There are no more stories until you get to Marsa Matruh. Daba is a small village deserted by the Bedouin who moved to Sidi Abd al-Rahman and al-Alamein. Fuka is a strategic depression where forces and vehicles gathered to be deployed later on at the Libyan borders. Marsa Matruh, Cleopatra and Antony’s historical city, was now the headquarters of the Eighth Army command through which military vehicles careened all day long. Marsa Matruh was the city of love and death where Cleopatra betrayed Antony by fleeing from Actium and where Antony worshipped at the altar of Cleopatra’s body. It was in Marsa Matruh that both committed suicide. It used to be the capital of the Western Desert governorate; now it was the headquarters for General Wavell, who had defeated Graziani a few weeks earlier. Now the German Rommel came to command the Afrika Korps, now mostly German. What was that new commander who came triumphant from the French front going to do? He had an easy name, apparently destined for fame, like the names of the famous, be they good or evil; Napoleon is just as easy a name as Robin Hood, and Judas as Jesus, and Yazid as Husayn, and Umm Kulthum and Asmahan’s names are just as easy as the serial-killing sisters, Raya and Sakina.

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.”