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He said that he had an important question about Chinese medicine.
That evening, he arrived at eight o’clock sharp, dressed in his work clothes. He had four million and forty-four dollars in his bank account.” The precision of this figure caught my attention, and I asked Sayyid how he knew.
I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a pill out of the garbage.
After that, Sayyid began stopping by regularly with questions.
At my apartment, he produced a small red box decorated with gold calligraphy. “From a man who died.” He told me that the man was elderly, and had lived down the street. “Things like this”: he sketched with a finger in the air, and then he pointed below his belt. He was vague about what he intended to do with the drugs.
The Chinese labelling was elegant but evasive: the pills were described as “health protection products” that “promoted development and power.” Inside the box, a sheet of instructions reminded me how sometimes the Chinese can be much more expressive when they use English badly: “Where did you get this? After his death, his sons threw away the pills and other possessions. I checked the ingredients—white ginseng, deer antler—and decided that there probably wasn’t any risk.
Sayyid concluded that they were an aphrodisiac, and he asked me if they have the effect of making foreign women desire sex on a daily basis.
He’s the only guest I’ve ever had who carries away his empties, because he knows he’ll end up collecting them anyway.
In part because he can’t read, he’s skilled at picking up on subtle clues.
Over time, I realized that there are a number of people he’s recruited as informal consultants.
He’s illiterate, like more than a quarter of adult Egyptians, so if he wants to read something that he pulls from the trash he goes to the proprietor of H Freedom, a small corner kiosk.