She took the Abu Warda streetcar with Sitt Maryam. They got off at the end of the line and walked a little on Tatwig Street up to the coast. In front of them was the king’s white palace with many windows and the tall palm trees swaying with the wind and the guards with arms at the ready. A few men and many women, their plump bodies wrapped tightly in shawls, were walking along. A few Citroen and Packard cars had stopped with the people in front of the fish market. The fresh smell of the sea dispelled the fishy odor and filled their lungs with a refreshing breeze. The air was cold; dark clouds hung over the sea as the sound of the waves, which they could not see beyond the market and the police station, reached their ears. In front of the fish market, the vendors sat on the sidewalk or stood in their black or white vests and loose Alexandrian pants, also black or white, with hand-woven round, white rimmed hats. On the low tables were fantastic displays of fish in many varieties and colors ranging from silver to white, red, gray, and black. Sitt Maryam pointed to one type of fish and said it was called pigeon fish — big-bellied red fish that she said was not good, but that the poor bought to make fish soup. Zahra shied away from it; she did not want to be poor and buy it, in spite of its beautiful color. Red snapper was more beautiful and better. She bought some of that. She also bought some striped mullet. Meanwhile, Sitt Maryam was explaining to her the different kinds of fish and what they were good for. Of a particularly small fish she said that even though it was very cheap, it could be used in a delicious stew, which she would teach her how to cook, and would also teach her how to make fish casseroles with red rice. For some inexplicable reason Zahra suddenly thought of the statue of Muhammad Ali on his horse in Manshiya and whether it would be possible for him to get off the pedestal and take her and Magd al-Din back to her village. Sitt Maryam must have guessed that Zahra had been preoccupied for a few moments, so she offered, “How about a little walk on the corniche? It’s still too early for sunset.”
“The fish will go bad.”
“It’s cold and the fish is fresh.”
Zahra walked like a little child following her mother.
During the feast, Magd al-Din realized that he had lost his land and that he had to stay in Alexandria. As soon as his brother-in-law left, he felt he had to get out of the house. It was not enough to visit Bahi’s tomb and distribute alms. He had no work during the feast; none of the temporary workers had. He wished that Dimyan would visit him. On the morning of the last day of the feast, Dimyan did visit him, and just in time, as he was at his wit’s end. He did not know anywhere to go in Alexandria farther than the Mahmudiya canal and the tombs in Karmuz.
“How about giving your wife a chance to visit with the neighbors and coming with me?” Dimyan said as soon as he sat down, and Magd al-Din agreed without hesitation. He noticed that Dimyan was now wearing shoes, had been wearing a new pair for a week, and this time he had on clean woolen trousers and an old, but clean, wool jacket.
“We’ve been working for a month now,” Dimyan said to Magd al-Din. “1 bought new shoes in the hope that I’ll keep my job. But rolling those bales is hard work, Sheikh Magd, and I’m skinny.”
“You’ll get used to it, Dimyan. Hang in there until we find better work.”
“I also bought the shoes in the hope that I’ll find a better job, but I don’t know what kind of work is better than what we’re doing.”
Magd al-Din laughed quietly, then went out with his friend to take the streetcar. They walked through the hubbub of the children on Ban Street, with their bright new clothes and colorful bicycles, which they dragged with difficulty on the unpaved street, and through groups of children gathered around vendors of balloons, candy, and, despite the cold weather, ice cream.
At the streetcar roundabout at Sidi Karim, where the road was paved, there were more children and even greater noise. Magd al-Din and Dimyan got on the streetcar.
The parade of children was uninterrupted even by the streetcar, which was moving slowly. They looked like joyous, colorful little birds. Magd al-Din and Dimyan got off at Khedive Street, where most of the stores were closed. They turned into Station Square.
A military band in the middle of the park was playing the songs of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab and Umm Kulthum, surrounded by crowds of children, young people, visitors from the countryside, and inhabitants of the city.
“Watch out for the thieves in the crowds,” Dimyan said to Magd al-Din, as they approached the audience. They stood there for a whole hour without feeling the passage of time. Magd al-Din had not thought that music could transport a man to such heights. They walked away in silence, as if they had just finished saying their prayers. The circle around a juggler enticed them to stop.
“Here thievery is very real. Half the people standing here are thieves the juggler knows,” said Dimyan.
“I have fifty piasters in my pocket. They can steal it if they like,” said Magd al-Din.
“You’re smart, Sheikh Magd. But I am smarter,” Dimyan replied with a smile. “I have nothing in my pocket.”
They burst out laughing and pressed into the circle.
In the middle was a man in his fifties wearing tight old trousers and a tight jacket under which he wore a white turtleneck. He had on a pair of cheap black shoes that were too big for him and had no laces. It looked as though he had never polished them. The shoes looked even bigger because his trouser legs were tight and slightly too short, and his legs were thin. The socks rested on top of the shoes.
“Look — it’s Charlie Chaplin’s shoes, and his mustache too,” Dimyan said excitedly. The man had Chaplin’s mustache, which was still black. Magd al-Din did not know who Charlie Chaplin was.
“Been to the movies yet?” asked Dimyan.
“No.”
“One of these days, I’ll take you to see one of Charlie Chaplin’s films.”
The juggler was explaining what he was about to do, the miracle that no magician in the world had done, not even the infidel Houdini. No one knew who this Houdini was. The juggler said that he would use a person as a water pump, and would make water come out of his mouth and nose. He motioned to a barefoot peasant with disheveled hair and a dirty gallabiya to approach, which he did. He told him to bend over and he did. When the peasant raised his head a little from his bent-over position, the juggler rebuked him, telling him not to do it again or he would obstruct the flow of the water: “The water doesn’t go up, jackass!” The audience laughed. The juggler stood right behind the peasant’s rear end and began to operate an imaginary pump with his hand, as everyone watched in silence. Suddenly the bent-over man spread open his hands under his mouth and water poured out on his palms. He got up, choking and coughing, as the juggler hit him hard on the back to help him breathe. The juggler then went cheerfully around the circle among the spectators, who were laughing in surprise. “Did you see this great act?” he proclaimed. “I challenge any magician, I challenge Hitler himself, that same Hitler who’ll teach the English to behave and who’ll do bad things to them, I mean—”
The audience laughed louder after he said the obscene word. He had a small tambourine in his hand that he used to collect the piasters and pennies that the spectators were giving him. The peasant who had taken part in the show had gone back to the audience. Then the juggler began to speak of another trick that he would perform. But Dimyan shouted to him to do the pump trick again. It seemed that the juggler did not hear him or that he ignored him, so Dimyan continued to shout, requesting that he do the trick again, and several others joined him.