“You will see a lot more than that if the war goes on for a long time.”
The short man, surprised at his friend’s comment, said nothing and thought instead of the reception Alexandria was going to give them at night.
King Farouk performed the Friday prayers at the Mosque of Mustafa Odeh Pasha in Fattuh Street in Gumruk — as the morning papers announced. The king was welcomed by the prime minister, Ali Mahir Pasha, Abd al-Rahman Azzam Pasha, His Eminence Sheikh Muhammad Mustafa al-Maraghi and, of course, the mayor of the city. After prayers the king returned to the Muntaza Palace, as happened after every prayer. The morning newspapers also announced that the number of newborn babies this week was 520 for natives and 25 for foreigners. As for deaths, there were 100 for natives and one for foreigners. Causes of death for Alexandrians were old age, scarlet fever, meningitis, malaria, and pulmonary tuberculosis for adults; and for children and infants they were dysentery, whooping cough, and tetanus. The only foreigner who had died was a Greek, killed by a drunken Cypriot.
4
This little murderous world is against the innocents:
it takes the bread out of their mouths and
gives their houses to the fire.
“It’s hard arriving in a city at night,” said the short man to his companion as they passed Magd al-Din on their way to the door of the car. Magd al-Din did not listen to the response of the companion; in fact, he did not respond. “Wake up, Zahra. We’re in Alexandria,” said Magd al-Din as he shook his wife’s shoulder. She awoke, slightly disoriented. “God protect us,” she said to herself. She felt her head and found her black head cover in place. She felt her chest and found the money under her clothes. She stared at Magd al-Din, and indeed it was Magd al-Din!
She stood on the platform carrying the baby. He watched the woman and her five children and the well-dressed man and his three sons. What made him do that? The woman and her children disappeared before his eyes, even though the station was not crowded, perhaps because the lights were dim. But that happened every time he visited Bahi; he would see the woman and her children on the train, but they would disappear on the platform. The well-dressed man and his sons did not disappear. He watched them as they left through the nearest door. He stood for a long time on the platform until almost all the passengers had disappeared.
“Porter?”
“Yes?”
The strong, tall, barefoot man carried one small basket on his left shoulder, placed the other one under his right arm, and told Magd al-Din to follow with the big basket. The porter’s strides were long and fast, and Zahra almost stumbled more than once. Magd al-Din was at a loss; he could not ask the man to slow down. His eyes were fixed on the two bare feet of the porter, he did not know why. He remembered that he himself could have been barefoot after leaving his shoes on the tracks when he was hurrying to the station, had not Zahra brought another pair in the big basket.
“It’s hard arriving in a city at night.” The words echoed in his head. When he went out the station door and into its big courtyard, he was met by a vast, profound darkness. The lights in the square facing the station were all out, and the trees were very black. There was no light except for the red glow of the lanterns on the horse-drawn carriages, lit in violation of security regulations.
There were a few carriages in the courtyard, as well as mule carts and taxicabs. The porter put the two baskets on the ground with Magd al-Din’s help. Magd al-Din gave him a piaster.
“The war has started, my man. This won’t get me supper.”
Magd al-Din did not understand what that meant. Had it started just this morning, as he had heard the passengers say, and arrived here by nightfall? Had it come that close? He thought for a while and the porter, despairing of getting anything more, left.
“Where to?” asked the old carriage driver who approached Magd al-Din.
“Ghayt al-Aynab.”
“Five piasters.”
“Fine.”
The driver brought his carriage closer and helped Magd al-Din load his luggage. Magd al-Din and Zahra climbed into the carriage and sat down, Zahra still carrying the baby, praying that she would not wake up in the dark.
The driver cracked his whip in the air, the horse lunged forward, and the whole carriage was jolted. Zahra fell back, then suddenly forward, and the baby almost fell under her feet. She got hold of herself and breathed, feeling the refreshing breeze caress her face and cool her body. “It’s a merciful climate,” she said to herself as the cool breeze soothed her. Zahra slept again as the carriage moved on. Magd al-Dm marveled at that, since she had slept most of the way on the train as well.
“Where in Ghayt al-Aynab?” asked the driver.
“Twelve Street, house number eighty-eight,” Magd al-Din told him.
“I know the street, but you’ll have to handle the number. You know how to read, of course?”
The driver took out of his vest pocket a small dark bottle the size of his palm. He opened it and raised it to his mouth and took a quick gulp. “Care for a sip of quinine tonic?”
Magd al-Din did not answer, and the driver did not press him. They focused on the road.
There were only a very few passers-by and very few carriages. One or two taxicabs passed them. A while earlier, the driver had turned onto Umar ibn al-Khattab street. Candles in small, yellow lanterns cast a dim light in the small stores along the way. Rarely did they see a store with electric lights. At al-Hadari urinal the carriage entered Isis Street. The stores there were few and far between and most of them were closed. When the driver turned onto Raghib Street, the stores were slightly better lit and there were more pedestrians, taxicabs, and carriages. There was a streetcar ahead in the distance, and the lamps on the lampposts were painted dark blue so the light barely reached the ground. The few electric lights in the stores showed many broken tiles on empty floors. It was not vet 11 p.m. Magd al-Din had noticed only one coffeehouse, at the end of Isis Street. There the few customers sat around the light of a single electric lamp pushed into the farthest corner of the café. He saw another café at the end of Raghib Street, directly in front of the bridge to the left, a small café in which only three people sat by candlelight. In front of the bridge, the driver stopped.
“Seems the electricity’s been cut off,” he remarked.
Only a few moments before, Magd al-Din had watched as a black tent covered everything. The streetlights and the few store lights went out, and a black mass enveloped everything.
“Electricity’s off, and the bridge’s been raised for the boats to cross. We’ve got to wait. I could’ve turned on Karmuz Bridge, but going along the Mahmudiya canal at night and in the dark is dangerous, for me, you, and the horse.”
Zahra had awakened at the very time that Magd al-Din wished she would sleep.
“Where are we?” she said
“In Raghib.”
“Raghib? Who is Raghib?”
“Hush, Zahra. Go back to sleep. The electricity is out and the bridge is raised for the boats. We have an hour to wait.”
But Zahra did not sleep. She took out her breast and gave it to the baby, who had also awakened in the dark. Magd al-Din was thinking about the times that he had visited Bahi and how the electricity would be cut off in the night for reasons unknown to the people, and they would talk about it in the morning. There were stories about the police pursuing robbers who had attacked boats going through the Mahmudiya canal, or the arrest of some young men who belonged to political societies. People also knew that sexual harassment took place in the dark; in the dark, a woman would be groped by passers-by who suddenly were behind or next to her, even though she was walking by herself. Therefore, as soon as power was cut off, every woman or girl would try to find another so that they could encourage each other. True, the groping hands would not stop, but the two women would be bolder and shout insults at the man.