We get off the tramcar in the square. We cross it to go over to the Dukhakhny shop at the corner of Farouk and al-Zaher streets. Father buys a pack of his cigarettes with the yellow package and the picture of the Ethiopian head. We circle the square and cross the street that leads to our old house. We come to the Um ’Abbas fountain. One of the passers-by drinks from its tap. I look towards the street that goes up to our old house. The florist stands on the corner. The horse’s head is buried in his sack of feed. Three street sweepers with their yellow clothes, bushy moustaches, and long brooms are at work. Their caps are turned backward, for the brims to shade the back of their necks. He pounds the broom’s handle on the ground to fix its head back on. Dust comes off it. The head falls off the handle again. He sits down on the pavement. He fastens a piece of a rag between the head and the stick.
We cross the street. We make it to Abdel Malik bakery. We head for the pharmacy. Father pushes the dark glass door. The breeze from the circular ceiling fan hits us. The pharmacist is wearing glasses with big thick lenses. Father asks about his account. The chemist flips through pages of his register. Father pays him a chunk of what he owes. He promises to pay the rest at the beginning of next month. He leans to him and whispers something. The man smiles and says: “I wish. Try taking some Vitamin B.” Father buys two small bottles — one with tincture of iodine, the other mercurochrome.
We go back to Nuzha Street. We stop in front of the butcher. Father buys a pound of kidneys and sheep’s testicles. He pays last month’s bill. He asks: “What’s new with your father?”
He answers in a disapproving voice: “He’s with his bride.”
Father smiles: “Congratulations.”
“Is it right for an old man to do that?”
“Well, how old is he?”
“He’s past sixty.”
Father shakes his head: “Is he planning to have a kid?”
“No, thank God. She can’t have children. But he wants to bequeath the shop to her.”
We buy a melon from a horse-drawn cart. We cross the street to Hajj Abdel ’Alim’s shop. We go in. Salim opens the register as soon as he sees father. We settle up with him. Father asks for a little bit of raw sugar. Salim asks him in a dry tone: “How much, then?”
“Fifty dirham. To sweeten the melon.”
We head toward the alley. Father says to me: “By now, Fatima’s made the rice and green beans.” I say: “She can’t make rice the way you can.”
~ ~ ~
The afternoon call to prayer echoes loudly from Hajj Mishaal’s megaphone hung at the end of the alleyway. The iron salesman looks out from the balcony of his second wife. He rests his arms on its edge. Signs of being mad show on his face. He stretches out his right hand, holding the end of a black rubber hose. He points its spout toward the place where we’ve dug out five circles for our game of marbles. The water shoots out from the spout of the hose. It rains over the grooves for the marbles and washes them away. We gather the marbles. Everyone takes his own. Safwat goes up to his apartment. Samir and I stand there all confused. His face is full of pock marks, just like his mother’s. The water runs through the alley and washes away any chance for us to keep playing. Father calls me from the balcony. I go up. I wash my face and feet under the tap. I go back to the room and dry off my face with the towel hanging from the edge of the bed. As the sun disappears, he calls to me. I hurry inside and go to the bathroom right away. I wash my face and my feet. I catch up with him at the window. The darkness swallows us. We sit in the dark without turning on the light. The street is quiet; there’s no one around.
I open the left door of the cupboard. I reach for the travel bag. I pull out a handful of hazelnuts, walnuts, and almonds. I put them on the desk. I open the right door. I take out a roll of dried apricot. I cut off a slice the size of my hand. I look around for the nutcracker until I find it buried under some clothes. I sit at the desk. I open the book of Layla Murad songs. I break open two hazelnuts, two almonds, and a walnut. I take a small bit of apricot and suck on it while I add hazelnut and almond. Father goes to and fro from the balcony to the door of the room. He groans from the awful heat. He says over and over: “Let it keep getting hotter, until it has to finally break!” He drives away the flies for the umpteenth time. A familiar voice comes up from the alley. “Shakookoo! For a bottle!” I run to the balcony. The call is repeated from a man with a cart full of small plaster statues of the famous singer and comedian. I turn around to ask father for an empty bottle that I can exchange for one of the statues. His frowning face does not give me much hope.
A vendor calls out from the entrance to the alley: “Almonds!” Father calls out to Fatima. She appears at the door to the room, wiping her hands off on her gallabiya. He asks her what she is doing. She answers: “I’m chopping mulukhiya, Sidi.” He turns to me saying: “Take a piastre out of my pocket and go and bring a pound of dates.” I grab for his suit coat on its hanger in the corner. I root around in its pocket until I find the change. I pull out a fistful and pick out a piastre from it. I take two millimes also. I ask him: “How much should I pay?” He says: “Pay what he asks for. You can’t barter.” I head towards the door and he calls to me: “Pay attention to the scale. Don’t let him cheat you.”
I leave the apartment at a run. I cut across the alleyway to get to the street. The date seller is sitting on one of the arms of his cart with a leg propped up on the other one. His feet are bare and dirty. The dates are stacked up in a round basket made of palm leaves. It is covered with a thin white cloth. He pulls the covering down a bit and grabs some dates with his hand. He puts them on one side of the scale. I walk around him to be closer to it and make sure it’s okay. He makes a cone out of paper and then pours the stack of dates into it. He throws in two more dates. He hands me some change from the piastre. I run over to the nut seller and buy a millime’s worth of melon seeds and another of chickpeas.
I go out again right before sundown to buy ful beans for our suhur, the late night snack during Ramadan. The seller is standing behind his kettle at the entrance to the alleyway. A crowd of boys and girls surrounds him. Their hands are all stretched out with plates and pots. They’re all calling for him to serve them next. We’re all excitedly following the movement of his right hand out of the kettle with its ladle full of beans. I start to call out with them as I stretch out the empty plate in my right hand and the money in my left. Their voices are louder than mine.
By the time I get my beans and go back, reading from the Quran has started. Its sound comes at us from two directions: the megaphone of Hajj Mishaal and the radio of Um Zakiya. Father is soaking two dry Nubian dates in a cup of water. Fatima finishes chopping the mulukhiya. She puts it on the fire and starts to peel off a few garlic cloves to make the broth. Father warns her not to start sautéing the mix right away. He says that Um Nabila, God rest her soul, use to get ready to sauté the mulukhiya the moment she heard his steps in the stairwell, but she would not actually do it until after he sat at the table, so that he could smell it.