‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“These people do all the work, with precision and dedication, and most importantly… in silence.”

Ashraf Aboul-Yazid

Exile is hard. It’s like ants that gnaw away at cold and lonely bodies. But “Abu Mina” has a cure for cold bodies.

These keys in front of me are what open the gates of paradise for the distressed, offering them a warm night to resist the frost of a heartless life. Don’t think I run a brothel—the spaces are limited, and the customers are trustworthy, as are their companions. I simply prepare what could be considered a second home. I don’t open a new file unless I’ve verified the client, and I don’t leave them in the den until they leave their civil ID with me. The client must know that my protection and discretion are integral parts of the service I manage.

“Abu Mina” leaves nothing to chance, thanks to my confidant, “Naji,” my nephew, who serves as both my right and left hands. Working alone is hard. Being the caretaker of a 12-story building in Salmiya, with four apartments per floor, means I manage the affairs of a whole nation. I preside over all its ministers, form its parliament, and distribute my decrees of pardon and my generosity to the people living here—when I am pleased with them.

Currently, this large building has only five vacant spaces, any of which could be rented at any time. But the Lord compensates us with another vacancy when an old tenant leaves, and between occupancy and vacancy lies another kind of life.

It’s true that the rented apartments are beneficial to us; each tenant must pay five dinars at the beginning of the month for me to take their garbage from the stairwell to the bins at the street corner. We must do this after midnight and before the first light of morning, as the garbage trucks only come in the dark to restore everything to how it was.

If a tenant has a car, that’s another five dinars for cleaning it every month. Then there’s the gas cylinder delivery, which earns a two-dinar commission at least, and hiring a cleaner for the apartment, which means a commission for each visit, from both the tenant and the cleaner. The same goes for plumbers, electricians, satellite technicians, and even any tenant who pretends to be helpful—such people must bear the consequences because we know more about breaking things than fixing them.

Some tenants are too lazy to go to the co-op to buy their necessities at better prices and instead rely on shopkeepers, who must honor us to avoid elevator breakdowns while carrying crates of bottled water for someone living on the tenth floor, for instance.

Thus, a single apartment can generate an additional monthly income of more than 20 dinars. I take 15 dinars, and “Naji” gets the rest. But we don’t touch their filth or clean their cars; there are plenty of Indians ready to do the work for a handful of dinars every month. These workers do all the tasks, with precision and dedication, and most importantly… in silence.

We, however, have another task—a sacred one: bringing happiness to the lonely, comforting the miserable, and entertaining the isolated. We rent out a space for a single night at the same rate we could earn from a tenant in a month. We provide the space, and often, the furniture is sufficient, as many residents leave their furnishings behind when they move out.

“Naji” and I take turns standing at the corner. He calls me if he suspects a patrol is coming for an inspection, though that has never happened. And no tenant has ever complained about any cries or moans they might hear when the lava of passion ignites between a man and a woman meeting in a lustful encounter for the first time. Everyone believes that this building, as I tell each tenant, is exclusively for families. I have residents from about 20 nationalities. Didn’t I say this is a nation, and I am Kofi Annan of the nations living in this building?

I am not a pimp; I don’t run a network. For your information, the ultimate fate of such networks is always—no matter how long it takes—falling into the traps of law enforcement, either due to conflicting interests or when someone’s usefulness ends. Some inform on these networks from the airport’s free phones before boarding their flight, leaving the axe to fall on their partners or those they dealt with once or more. Global prostitution rings have even joined the game, with clients contacting specific numbers to secure women in the UAE, Kuwait, or Qatar under the guise of obtaining visas to these places via a connection on some island.

On the other side, after confirming the language of communication, the operator asks for the name, age, and type of service, then lists the prices: 100 dinars for an hour, 200 dinars for a day. Alas, “Abu Mina,” how wasted you are in the local market! Once the agreement is made and payment is received for the selected service, the address is sent via email or text message, including details of the building and the apartment.

With a single glance, I can tell if what I see is a trap or just two birds looking for a love nest. The best collaborator I’ve ever had is “Vicky,” the lovely Filipina:

“Good evening, Mr. Abu Mina!”

“Good evening, Miss Vicky.”

“I want to introduce you to my colleague from the company, Mr. Samer. He’s looking for an apartment. I told him about the rent here. Can he view the apartment?”

I examine the man she calls her colleague. He’s a new one—usually a new one every time. Her clients are always clean and well-dressed:

“I have a vacant apartment on the ninth floor. Shall I come with you, or will you view it yourselves and return the key afterward? I have some matters to attend to.”

“We don’t want to trouble you, Mr. Abu Mina; we’ll take the key.”

She extends her hand, her palm and fingers resembling a fine porcelain spoon, handing me their civil IDs along with a roll of three 10-dinar bills. A clean transaction—delivery and receipt. “Vicky” then steps away from the door, standing outside the building as she pretends to explain its features to the prospective tenant.

I watch her small buttocks sway, as if preparing to dance to some rhythm. She turns toward where I’m standing, and I notice her shirt open at the chest. She always carries that small bag with her, containing everything needed for companionship and cleansing any traces. I see the man with her pointing to the elevator, eager, it seems, to see everything!

But what should I do about Mr. Mohsen’s apartment?

He usually pays the rent right after the government salaries are deposited into the banks—on the 25th of the month, exactly. But he couldn’t pay this month, and perhaps won’t be able to pay in the coming months. Should I consider it a vacant apartment and inform the building’s owner, so I don’t end up paying the rent from my own pocket? Or should I add it to the list of available spaces?

Mr. Mohsen used to leave me a copy of his apartment key so I could bring in someone to clean it during his absence or before his return from a trip. When he went to work, he left me in charge of picking up his clothes from the laundry and crates of bottled water. He was generous.”

When he found out I was a literature graduate, he was very surprised. Maybe he thought I was uneducated or only had a diploma. I told him:

‘Bitter circumstances threw us here. If I’d found work that earned me a crust of bread, I wouldn’t have traveled.’

He listened to my story with great astonishment as I explained how I had borrowed 7,000 pounds to pay for the commercial visa to come here and how it took me two years after arriving to repay that debt. I told him how I had worked as a driver, only to be cheated by the company owner, and later worked at a bakery, where the manager fired me for my inexperience. Eventually, I discovered that being a caretaker was the job for those who had no other job.

He replied, laughing in his usual calm manner:

‘A job for those who have no job has become the slogan for every profession here. I’ve seen, for example, journalists who never studied journalism or knew anything about it before arriving in Kuwait. Here, newspapers have proliferated like locusts, devouring the good journalism that Kuwait was known for decades ago. If you examine today’s papers, you’ll find they all look the same. Now they’re owned by merchants, politicians, and those connected to religious figures. Each newspaper owner brings in someone with some experience, subscribes to two news agencies, and fills the pages with opinion columns, advertisements, social photos, and scandals. It’s a secret recipe, managed by a handful of ignorant people who got into journalism because, here, it has truly become a job for those who have no job.’

‘Are you a journalism graduate?’ I asked.

‘No, I graduated from the Faculty of Al-Alsun (Languages). I work as a translator for the Arab Translation Institute near Salmiya, on Arabian Gulf Street. You know, Abu Mina, even in translation, which requires specialists, intruders have entered the field. They use Google Translate, and now translation, too, has become a job for those who have no job—just like being a caretaker!’

Before he left his apartment, he had agreed with me to bring in an electrician to fix the water heater switch. The next evening, I went up at the agreed time and knocked on the door, but no one answered. His daughter had traveled a few days earlier, and I knew he was alone, so I thought he might be out buying something and would return. But he didn’t come back, nor did he sleep in his apartment that night.

I didn’t want to open the door in front of the electrician. That was a private matter between him and me.

He wasn’t the type to play around, and I rarely saw anyone visiting him. Could something have happened to him? Bad news spreads quickly, but the newspapers in the days following his disappearance mentioned nothing except the dissolution of parliament, the arrests of prostitution networks, complaints about unfinished roads, and the stadium that’s been under construction for years without completion.

I searched the traffic accident reports, which are abundant here, but I didn’t find his name.

Then, one morning, I saw his picture in the newspaper, along with an article. I still keep the clipping:

‘The Egyptian translator and prominent writer, our colleague Mohsen Helmy, remains in a medical coma after suffering a stroke in the brain’s control center about three weeks ago.

He was transferred yesterday morning from the intensive care unit at Mubarak Al-Kabeer Hospital to the high-care unit at Hadi Hospital, as announced by Dr. Medhat Safwat, a neurology specialist at the hospital.

Before his illness, Mohsen Helmy worked at the Arab Translation Institute as the head of its research department. He completed several cultural projects, most notably translating more than 30 intellectual, encyclopedic, and literary works into Arabic.

The newspaper staff wishes our dear colleague a speedy recovery, hoping he will return to serve contemporary Arab culture and contribute to enriching our library with essential works.’

I was confused and felt a painful pang in my chest!

This was a man whose smile never left his face, who radiated kindness, and who had been left alone after his daughter traveled. Did he deserve what happened to him?

Suddenly, questions burst out of my mind: Should I keep his apartment, hoping he recovers and returns to pay the rent in full? Should I inform the owner and arrange for its eviction? Or should I add it to the list of available spaces?

It’s a tough decision, as I always considered him an older brother. I’ll never forget when he called one of his doctor friends to recommend my son, Mina, for admission to Asyut University.

‘What are you doing, Abu Mina?’

I entered the apartment, which I was allowed to access by its owner, but for the first time, I felt like a thief breaking in without permission.

I closed the door behind me, as if I didn’t want any of the neighbors to see me, even by chance. The tremor of fear running through me was stronger than the anxiety I usually felt while waiting for Vicky to return the key and pick up the civil IDs.

Over the past two years, I’ve managed most of the vacant apartments in the building by working exclusively with Vicky and her friend Rose. Their professionalism made the tension more bearable. This profession is tough and shortens one’s lifespan.

I saw piles of books! When did Mr. Mohsen acquire all these? There were hundreds. I had entered the apartment before, but only with a fleeting glance, and hadn’t noticed the sheer number. Now, I felt like I was in a library within an apartment.

In the kitchen, I saw the last plate he had used for breakfast—a sandwich crust with traces of cheese, an orange peel, and a teacup with green mold growing on its surface because no one had been there to wash it.

I heard faint music. Following the sound, I went toward the closed bedroom door and found the radio tuned to Marina FM. Suddenly, the soft music switched to something loud and blaring, startling me. I laughed at my frightened expression, which surprised me in the mirror in front of me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I felt as if I had been there for a century. The image I saw in Mr. Mohsen’s bedroom mirror wasn’t the same one I saw in the bathroom mirror in my room. That’s how mirrors are—kind to their owners but unkind to strangers.

The thinning hair eating away at the sides of my head was obvious. What do I care about hair? Let it all fall out, just as the days fall from the branches of the tree of life. Even that cursed belly has grown, thanks to a routine confined to moving between an occupied apartment and a vacant one, my world reduced to a handful of meters. Where is the athlete who used to climb palm trees as swiftly as a monkey, shaking their branches with strength so the hands of children could catch the red-colored fruits they loved?

All of that is gone, along with the advice of Father Anba…

But Father, we neither steal nor lie. This is their society, filled with sins. We didn’t come here to fix the world. We are merely passersby, spectators, and soon-to-be-departed, even if we live here our entire lives. What we build is not ours, and I believe you will not hold us accountable because when we leave this country, we will leave behind all our sins. Despite the clutter in the apartment, the strict organization of the books, furniture arrangement, and boxed items was evident. Mr. Mohsen had left the apartment three weeks ago, yet I felt his breath following me. His unique scent still lingered here and there.

I must return to the apartment two or three more times before making a final decision. These belongings are too precious to be thrown into dirty dumpsters, too valuable to be sold as used furniture or books by the kilo, or discarded as neglected items. Who knows? Perhaps his daughter will return when she learns of what happened to him. I could discuss the rent with her or arrange with her to sell some items or ship others to Egypt.

I’ll wait a month, no more. He has enough goodwill credit with me to warrant that attempt. I’ll pay this month’s rent on his behalf. Perhaps Vicky and her friend can intensify their activities to help make up for this heavy loss. I won’t inform Naji until I make the right decision. The face painted here in that portrait, Mr. Mohsen, carries that same expression that always puzzled me. Was it sorrow, regret, or simply relaxation?

Now, it doesn’t matter. Rest easy. But forgive me when I return after a month. I’ll move all your belongings into one room, stacking them to free up the space. You see now that life isn’t worth all this effort, as they move you from one hospital to another, just a number or a medical file. To them, you’re merely a past action. Perhaps we’ll learn something from the blow that struck you.

I will allow myself to keep something that reminds me of you. I read in the newspaper that you’re a prominent translator and writer, but you never gifted me any of your books. Perhaps you thought to yourself:

‘What would this caretaker read?’

Oh, if only you had known me during my school days. You’re about my age, as I saw on your civil ID. But I married early. You would’ve discovered that I am a bookworm. I have glasses, though I only wear them to read. I had a collection of books back at my father’s house. I thought you were like me, a reader, but you’re not just a bookworm. You’re the cocoon from which books emerge.

When I traveled, my wife, Samia, told me I didn’t need all those books. She sold them by the kilo to a scrap dealer because, as you know, everything in Egypt is now sold for a pittance. She felt victorious when she used the money from selling the books to buy herself lingerie. When I returned home for vacation, she wore one of her new red chiffon nightgowns and asked me:

‘What do you think of this book cover?’

Then she stripped off what little she was wearing—a mere string dividing her backside and brushing against her sacred place—and said:

‘Didn’t you want to read? Come, open the book, Abu Mina. Write your notes in the margins with your beloved pen. Pour your white ink; reading here isn’t for everyone, as Suzanne Mubarak used to say. It’s for you alone.’ (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"