“The kindest people,” said Dimyan. Magd al-Din was still surprised. He was preparing tea on a fire behind the kiosk, which they had left to sit outside near the crossing. He offered a cup of tea to al-Safi, who took one sip and said, “Strong sweet tea!”
“English tea,” said Dimyan.
“No, it’s from Ceylon. The English only package it. But more importantly, it’s made by Arab hands,” said al-Safi al-Naim.
“You are indeed pure bliss,” Dimyan exclaimed like a child, and Magd al-Din laughed happily. Then after some silence al-Safi asked Dimyan his name.
“Dimyan.”
They were silent again as a soft breeze blew. The sun was about to set, letting the dark take charge. The horizon was lit up by the red flames of the twilight. It was the tenth of August, the fifteenth of Rajab, and so the full moon started ascending early. There is nothing more beautiful than the desert in full moonlight.
“Dimyan is a beautiful name, the name of a saint,” al-Safi said.
Dimyan had fallen silent, thinking that his name had shocked al-Safi or rather his religion, but it turned out that he was wrong.
“Thank you, brother,” he said.
A while later Magd al-Din asked him, “Is there a Sudanese group here?”
“A very large group. Can you guess how many?”
“A thousand.”
“No.”
“Five hundred.”
“No. You’ll never guess. I’ll tell you — it’s only two of us, me and Siraj Khalifa. Siraj is in Marsa Matruh, now working in the service of the commander in chief, Mr. Cunningham. I was wondering why the British Empire needed two Sudanese, but now they’ve separated us and I guess now the empire needs each of us far from the other. But wondering doesn’t do me any good. It must be that I’m worth a battalion from New Zealand or India, otherwise they would not have kept each of us away from the other. You’re here alone too. What do you do? Nothing that the army can’t do, but you’re here like us.”
After a long silence during which they finished drinking the tea, Magd al-Din said, “Perhaps we’re here to meet you and get to know you, and that alone gives us happiness and more.”
The desert cold curie with black clouds racing like raging bulls to the cast on the sea and on the land. “So this is where the rain, which comes to Alexandria like the raids, starts,” thought Dimyan to himself, then suddenly asked Magd al-Din, “Who put Alexandria where it is?” Magd al-Din did not reply but looked surprised by his friend’s random question. The soldiers’ uniforms had changed. They now wore long pants and woolen jackets over long-sleeved shirts and thick, knee-high socks and suede boots. They placed rags into the muzzles of their rifles to prevent moisture from the damp desert air getting into them. Tongues of flame shot up here and there in the vast, dark expanse where clouds blocked the moon and the stars. These were fires that soldiers, especially Indians, made from scrap wood and cardboard boxes to keep themselves warm. There seemed to be a state of relaxation on the military front; the trains no longer brought equipment or soldiers from the east, or prisoners of war from the west. Magd al-Din and Dimyan did not see anything new for some time except for a huge Indian, over forty years of age, who walked as haughtily as an elephant and who wore a huge turban. He came several times with the young Indians but did not take part in the prayers, instead sitting at a distance with the few Sikh Indians who had come to the station with their Muslim compatriots. His name was Corporal Bahadur Shand, and he was from Kashmir, where Muslims and Sikhs lived in a state of discord instigated by the English. When Magd al-Din saw Corporal Bahadur he marveled at God’s ability to create all these different nations and peoples. He was reminded of the Quranic verse, And we have made you nations and tribes that you may know one another. He wished he knew enough English and Hindi to understand what was happening in this wide world. How great the Creator who controls all of this and who had sent Dimyan his way to make his days easy, even though he was in a place that even monkeys would flee out of boredom. Dimyan came back every day after Brika’s departure in a state of childlike happiness. With Dimyan it was possible for days to pass; without him, total silence. A month had passed since the Feast of the Virgin, and Ramadan would begin the following day.
“It’s my turn to fast with you, Sheikh Magd,” Dimyan told his friend.
Magd al-Din was too surprised to reply.
“Don’t you believe me? I’ll fast the whole month with you.”
“Our fast is a difficult one. We have to abstain from food and drink all day long.”
“That’s better than each of us eating alone in the desert,” Dimyan replied immediately. He had made up his mind beforehand and made a strong case. Magd al-Din was touched. The two friends were silent for a long time.
“When do we go back to Alexandria, Dimyan?” Magd al-Din finally asked.
“You mean, to the village. I know that Ramadan is a month that loves company. If only some Indians would join us, then we’d be an international family.”
“I miss them so much, Dimyan,” Magd al-Din blurted out despite himself.
“Why don’t you go then?” Dimyan caught him off guard.
Magd al-Din had no choice but to tell him the whole story of his banishment. He felt the need to tell someone. It is a strange moment that comes over someone when he feels the need to disclose that which he has taken such pains to conceal. One can never really escape that moment when it does come over him. His chest is filled with a heavy sadness that rises to his eyes as he begins to tell the story and let out the heavy secret.
His story took up most of the night. Dimyan listened, spellbound. While eating the pre-dawn meal with Magd al-Din, he asked him, “And you’ve put up with all of that alone?”
“It’s God’s will, Dimyan.”
“But God cannot be pleased with all that injustice.” “God forgive us, Dimyan.”
“The best thing you can do, Sheikh Magd, is to take a rifle from one of the Indians, go to the village, kill the mayor, and come back. Nobody will think of you and nobody will know the source of the Indian bullets!”
“If only I had wanted,” Magd al-Din finally said, “I would have killed him a long time ago. I left to prevent bloodshed and also because I wanted to leave. Yes, I wanted to leave — I don’t know why.”
“You must return, Sheikh Magd.”
“I will return, Dimyan. I will. I must.”
During Ramadan, Brika stopped coming for days on end. Until the feast, she only appeared five quick times. She told Dimyan that she was getting ready for the jlasa, but he did not understand or pay mention.
On the day of the feast the Indian Muslims and al-Safi al-Naim performed the feast prayer behind Magd al-Din. They wished him a happy feast and he wished them a happy feast as well. There was nothing for Magd al-Din to do except to send a telegram to Zahra and his sisters wishing them a happy feast. Amer was very happy with the telegram, and as soon as Magd al-Din left the room he heard Amer crying. That was Amer’s last day on the job. He left on the evening train, just like that, without telling anyone, leaving his room open to the wind.
“What could he do? He was about to go crazy,” Dimyan said, laughing, to Magd al-Din and Hilal, who was silent.
“We should do like him, escape,” added Magd al-Din. “What harm would it do the Allies if three wretched Egyptians disappeared?”
The feast passed in silence, no trains of any kind. After the feast Brika appeared. It was an unusually sunny day.
“Why have you stopped coming as often as you used to?” Dimyan asked her in pain.
“Because of the rain,” she answered with a laugh.
“But you came some days.”