The houses stood empty. The same Bedouin who had left their encampments built them, but when the war broke out, they moved away again, leaving behind the limestone houses and going back to their tents and encampments on the edge of the Qattara depression. The distance between Alexandria and al-Alamein is one hundred kilometers, and between the sea and the Qattara depression is twenty-five kilometers, thus making it a bottleneck unsuitable for military maneuvers, but a good last line of defense if the armies had to retreat before the Axis. That area was now a repository for weapons, ammunition, and supplies and a training ground for troops. Al-Alamein is six hundred feet above sea level, and the land slopes southwards to the Qattara depression across an area of sand dunes and perilous salty swamps. On the edges of these dunes and swamps live a few Bedouin, Bani Ahmar and Bani Abyad, Saadis and Murabitin who have been at peace for such a long time that their dialect no longer has words for “war” and “fighting.”
Beyond al-Alamein there were no other inhabited towns worth stopping at except Sidi Abd al-Rahman and Marsa Matruh. The dunes of al-Alamein are characterized by their off-white limestone color that continues to Sidi Abd al-Rahman, a little-noticed summer resort next to a small village that is nothing more than a mosque the Bedouin built to honor Abd al-Rahman, of watermelon fame, who had become a saint.
Abd al-Rahman was a handsome young man who was walking with his ugly friend, a barber who had evil designs on him. They had gone far into the desert when the barber took out a razor he had been hiding in his vest and severed Abd al-Rahman’s head, then left him buried in the sand. A year later the barber took the same route, which he had forgotten. In the desert, the land and the dunes looked alike. He saw a watermelon patch bearing a big ripe watermelon lying on the ground, He could not resist; who could resist a watermelon in the desert? He picked up the watermelon, and on his way back, he thought of giving it as a gift to the chief of the tribe. That was more beneficial than eating it, he thought.
The chief of the tribe was happy with the gift. But as soon as he plunged the knife into it, blood gushed forth. He plunged the knife again, and again the blood gushed forth. The wise old chief looked at the barber, who by now was terrified in front of all those present. He had remembered everything. He asked the chief for an assurance of protection, and the chief gave him that assurance. So he started telling everyone how he had killed his friend on that very spot. The Bedouin built a tomb for Abd al-Rahman on top of the watermelon patch, and they buried the watermelon, which they realized contained Abd al-Rahman’s head. The tomb became a shrine around which the little village came into being.
There are no more stories until you get to Marsa Matruh. Daba is a small village deserted by the Bedouin who moved to Sidi Abd al-Rahman and al-Alamein. Fuka is a strategic depression where forces and vehicles gathered to be deployed later on at the Libyan borders. Marsa Matruh, Cleopatra and Antony’s historical city, was now the headquarters of the Eighth Army command through which military vehicles careened all day long. Marsa Matruh was the city of love and death where Cleopatra betrayed Antony by fleeing from Actium and where Antony worshipped at the altar of Cleopatra’s body. It was in Marsa Matruh that both committed suicide. It used to be the capital of the Western Desert governorate; now it was the headquarters for General Wavell, who had defeated Graziani a few weeks earlier. Now the German Rommel came to command the Afrika Korps, now mostly German. What was that new commander who came triumphant from the French front going to do? He had an easy name, apparently destined for fame, like the names of the famous, be they good or evil; Napoleon is just as easy a name as Robin Hood, and Judas as Jesus, and Yazid as Husayn, and Umm Kulthum and Asmahan’s names are just as easy as the serial-killing sisters, Raya and Sakina.
Celebrity makes everyone equal, and as time passes the evil might attain the same status as that of the saintly.
“Good morning. Ready, Sheikh Magd?”
“Good morning. Ready, God willing.”
Magd al-Din had slept only one hour, after dawn. Before Ghaffara called out his name, Magd al-Din had heard the sounds of the creaking wheels and Ghaffara’s voice as he stopped the donkey. Sheikh Magd came out carrying one of the two baskets he had packed. Ghaffara took it from him and put it on the cart, which Magd al-Din noticed now had two donkeys.
“It’s a long ride and a heavy load. I had to get another donkey, so I rented one,” Ghaffara said.
Magd al-Din smiled and went back to his room to bring the other basket. He noticed that Ghaffara was not wearing his mask.
“It’s early. The air’s still clean,” said Ghaffara.
It was a little after five o’clock, with the day still trying to break away from the night. A cool breeze wafted in the dark, and the coming light exuded a pleasant smell. The eyes opened with the coming of day just as flowers opened up to the light.
Magd al-Din jumped up to sit next to Ghaffara on the cart. His eyes caught a glimpse of the little house. He wished he had gone up and said goodbye to Khawaga Dimitri and his family even though the man had visited him the previous night. Was he destined to see them again? Ghaffara started on his way to Dimyan’s house.
That was the first time that Magd al-Din had seen the Qabbari railway station. It was indeed a long ride from his house. The cart covered the road extending along Mahmudiya Canal all the way to Kafr Ashri, then beyond it to the Maks road up to Qabbari Street, and ending at the station. For more than an hour the cart went without seeing anyone else on the road, even at the canal. Then suddenly light burst forth like pouring water. There was no movement to the right; the boats lay still, their sailors asleep. To the left were the warehouses of Salvago and Bank Misr, which Magd al-Din had seen the night he met Rushdi, who had gone crazy on account of his love for Camilla. Who was that figure that Magd al-Din saw sitting before Mahmudiya, his back turned to the railroad houses? That person seemed to be a thin, lost young man. Then it occurred to him that he had not met any of his coworkers going to work. A short while after they passed the houses Dimyan asked Ghaffara, “Isn’t it strange that we haven’t met anyone on the road?”
“It’s early, Dimyan.”
“I feel like God has just created us this very minute. Yes, I think we’ve just descended from heaven — you, me, and the two donkeys.”
“And the two donkeys too?” Ghaffara said, laughing.
“And the two donkeys, Ghaffara!”
“You have a very fertile imagination, Blessed Dimyan.”
A silence fell during which Dimyan thought that no one had called him “Blessed” before. Why was it that no one had shown him such respect?
The cart wobbled along the cobblestone road. It crossed Tigara Street, which went right through Kafr Ashri and Sheikh Abd Allah al-Nadim’s school and his deserted house and entered Maks Street. It was then that they saw some traffic, a few cars and a slow-moving streetcar with hardly any passengers. The streets were bathed in light. Ghaffara stopped the cart and got off it for a few moments and picked up his air-raid mask, which was in a bag hanging under the cart. He put it on his face, then got on the cart again and began gently to prod the donkeys to hurry. Magd al-Din and Dimyan both smiled at Ghaffara’s strange fez-mask but said nothing.