love. If he’d had even just one child, Dawlat would not have done all that to him, and if he’d married, he wouldn’t feel that killing, agonizing loneliness, that pitch-black sense of mortality that sweeps over him whenever he hears of the death of one of his friends. The unanswerable question that comes to him every night as he takes refuge in his bed is, “When will death come, and how?” He thinks now of a friend of his who prophesied his own death. He was sitting with him on the balcony of the office and directed a strange look at him, out of the blue, as though he had noticed something on the horizon. Then he said quietly, “My death is close, Zaki. I can smell it.”

  The strange thing was that his friend did indeed die a few days later even though he wasn’t sick. This incident makes him wonder (when depressed or downcast), does death have a special smell that a person exudes at the end of his life, so that he becomes aware of his approaching end? And how will the end be? Will death be like a long sleep from which one never wakes up? Or is there a resurrection, a reward, and a punishment, as the religious believe? Will God torture him after his death? He isn’t religious and he doesn’t, it’s true, pray or fast. But he has never hurt anyone in his life, he hasn’t cheated, he hasn’t stolen, he hasn’t deprived others of their rights, and he’s never been slow to help the poor. Apart from alcohol and women, he doesn’t believe that he’s committed crimes in the true sense of the word.

  These dispiriting thoughts took possession of Zaki for many long days after he had spent about three weeks living in the office—three weeks of worry and care, which ended one morning with a pleasant surprise that drove away his sorrow just as a long night dissolves in one magical moment. Zaki will always remember the happy sight, rehearsing in his mind hundreds of times, accompanied by cheerful music, how he was sitting on the balcony sipping his morning coffee, smoking, and watching the crowded street when Abaskharon appeared swinging on his crutch with, on his face, instead of its usual ingratiating cast, a mysterious, cunning smile.

  “What do you want?” Zaki Bey accosted him with distaste in a warning growl. But something exceptional and quite certain gave Abaskharon an unaccustomed confidence and he came up to his master and bent down and whispered, “Excellency, my brother Malak and I have something to talk about.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Something about you, Excellency, as it were.”

  “Speak out, you donkey! I’m in no mood for your nonsense. What is it?”

  At this Abaskharon leaned over him and whispered, “We have a seccaterry for Your Excellency. A very nice young girl. Excuse the boldness, but Your Excellency in these bad circumstances is in need of a seccaterry to take care of Your Excellency.”

  Zaki started paying attention and directed a deep, penetrating look at Abaskharon as though he had received a special coded message or heard a sentence in a secret language that he understood. He answered quickly, “And why not? Am I to see her?”

  In response to the desire to torture his master a little, Abaskharon at first said nothing. Then he said slowly, “Your Excellency would like to see her?”

  The Bey nodded his head quickly and pretended to look at the street to hide his excitement. In the manner of a conjurer revealing his surprise at the end of the trick, Abaskharon turned around, moved away banging the floor with his crutch, and disappeared for ten minutes. Then he came back with her.

  This is the moment Zaki will never forget—when he saw her for the first time. She was wearing a white dress covered with large green flowers that clung to her body and revealed its details, her plump, soft arms emerging from the short sleeves. Abaskharon led her forward by the hand and said, “Miss Busayna el Sayed. Her late father was a good man and he lived with us here on the roof. God have mercy on him, he was more than a brother to me and Malak.”

  Busayna advanced with her small, swinging, undulating steps. Then she smiled, her face lighting up in a way that stole Zaki’s heart, and said, “Good morning, Excellency.”

  Those who knew Taha el Shazli in the past might have difficulty in recognizing him now. He has changed totally, as though he had swapped his former self for another, new one. It isn’t just a matter of the Islamic dress that he has adopted in place of his Western clothes, nor of his beard, which he has let grow and which gives him a dignified and impressive appearance greater than his real age, nor of the small space for prayer that he has set up next to the elevator in the lobby of the building, where he takes turns in giving the call to prayer with another bearded brother who is an engineering student and lives on the fifth floor. All these are changes in appearance. Inside, however, he has been possessed by a new, powerful, bounding spirit. He has taken to walking, sitting, and speaking to people in the building in a new
way. Gone forever are the old cringing timidity and meekness before the residents. Now he faces them with self-confidence. He no longer cares a hoot for what they think, and he won’t put up with the least reproach or slight from them. He’s no longer interested in those small banknotes that they used to give him and which he used to save in order to buy his new things, in the first place because of his firm faith that God will provide for him and secondly because Sheikh Shakir has got him involved in the sale of religious books—small errands that he undertakes in his spare time and which bring him in a reasonable amount.

  He is now training himself to love or hate people “in God.” He has learned from the sheikh that men are too despicable and lowly to be loved or hated for their this-worldly characteristics. On the contrary, our feelings toward them should be determined by the degree to which they observe God’s Law. This has changed the way he looks at many things. He used to like a number of the residents because they were good to him and gave generously. Now he has started to hate them “in God” because they don’t pray and some of them drink alcohol. He has come to love his brethren in the Gamaa Islamiya so much that he would sacrifice his life for them. All his old, worldly standards have crumbled like an ancient fragile building and their place has been taken by a true, Islamic evaluation of people and things. The power of faith has filled his heart and made him into a new being, liberated from fear and evil. He no longer fears death or holds any created being in awe, no matter what its strength or influence. He no longer fears anything whatsoever in his life except that he disobey God and merit His anger.