No One Sleeps in Alexandria (37 page)

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.

At the station they did not have a long time; the train would arrive soon. There were only three Bedouin men standing far apart on the platform. When the train arrived, each of them got into a separate car. It was an old train, its colors faded and its paint peeling. A thick layer of dust and sand covered it. Magd al-Din and Dimyan got on the car directly in front of them, placed their baggage on the shelf, and sat facing each other. The broken windows to their left were covered by shutters, which they did not think to open, for it was still chilly and they knew it was going to get colder as the train moved and as the air blew through the broken glass and the holes in the shutters. Like any other passengers, they turned their heads to see who else was there. They saw only one middle-aged man, almost their own age, wearing a clean, tan-colored gallabiya and a white silk turban and, showing through the gallabiya, a traditional woolen vest. The man had clasped his hands in front of his chest and rested his head on them and fallen asleep, emitting loud snoring noises. But he would wake
up suddenly with a startled gesture, wipe away the saliva running from his mouth, then go to sleep again for a few moments, only to wake up again, startled, and wipe his saliva.

The train proceeded at a tottering speed with no concern for time before or time after. It left Alexandria in the morning, arrived at Marsa Matruh the following day, and started on its way back the third day. There were no other trains except the 3 p.m. train that stopped at al-Hammam and turned around at 7 p.m. The movement of trains on this military route had been limited, and now the only trains one saw were trains transporting military equipment, prisoners, or soldiers. Magd al-Din and Dimyan saw to their left, for the first time, Lake Maryut, which extended for a great distance. On it they saw small feluccas and fishermen who had gone to work early. They were now busy casting their small nets, then pulling them in filled with fish that glimmered like pearls in the sunshine, which now illuminated everything. To the right also were stretches of Lake Maryut, the dry, reddish salt basins that would turn white as the summer advanced. Then cranes and workers would begin to scoop up the coarse salt and transport it to the nearby plant, where it would be refined and packaged. Here the water collected during the winter and began to dry up by the beginning of the spring, then turned into salt in the summer. Huge stretches of the salty, rose-colored land dazzled and delighted the eves. Dimyan left his seat in front of Magd al-Din at the left of the car and moved to the right to look out the window, spellbound.

“This is salt and these are salt basins. In one month it turns white,” said the sleeping man and wiped the saliva running down his lips with his sleeve. He rubbed his eves and coughed several times and his voice became clearer. “From here comes the salt for all of Egypt.”

“Really!” Dimyan exclaimed, still dazzled.

“Egypt is full of bounty, of plenty, brother. Yes—look at God’s might. On this side the water evaporates and turns into salt, and on that side, no matter how much it evaporates, it never runs out, and the lake stays full of fish.”

Magd al-Din had begun to follow the conversation, and he let himself turn around to see from where he sat the glorious
rose-colored salt basins extending in the distance.

“Where are we now?” Dimyan asked.

“In Maks,” said the man.

“So we are out of Alexandria.”

“Where are you going?” the man smiled and said.

“Al-Alamein.”

“You have a long way to go,” the man said with a gentle laugh. “God be with you.”

As he said that he stood up. He was on the short side, with a squarish build. He put his hands in the side pockets of his gallabiya and moved over to sit down next to Magd al-Din. Dimyan came back and sat opposite them. The man took a gilded metal cigarette case from his pocket and offered each of them a cigarette.

“Is this your first time in the desert?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dimyan answered.

“I have been traveling the desert all my life. I don’t know any other place.”

“Do you work or live there?” Magd al-Din asked. “Both.”

The train had started to stop so they were all silent for a while.

“Murgham station—the first stop,” the man said.

A young man got onto the car wearing a loose Bedouin garment topped by a loose wrap over his shoulders and a woolen blanket-like scarf and a cap with a small tassel on his head. He looked around the empty car and at them, then hurried to another car after a very quick greeting.

“All the Bedouin here speak fast and walk fast. I’ve spent all my life asking myself about the reason for that and I have yet to find an answer. The desert brings serenity and calm, but the Bedouin here talk and walk as if they were on horseback.”

Dimyan laughed and Magd al-Din smiled at the man’s strange words.

“My name is Radwan the Peasant,” continued the man. “Actually, my real name is Radwan Ahmad, but the Bedouin here have given me this nickname. But most of the time they call me Radwan Express!”

“I’m Magd al-Din.”

“And I’m Dimyan.”

The man’s eyes grew wide and he asked, “Dimyan?”

“Yes, it means I’m a Christian,” Dimyan said to spare the man any surprise or confusion. The. man looked closely at him for a few moments.

“How strange!” he said.

“What’s so strange, brother Radwan?” Dimyan asked. Radwan looked at him even more closely.

“Nothing, brother Dimyan,” he answered. “You just reminded me of a friend of mine whose name was also Dimyan and who used to sell Pepsi here on the trains. He was a sweet man of sweet talk and sweet disposition. I don’t know where he is now. God damn the war and the English and the Germans!”

There was a long interval of silence until Magd al-Din asked, “You didn’t tell us what you do in the desert and where you live.”

“I told you my nickname was Radwan Express. Actually, I work as an
abonne.
Do you know what that is?”

“I think an
abonne
is like a postman, except that he works on the train.”

“Very good, brother Magd al-Din. He’s like a postman but he doesn’t work for the post office or for any office. He works for himself. He gets a permit from the railroad to ride the trains, and abonne means a pass that exempts him from buying tickets. He delivers peoples’ mail and goods at different stations. I used to be the abonne of the desert trains until Mussolini entered the war. I had my own corner at the door of the car—the abonne corner— and at every stop people came and gave me letters and bags and baskets and bundles and boxes and everything that could be sent, big or small, and the name of the person they wanted them sent to, and the name of the station. And at every station everyone who wanted to receive a delivery would come to me. If I didn’t find the addressee, I would leave the letters and parcels with the stationmaster. But people used to come and ask about letters and other things just on their own. Many times they would find that I had letters for them from their loved ones. At every stop I saw peoples’ faces light up when they received their letters and the eagerness with which they took the letters. At every stop I saw the kindness and goodness in the eyes of those sending things to their sons or relatives or loved ones. A lot of times they would
cry just because they’d gotten a letter. Of course a letter in the desert is something else! I could figure out the contents of the letters from the eyes of the senders and recipients. Now, as you can see, the train is empty. Business in the desert has dried up. The desert is now a battlefield. Nobody is left except armies and the Bedouin. Armies don’t send their letters with the abonne, and the Bedouin don’t send anything. The peasants and people from the Delta have returned to their villages, and nothing is left but me and this train.”

They fell silent. Magd al-Din and Dimyan exchanged glances. The train had stopped at a station. The
abonne
stopped talking then stood to look out the window at the platform.

“Nobody got on. Nobody got off,” he said. “The station-master didn’t even leave his room.”

The train moved on.

What do the armies of the Earth amount to?

Look at the moon in the sky.

Jalal al
-
Din Rumi

22

Magd al-Din had never before seen such an arid expanse before, True, there is open space in the countryside, but it is an expanse of soft green fields teeming with birds flying and humans playing or working peacefully. Next to the water wheels you can see children having fun, animals sleeping, women talking, old men playing tictac-toe, and ducks splashing in the water on which willows cast their shadows, while on the land, camphor, sycamore, and oak trees cast theirs. Now as Magd al-Din stood on the short, low platform of al-Alamein. railway station next to Dimyan, he was seeing nothing but a wilderness, with no birds and no trees. Dimyan likewise was staring incredulously at the awesome, vast expanse. The train had started again slowly, then moved away, looking like a green worm spotted with yellow, wiggling away into the endless beyond. In the distance was military equipment, some scattered, other pieces arrayed close together. Among them were a few wooden kiosks and half-naked soldiers, their bodies above their khaki shorts gleaming in the distance, and other soldiers whose black bodies did not gleam. The train that sped away like a wondrous yellow-spotted worm, the high faraway sky, the mysterious groupings of soldiers, and the all-engulfing wilderness gave both Magd al-Din and Dimyan a sense of being lost. Five or six Bedouin had gotten off the train from the other
cars, but they had not paused for a moment. Waiting for them were a few others, who spoke in loud, fast rattling voices, of which Magd al-Din and Dimyan could not understand a word. The two of them watched the Bedouin hurrying away down the narrow road next to the station between two rows of low, limestone houses deserted by their inhabitants. The Bedouin stirred up little eddies of dust, as if they were a herd of goats scurrying around. The stationmaster had gone out of his room to meet the train and spoke briefly with the engineer. As soon as the train began to move and the stationmaster turned around to go back to his room, he saw Magd al-Din and Dimyan and recognized them, for only a railroad worker would be wearing a green suit when he got off the train at the station. He approached them slowly. On the platform were two wooden rooms with pitched roofs also made of wood, painted a dull gray in several thick, clotted layers, betraying the painter’s lack of skill.