“Greetings,” said Magd al-Din.
There was no response. The cigarettes glowed again for a few moments, two little circles of fire in front of two circles of translucent skin. He hurried on until he was beyond the warehouses, and there he was in total, absolute, pitch dark. No houses, no lights; thick clouds must have completely blocked out the moonlight. On the canal there were no more ships, and on the other bank, no factories and no streetcars. Then to his right there rose an uneven, very dark wall that smelled of grease and soap. He could barely make out thousands of barrels, very close to him, stacked very high — was it possible that they would come tumbling down into Mahmudiya Canal right in front of him?
In every space, no matter how big or small, packed in between the mounds of barrels, were piles of scrap metal that smelled of solder. In the midst of these heaps were gleaming strips of brass, aluminum, steel, chrome, and zinc. He could not exactly see the metals, but they must be the ones gleaming, he thought. Then he saw a wooden kiosk, painted bright yellow, revealed by a ray escaping from the clouds. As he approached it, he heard muffled voices and what sounded like someone snorting, then a nervous female voice saying, “Easy,” and a man’s voice saving, “It’s easy — what could be easier?” then the sound of intermittent laughter, so he hurried away, praying for God’s protection against Satan’s work. His footsteps must have been audible, for he heard a long laugh in which the man’s and the woman’s voices were intermingled. Then he saw in front of him something huge, a real giant, standing there with a lit cigarette in his mouth, blocking his way. Where did this giant come from, and what did he want? The giant took the cigarette from between his lips and said in a harsh voice, “Don’t be scared. You can join him — it’s only one piaster.” Magd al-Din felt brave enough and strong enough to reach out his hand and push the giant aside. The latter stumbled and almost fell to the ground. Magd al-Din heard him saying, “Watch it! I curse your house! You think you’re some hero, some Antar ibn Shaddad?”
Magd al-Din, who had been terrified only a few moments earlier, smiled as he started to walk briskly again, then all at once had the sensation that he was stumbling over many colorful, tangled rubber threads. Several balloons became caught between his legs, impeding his movement. He remembered the story of the man who went down to Mahmudiya Canal to perform his ablutions and got the rabbits caught in his underpants. His heart started pounding hard, but then the white stones of a long, low, neglected fence provided some light for him and reminded him that he was on a well-known street that led somewhere. Had it not been for that fence, fear would have completely unnerved him, and he might have started to run screaming down the street. He hurried along the fence, and Karmuz Bridge loomed closer. There were four metal lampposts, two on either side of the bridge, topped by a lamp with a shade of dark blue glass. And although they did not illuminate the place, at least he could see them, and he fixed his gaze on them until he arrived at the bridge, and there he breathed calmly for the first time. Next to the bridge, he noticed many push carts with goods left over from the day, covered with tarpaulins or cardboard. Children sleeping under the carts were covered in pieces of blanket, and he realized that he had stayed a long time at Shahin’s house. He walked down the slope to the right, which would take him to Ban Street, which would take him home.
Where had he been exactly? He had a growing feeling that he had just come from hell, or nothingness. Was the boy really telling the truth, or was he just humoring him to end the meeting? In any case, Magd ai-Din could not forget that sense of an ending in the boy’s eyes. He belonged to an era different from ours and he won’t be long for this world, Magd al-Din thought. His poor father! He walked on Ban Street—’Willow’ Street — thinking of that happy person who had given that and the other streets around it the names of trees and flowers. They were named Narcissus, Jasmine, Sweet Basil, Vine, and Carnation, when in fact, they were shabby, sickly streets filled with tired, lost people whom no one realized belonged to the big city, where everything moved except this place. Alexandria, the white, gay, provocative city, was oblivious to them, the refuse discarded by faraway towns and villages. When did anyone ever pause for the sake of refuse? And who ever believed that from such refuse could come lovers, poets, lunatics, and saints? Only murderers and criminals deserved to stay in this rotten southern part of the city.
“Why are you so late, Magd al-Din?”
“Tuck me in, Zahra. Take my shoes off. Cover me over.”
20
The gods perceive future things, ordinary people perceive
things in the present, but the wise perceive things
about to happen.
“I’ve chosen Magd al-Din and Dimyan for al-Alamein,” said Usta Ghibriyal during the break. Everyone fell silent and looked at the floor. True, it was not their doing, but none of them had stepped forward, to move to al-Alamein. So it was only fair for Usta Ghibriyal to choose those two workers who had not yet completed one year on the job. Magd al-Din and Dimyan were sitting next to each other at the time. They had been expecting to be chosen. Magd al-Din said to himself that now Zahra had to go back to the village. As for Dimyan, he smiled, but his face still looked ashen.
“Al-Alamein, Sallum, it’s all in Egypt,” he said, pretending contentment.
There was news of the arrival of a large German force in Libya, that the Axis was regrouping its troops and had started attacking Benghazi. Thus it seemed that the desert war would not end as everyone had predicted, following Graziani’s defeat. After Usta Ghibriyal made his announcement and the break was over, everyone went back to work. Magd al-Din went over to Shahin and asked him about his son.
“He disappeared for three days,” the man told him, tears in his eyes, “then came back for one day, but then yesterday he disappeared again. I don’t know where he goes or what he’s doing to himself.”
“Did you tell him what I told you?’
“I did, and since then he’s stopped speaking to anyone.”
Earlier that week, Magd al-Din had gathered up his courage and gone upstairs to Khawaga Dimitri, who opened the door for him, surprised. Magd al-Din asked him to go with him to the café for a little while. Dimitri welcomed the idea right away, but could not hide his anxiety.
At the café Magd al-Din told him, “Nobody chooses his own religion, right, Khawaga Dimitri?”
“Right, Sheikh Magd.”
“Please pardon me if I tell you that I know Camilla’s story with Rushdi, the Muslim boy.”
Khawaga Dimitri said nothing for a long while, then asked, “And you also know the young man’s name, Sheikh Magd?”
“His father works with me,” he said and fell silent.
“Listen, Sheikh Magd,” Dimitri said abruptly, “your late brother lived with us for years and never felt that we were different. And you have lived almost two years with us — did you ever feel that we were prejudiced against Muslims?”
“No.”
“Not only that, but sometimes we pay for the mistakes of some Muslim tenants. Lula, for instance, was a Muslim, and she lied to us and brought shame upon us.”
“You’re right, Khawaga Dimitri.”
“I know that nobody chooses their religion, and I’m not surprised that my daughter has fallen in love with a Muslim boy, She is rash, and he is rash, and with a little wisdom everything can settle back in its place.”