“Those are Australian soldiers.”

Magd al-Din was looking at a number of tall soldiers with blue berets.

“They speak English like the English soldiers, but they’re taller,” Dimyan continued. “If you see two soldiers together, the taller one is usually the Australian. Their country is big.”

Magd al-Din wanted to tease his friend. “What good would it do me to tell the Australian from the English?”

Dimyan looked at him for a moment, then smiled and replied, “True. What good would it do you or me? Perhaps just speaking about things has uses that we don’t know.”

They laughed and kept walking. As they passed some African and Indian soldiers, Dimyan said, “Soldiers from all over the world. The Africans have little tails — everybody says that. The Indians are so full of themselves, they walk like they’re lords of their own manor. You know something? I wish I could go up behind one of them, slap him on the back of the neck, and run.”

“These are poor men, Dimyan. They left their countries against their will, and none of them know whether they’ll go home or not.”

Dimyan fell silent, truly touched. A number of English soldiers appeared on the corniche, and a few of them were women. Some of the men had put their arms around the women, and some kissed quickly as they walked. Out of nowhere, many horse-drawn carriages appeared from behind, engaged in a mad race, carrying local lovers, foreign lovers, and drunken soldiers, both men and women. The pedestrians tipped their hats and berets to the riders, and the air filled with boisterous revelry.

“We are now in Manshiya. This is the statue of Ismail Pasha,” said Dimyan, pointing to its semicircular pedestal. “Ismail Pasha is King Farouk’s grandfather, or his relative, anyway. He was the one who built the Ismail Maternity Hospital. They say he’s the one who built the city of Ismailiya, that he was the one who first moved to educate girls.”

Magd al-Din did not need to hear anyone talking, but he let Dimyan continue. He really wanted to drink in the light, the refreshing breeze, and the water of the sea. He felt his chest expanding, and his spirit revived. He would postpone the noon prayers until mid-afternoon, or even wait until he went home at sunset. Dimyan had told him that they would walk to Anfushi, and he was happy for that. Dimyan must have sensed his friend’s secret desire and stopped talking. They walked in silence.

When it had rained during Ramadan, some streets, as well as the untiled sidewalks, became muddy. In the early morning, people going to work and students going to school walked as close as possible to the walls. At the Sidi Karim roundabout, Magd al-Din saw the water collecting near the sidewalks; it was so high people had to wade through to cross the roundabout or to reach the streetcar. The road there was paved, but it lay at the bottom of the slope that began at Raghib Bridge. The narrow sewers could not handle all the water.

Magd al-Din saw three barefoot young men standing on the sidewalk, their pant legs rolled up to their knees, wearing old, tight pullovers torn at the elbows and shoulders. For two pennies per person, they were offering to carry pedestrians from one sidewalk to the other or to the streetcar stop. Some pedestrians had placed a row of stones, a sort of bridge to cross the street, but the three young men removed the stones so that they were the only bridge. The women and girls had to walk all the way to Raghib Bridge and cross at the other side, where there was barely any water, then go back to the streetcar stop.

One of these young men was Hamidu, the only son of the woman who sold vegetables at the entrance of the house opposite Dimitri’s, and who had an amazing story to tell Zahra every time she bought anything from her. Hamidu had a long scar on his cheek and looked quite strong. After finishing this odd work, he would lug his shoeshine box and tools on his shoulder and head for the public squares or the cafés. Hamidu’s hair was always disheveled, giving the impression at first that he was crazy. He never talked to anyone on the street and was never seen without his shoe brush in one hand and in the other a falafel sandwich, which he would wolf down part way, then place whatever was left of it in the first crack in the wall that he came across.

Magd al-Din saw Hamidu carrying people across the street for a few pennies and asked Dimyan whether this strange kind of work was common in Alexandria. Dimyan told him that only happened on the hungriest days.

Hamidu’s image haunted Magd al-Din as he walked with Dimyan along the coast in Bahari and Anfushi. The wind made the tops of the tall, elegant Indian palm trees sway, their lush green fronds waving in front of the baroque balconies and facades of the old apartment buildings. The air here had the taste of cool, fresh water; the corniche curved gently, and the small fishing boats rested on the shore, nets piled high or stretched out, and no fishermen in sight. Today was the feast, and God was watching over everything and everyone.

Magd al-Din looked at the crowd of young men and women, taking in the refreshing smell of the sea and the grass, the sight of the vendors of peanuts, seeds, and roasted sweet potatoes. The horse-drawn carriages that had been going so fast were still speeding along, carrying lovers to the vendors of fried fish and shrimp, clams, and crabs. Magd al-Din decided that the whole scene did not suit him. How could he, a pious sheikh, be a witness to all these displays of love, coquetry, and mischief? So he asked Dimyan if they could go back as soon as possible, since the mid-afternoon prayer time was approaching, and in the winter, the time between that and the sunset prayer passed in the twinkling of an eye.

“We need a glass of tea in some café,” Dimyan said. “What do you think?” Magd al-Din thought sitting at a café was more proper than being in the midst of all the revelry.

Dimyan took him away from the coast, and away from Tatwig Street, busy with the streetcar, decorated stores, and children running in every direction.

He must have sensed what was bothering his friend. In no time at all, they found themselves in Manshiya, which opened up before them, dazzling light pouring through the spaces between its broad, low buildings with capacious balconies and wrought-iron railings. Most of the stores were closed because of the feast, but restaurants and bazaars were open for business, as were the money changers on the sidewalk, their glass counters filled with coins and banknotes from all over the world. Despite the feast, many of them were busy at work, always wearing their eyepieces. The statue of Muhammad Ali stood high in the middle of the square. Magd al-Din and Dimyan sat down at the Nile Café.

“This is the brokers’ café,” Dimyan told his friend. “The stock exchange is right in front of you.” He pointed to the middle of the square, where there stood a splendid white building with long, high windows and an imposing balcony. “And this,” he added, “is Tawfiq Street. The exchange is closed today. How many homes it has supported and how many it has ruined!”

Magd al-Din pondered briefly what Dimyan said, his eyes involuntarily scanning the patrons, staring at their prosperous faces and thick white or dark glasses with golden frames. Those who did not wear glasses seemed to be focusing on something not quite there. A strong smell of tobacco smoke filled the air. Magd al-Din lit a cigarette and rolled another for Dimyan. He saw Hamidu come into the café carrying his shoeshine box. He watched him stand there studying the patrons, tapping the box lightly, then quickly go over to an English officer in military uniform who had taken off his green woolen cap and placed it on the table. The officer, about thirty years old, had a strong, ruddy complexion.