7

“Greed might draw you to the gambling table, but it’s the game of wits that keeps you there.”—Abbas Mahalawi

Now that Zeinab’s place in the villa was secure, I could put my mind to rest about her at least. She’d managed to get exactly where I wanted her most of the time: right next to Paula. That enabled me to focus on what I’d come here to do in the first place.

My sister adjusted so quickly you might have thought that she’d been brought up in this society. I’ve always been impressed by her instinctive intelligence. I’d staked my money on a mare, and so far I was winning. After Paula bought her a small camera as a gift, Zeinab had me photograph her in the garden, near the dock, in the reception room—at least twenty-four photos of her per month in different spots and poses. Then I had enough. When I asked her why she was so fond of photography, her eyes lit up as she told me about Mme Paula’s and M. Cicurel’s photo albums documenting different periods of their life. She wanted to preserve the memories of herself here in case she was ever forced to leave it. Once she learned how to use it, you’d rarely see her without that camera around her neck.

Handling Hassanein turned out to be a piece of cake. I kept his attention diverted by distributing Abdel-Naim’s work crews across different parts of the villa. I also hoped that would kill two birds with one stone, because I felt one of the crews would stumble across what I was searching for. After a while, however, my enthusiasm began to flag. I was so set on catching the train of fortune that I staked my remaining money from the Cicurel heist on Abdel-Naim and his construction business. I was the one who needed Abdel-Naim, but it was he who took the first step. He found it hard to communicate with the foreigners in Zamalek, whereas I could speak with them easily.

“You look so much like a khawaga, you could be one of them,” he said.

I laughed.

Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “Come work with us. We’ll pay you well.”

I was surprised when he agreed to take me on as a partner for a thousand pounds. It was a huge sum, even if it wasn’t that much to Abdel-Naim at that time. I sighed, looking back on those beautiful days when we built all those houses and villas together. How the times have changed since then.

I stamped out what must have been my fourth cigarette in an hour and entered my apartment. I was weighed down with worries and physically exhausted. After caving in to Zeinab’s nagging that morning, I spent the day plodding from shop to shop in search of a gallon of kerosene and a cleaning needle for the Primus stove she’d bought recently. Like so many other goods and commodities at the time, they were impossible to find. My poor feet! If only I’d spoken with Abdel-Naim’s elder son first. When I did, he told me he could get them on the black market, albeit at twice the price. There was no beating Fahim. He could always find a backdoor to get what we needed.

The war was still raging and there was still no end in sight even four years after it started. The face of Cairo had changed so much you could barely recognize it. It looked bedraggled, as though it hadn’t gotten enough sleep after partying all night. The British were everywhere. Their khaki helmets bobbed up and down on streets and sidewalks where you once saw only streams of tarbooshes and skullcaps. The streets were perpetually crowded. Clouds of car exhaust mingled in the air with the odors of sweaty horses pulling carriages. Clanging tramways edged forward among tired, scrawny donkeys struggling with overladen carts, whose rusty frames made ear-piercing squeals, and ancient buses whose grumbling gears and groaning motors announced their approaching end of service. Fiats and Austins, mostly driven by foreigners, growled and honked to insist on their right of way. The constables at the intersections seemed to slouch. They had probably lost their enthusiasm, because whenever they nabbed a Brit for an infraction, the Brit would get off without a fine.

I flopped down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling until I nodded off. I was awoken by the phone some hours later. I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten in the evening. I yawned as I lethargically reached for the receiver and was greeted by Abdel-Naim’s excited voice: “How about a royal night on the town?”

I left my car at his place and climbed into the back seat of his, next to him. He had a driver now. He sped us through the streets to the Auberge des Pyramides. Until about a year ago, there had been nothing special about the place. It was a nightclub like any other where people went to drink and dance. But since it becoming King Faruq’s favorite nightspot, it was harder for two people to find a table in there than a place in heaven.

“Do you have a reservation?” I asked.

He dismissed my question with a click of the tongue and resumed twiddling his mustache.

My smile broadened. “So, Hajji, since when did you start hanging out at nightclubs?”

I didn’t miss the wince of embarrassment. He lowered his voice so the driver couldn’t hear.

“It’s the law of the jungle. Might makes right. Anyway, you’ll find out in a minute. . . . Making a living’s a rat race. When you need a favor from a dog, what do you tell it?”

I laughed and patted his knee. “Yes, master!”

The lights and music transport you to another world, like a vision out of the Thousand and One Nights. A gurgling waterfall greets you when you enter. We passed through a long corridor to find ourselves before a huge swimming pool surrounded by dozens of chaises longues, large white armchairs, and tall green umbrellas that had been so tightly folded that they seemed to have coiled inward after the strain of a long hot day under the sun. We passed through the winter dance hall, which was dark and deserted, deepening the shadows cast by the strange jagged triangles protruding from murals I couldn’t understand. After crossing a small narrow path near the outer wall, we found ourselves in a large room that opened out onto the garden.

The Auberge was a world away from Cairo. From there you’d never know the country was reeling under economic straits. Champagne bottles clinked, corks popped, the bubbly liquid frothed from their mouths into the glasses of ecstatic revelers. There were more than two hundred people with black masks over their eyes and brightly colored hats on their heads. They barely picked at the huge trays of food set before them, leaving the rest untouched. “There’s enough food here to feed the whole of Imbaba!” Abdel-Naim exclaimed. If you didn’t know this kindhearted Upper Egyptian villager, you’d think he was fresh off the farm. If I were the manager of this place, I’d take those barely untouched trays from one table, rearrange the contents, and set them on the next table. None of these drunkards would be the wiser, and I’d double my profits.

Abdel-Naim jerked to a stop—as did I, a step behind him—at the left side of the dance floor. He looked left and right over the crowd, then he took a step forward to have a closer look. A dignified man in his fifties with an imposing stature and a red face approached. He was obviously the maître d’ and he looked personally offended by our presence. His nose wrinkled as he eyed Abdel-Naim from head to toe without making the slightest effort to conceal his distaste. “What are you looking for?” he asked in heavily accented Arabic. Abdel-Naim bent toward his ear and whispered a name I couldn’t catch. The man’s expression changed immediately and he seemed to snap to attention, as though he’d just heard a password. He took a small notebook from his breast pocket, flicked through it quickly, gave us a courteous bow, and, changing his expression for a third time, offered us the bright smile a maître d’ reserves for longtime customers. He turned to signal to someone across the room, then rested his fist on his chest until a young man in a smart white jacket came up and held out a tray of colorful party hats and small black masks. Abdel-Naim looked at the young man and then at me in confusion.

“Pardon, messieurs. This is a bal masqué,” the maître d’ explained, which only increased my friend’s confusion. Fearing a flare-up of his Upper Egyptian temper, I leaned toward his ear and said, “It’s a masquerade party, Hajji. We have to wear a mask and hat like everyone else.”

“What the hell is this, Abbas? I came here for work, not to make a fool of myself. I’ll be damned if I’m going to put one of those things on me!”

I took the elbow of the maître d’ and he followed me readily. I explained gently, “The hajji believes that this kind of thing goes against nature as God intended, and that it could be contagious. But I’ll gladly wear a mask for the sake of your bal masqué. In any case, we’ll be leaving in an hour. Agreed?”

“D’accord, monsieur.”

I set a mask over my eyes as Abdel-Naim and I followed the maître d’ to a round table off to one side, near the exit to the back garden. It was large enough to accommodate three people and looked like it had been hastily set. There were some balloons and more colored hats on it, which Abdel-Naim swept aside with a grumble. Without asking what we’d like to eat or drink, a waiter came over and set out an array of small dishes containing appetizers. They lived up to their name. Just looking at them made you ravenous. Then the waiter set two champagne flutes before us and popped the cork on a large bottle of champagne, causing the people at the table next to us to turn to us with silly grins. Abdel-Naim slid his glass aside toward the empty place for a third party and, without the slightest self-consciousness about his gruff Upper Egyptian accent, he told the waiter, “Get me a soft drink, son. Or better, make that a lemonade, but double the sugar, please.”

The place was so packed you couldn’t find a place to set your feet. Yet there was a large table to the left of the dance floor, big enough to accommodate at least ten, and it was still empty. Posted next to it was a dignified-looking man in white gloves and a coat with tails down to his knees. The table, which was elevated above the rest, had been meticulously set and looked ready to receive distinguished guests. Even the chairs were different from the ones we sat on. They were bigger and plusher, and had taller backs. Just as I leaned toward Abdel-Naim’s ear to ask him about that table, a sudden commotion made everyone’s heads turn and crane their necks toward the main entrance. A tall, robust, and imposing figure entered, followed by a retinue of at least eight people. The music quickly faded. Then the orchestra struck up a famous symphony, the name of which escapes me. As he advanced into the room, everyone he passed bowed respectfully at the waist, and it suddenly dawned on me why: it was His Royal Highness King Faruq.

The elevation and angle of his seat at that large banquet table afforded him a splendid panorama over us all. For a second, I thought our eyes met, which sent a nervous shiver down my back. I lowered my eyes and started up an idle conversation with Abdel-Naim. I wanted to avoid eye contact with the king until an opportunity arose to exchange glances again when Abdel-Naim wasn’t looking. He continued to scowl as he scanned the place for the person he’d come to meet. Suddenly his face relaxed and he waved to catch someone’s attention. Following his eyes, I noticed a man nodding in our direction. I was shocked by how much he resembled me. We could have been brothers, though he was a bit shorter and slenderer than I, and at least ten years older. Out of curiosity, I snuck a peek at the king to find that he had been watching me with a smile on his face. The man whispered a few words to His Royal Highness, who laughed and then turned to converse with some of his guests. As he spoke, he lit a huge cigar, then set it in the ashtray in front of him and left it there.

The man came over and shook Abdel-Naim’s hand warmly. Abdel-Naim introduced me as his business partner, but without mentioning my name at first. He then turned to me and said proudly, “Abbas Effendi, this is Pouli Pasha.”

I smiled and shook the man’s hand. As he set his little masquerade mask on the table and pulled out a chair to take a seat, he brought up our resemblance. I mumbled something about how flattered and honored I was. He smiled, then attacked the champagne as a man stranded for days in the desert would attack a bottle of fresh water.

“Actually, it was His Highness who noticed the resemblance,” Pouli said. “He said that you should work as my stand-in so that I’d be available to him every day, twenty-four hours a day!” He burst out laughing and downed another glass of bubbly.

Abdel-Naim and I looked at each other, then back at Pouli, and laughed louder than he. Then Abdel-Naim turned serious and leaned toward him. “I’m ready and waiting,” he said. “All we need is the go-ahead.”

Pouli shifted his eyes back and forth between me and Abdel-Naim and said nothing.

“Abbas here is my partner and my right-hand man. He gets half,” Abdel-Naim said.

“Don’t worry, Naim. I’m a man of my word. Or should I call you Naim Bey already?”

“I’ll settle for Abdel-Naim, sir. That’s Abdel-Naim, not just Naim.”

Pouli roared with laughter again, and Abdel-Naim and I roared in return. If my laugh was exaggerated, it was in part to hide my confusion. I hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

Pouli made ready to leave, but before he stood up he told Abdel-Naim, “I’ll send one of my guys over to your table before you go. In a day or two, the new permit will be ready!”

He took a last swig from his glass and added, “As for the title, congratulations in advance, Abdel-Naim Bey.” Then, as nimbly as a lizard, he slid away from our table and was swallowed by the raucous crowd.

Abdel-Naim explained that business was getting complicated. A lot of people wanted a piece of the same pie and if they got their way we’d only be left with crumbs. So he resorted to Pouli Pasha to secure his slice and to renew his construction permit in Zamalek. Just to get to Pouli was a feat in itself, Abdel-Naim told me. It cost him a thousand pounds in bribes plus three dinners in the Shepheard Hotel just to make contact.

“What’s so important about this Pouli Pasha?” I was as annoyed at the sum of money that Abdel-Naim had forked out to meet him as if it had come from my own pocket.

He heaved a sigh and said, “The guy started out as an electrician. Now he’s one of the most trusted members of the royal court. I was told that he has the king’s ear every day and that the king listens. But I bet he’s a con artist whose palms need a lot of greasing.”

At a preset time, Abdel-Naim’s driver appeared at our table with a briefcase containing five thousand pounds. Shortly afterward, a young Italian swaggered over to receive it. He had a beret on his head, tilted to the left, and a short, unlit cigarillo dangling from the corner of his mouth. After distributing a smug smile evenly between us, he picked up the briefcase and put our existence behind him the moment he turned to leave. This was probably all in a day’s work for him. Afterward, Abdel-Naim ordered the bill—seven and a half pounds! On top of that, he left fifty piasters as a tip. We left unobtrusively from the rear exit.

That “two days” that Pouli had spoken of turned into a week and then more than a month. By the end of the second month, Abdel-Naim was tearing his hair out. Pouli never answered his calls, he was never in his office, he was always busy at the palace with His Royal Highness. It was beginning to look like my business partner would never become a “Bey.” Maybe they felt that title “Hajji” suited him better after all. But what mattered more to him than any rank or title, even one as high as “Pasha,” was his construction permit. His current one would expire in a few months and there was no news about the renewal. We tried a few times to go back to the Auberge to meet Pouli, but we never made it beyond “Regretfully, messieurs, we have no free table for two this evening.”

In a new three-piece suit, hat on head, I headed to the villa of Ambassador Amr Pasha. I owned this opportunity to Paula, who had interceded with her friend and neighbor Mme Maysa, Amr Pasha’s sister. A servant in a bright-red caftan opened the door, bowed politely, and led me to a small antechamber off the reception room. A few minutes passed quickly as I contemplated the lush surroundings. Then I looked up to see the pasha, who uttered a curt greeting. I stood and held out my hand, but he ignored it. He took the seat opposite me, placed one leg over the other, and reached for a cigar from the breast pocket of a silk robe de chambre, which he wore over a shirt and necktie. He lit it calmly, then nodded, indicating that I should speak. As I spoke, laying the groundwork for my request, his eyebrows knitted with mounting irritation, which he vented with a thick gust of smoke. I got straight to the point: I hoped he would help get me an introduction to Pouli Pasha so that I could help Abdel-Naim renew his construction permit. Amr Pasha settled back in his chair with a scowl darker than the one he’d entered with.

“Firstly, Pouli is not a pasha,” he said. “Secondly, I’m not some middleman who’ll introduce you to a palace employee in exchange for that wily smile of yours, which you expect me to take as though it were down payment for a commission. I’m an ambassador and I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t mediate in the business of construction licenses and demolishing villas. Thank you for your visit, Abbas Effendi. Goodbye.”

He ended the meeting so abruptly that it took me a moment to realize what had happened. Then I was kept waiting for a long time before the butler appeared to show me out. But I refused to give up. I asked Paula to use the connections she had through her women friends at the Gezira Club who were wives of ministers and ambassadors. Eventually, with great difficulty, I wangled an appointment at the palace. It cost me a thousand pounds, which had to be conveyed to “other parties,” as the people I paid put it.

Pouli greeted me warmly when I was ushered into his office. We had a long and friendly meeting in which we exchanged business cards and he assured me that all would be well. He introduced me to his assistants and to some of the pashas who passed by his office. I felt closer to Pouli and his entourage than to Abdel-Naim. “This is the man for me,” I thought. “He’s the one who’ll take me the rest of the way up, and by the elevator, not by the staircase I’ve been trudging up for so long, clinging to Abdel-Naim’s gallabiya.”

“Count me in with twenty pounds.”

Hassanein’s eyebrows shot up, as did everyone else’s at the table. But his expression quickly shifted to a smile as he exchanged a quick glance with Salem, telling him to make room for me. During the following slow, fraught minutes, cards were dealt and breaths were held. From certain signals from Hassanein to Salem, I knew the cards he held in his hand and I won.

Ever since Abdel-Naim’s business went downhill, my main pastime was to watch Hassanein play poker, which he did almost every night in his apartment in Zamalek. I passed by his place frequently, since we’d become neighbors—next-door neighbors, as a matter fact. So next-door that I could hear him speaking in his bedroom. I’d drop by for a glass of whiskey or two and amuse myself watching them gamble. Eventually, I felt I’d learned all the rules of the game. They sat around a table covered with green baize, which Hassanein had bought especially so that he could indulge in his favorite hobby. It had inset grooves in front of each player for their cards and rounded hollows for whiskey glasses and ashtrays. Also, it could be folded into a normal dining table if necessary, in case of a police raid, I supposed.

I enjoyed watching his guests’ faces grow more and more despondent as he emptied their pockets and then began playing for their wristwatches, rings, and other belongings. After he stripped them of these, he’d accept wagers in the form of promissory notes. To my surprise, they kept coming back for more of the same on subsequent nights. At first, I was as mystified by this as I was by his ability to win nonstop. It was amazing how his face became an expressionless mask as he picked up a hand dealt to him, fanned it open, and scanned the cards. I was so impressed by how cool, cautious, and patient he was as the betting proceeded and new hands were dealt. What a skill he had! Or so I thought, until I realized he cheated. And brilliantly! He had such a flair for sleight of hand that he could easily draw all four aces, if needed, in order to rake it in at the table. But he was clever. He’d deliberately lose the first few rounds in order to hook in his customers. Then his “luck” would change and, as one round led to the next, he’d raise the stakes until, by the end of the evening, his guests would leave broke, their heads bowed and shoulders slumped. He had a deterrent against a possible fit of rage or treachery: the large pistol in a leather shoulder holster, its wooden grip visible to anyone who might get it into his head to make a grab for Hassanein or his winnings.

Recently, a guy called Salem had become a regular at Hassanein’s poker nights. He had a half-cocked smile that seemed permanently etched on his face, and he never spoke. I tried to draw him out a couple of times, but he’d only respond with noncommittal nods or shakes of the head. I figured out he must be a mute. For about three months, Salem would win at least two nights a week. Hassanein would rage, curse, and threaten, then eventually calm down. I could understand his anger: those were not small sums he was losing to Salem. Then one night, I left early. Around dawn, I heard the two of them, voices raised, on the other side of my apartment wall. I put my ear to the wall to hear better. To my surprise, Salem was Hassanein’s brother-in-law, he could speak, and the two of them were in cahoots. They had a prearranged set of signals—a scratching of the nose, a tweak of the earlobe, a hand running through the hair, and even the number of times it took to strike a match to light a cigarette—each with a specific meaning, as I understood from the dressing-down that Hassanein gave his brother-in-law for not having paid proper attention to his signals. He reiterated them, and had Salem repeat them over and over like a slow student. From then on, the pair of them became my favorite part of my nighttime entertainment, especially after I learned that this silent Salem got 10 percent of the winnings when he played, even though it was Hassanein’s money he was playing with.

Hassanein looked like he was about to have stroke when I won. Salem’s jaw practically fell to the floor. Pearls of sweat stuck to his forehead as though the shock had frozen them in place. Hassanein challenged me to another round and doubled the stakes. I accepted and I won again. Three rounds later he caught on. He called me to one side to discuss “something to do with the villa.” He offered me a cigarette and poured me a drink and spoke about this and that. It didn’t take long. By the time we returned, Salem had taken Hassanein’s place and, to my surprise, Hassanein decided to play too, instead of sitting out the rounds that Salem played. I did a quick calculation. I had 140 pounds. I could play with half of that and still come out even. After losing three rounds in a row, I grew nervous. I doubled the stakes for no reason. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t figure it out their new game. Salem was on my left, back to the bar, cards held high so I couldn’t follow his facial gestures. They were quicker than I. Whenever I pretended to be uncomfortable and fidgeted in my seat in order to see Salem’s face, I realized that either I’d missed the signal or their signals had changed. As my money dwindled, my hands trembled and I began to feel lightheaded. Before long, I was down to my last 20 pounds, which was what I’d staked at the beginning of the evening. That was when I made up my mind to call it quits, but not to stop gambling. I bent toward Hassanein’s ear until my mouth almost touched it and whispered, “I know you and Salem cheat using certain signals. Either I get 10 percent or we play with an open hand.”

It took Hassanein exactly ten seconds to decide. In a loud and firm voice he said, “That’s enough for tonight, folks. I’m beat and so’s my good friend here. So let’s call it a night, okay?”

It was close to dawn. I’d become obsessed again with the problem of the treasure. Despite all the years I’d been hunting for it in vain, I now felt closer than ever to solving the riddle. Some hours ago, I’d returned to the apartment after a long day at work with Abdel-Naim. That morning, he told me about a huge safe he’d found buried in the foundations of a villa that had once belonged to a Jewish family and that he’d demolished some months back in order to make way for an apartment block. His construction permit was still valid until the end of the year and he was doing as much work as he could. I went with him to the site and looked at the spot where he said he’d found the safe behind a wall. My mind flashed back to the night of Cicurel’s murder and that piece of paper I’d found in his safe and had kept tucked in a secure place all these years.

I unfolded the paper for at least the fifth time and studied the strange design. I picked up a short pencil and began to imagine lines that, if I extended them, would lead me to his stash of hidden wealth. He must have hidden it somewhere behind one of those basement walls, which is what all Jews do, apparently. But no matter what alternatives I tried, I always drew a blank.

I’d been wrestling with this enigma off and on ever since Cicurel died and his brothers and Paula inherited his estate. I must have crept down to the basement and turned it inside out at least twenty times over the years. I’d have Zeinab lure Hassanein away from the house on some pretext or other so that I’d have more time. I’d imagine myself in Cicurel’s place as I explored every possible nook and cranny and came up empty-handed. Often I abandoned the hunt out of despair and even managed to put that basement out of my mind for a while. Then something would happen to remind me of the Cicurel treasure, like a mischievous ghost emerging from out of the woodwork to stick out its tongue at me.

I jumped at an alarming thought. What was Hassanein still doing in the villa after all these years? I was the one who had snitched on the others, not him. Did he know where Cicurel had stashed his real fortune? If he did, surely he’d have pocketed it and be long gone by now. Or did he have his sights set on the villa itself? Was he scheming to marry Paula in order to get his hands on it? I shook my head to stop it from chasing these thoughts down blind alleyways, and took yet another look at that piece of paper. Its most salient feature was a geometric design that looked like a slender tree topped with a spray of branches. In fact, it more or less resembled the palm tree that was etched on every floor and wall tile in the cellar. In the center of the tree was a circle with some wavy lines in the background. From this emanated an arrow with its tip pointing down, and another which forked into two tips, one pointing right and the other left. Below them was the number “5.”

I glanced at my watch. It was four thirty a.m. I jumped at the ringing of the phone. It was Zeinab. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Get over here as quick as you can. It’s important.” She said no more apart from that it had to do with “the madame.” Then she hung up abruptly, as though someone nearby might overhear her. I stared into space for a moment. The only explanation was that Paula was about to die. Or maybe she already had.