18

It was Mahmudiya Canal that created Alexandria in the modern era. Muhammad Ali Pasha issued his sublime decree to dig it in the year 1819 and ordered the governors of the various provinces to round up peasants to work on it. The governors would tie them up with rope and bring them by ship. Many died of exhaustion and hunger. Those who died were buried where they fell, dirt was piled over them, and the rest were marched on. Many of those buried were still alive, only exhausted, and the governors ordered them buried. So the earth claimed bodies whose souls had departed, and bodies with souls still clinging to them. The dead and buried numbered about ten thousand every year. The digging of the canal took twenty-one years, bringing the number of the dead to more than two hundred thousand. The number of those digging was never less than four hundred thousand. The boats sailed or steamed into the canal on top of two hundred thousand life stories, maybe more. Those stories made their way to Alexandria, where the canal emptied into the harbor. Did any nation need more than two hundred thousand dead to acquire a history of myths, ghosts, madness, and demons? Alexandria flourished, thanks to transportation between the harbor, the Delta, and Upper Egypt. The population rose to sixty thousand. The city continued to flourish, the population to increase, and Mahmudiya continued to be a repository of secrets.

During the day, Mahmudiya is a waterway for ships, commodities, and work opportunities. In the late afternoon, it is a river for excursions and fun in feluccas and row boats. At night, it is a place for thieves and smugglers, who raid the ships and steal what they can carry, and a place for police raids against them, a place where gunshots ring out night after night. Now thievery had increased because of the blackout all over the country. Mahmudiya is also the resting place of corpses, of those killed rightly or wrongly, coming in closed sacks from the countryside, never making it to the harbor, but always getting stuck as they hit the concrete piles under the bridges. Usually no one sees them until midday or late afternoon, as people are more preoccupied with work in the morning. In the afternoon, recreational activity in the water increases, as docs the traffic of little rowboats. Thus not a month goes by without a corpse turning up, but it is rare for three in a row to turn up, as had happened in recent days. The corpses were always women and girls.

None of that crossed Rushdi’s mind when he met Camilla and suggested to her that they take a boat ride together on Mahmudiya in the morning, contrary to what all lovers did. She always liked this contrariness in him, but she was afraid that he might ask that they begin at Karmuz. He smiled and said they would begin at Nuzha, far, far away from the city. Usually Nuzha was the last destination for rowboats, then everyone went hack westward. But they would rent a small rowboat and go cast, where there was no one, just agricultural land and peasants in the fields, no buildings or workers or anyone related to her or to him.

The sky was clear, to the lovers’ delight. A light rain fell as they were getting off the streetcar at the last stop, but it lasted only a few seconds. They walked under the huge camphor trees, whose branches embraced and whose leaves made quick dancing circles of shadow on the ground below. He took her hand as they went down the three steps to the colorful rowboat dock. Apparently many young men and women had the same idea. “See, we’re not alone here. Most of them have more courage — they’ll take the boats to Raghib and Karmuz.”

She said, smiling, “Let’s be cowards today. Just today.”

She sat in front of him in the narrow, sleek rowboat, and he sat and began to row. Once again it rained, which bothered them a little, but the rain was only a drizzle and it soon stopped. “How about if we get ahead of all the others? We want to be alone. Row with me.”

She took hold of the two oars. He put his palms on her hands and their warmth warmed him. They began to row fast. As his hands pressed down on hers, she felt pain and began to shift her fingers, so he moved his hands from hers, but they kept rowing and laughing.

After Nuzha, Mahmudiya had wild grass growing on the banks. As they rowed, swallows flew up from the vegetation. Now they were really alone. On both sides huge vegetable fields extended, and on the banks they began to see camphor trees, castor-oil plants, eucalyptus, and willows, known among the people as “bride’s hair,” as Rushdi told her. Camilla had read about it, but had not seen one before. There were a few peasants in the fields, a few scattered men, women, and children. They came across only one water wheel, a few sycamores, and a mighty oak standing alone in the middle of the fields.

“We’ve gone too far, Rushdi,” she said, then looked at her watch. “We’ve been rowing for two hours. We only rented the boat for one hour.”

“Don’t worry, I have fifty piasters, my monthly allowance. I’ll spend it all today.”

They stopped rowing. The rowboat stopped in the middle of Mahmudiya, and a light current carried it to the bank, where it rested.

“We can get off here. Don’t be afraid, the boat will not move,” he said, and as he stood up the boat swayed under his feet. He almost fell, but he kept his balance. She laughed. A long time had passed, and he had a hard time stretching his legs. She also stood up, and the boat shook, but she had given him her hand, and he was now on land, so he helped her off the boat and pulled her up. They were standing on the edge of a huge expanse of green fields, over which the sun was smiling kindly.

“How wonderful! What more could we ask from the gods?” He exclaimed as he stretched his arms fully. “Let’s run!”

He ran and she ran behind him. He stopped running only when he heard her having difficulty breathing. He threw himself to the ground next to a big sycamore, stretching out his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the tree. She did the same thing. They were breathing fast. Her legs glistened above her short white socks. When she saw that her knees were showing, she placed her leather school bag on top of them. He raised his left arm and embraced her, pulling her toward him. She clung to his thin, fragile chest.

“This is the best place in the world for madness!”

She drew back, apprehensive of what he had just said, and moved her chest away, but he said, “Don’t be afraid of me, ever. I only felt that I would die in front of you.”

Once again he was saying strange things.

She heard the sound of a crow, and she was startled. He told her that the crow was a poor bird; it was the crow that taught man the greatest secret, that of burial, and yet it was the most maligned of the birds. He asked her if she had read Sophocles’ Antigone, and she said she had read it last summer in the holiday reading program.

“All Antigone did was bury her brother’s body. Humanity can’t have dignity if the dead aren’t buried.”

She fell silent for a few moments.

“Did you bring me here to talk about death?” she finally asked.

“The problem is, I only read literature,” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t come across a funny story yet. If you find one, please let me know.”

He got up. “Don’t move,” he told her. “Today I’ll read you some brilliant, crazy poetry.”

He took a small notebook out of his bag. “I translated it for you just this week.” Then he began to recite:

O clock, sinister, impassive, frightening god,

Whose threatening finger says to us, “Remember!

Soon the vibrant sorrows, like arrows

Will hit the target that is your heart.