One of these young men was Hamidu, the only son of the woman who sold vegetables at the entrance of the house opposite Dimitri’s, and who had an amazing story to tell Zahra every time she bought anything from her. Hamidu had a long scar on his cheek and looked quite strong. After finishing this odd work, he would lug his shoeshine box and tools on his shoulder and head for the public squares or the cafés. Hamidu’s hair was always disheveled, giving the impression at first that he was crazy. He never talked to anyone on the street and was never seen without his shoe brush in one hand and in the other a falafel sandwich, which he would wolf down part way, then place whatever was left of it in the first crack in the wall that he came across.
Magd al-Din saw Hamidu carrying people across the street for a few pennies and asked Dimyan whether this strange kind of work was common in Alexandria. Dimyan told him that only happened on the hungriest days.
Hamidu’s image haunted Magd al-Din as he walked with Dimyan along the coast in Bahari and Anfushi. The wind made the tops of the tall, elegant Indian palm trees sway, their lush green fronds waving in front of the baroque balconies and facades of the old apartment buildings. The air here had the taste of cool, fresh water; the corniche curved gently, and the small fishing boats rested on the shore, nets piled high or stretched out, and no fishermen in sight. Today was the feast, and God was watching over everything and everyone.
Magd al-Din looked at the crowd of young men and women, taking in the refreshing smell of the sea and the grass, the sight of the vendors of peanuts, seeds, and roasted sweet potatoes. The horse-drawn carriages that had been going so fast were still speeding along, carrying lovers to the vendors of fried fish and shrimp, clams, and crabs. Magd al-Din decided that the whole scene did not suit him. How could he, a pious sheikh, be a witness to all these displays of love, coquetry, and mischief? So he asked Dimyan if they could go back as soon as possible, since the mid-afternoon prayer time was approaching, and in the winter, the time between that and the sunset prayer passed in the twinkling of an eye.
“We need a glass of tea in some café,” Dimyan said. “What do you think?” Magd al-Din thought sitting at a café was more proper than being in the midst of all the revelry.
Dimyan took him away from the coast, and away from Tatwig Street, busy with the streetcar, decorated stores, and children running in every direction.
He must have sensed what was bothering his friend. In no time at all, they found themselves in Manshiya, which opened up before them, dazzling light pouring through the spaces between its broad, low buildings with capacious balconies and wrought-iron railings. Most of the stores were closed because of the feast, but restaurants and bazaars were open for business, as were the money changers on the sidewalk, their glass counters filled with coins and banknotes from all over the world. Despite the feast, many of them were busy at work, always wearing their eyepieces. The statue of Muhammad Ali stood high in the middle of the square. Magd al-Din and Dimyan sat down at the Nile Café.
“This is the brokers’ café,” Dimyan told his friend. “The stock exchange is right in front of you.” He pointed to the middle of the square, where there stood a splendid white building with long, high windows and an imposing balcony. “And this,” he added, “is Tawfiq Street. The exchange is closed today. How many homes it has supported and how many it has ruined!”
Magd al-Din pondered briefly what Dimyan said, his eyes involuntarily scanning the patrons, staring at their prosperous faces and thick white or dark glasses with golden frames. Those who did not wear glasses seemed to be focusing on something not quite there. A strong smell of tobacco smoke filled the air. Magd al-Din lit a cigarette and rolled another for Dimyan. He saw Hamidu come into the café carrying his shoeshine box. He watched him stand there studying the patrons, tapping the box lightly, then quickly go over to an English officer in military uniform who had taken off his green woolen cap and placed it on the table. The officer, about thirty years old, had a strong, ruddy complexion.
Hamidu sat in front of the man and, placing the officer’s feet on his little stool, began to shine the black boots with white buckles. The officer was busy reading a foreign newspaper.
Magd al-Din did not take his eyes off Hamidu. As he watched him, he finished shining the boots, then started feeling them with his fingers. Magd al-Din did not know what exactly Hamidu was doing. Then Hamidu pulled the little stool from under the man’s feet and lowered them gently onto the floor and stood up. Magd al-Din saw clearly that the officer gave Hamidu a one-pound note. Hamidu took it, then reached out and took the officer’s baton, which the officer had placed on the table. The officer looked very puzzled, and before he could speak or protest, Hamidu had run away with the baton and the pound. The officer tried to overtake him; he got up, but as soon as he tried to move, he came crashing down, almost breaking his head and injuring his face. Luckily for him, there were several chairs in front of his, which helped break his fall, so he did not hit his face. He ended up on his back on the floor, writhing in pain and raising his head trying to see his feet. When Hamidu was feeling his boots, he had been tying the laces together — that was why he had lowered the officer’s feet gently to the floor. There was a commotion in the café. An English officer stood up and took his gun out of its holster. An Indian soldier stood, befuddled, watching Hamidu run away on Tawfiq Street. The café patrons laughed for a moment, then were silent again out of pity for the young officer lying on the floor in pain. The waiter then quickly went over to him, untied his shoelaces, and helped him up to his scat. All the patrons were now looking on in silence, awaiting his reaction. The officer, too, was silent, then in broken Arabic he swore, “Bastard!”
Everyone laughed, and he got up and left the café in embarrassment.
The last few days of the year passed quickly. Rain came down hard, almost flooding the city — which during the winter suffered torrential rain for days and days, then the rain would stop for several days, then it would rain again nonstop, and sometimes the rain changed to hail. Work opportunities were now scarce. The textile mill laid off Magd al-Din and Dimyan, and once again they had to go job hunting every day. The ships arriving in Mahmudiya Canal were few and far between. Sitt Maryam had told Zahra that during the last few weeks of the year, Alexandria suffered successive, almost continuous storms, until Epiphany, and then the storms would increase in frequency and fierceness in the following month, the last of the year. Camilla said, laughing, that the thunder was going to sound like bombs and would shake the houses, and lightning would dazzle the eyes. Zahra looked at her admiringly as she added that the best thing to see in Alexandria was the coastal road, the corniche, in the winter when the waves rushed in and crossed the street, crashing against the apartment buildings. She said the winter weather had prevented her from going to see Abd al-Wahhab’s new film, Long Live Love. The dark, cold, and rain made Amm Mahmud, vendor of the crime sheets, appear only rarely. News of crimes and scandals, however, still circulated among the people, who learned, for instance, about the young man killed by his colleague at night in the Labban neighborhood, and another young man whose body was found in a closed kiosk in the Farahda neighborhood. They found out about the second incident of a woman marrying a man while still married to another, and the man who had killed his own father a long time before, and on the day of whose execution the black flag flew above the Hadra prison.