Chapter XI

He was twenty-two, and it had been almost a year since Mr. Salama had died, from a combination of old age and a bad case of pneumonia. He still lived in the small room at the Windsor hotel, which now belonged to Ismail, who, shortly after Mr. Salama’s retirement, had been told by the hotel’s manager that he had been promoted from the position of elevator operator to the “prestigious and enviable occupation of hotel doorman.”

Today was the first day of Thalam’s employment as a letter-writer, and, as young people often are, he was ambitious and bursting with excitement at the wonder of possibility. He had woken up earlier than Ismail, made tea for the both of them, and even polished his inherited fortune before wearing, Mr. Salama’s shiny black shoes.

He took a sip of his tea and gently tapped Ismail on the shoulder.

“Uncle Ismail, it’s time to wake up. Tea is ready”, he said.

Ismail jerked slightly, and his wrinkled, old, eyes opened. He saw Thalam’s face and the grumpy expression on his face transformed immediately into a wide smile. There is something powerful about waking up to the face of a loved one - it has the ability to defeat all the difficulty that exists in the anguish of rising early on a winter morning.

“I’m up”, said Ismail, and sat upright. “Are you ready for your first day at work?”

“Of course” he replied, positively.

Ismail then noticed that Thalam was wearing Mr. Salama’s shoes, which he had not seen removed from the corner of the room where they sat, for quite some time now.

“He would have been very proud of you, you know”, he said. “I’ll give you the same advice he always used to give me: He who is content with what is little, has gained a lot.”

He nodded, and with that, they parted ways, and Thalam began walking in the direction of the letter-writing office that had only two-days ago, agreed to employ him. He walked past all of the shops in the neighbourhood, that were just now opening, and wished good morning to all of the shopkeepers, who all knew him and greeted him with merry smiles.

He reached the three-storey building where Sara lived, put two fingers to his tongue, and let out a loud whistle to let her know he was there, waiting for her, as he always did. Long gone were her football-playing days, and volunteering to be the goalkeeper. She was a young, middle-class woman, and a university student – something that Thalam was a little jealous of, though he never admitted it. He himself had only just completed the examinations necessary to receive a certificate of secondary education - something that Mr. Salama had insisted on, and he had promised to fulfil.

Sara had always been a good friend to him, and he usually walked with her to her university’s gate. The door of the building unlocked, and she stepped out in a sunflower-yellow dress, which was made infinitely more beautiful by the fact that her dark-brown hair turned to gold in the sun. Her eyes were a green so unique, that Thalam often wondered whether nature had at one point reserved this special green, just for her eyes.

“Nice shoes” she said. “Must be excited for your first day.”

He nodded, and smiled.

“You should come by Sultan’s new apartment after”, she said. “We’re all meeting there.”

He had not yet visited this new apartment. Sultan had garnered a somewhat notorious reputation among those who knew him, and had very recently purchased an apartment in one of the more expensive parts of Cairo. Nobody knew exactly where Sultan had acquired the money for this purchase, and they didn’t ask – that was Sultan’s business, and no one, wanted to be a part of Sultan’s business.

“Sure”, he said.

He walked her to the university, then made his way to the letter-writing office, where he was assigned one of two available desks, and told to wait for a client. It was twenty minutes before an old woman in black approached him, and sat on the chair across from his desk.

“Hello, my child”, she said. “I need you to write me a letter to Prince Waleed. Tell him that I am a widow, and that I don’t have many people around me to support me. Tell him, that the apartment that I rent, the owner, he wants me out, and I have nowhere else to go. I have lived there for a very long time now. Ask him for help. Ask him, to buy the house for me”

Prince Waleed al-Farouq was the eldest son to the first-cousin of the King of Egypt, and by virtue of his royal blood, was appointed the Governor of Cairo. Poor people often sent letters addressed to the Prince, asking for help. This was Thalam’s first client, and, being ambitious, he spent an hour producing the most exquisite letter he possibly could.

When he had finished, he sealed the letter in an envelope and handed it to the old woman. She opened her bag and rummaged through it, which made him very excited, as he was about to receive his very first payment. From her bag, she produced, to his utter disappointment, a single loaf of bread.

“Here you go, my child”, she said.

This made him rather angry, and he nearly snatched the letter back from the woman’s hand, as he had exerted so much effort into producing such a beautiful letter, in exchange for very little. But, he calmed, as soon as he remembered the words Mr. Salama had said to Ismail: He who is content with what is little, has gained a lot.

He accepted the loaf of bread from the woman.

The rest of the morning was dull and uneventful, and when it was lunchtime, he walked back to the small room at the back of the Windsor hotel to have lunch with Ismail. At least I have bread, he thought.

When he arrived, there was a man in uniform standing outside the door, talking to Ismail.

“From His Majesty Prince Waleed al-Farouq”, he said, and handed Ismail a pot containing food, and a letter. Then, he turned around, and walked away in wide, urgent strides, barely even noticing Thalam.

“Look! I think there’s meat in here!” said Ismail, who was overjoyed about the food.

They sat and ate the food that the Prince had sent them, along with the loaf of bread that he had earned, and he shared the story of the old woman with Ismail.

“Poor woman”, said Ismail. “The prince is so generous though, look at all this food he sent us! He’s always sending food to the poor, bless him. I’m going to share the rest with the other staff at the hotel. They’ll be very happy. The Prince will help the woman. I’m sure of it”

Thalam picked up the letter that had been sent alongside the food, and opened it. It said he was being summoned to the Prince’s palace - they were offering him a job, as a letter-writer for the Prince.

What he thought had happened, was that the Prince had read the letter he had written on behalf of the old woman, and was impressed by his writing and so, offered him employment.

In truth, nobody at the palace had or would ever pay much attention to his letter, or the old woman. What had actually happened, was that Mr. Salama, during his tenure as the doorman of the Windsor hotel, had known someone of some importance, who worked for the Prince and, who frequented the Windsor hotel with his mistress. For years, every time Mr. Salama saw this man, he would politely pester him about whether or not there was any opportunity of employment for Thalam, and would boast of the boy’s writing skills. Now that a letter-writing position was available, the important man remembered Mr. Salama, and in a rare and random act of kindness, had a letter sent offering the position, addressed to the residence of the doorman at the Windsor hotel.

Thalam, nonetheless, was elated with happiness and, after sharing this news with Ismail, made his way to Sultan’s new apartment, to tell his friends.

The door of the apartment was already unlocked, and before he entered, he could hear them laughing and talking loudly.

He opened the door and walked in.

“I have some great news! You won’t believe this, I’m going to be working at the Prince’s palace!” he said, unable to contain his excitement, and brandishing the letter that announced his employment.

As soon as he had walked in, and what he hadn’t yet noticed, was that they had all suddenly fallen ominously silent – like children do, when they’ve been caught doing something wrong. Sara looked at him with concern.

“I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other then, old friend”, said Sultan.

The five of his friends were sitting on chairs, in the lavishly furnished living room of Sultan’s apartment, concentrated around a table, where there was a perfectly circular, small mirror placed in the center of it. On this mirror, could clearly be seen, the residue of a white, powdery substance.

“What is this, white…Flour?” he asked, naively.

“What white flower?” responded Sultan, sniffling, who had misunderstood him.

“Come”, said Sara.