The clock struck one and the mouse ran down...

     

 

The water lay in a stagnant pool on the rough stairway. It was eerily silent except for the faraway noise of a drill being worked. When I looked down the stairwell, I felt giddy, but irritation and anger made me totter down on my formal heels. I stomped down muttering profanities to myself and at the feminine voice over the telephone who had informed me that the lift would not work for another one hour and I had a meeting to attend in exactly ten minutes!

The day had begun normally – a busy early morning and a lazy late morning heading towards a sleepy afternoon. I had just fallen deep into my nap when the in-house phone woke me up.  A cultured English- speaking feminine voice informed me that the lift would not be working for an hour. I looked at the clock and saw it was two thirty. Even after giving allowance for delays I decided that it should be working by four thirty at the latest when Mickey would be back from school and I would have to leave for my meeting at five fifteen. So I very politely thanked the voice for informing me (although my beautiful sleep was gone now!) and went back to laze on the bed appreciating the beauty of the blue Mediterranean.

Post tea it was a disaster! The daughter phoned to say she would be late as she was editing a project! She was (I believe strongly) supposed to tell the driver to come and pick me up and later bring her back home but she thought I was supposed to do so and hence no message was sent to him! Meanwhile I was ready, dot at five o’clock and gave my usual call to the driver to bring the car up.

“But Madam”, he exclaimed “I am still at school, waiting for Mickey!”

I asked him to wait – called up the volatile teenager and asked for an explanation. Much good it did though! I was stuck! So there I was- back to calling up the driver and wheedling with him to come and pick me up in ten minutes. He very gallantly promised to do so and can you believe it he was here in ten minutes. So what was the problem you may ask? 

 

I was ready with my purse (I checked to see whether the door keys, money and cell were there and the file with all the relevant papers were there too) I smartly pulled the door close behind me and went up a few steps to access the lift. I saw no lights on the two lifts and I hurried to the service lift which was equally dead! My brain did an about turn I rushed back into the house and called up the reception demanding an explanation- after two false conversations (One said that he would be sending someone in ten minutes! How he would send is a mystery I have yet to solve! The second said the plumber would soon be coming, again why I would need a plumber when I needed to go down unless he would help me shin down a drain pipe is a dark puzzle) Ultimately the feminine voice who believes that she knows English well came on line...

“Madam, I cannot send the plumber now as the lift is not working. “she said soothingly, "I will do so after an hour when the lift has started working.”

It is an understatement to say that I spluttered, I was boiling with rage and only my very good manners stopped me from yelling down the phone. It was five twenty by now. I very quietly reminded her that she had said the lift would be working by three thirty and it was now five thirty. I needed to attend an important meeting.

“Madam”, she continued, “Why don’t you walk down the stairs?”

“Do you realize that I live on the twenty first floor”, I replied with dangerous calm

“Yes, I do” was the rejoinder

I burst out then and banged the phone down for good measure and started down the stairs...

 

It was already five thirty. I phoned to inform the secretary that I would be late. She herself was stuck in a traffic jam ... (The whole world was jammed!)

I started on my expedition...  as I went down, I kept looking at the numbers on the floor (all in Arabic, I thanked God, I had learnt them) and went on and on. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen...... and so on My anger fuelled me and I kept on I reached seven and after that it was worse the steps were very rough, the walls were damp; after the fifteenth floor I had started holding the railings for support so my hand s were filthy black (as bad as my mood!)  

Then I lost track of time and space; I tried an exit door just to see that it was welded shut- I panicked!  On the next floor I found a door open and I went on to it to find it was under construction; there was a lone guard there but he was offering his evening prayers so I came out and back and down the stairs. The floor numbers had disappeared only the sign “emergency exit” was there. I was worried- what if I never came out, would I have to climb back up? What if I died of suffocation or claustrophobia or whatever? 

At last I pushed open a door to enter the marbled precinct of the first-floor lift area and met my lift man who murmured an apology. I did not have the energy to even glare at him; I continued stomping off towards the car and sat down thankfully and cleaned my grimy hands as well as I could. I did not miss the meeting as an unprecedented number of people had been delayed for a various number of reasons. (As if all our stars had got together and schemed to make us late!)

That evening as I nursed my bruised ego (strangely my legs were not paining) and related all this to my unsympathetic spouse, I realized that this has happened with me once in all the high rise apartments I have stayed in. First time I lived on the eighteenth floor I had to walk down because Mickey was a little girl and she would be scared to come up or wait down when the lift was not working, the next time was only a month back when we were on the tenth floor and I had again to go down (the tenth floor wasn’t too bad) and now I have conquered the Everest by going down twenty one floors!

But as I write all this down my old muscles are protesting...