I live on Zamalek, the northern part of an island in the Nile that’s

situated in central Cairo, and Sayyid has become my most reliable guide
to the neighborhood. Occasionally, I accompany him on his predawn
rounds. The first time I did this, in February of 2013, he led me to the
top landing of the fire escape of a building on my street.

“This is Madame Heba,” he said, grabbing a black plastic garbage bag

and tossing it into a huge canvas basket perched atop his back,
Quasimodo style. He descended while engaging in a running
commentary about residents, whose names I’ve changed. “This is Dr.
Mohammed,” he said, at the next landing, and then he climbed down
another level. “This one’s a priest, Father Mikael. He’s very cheap. He
gives me only five pounds a month.” He heaved two big bags. “He says
he doesn’t have any money, but I see all the boxes and bags from the
gifts that he gets. People give him things all the time, because he’s a
priest.”