He wished what happened the first time they met would happen again today. For some reason, a little ewe had stopped next to his foot and stuck to his leg and when Brika came close and began to prod it with a long, thin stick, the little ewe stuck even closer and did not budge. Dimyan laughed and so did Brika and he smelled musk wafting through the smell of sheep wool of her clothes. It did not occur to him that such a young woman wore musk or some other perfume, He thought it was the smell of her sweat. And on that day he first met her, it also did not occur to him that ten days had passed since he had arrived here, and that his desire for a woman was becoming aroused. He found himself staring at her big, dark eyes and her slightly pale brown face and the two beautiful dimples on her cheeks. He saw her lips tremble when she did not speak but also when she spoke. Above the upper lips was fine fuzz that was truly exciting. He saw her hands under the sleeves of her gallabiya, small and delicate, their bones almost visible under the skin.
“Herr, herr,” she said, trying to dislodge the little ewe that had attached itself so closely to Dimyan’s leg that he had to spread his legs to give a chance to the ewe, which was enjoying their proximity, to pass through them.
When the situation became awkward, Dimyan said, “Leave her be. Don’t break her heart.”
But Brika bent down and picked up the ewe and raised it to her chest, and it rested there meekly, turning her muzzle toward Dimyan and bleating thinly. Dimyan laughed and so did Brika, who said, “She knows you.”
She kept laughing as she hurried to the sheep and left the ewe with them, saying, “Herr, herr,” as did her brother. They all left Dimyan, who found himself the following day waiting for Brika with cookies and chocolate. They kept meeting like that every day for a short while.
Today he found himself saying to her, “Brika, I know your name from Hilal, the stationmaster, but you haven’t asked me my name.”
“What’s your name?” she asked with a smile.
“Dimyan.”
After a pause, she repeated the name, “Dimyan, Dimyan, Dimyan” and said, “Nice.”
Dimyan left her for a little while, went home, then returned carrying more chocolate. She was waiting for him behind the station, and a short distance away her brother was keeping an eye on the sheep. Brika ate a piece of chocolate with obvious relish and gave her brother two pieces.
“You like chocolate?” Dimyan asked.
“Yes. My father buys me some when he goes to Amiriva. This is better.”
“What does your father do in Amiriya?”
“He sells and buys.”
“Is he a merchant?”
“No. He just sells and buys.”
There was an awkard silence, then she added, “He sells the sheep and buys what we want. Nothing more. He doesn’t make a big profit.”
Dimyan understood; it all made sense. He found himself saying without thinking, “And the little one?”
“What about him?”
“Would he tell your father that you sat with me?”
She laughed and said, “I’ll tell my father.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, surprised at her courage.
“Afraid of what? We are Arabs, Bedouin. We are not afraid.” After another pause, she said, “Your name is Dimyan?”
“Yes.”
“It would be a good name for a girl.”
He figured that that meant she liked the name. It surprised him that she did not realize that he was Christian. Perhaps she did not dwell on it. Perhaps she herself was Christian. Yes. Some Christians had fled here as they had fled to southern Egypt. But what good would all these illusions, or even facts do him?
They met many times. Dimyan found himself holding her palms and turning them over as she laughed gleefully. Her hands were not warm, but little by little warmth came into them and to his own hands. But was it not possible that this young Bedouin woman was simply treating him like a father, nothing else? Could he not think about that? But the look of profound happiness in her eyes betrayed something else, and he was not going to let anything rob him of his happiness, which the good desert had given him unexpectedly.
At night in front of the house as they lay stretched out on the ground smoking, their eyes gleaming in the dark, Dimyan asked Magd al-Din, “Tell me, Sheikh Magd — can someone like me fall in love?”
A soft breeze was blowing slowly in the desert, softening the intense heat of the day. There were not many trains at night, just one that usually came at dawn, so they always had the chance to spend most of the night together. In fact they had not been able to divide the day into shifts except for a few days at the beginning. After that they sat together at the crossing rather than spending the time alone in the house. And so they became inseparable at work and at home.
Amer had passed by them a short while earlier, leaving the telegraph office to sleep early as usual since no one sent any telegrams at night. No one sent any telegrams during the day either any more. The Bedouin were not in the habit of sending telegrams, and the soldiers coming from overseas had their own military ways of sending telegrams.
Amer stopped after they exchanged greetings, then asked them, “Do you know who sent the last telegram from the office today?”
They looked at him for a while in confusion, then Dimyan laughed and said, “Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab, the singer!”
“No.”
“Then it must be King Farouk!”
Magd al-Din smiled, but Amer did not. Scorn appeared in his eyes at what Dimyan had said, and he said calmly, “It was me who sent it.”
Dimyan looked at Magd al-Din, who had a pitying look in his eyes and said, “Sit down with us for a while, Amer. You must be upset about something. Sit down and talk.”
They were surprised to see Amer sit down in front of them. Magd al-Din offered him a cigarette, and he took it with trembling fingers. Dimyan lit it for him. He began puffing the smoke calmly and talking as if to himself, “Yes, I was the sender. I sent it to my wife. I asked her to talk to me about the children.”
“Do you have children, Amer?” Magd al-Din said after a silence.
“I don’t have any children, Sheikh Magd,” was Amer’s reply, after another long silence.
A more profound silence fell. Magd al-Din had received an actual telegram announcing that Zahra had given birth to a boy, whom she named Shawqi, as Magd al-Din had wanted. Magd al-Din had told Dimyan, proudly, “Exactly as I saw in the dream!” And much as he felt regret that he could not go back to the village, he felt content that God had granted him his wish for a son. He thought about all that as Amer got up and left in the dark. As they watched him go, Dimyan said suddenly, “You haven’t answered my question, Sheikh Magd.”
“What question, Dimyan?”
“My question about love.”
“What’re you saying, friend? Put some sense in your head. We’re poor, Dimyan. Besides, you’re married with children.”
They both fell silent. Dimyan seemed unconvinced by what his friend had said. He thought, why should poverty prevent love? Why must a man love only his wife and his family? His heart has stirred toward Brika, and he could not stop his heart.
“What happens when a Christian man falls in love with a Muslim woman?” Dimyan asked.
Magd al-Din did not reply. He instantly recalled the story of Rushdi and Camilla, the story that Dimyan knew was coming back, in reverse, but the same story, no question about it. So why was Dimyan going to hell with his own two feet? He heard Dimyan exclaim, “Life is a bitch and time a traitor.”
“Life isn’t a bitch, and time is no traitor, Dimyan,” Magd al-Din replied. “We bring trouble on ourselves. How can you be so weak in controlling you heart?”