The Coals Burned Low
Ahmed Khalifa
June. The sultriest of months, when tempers flare and the nights burn as hot as the daytime. I found myself, for the first time in four years, descending the familiar hewn stone steps and making my way to the shaded dock below. The houseboat was moored, as it always had been, by the faded antique parking meter almost obscured by a hedge of lavender and mint. I could not see the balcony behind, but I hazarded that it was firmly shut to the murky splendor of the Nile waters. They had always been Philistines in that regard.
Amm Attia, the slight porter with skin like cured leather, had not moved in four years. He sat, as he had always done, in his wicker chair, rolling cigarettes by the light of a kerosene lamp that was the oldest object in the neighborhood. He arose when he glimpsed me, his eyes cloudy with cataracts.
“Who goes? This is a private place.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle, and the man’s weathered hand gripped the thick stick by his side. He rose and repeated his challenge, the tobacco in his lap scattering in the light breeze.
“And what have the times come to,” I replied. “When a son of the neighborhood is treated like some street thug?”
His body may have withered, but his mind was sharp as a dagger. My voice registered even as the stick clattered to the ground.
“Mr. Ramy?” he said, tottering forward. “It can’t be! Mr. Ramy? Or…or is it Avvocato Ramy now?”