(And I was and still find talking about it as a young woman who is not boring. And how much that led me to circumambulate his big house, so I can win a look at him, but to no avail. And how much I stood in front of his huge door, Arno, to the composite mummified crocodile, and how much I sat in the desert of Mokattam not far from its great surah, so I only see the heads of berries, gossip and palm trees that are shrouded in the house, and closed windows that do not develop any trace of life. Is it not sad that we have a grandfather such a grandfather without seeing it or seeing us? Is it not strange for him to disappear in this closed big house and to live in the dirt?!)