“I challenge you to find one resident in this building who ever exchanged greetings with him. He’s an arrogant crackpot. As for his cruelty …”
“Did you say, ‘his cruelty’?”
“My wife told me that she saw him kick a cat,” Raouf went on, “that he found in front of his apartment. The poor thing smashed violently against the wall, before it landed somewhere between life and death!”
“That’s very strange!” I gasped.
“When a wake was held at the building he neglected his human obligations without concern. He passed by the mourning tent, paying no attention to it whatsoever, nor did he acknowledge anyone there.”
“What about his personal behavior? I mean, the furnished apartment …”
“No, no—no one visited him so far as I know. His type suffers from a hidden inadequacy that turns them into supercilious snobs.”
“But he was well-off, or so it seems.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Are there bigger bastards than the rich?”
5
This had surpassed mere suspicion—it was becoming a full-scale indictment. The doorman was credible, so was Raouf. My rock-solid familiarity with these crimes’ history led me to this view. Who other than Makram Abd al-Qayyum would throw money onto the balconies of the poor, while planting poison in chocolates meant for innocents? Isn’t he the one who provided money to feed stray cats, then kicked one of them to death without mercy?
I approached the second neighbor, an Arabic language instructor named Abd al-Rahman.
“The man lives alone, all right—but insolent, he’s not. The problem is that Engineer Raouf hated him because he reacted dryly to his greeting—but maybe his mind was simply troubled at the time.”
“And how do you see him?”
“I can testify to his piety,” said Abd al-Rahman. “We always meet in the mosque at Friday prayers.”
“Really?”
“I walked with him once after the prayers and found him very charming. He invited me to lunch at the Kursaal Restaurant downtown. He was so insistent that I could hardly get a word in edgewise. He told me of his enormous love for our religious heritage, and that he wanted my help to become more knowledgeable of it.”
“Perhaps he’s not well-educated.”
“No, he’s not exactly erudite in that field, but he did graduate from the College of Law, and studied law and history in the Sorbonne.”
“Maybe you’re the first to mix with him,” I suggested.
“Maybe I am, but we used to meet at the bar in the Mena House Hotel by the Great Pyramid. To me it was clear he had a lot of friends there—both Egyptians and foreigners. He was called to the phone so often, I thought he must be in business.”
“It never occurred to you to ask him about his occupation?”
” Once I asked him a bit craftily about how he spent his time. He answered that he loved innumerable things, yet he was not committed to any particular kind of work. In other words, he’s rich.”
“What’s the source of his wealth?”
“Land, stocks and bonds, and so on,” Abd al-Rahman replied. “Yet his greatest asset is that he is quite well read. At one point I proposed to him that he write history, and he smiled and asked me, ‘Do you think there’s really such a thing as history?’ I thought he was just kidding, but he saw this and said, ‘To get rich on history comes through praise, and on poetry through libel.’”
“Of course, you don’t know why he has avoided marriage?”
“Once I complained to him that one of my sons was acting up,” he said. “Makram told me with a sadness that seemed unusual for him, ‘A son’s rebellion means endless sorrow.’ The ring of anguish in his voice told me he was that son, or perhaps even the afflicted father himself. Rather slyly I said, ‘You’ve released yourself from all that.’ He looked at me and smiled—but without sating my curiosity.”
“Why didn’t you clarify this point?” I goaded him.
“I was close to him—I even revered him. I was afraid I’d lose him by putting too much pressure on him.”
“Naturally, he let you know that he intended to leave.”
“Never … his departure surprised me. But I’ll surely be seeing him on Thursday at the Mena House.”
“I don’t think so. In any case, we’ll see.”
“Why do you say, ‘I don’t think so’?”
“Don’t you know that he’s suspected of being behind the disturbing occurrences in our area?”
The man’s eyes widened in dismay as he said—not only incredulously, but in protest—”I seek refuge in God from the accursed Satan.”
6
The mystery grew murkier, merging into darkness, but my intuition—honed by years of experience—became conviction, or nearly so. I was just about fully satisfied with my conclusions, based on the information gathered by that time, and was ready to speed up the pursuit. But I saw no harm in meeting the third resident. This was Makram Abd al-Qayyum’s next-door neighbor, the tax collector, Bakr al-Hamadhani.
The tax man had hardly heard the suspect’s name when he blurted, “The madman!”
“Mad?”
“Of course! Every time I heard his voice it was reverberating like a drum in the quiet of the night. Was he talking on the telephone? To himself? Was he having an imaginary fight? You’d think it was a blast of wind or a rumble of thunder. And there was something else really astonishing.”
“Really?” I mused.
“He would sing and play the oud.”
“This is something new indeed.”
“His voice is actually strong and beautiful. Sometimes he sang songs of the utmost dignity, like, ‘Oh how I long to see you.’ But other times they were tunes of the most extreme banality, like, ‘Now I’m a teacher, I used to be a fool.’ Just imagine this somber man crooning, ‘The day you bit me so hard.’ He was such a raucous fellow.
“One time I was returning from an evening at the theater, and saw him outside the Vladimir Tavern, staggering drunk. ‘Bring it on!’ he shouted, slurring his words.”
“So he was rowdy?”
“How strange that was! But there were stranger things, too. One night as I came home from my evening out I saw him walking a few steps ahead of me. He went into his flat and I headed toward mine. For some reason, I noticed that the peephole on his door was open. I took a peek through it and, at the end of the foyer, I could see a well-lit room, perhaps a sitting room. But the bizarreness of what I saw nailed me where I stood.
“I saw it contained a whole variety of marvels. On the wall facing me strange masks were hung, both beautiful and ugly, along with the heads of stuffed animals. Also weapons from various historical periods, along with musical instruments. And in the center of the room there was what looked like a fully-stocked chemical laboratory.”
“A chemical laboratory?”
“Yes, a long table on which glass vials full of various-colored liquids were arrayed, long canisters mounted on metal bases, crucibles, power generators.”
“Amazing,” I muttered. “Simply amazing.”
“I went to my flat flabbergasted. I woke up my wife and told her what I saw. She accused me of being intoxicated. I dared her to come out with me to see for herself … an extraordinary sight.”
“Did you ever say hello to each other or have a conversation?”
“Not once. Honestly, I was afraid of him. I recited ‘There is no god but God’ when I heard he’d gone away.”
7
The same day I paid a visit to Azuz, the flat rental agent. I no longer needed new information on the suspect’s personality, but I hoped to find a thread that could lead us to him. I found the man remembered the precise interaction between them, despite the passage of nearly a year.
“I could never forget that day,” he declared.
“Why is that?”
“The bargaining was done in a minute. In fact, there was no bargaining at all. He was generous to an uncanny degree. But on the same da
y, I discovered that my billfold was missing. That’s why it was a day I can never forget.”
“How did that happen?”
“He handed me the cash and I put it on the desk, then he left. I was distracted for a moment by a telephone call. Then I picked up the money to put it in my wallet—but discovered that the wallet was gone without a trace.”
“What was running through your mind?”
“The billfold had been with me. The only ones who entered my shop had been Makram Abd al-Qayyum, and the shoeshine man. At the time, my suspicion fell on the bootblack. I called him inside and questioned him; I was so harsh with him that he screamed. But he swore by the most sacred oath that he was innocent, and started crying.”
“Of course, you didn’t suspect the other?”
“No, sometimes I would be assailed by suspicions, but these were hard to establish. It burned me up to lose more than two hundred gunayh—but how could I level an accusation against someone like him? He was a man of influence, without the slightest doubt. What good would it do me to accuse him, except to bring his power down on my head?”
“So you surrendered this matter to God?” “As happens in most cases of pickpocketing. But I would see him sometimes when he went out in the morning and mutter to myself, ‘Our Lord is a mighty avenger.’”
8
That evening I met with my boss. I showed him the reports I had written up in meticulous detail. He began to read them with his head propped on the palm of his hand until he’d finished them. Then he stared at me, frowning.
“We have to recollect the whole picture,” he said. “There are unnerving events. Some poor people find bags stuffed with money on their balconies, left by an unnamed benefactor. Others discover safe-looking packets of sweets, only to learn that the candies are poisoned, causing the deaths of unsuspecting people. Children are reported missing. Fires break out in bars. This is on one hand.
“On the other hand, you receive a letter from an unknown person that points the finger at Makram Abd al-Qayyum. You investigate this man and come to me with a clutch of contradictions that are more like the weird happenings themselves. What do you think?”
“I’ve become totally convinced that he’s the criminal we’re seeking.”
“Convinced?”
“That’s my gut feeling,” I affirmed.
“I’m only interested in either a smoking gun or a confession.”
“Let’s not ignore the fact, sir, that the incidents stopped when he went away.”
“That period has been very short; it means nothing.”
“And don’t forget that we’ve become the talk of the town.”
“His compulsiveness will betray him sooner or later … No doubt, he’s deranged!” the chief declared.
“Deranged?” I challenged him. “Possibly—but it’s just as likely he’s a sane, clever dog with a concealed motive.”
9
I set off on the chase with dauntless energy. The patrols and the lookouts were doubled. I distributed his description to every department, outlining a comprehensive course of action to the leaders and to those experienced with criminal circles. I knew, of course, that—for me personally— he had come to define my future, and my duty. The subject took control of both my waking mind and my dreams. I thought it over, and thought it over again, and decided to put off making an appeal through the newspapers and other media, at least for the time being.
10
While we were immersed in the search, a sudden bolt of lightning struck us from the blue. The press surprised us with news of events similar to those in our district—but this time, in the Delta town of Tanta. I rushed to Tanta without even seeking leave to go, and gave all the information I had to the responsible authorities there.
As we were drawing up a new plan of attack profiting primarily from our earlier experience, the newspapers came out with stories of yet more incidents in the southern city of Asyut. Sensing that these crimes had become a national scandal, I went there immediately. When I arrived I telephoned my boss to tell him my location.
“Where are you?” he shouted. “What is this blatant insubordination?”
I tried to explain the situation but he cut me off.
“Get back here immediately,” he demanded. “The incidents have returned to our own district.”
11
I had the idea to invite a famous artist to meet with me and the eyewitnesses. I asked him to draw an accurate picture of the enigmatic culprit based on the interviewees’ statements.
“Don’t give up until you’re sure it’s a faithful portrait,” I ordered.
The media ran the picture asking anyone who recognized the subject to direct us to him. Citizens pointed us to more than one person: a village headman, a fishmonger, a luggage dealer. The image even resembled a certain powerful man of state. The uproar grew out of control until we were the laughingstock of comedians and pundits alike.
“The administration is going up in flames,” the chief sighed to me.
“You can’t fault our plan,” I countered.
“He that we haven’t sought has come to us, while he that we have sought has eluded us.”
“Maybe he’s in hiding, or in disguise.”
“No doubt the incidents investigated in all these districts are not the work of just one man,” the chief asserted.
“Perhaps he’s the head of a gang?”
“The administration is going up in flames!” he cried again in despair.
I returned to my office, blind with rage. At the doorway I heard a sharp exchange between the hall guard and another man who wanted to come in and meet me.
“I have no time for anyone now,” I blurted sternly.
In a loud, even voice, the other man declaimed, “I am Makram Abd al-Qayyum.”
12
I seized him by the arm and we went into the room. We stood there face-to-face. I was panting as he asked with calm resentment, “What is the meaning of what you published in the papers?”
“Why didn’t you come in immediately?” I asked in return, scanning him closely.
“I was at the Red Sea, a long way from the newspapers— or anything else.”
A burning, pregnant silence fell between us until he resumed questioning me.
“What’s the point of this ridiculous charge against me?” “We’ll see,” I told him, seething with pique. I decided to conduct the interrogation in my chief’s office, under his supervision.
13
What should I say?
The man answered every question quickly, with a solid simplicity—yielding not one shred of evidence against him. We showed him to the families of the victims, the informants, and the aggrieved in every part of the quarter. No one had seen him, either by day or by night. We broadcast a message to the anonymous author of the letter that had accused him, to share whatever information they had with us—but no one replied. And so Makram Abd al-Qayyum left us with head held high, while I was dealt a devastating blow.
Yet, astoundingly, deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was our man.
14
Of course, there had to be a sacrificial ram, so the Interior Ministry decided to transfer me to headquarters. I put the most qualified person I knew for the job in my place. Outraged at the whole situation, I presented my resignation, announcing that I planned to practice law. I continued to follow the wave of atrocities and the news of the investigation, anxious that my successor would succeed in nabbing the perpetrator. The sentiment, though shameful, was only natural.
And what did I know but one day Makram Abd al-Qayyum himself burst into my office. I stared at him in shock as he sat down before my desk.
“I’ve come to propose that you manage my business and legal affairs,” he said.
The offer was so tempting, it was virtually impossible to refuse. Still, I asked him, “Why me exactly, when I’ve only worked as a lawyer for two years?”
“But you have great experience. And I count myself r
esponsible to some degree for your resignation.”
Jokingly, I shot back, “Is this some sort of schadenfreude?”
“I seek refuge in God,” he rebutted gravely, “but there are only benevolent feelings behind it.”
Thus I came to serve the estate of the worthy Makram Abd al-Qayyum!
15
I can testify that I found him worthy in every sense of the term—dignified, well-versed, and fine of speech; benign in his dealings with others; openhanded as well as open-hearted. Perhaps my enthusiasm would falter at times, and I would ponder, “What if he catches me off-guard with one of his famous contradictions? Wouldn’t it be better for me to stick to the side of caution?”
Yet my whispering devil within was disappointed. Abd al-Qayyum’s tendency to always seem to act for the good truly tweaked my conscience.
One morning, after he had finished reviewing some work I had prepared for him, he tilted back in his swivel chair and said, “Finally—they’ve decided to close the case by laying it against ‘a person unknown.’”
“Let that be a slap to repay the one that struck me,” I gloated maliciously.
“Not at all—you were on the wrong track,” he said, with sweet tranquility.
“But …,” I tried to interject.
“It was a mistake to focus suspicion on me,” he interrupted swiftly, “because of an absurd letter lacking even a signature.”
“It wasn’t because of the letter, but came out of a most unusual investigation!”
“By concentrating on me, you let the real criminal slip out of your hands!”
“Was it unreasonable to connect the testimony of the eyewitnesses to the exotic nature of these acts?”
“My dear professor! Is there a human being devoid of contradictions? What’s so strange if I feed cats while kicking a sick one that attacked me? What’s so peculiar if I grow friendly with one man, while shunning another due to his nasty character? And what’s new when one is sober at a certain moment and then relaxes by drinking to excess the next? Does this mean that I would poison children and go around setting murderous fires?”
The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales Page 7
