Muezzin (standard:horror, 2556 words)
Author: mr shaw	Added: Mar 11 2002	Views/Reads: 3378/2189	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Cairo. A Muezzin calls the faithful to prayer, and a tourist loses his mind.

Muezzin By Julian Shaw 

Day One 8pm 

The sound of the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer comes through
the window of our room. It is a familiar sound to anyone who has ever 
visited Cairo, or any other Muslim town or city or village I suppose, 
but this is different. The glass rattles slightly in the folding 
windows. 

I turn to look and Rose is still on the bed. She is curled up but
without any covers in the hot sticky evening. 

-	What the hell? I say. 

She doesn't wake up, so I go over to the blinds and open them. People
are swarming below on the dusty street, rushing around in the early 
evening gloom, dodging traffic or rushing home. None are taking notice 
of the Muezzin. 

Our room is on the top floor of the grand sounding but run down Swiss
Hotel, about four hundred yards from Tahrir Square, where the Egyptian 
Museum draws tourists into the city centre like ants. The room was 
cheap, but it is large, and has its own bathroom, for two Egyptian 
pounds extra. The water is hot and not too brown that you can't have a 
wash. 

Standing at the open window, the noise deafens, coming from an old,
gunmetal grey loudspeaker, three feet across that is on the roof 
directly above our room. The voice of the Muezzin crackles slightly, 
probably from a worn out cassette, but is still pervasive even above 
the noise of the Cairo traffic. 

I lean back against the stone balustrade and listen, the volume
settling. In a way it is calming, the rote uttering of the call to 
prayer. I am getting lost in the sound, the ritual, and I can hear 
nothing else. The Muezzin enters my head and all that has gone on is 
forgotten and done with. I am alone then. 

The noise stops abruptly. The deathly silent gradually fades back to the
sounds of the city. I turn back to the street. The crowd and the 
traffic are the same, and still nobody knows. 

I go back into the room and tell Rose to wake up, sleepyhead; it's time
to go. 

Day Two 1am 

I wake with a start, the Muezzin shaking me from my sleep. The covers
are damp with my sweat, and crumpled into a heap between us and she is 
lying on her back now. I lie there and listen to the call again. It is 
the same and still I can hear the crackle of the tape in the 
background. I roll over, trying to shut out the sound, to sleep on. 
Rose does not stir of course. 

For minutes the call goes on, changing but the same, repeating the
litany over and over. It is soporific but I cannot catch sleep again, 
so I lie there listening. 

The call seems to be getting louder and louder. Curious, I get up and
cross to the window. It is slightly ajar in case there is any breeze to 
cool us. I open the shutters wider so I can see down to the street. 
There are still people about, but the cars are not hissing by so 
frantically, and the people still do not heed the call. 

Now the only thing is the chant. It is almost unbearable. Looking up at
the speaker, there is no difference, it is still old, shit spattered. 
The noise is different though, more direct, more focused. 

The Arabic is from an ancient world, but I know it is for me, and I sit
half out of the room, with my back resting on the frame of the window. 
I close my eyes and I can see – 

-	another room in the dark and Rose sat on a dark blue sleeping bag. The
walls are bare plaster, painted eggshell blue. The ceiling is curved 


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