My building is nearly empty after sunset, since most of the flats are occupied by the offices of a government insurance company whose employees have, by then, all gone home. They don’t do much business anyway, since it’s hard selling insurance policies to poor and fervent fatalists. Nor does the insurance company seem convinced of the value of mitigating disaster. Since its nationalization in the 1960s, my lofty, beautiful belle époque building has suffered severe abuse and little maintenance; the elevator is a deathtrap and they’ve repaired the cracked marble stairs with cement that could give at any moment. I’m always careful to avoid the mended strips when galloping down, but the other day, on my way out to dinner, I fell.
The boab (building guardian) was washing the stairs, his galabiyya (tunic) held aloft between his teeth. ‘It’s slippery,’ I said to myself, right before hitting the ground. My skirt flew up, the boab looked away, and his modesty prevented him from helping me to my feet. Before moving, I assessed the damage: the vodka bottle in my bag was intact, thank god, my back seemed unhurt, but my right arm, with which I’d broken the fall, was bruised and swelling fast. I needed ice and a change of clothes. Returning cautiously home, I recalled an argument I’d witnessed on the stairs that morning.
