The apartment was okay on its own. The problem was The Landlady, but I am not sure exactly what The Landlady’s problem was. She fought us over everything (especially Sudanese things), she missed at least five appointments for us to sign a contract or pay her rent, she never really agreed on a rent (since she herself raised the rent after my roommates had already moved in), and she didn’t return phone calls for weeks.
So we decided to move. Number 6 found a lovely new apartment on a quieter street. This apartment has hard-wood floors! And a huge roof terrace! And, most importantly, a landlord who does outlalndish things like showing up for appointments and insisting upon contracts!
(This picture has nothing to do with the story but is, rather, the view from Gold's Gym Maadi where you can see, I promise you, multiple pyramids! The step and bent pyramids, to be exact. They are more visible than this photo does justice.)
Two weeks ago, when Number 6 signed the lease for our new(est) apartment and we handed over our deposit and rent, we still had yet to pay or sign anything for the apartment we’d occupied since January. So we moved our stuff over the course of a few days and prepared for life without The Landlady.
(This is the view from the opposite direction. Are skyscrapers our modern-day pyramids? Well, only if we used them to bury monarchs, I guess.)
But we gave her one last opportunity to collect her money. We did not want to cheat her, although to be completely honest I for one wanted to yell at her a bit. Our appointment was at 7 pm. She called at 7.10 to say that she had some trouble with her car and would come at 7.30 (Note 1: she lives within walking distance of her apartment. Note 2: Cairo has a few taxis she could have ridden instead).
When The Landlady had yet to arrive by 8.30, Number 6 and I got ready to leave. We were standing on the street waiting for our ride when The Landlady and her brother finally rolled up. The Landlady’s first action: yelling at us for standing in the street and not waiting for her in the flat. Her second: peeking in our boxes to make sure we weren’t stealing from her.
Our communication never got any better. We tried to explain (repeatedly) that the rent we were handing over covered four months minus the bills we had paid but which were not ours (such as electricity bills for months before we lived there). She did not understand. Then she insisted upon a deposit – she wanted a whole extra month’s rent because we had “defaulted on the contract.”
But, wait, we had no contract, or had she forgotten? No: Her rationale that she had “trusted” us “like family” when my roommates moved in, and that is why she never signed a contract or collected a deposit. Her trust, she claimed, was better than any contract.
Well, not legally, we explained. And that is when she decided to call the police.
This story would have a far better punch line if the police had actually showed, but they never did. I can’t imagine what The Landlady hoped to achieve from calling them – she was the one at fault. She is required by law to register any foreigners living in her flat, and she is required to pay taxes on the rent she (theoretically) collected. In the course of our argument (which consisted of The Landlady repeating herself ad nauseum about the value of her “trust” and then giving up on us and repeating it all, in Arabic, to our friend M), she turned to me and demanded a copy of my passport so she could report who had been living in her flat to the police. I laughed. And I offered to call the American Embassy.
I would have loved to have seen her get into trouble, but Number 6 and I left after an hour and a half of waiting and three hours of fighting. (If you’re worried about the money – we gave it to The Landlady’s brother, who is a decent human being and accepted both the deductions and the fact that we were not going to pay her extra because we’d defaulted on an imaginary contract. He left her behind too.) As a last attempt to scare us, The Landlady insisted that she was going to report our behavior to AUC.
“You go right ahead,” we told her, “and goodnight.”
At that point I wasn’t sure whether she even knew our last names. Now I am certain that she does not. The very night we moved, The Landlady called Number 6 and re-started the fight over the deductions in the rent. Number 6 explained it for the 47th time. The next day, The Landlady called and demanded that Number 6 reveal her last name. Number 6 declined and suggested that The Landlady never call again.
Here is what I imagine: The Landlady visited AUC/the Police/the Boogeyman to complain about the Americans who left her flat. AUC/the Police/the Boogeyman asked who these perpetrators were, and all The Landlady had to offer was our first names. And what first names they are! Aside from mine, my two roommates have some of the most common names in the English (and even non-English)-speaking world! (Not to mention the fact that Roommate 2 doesn’t even go to AUC).
She hasn’t called since then, so I think the matter is finished. Maybe she will learn from her insanity and actually sign a contract with her next hapless tenants. But isn’t the (cliché) definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results?
(This is an open door at the hospital with a sign instructing all those around to keep it closed. The sign was ignored, as was the medical advice given Number 6: The doctor wanted her to admit herself to the hospital and submit to surgery to remove her gallbladder. She declined on both counts and we left. At least he didn't threaten to call the police!)
(Number 6 is doing fine after leaving the hospital, and still has all her vital organs.)
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