“Listen Shahin,” he said to the father, “Islam permits Muslim men to marry non-Muslim women, Christian or Jewish. The Prophet enjoined Muslims to treat Egypt’s Copts well. He was the husband of Maryam the Copt, mother of his son Ibrahim. But the problem, Ustaz Rushdi, is that you are at the beginning of your life and you need time. You’ve also chosen the tightest path. Neither your father nor your mother will object to your marrying the Christian girl.” The mother was heard muttering outside. Magd al-Din continued, “But do you know what her family is like? There are good Christians and there are bad Christians, exactly like all human beings in this world. If the girl has disappeared, as you say, then it is your duty to disappear also, to give her the opportunity for a normal life. I have learned from your father, Ustaz Rushdi, that you are in the last year of secondary school, that you are a poet, that you forgo food sometimes to buy books and learn languages, that you are preparing yourself to travel to Europe where, God willing, the war will be over this year, and you may become a genius like Taha Husayn. Love and marriage now would put a stop to all of that. Besides, Ustaz Rushdi, don’t be afraid for the girl. We have a proverb that says ‘Break a girl’s rib, she’ll grow two,’ and women usually forget quicker than men. They rush to love and rush to forget.”
Everyone was silent for a long time, until Rushdi said suddenly, “I will go to her family to tell them that I’ll stay away from her.”
The mother came into the room in panic, saying, “No! Don’t go! Nobody’s going anywhere! Everything will end on its own.”
Noticing the anguish on the boy’s face, Magd al-Din said to him, “Let me go in your place. Give me her address and her name, and I’ll make sure she’s all right and put an end to the problem.”
After some reluctance Rushdi said, “Her name is Camilla. She lives on Ban Street, house number eighty-eight. She once told me that a man who worked for the railroad lived in their house, but she didn’t tell me his name.” Magd al-Din said nothing. He got up, his face pale. His hands shook as he gripped the boy’s hand and patted him on the back. Shahin walked with him to the Mahmudiya canal, but Magd al-Din was oblivious to his presence.
Magd al-Din hurried away as if something were chasing him. Was it the boy’s languid eyes or his pale, tormented face?
He sauntered along the dark street by Mahmudiya Canal, barely seeing his way, since there were no street lights, just the feeble glow of a little moon, sneaking through the occasional gaps in the clouds, reflected faintly on the small, shallow ponds on the unevenly paved road — just enough light to enable him to either jump over or walk around them. On the canal itself, there were some faint lights from a few torches on the barges and ships anchored far apart in the dark, with the white sails of the ships furled on the masts. The ships looked like giants, made only of darkness. The factories on the other hank were also dark, though their high windows gave off muted violet rays. The smokestack emitted white smoke that was quite visible in the dark, even though it was intermittent and thin. The streetcar moving on the other bank also cast pale yellow lights that enabled him to see a man climbing up from the canal. He must have been relieving himself, or perhaps he was an inhabitant of that godforsaken area. He could not quite make the man out, but saw him as a mass of black moving upwards. To Magd al-Din’s right were the big warehouses of Bank Misr, which extended for a long stretch. He saw one of its gates was open; he could tell only because the area beyond it was darker than the sections on either side of it. Then he saw two cigarettes glowing for a moment, revealing two indistinct faces. They were almost certainly two guards from the Territorial Army.
“Greetings,” said Magd al-Din.
There was no response. The cigarettes glowed again for a few moments, two little circles of fire in front of two circles of translucent skin. He hurried on until he was beyond the warehouses, and there he was in total, absolute, pitch dark. No houses, no lights; thick clouds must have completely blocked out the moonlight. On the canal there were no more ships, and on the other bank, no factories and no streetcars. Then to his right there rose an uneven, very dark wall that smelled of grease and soap. He could barely make out thousands of barrels, very close to him, stacked very high — was it possible that they would come tumbling down into Mahmudiya Canal right in front of him?
In every space, no matter how big or small, packed in between the mounds of barrels, were piles of scrap metal that smelled of solder. In the midst of these heaps were gleaming strips of brass, aluminum, steel, chrome, and zinc. He could not exactly see the metals, but they must be the ones gleaming, he thought. Then he saw a wooden kiosk, painted bright yellow, revealed by a ray escaping from the clouds. As he approached it, he heard muffled voices and what sounded like someone snorting, then a nervous female voice saying, “Easy,” and a man’s voice saving, “It’s easy — what could be easier?” then the sound of intermittent laughter, so he hurried away, praying for God’s protection against Satan’s work. His footsteps must have been audible, for he heard a long laugh in which the man’s and the woman’s voices were intermingled. Then he saw in front of him something huge, a real giant, standing there with a lit cigarette in his mouth, blocking his way. Where did this giant come from, and what did he want? The giant took the cigarette from between his lips and said in a harsh voice, “Don’t be scared. You can join him — it’s only one piaster.” Magd al-Din felt brave enough and strong enough to reach out his hand and push the giant aside. The latter stumbled and almost fell to the ground. Magd al-Din heard him saying, “Watch it! I curse your house! You think you’re some hero, some Antar ibn Shaddad?”
Magd al-Din, who had been terrified only a few moments earlier, smiled as he started to walk briskly again, then all at once had the sensation that he was stumbling over many colorful, tangled rubber threads. Several balloons became caught between his legs, impeding his movement. He remembered the story of the man who went down to Mahmudiya Canal to perform his ablutions and got the rabbits caught in his underpants. His heart started pounding hard, but then the white stones of a long, low, neglected fence provided some light for him and reminded him that he was on a well-known street that led somewhere. Had it not been for that fence, fear would have completely unnerved him, and he might have started to run screaming down the street. He hurried along the fence, and Karmuz Bridge loomed closer. There were four metal lampposts, two on either side of the bridge, topped by a lamp with a shade of dark blue glass. And although they did not illuminate the place, at least he could see them, and he fixed his gaze on them until he arrived at the bridge, and there he breathed calmly for the first time. Next to the bridge, he noticed many push carts with goods left over from the day, covered with tarpaulins or cardboard. Children sleeping under the carts were covered in pieces of blanket, and he realized that he had stayed a long time at Shahin’s house. He walked down the slope to the right, which would take him to Ban Street, which would take him home.
Where had he been exactly? He had a growing feeling that he had just come from hell, or nothingness. Was the boy really telling the truth, or was he just humoring him to end the meeting? In any case, Magd ai-Din could not forget that sense of an ending in the boy’s eyes. He belonged to an era different from ours and he won’t be long for this world, Magd al-Din thought. His poor father! He walked on Ban Street—’Willow’ Street — thinking of that happy person who had given that and the other streets around it the names of trees and flowers. They were named Narcissus, Jasmine, Sweet Basil, Vine, and Carnation, when in fact, they were shabby, sickly streets filled with tired, lost people whom no one realized belonged to the big city, where everything moved except this place. Alexandria, the white, gay, provocative city, was oblivious to them, the refuse discarded by faraway towns and villages. When did anyone ever pause for the sake of refuse? And who ever believed that from such refuse could come lovers, poets, lunatics, and saints? Only murderers and criminals deserved to stay in this rotten southern part of the city.