“Yesterday. When did you leave the hotel?”
“Around ten in the morning.”
“When did you return?”
“At midnight.”
“You didn’t return at any time during the day?”
“No.”
“Is that your usual habit?”
How did you change your regular pattern yesterday? Why?
“I’ve done it maybe once or twice.”
“Nobody here recalls that.”
“But I do!” he said indignantly.
“Once or twice, you say?”
“Probably twice.”
“And how do you spend your day, then?”
“Walking around. I’m a stranger here, and everywhere I go is new to me.”
“What did you find upon your return?”
“I saw the doorman, Mohamed el-Sawi, here, and the porter, Seriakous, in front of the door of my room.”
“What was he doing?”
“He asked me if I needed anything.”
“Did you meet any of the other residents?”
“No.”
“What did you do yesterday from ten in the morning until midnight?”
“I walked until lunchtime.”
“Where did you have your lunch?”
“I had a sandwich at the grocer’s on Clot Bey Street.”
“Strange for someone of your means.”
His hatred for this officer grew intensely. “I came across this grocer when I first arrived. You might say I became attached to him.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I walked along the Nile.”
“In this weather?”
“I’m from Alexandria, remember,” he said, laughing, trying to conceal his fear and anger.
“Then what?”
The café? No. He must not drag Elham into all this. In Alexandria I saw the film showing at the Metro Cinema here. “I went to the Metro Cinema,” he said quickly.
“When?”
“At six o’clock.”
“Which film was showing?”
“On Top of the Clouds.”
“And after nine, what did you do?”
“I walked around as usual. I also took the Heliopolis bus to the end of the line. Just to kill time.” Kill! What a choice of words.
“Where did you have dinner?”
Be careful! “At the cinema. I had a sandwich and some chocolate.”
“Did you meet anyone?”
“No.”
“You know no one here?”
“No one.” He paused a while, then added: “I contacted the advertising manager of the Sphinx newspaper. Purely business, you know.” Was that a mistake? Could it implicate Elham?
“Why did you come from Alexandria to Cairo?”
“A visit. Tourist, you might say.”
“But this hotel is not appropriate for a tourist of your means.”
“It’s very economical.”
“Do you really possess private means?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tourism, is that the real purpose of your visit?”
The circle is closing. Lies will get you nowhere now. You never expected these questions when you planned all this. “I do have another purpose, apart from tourism.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s family business.”
“Tell me something about the property you own.”
“Just money.”
“No land or buildings?”
“Just money, cash.”
“And your address in Alexandria. Is it what is stated on your identity card?”
Questions. Investigations. His home, the nightclubs. Basima Omran. You will invite suspicion, you cannot escape it.
“Yes, that’s where I live.”
“Which bank do you use?”
“Bank?”
“Yes. Where is your money deposited?”
“I don’t use banks.”
“Where do you keep your money?”
“In…in my pocket.”
“Your pocket? Aren’t you afraid you might lose it?”
“There’s very little left,” he said quietly, with bitterness.
“But your identity card points out that you are wealthy.”
“I was.”
“What are you planning to do?”
Don’t hesitate. I’ll challenge him with the truth, or in spite of it.
“I was searching for my father. That’s my future.”
“You’re looking for your father?”
“Yes. He left us when I was just a baby. I told you I had family problems; they’re of no importance, not worth mentioning. Now that I’ve gone through my money, I’ve no recourse but to look for him.”
“Have you any idea where he might be?”
“No. The advertisement in the newspaper is my last hope.”
“Maybe that’s the real reason why you are here in Cairo.”
“Perhaps.”
“How long will your money last?”
“A month at most.”
“May I?”
With mounting but restrained anger, Saber handed him his wallet. The officer looked through it and then gave it back. “What are you going to do when the money runs out?”
“I was planning on finding a job.”
“What are your qualifications?”
“None.”
“What kind of a job?”
“Any kind of commercial enterprise.”
“Do you think that’ll be easy?”
“I’ve got friends in Alexandria; they will help me.”
“Do you owe the hotel money?”
“No. I paid this week in advance.”
“How did you find this hotel?”
“Purely by chance. I was looking for a cheap place to stay.”
“Did you know anyone in this hotel before coming?”
“No.”
“But since then? You know many people here, no doubt?”
“Mohamed el-Sawi, Aly Seriakous.”
“Mr. Khalil, I mean. The deceased, Khalil Abul Naga?”
“Naturally.”
“What did you think of him?”
“A very old, very kind man.”
“And yet someone saw fit to kill him.”
“That’s very sad.”
“Did you know where he lived?”
“In a flat on the roof, I think.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Aly Seriakous told me.”
“Or did you ask him?”
“Perhaps.”
“I wonder why.”
“I don’t really remember. I usually chatted with the porter whenever I saw him.”
“Did you ask him any other questions?”
His heart beat violently. “Perhaps. I cannot recall any specific questions. It was ordinary conversation, you know.”
He felt the trap closing. The officer asked, “How long are you staying in Cairo?”
“Until I find my father or a job, or until my funds dry up.”
The officer lit a cigarette and took a deep puff, then asked, “Have you anything else to add?”
“No.”
“We might require you later; please don’t leave without informing us.”
“Yes, of course.”
What an idiotic, incomplete scheme it was. Escape now would be madness. You’ll be watched every minute of the day. You’d better think back over every question and try to find out where you stand.
Thirteen
Your position is precarious, obscure, just like death. Most probably they are already investigating you, watching you closely, your every move. You won’t realize it. Just like Khalil before the fatal blow. Weigh your every move. You cannot afford a false one. The hotel is quieter now. The smell of death drove many of the guests away. But others will come. The lounge is cold, cold as the grave. Nothing new in today’s paper. Talk about cotton, currency
, and war. The wind howling outside as though chorusing the perpetual chant of the beggar.
He heard footsteps, looked up, and saw Sawi greeting Karima. He felt his stomach turn with emotion. Karima sat down with her old mother and Sawi. Did she come to take over the hotel? Will their eyes meet? He felt much better seeing her. When will we meet? Somehow she’ll contact you. She’s even more beautiful and sensuous in her mourning dress.
You’re in desperate need of her passionate condolences, consoling you in your plight. She was talking quietly to Sawi. He heard him say, “I don’t know when they’ll allow us to enter the flat.”
Where is she staying? It would be insane to follow her. How could you have possibly overlooked asking her mother’s address? She must contact you by phone. She must remember how badly you’re in need of money.
“Telephone, Mr. Saber.”
Damn the telephone. What now? Has Reheimy perfected the art of mocking me? He walked to the telephone and, passing her, offered his hand. “I repeat, Madame, my sincerest condolences.”
She shook his hand without looking up. He kept his eyes on her while speaking on the phone.
“It’s Elham, Saber.”
Why isn’t it Reheimy? Why did I come to Cairo? Why this hotel in particular?
“How are you, Elham?”
“Are you all right?” She sounded anxious.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Why didn’t you come yesterday?”
“I’m sorry. I was rather tired.”
“Well, I won’t reproach you now. You’re coming today?”
“No, not today. As soon as I get rid of my cold.”
“Well, I won’t trouble you. You know where to find me.” She seemed hurt.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” He didn’t put the receiver down but pretended to continue with the conversation, looking straight at Karima.
“You must contact me in any way. By telephone perhaps.”
She turned her eyes; she must have gotten the message.
“I want to know several things,” he continued. “I am sure that you are aware of my situation; we must talk, and don’t forget that my money is running out.”
She gave him a warning glance. “I’m fully aware of your problems,” he added quietly, “but I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He walked back to his seat in the lounge, feeling slightly relieved although still very worried. Karima got up, followed by her mother. He felt that he was seeing her for the last time. The crime was meaningless without her. He waited, hoping for that phone call. No call. A terrible silence was left in her wake. The lounge was empty except for him. He noticed Sawi looking at him, so he nodded to him, smiling.
The man asked, “Why are you here all alone?”
“It’s my cold. I’ve taken a couple of aspirins. I’ll go out if I feel better.” He moved to the chair that had been occupied by Karima and sat down. “The telephone has driven me to utter despair.”
“Well, I’m sure there must be a good reason for his not calling.”
Saber looked at Sawi and said with some sympathy, “You’ve been going through very hard times.”
The old man’s face contorted with pain and sorrow. “May you never go through what I’m going through.”
“It must have been a terrible sight. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Even my mother, I closed my eyes.”
“Yes, but murder, that’s something else.”
“Yes, that’s true. Murder, blood, savagery.”
“Unbelievable savagery. No punishment is sufficient.”
“I’ve often asked myself, what would drive a person to murder?”
“Yes, I wonder.”
“And the murderer. What kind of person can he be?”
“I saw a murderer once, an errand boy. I had always thought he was so kind and gentle.”
“Incredible.”
“Yes, but what can we do?”
“How true. What can we do? We’ll soon hear that he’s been arrested.”
The old man looked sadly at him. “He already has been arrested.”
“Who?”
“The killer.”
“The killer! But we didn’t hear anything about it.”
The old man nodded.
“Who is it?” asked Saber almost in a whisper.
“Aly Seriakous.”
“That…that idiot.”
“Just like the errand boy.”
“Is that why I didn’t see him around yesterday evening or today?”
“May God have mercy on us all.”
“Has the wife been informed?”
“Naturally.”
“Man is truly an enigma.”
“They found the money on him.”
“It could have been his money.”
“He confessed to the theft.”
“And to the murder?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you just said that they’ve arrested the murderer.”
“That’s what Karima said.”
“Does that mean that theft was the motive?”
“I think so.”
“He could have stolen without killing.”
“Probably Mr. Khalil woke up and saw him, so he had to kill him.”
“He was kind to the point of idiocy almost.”
“As you said, man is an enigma.”
“He’s more than that,” said Saber.
“Did you know that the poor beggar we hear singing every day was once the tough guy around here?”
“That decrepit old man?”
“He lost everything, money, health, his sight. He had no other recourse but to beg.”
“But Aly Seriakous showed great honesty when he returned my wallet, which I had misplaced.”
“He’s smarter than we think.”
Do such things happen so easily? Or is it purely our imagining based on emptiness? Nothing, nothing at all.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to escape?”
“Escape would be tantamount to confession.”
“How could he have hidden the stolen articles in his room?”
“Maybe they found them at his home.”
“Taking them there would have been foolish.”
The old man sighed. “Such is the will of the Almighty.”
“When I saw him the morning of the crime—before it was discovered, that is—he appeared calm and pleasant as usual.” Saber’s heart was pounding.
“Some people kill and attend their victim’s funeral!”
Be careful. Don’t let your hidden fears surface. The telephone might throw some light on matters.
The old man continued, still in a sad, tired voice: “I was the first to be questioned by the police.”
“You?”
“Yes, of course. I was the last to see him alive last night and the first to enter his apartment this morning.”
“But who could think…?”
“I was bombarded with questions. I had closed the door myself. The windows were shut, but I found a window ajar.”
“Maybe he forgot to close it.”
“No. She insisted that all the windows were closed.”
“Did Seriakous break in?”
“No, that’s impossible. The noise would have woken everybody up, certainly Mr. Khalil.”
“Maybe he knocked on the door and Mr. Khalil opened it.”
“But why open the window? And also it was established that he was killed in his sleep.”
Saber stared in silence. Then he said somewhat hopefully, “Maybe he hid in the bedroom?”
“No. He left the apartment before me. I locked up myself.”
“Well, maybe…” The sentence died abruptly. It was stifled by a sudden fear. He was about to say that maybe Seriakous pretended that he was closing the windows. He is not supposed to know that Seriakous closed the windows. That was a close shave! It left him ice cold with fear. “Maybe what?” the man asked.
“Maybe he used another key to
open the door.”
“Possibly. But why open the window?”
“It is most probable that they were left open. Forgotten.”
“God knows.”
“It must have been hard on you,” Saber said sympathetically.
“I don’t understand how they let me go. But they know their job.”
“There’s no more talk of the murder in the papers. All news stopped suddenly.”
The old man was close to tears. “May God rest your soul, Mr. Khalil. I knew him for sixty years.”
“How old was he?”
“Over eighty.”
“When did he marry?”
“Ten years ago.”
“It’s a strange marriage, don’t you think?”
“He married when he was young. He had a child; then suddenly, tragically, he lost his family. He remained single for a long time until she came along. He loved her as a father would his daughter, above anything else.”
“That sounds reasonable, considering.”
“He was a good man, kind and generous. He helped me raise and educate my children.”
“How did he get married?”
“He used to travel frequently to Alexandria.”
“Alexandria! Is she from Alexandria?”
“No. He used to stay with a friend of his who lived in Tanta. She was married at that time.”
“Married?”
“Yes, to her cousin, a good-for-nothing. He met her at this friend’s.”
I am talking too much. “How did they get married?” Saber’s curiosity made him reckless in his questions.
“She got a divorce, and they were married.”
“She married a man over seventy?”
“Why not? He gave her honor and security.”
“And peace of mind,” Saber interjected heavily. He remembered his mother’s last words. “But a good-for-nothing, as you describe her ex-husband, wouldn’t divorce such a beautiful woman. Why did he divorce her?”
“Everything has its price.” The old man immediately regretted this remark.
Saber noticed and said quickly, “Anyway, those things are past.”
“I’ve said more than I should. Ever since I saw him lying in his blood, I’m not myself. May God forgive me.”
A pimp’s whore. A purchased slave. A coolheaded criminal, a vessel of unbelievable pleasures, your torturer to the end. Groundless intuition, nothing else, led you to this bloody hotel and flung you into crime, murder, blood. Just like the intuition that made you chase the car like a maniac.
Fourteen