Every respectable apartment building in Cairo had a Bawaab, a doorkeeper who sat on a chair and bided his time. Some doors had wrought iron gates, as did his, even if they shared the sidewalk with machine shops and piles of refuse metal for sale to junk men. Every pile had its price. The mechanic stood watch at his while the Bawaab napped by his, the door unkept, the iron gate unguarded.
©David Melody