The trains carrying soldiers to Alexandria increased; the soldiers were English, Irish, Scottish, South African, and Australian, in addition to Greek, French, and Jewish volunteers. The trains emptied their troops in al-Alamein, from where they were sent on to Marsa Matruh and Sallum, where intermittent fighting was taking place at the borders. When a band of Scottish soldiers, with their distinctive uniforms and bagpipes on their chests, arrived, they lined up on the platform and began to play merry, boisterous music, which Dimyan heard in the house, so he hurried to the station. There he was amazed at the beautiful sight of the happy performing soldiers. The train started to leave the station, and the players proceeded on the narrow asphalt road to the north where the barracks and the headquarters were located, half a kilometer away.
“What are these musicians doing here?” asked Dimyan, who was now standing between the stationmaster, the telegraph operator, and Magd al-Din.
“They are Scottish soldiers who play music during the fighting,” Hilal, the stationmaster, replied. Magd al-Din and Dimyan looked at him in astonishment as he continued, “The last Scottish band to come here was last year. They marched with the troops and went into Libya at the time of Graziani. None of them came back.”
“So they fight with the soldiers?” Magd al-Din asked.
“They play during the fighting to raise morale,” said the stationmaster.
Everyone fell silent and dispersed to tend to their business, while Dimyan stood alone in the glare of the brilliant daylight reflecting on the Scottish soldier-players who had disappeared among the barracks, the sound of their instruments lost in the great glare of silence. For the first time, Dimyan could see clearly, the vast arrays of military equipment scattered as far as the eye could see. There were hundreds of ocher tanks covered with greenish-yellow netting amid artificial cactus and thorn trees for camouflage, hundreds of vehicles in ceaseless motion, the roar of their engines muffled by the distance, rows of giant guns not yet in use, similarly covered with netting and branches. There were also little scattered kiosks and incessant movement of soldiers going in or out of them or the trenches. Suddenly Dimyan felt his sense of smell aroused. It did not take him long to figure that it was Brika on her way with the sheep and her brother and her desert sweat. Out of nowhere there appeared three jeeps driven by bare-chested soldiers; the jeeps were speeding jerkily along the bumpy road from the north. Brika’s little brother could be seen scampering among the sheep, saying, “Herr, herr” to guide their movement on the asphalt road, anticipating mistakes on the part of the jeeps, which were coming toward him as he and the sheep came from the south, and skillfully evading them. Brika meanwhile was standing following the movement of the speeding cars and hurling unintelligible words at them. Dimyan knew that she tended her sheep behind the station so he went there ahead of her and saw her tender little frame approaching, her clothes glittering under the sun. It was the first time he had seen Bedouin costumes, He later found out from her that the top part was a bawli made of silk spun on a manual loom with gold brocade. Under it one could see a cotton maryul covering the whole body. On top of the bawli was a leather wrap covering the chest down to the waist, which she would soon take off when it got too hot. On her head was a silk burnoose covering the whole head and ending with flowers made of colorful threads and gold and silver spangles that shone in the light, leaving only a soft round wisp of hair on the forehead, which drew attention to the smoothness of her brow and to her delicate eyebrows, her big dark eyes and her long, killing, eyelashes. He could see at her feet, above her little shoes also embroidered with golden and silver threads, the ends of pants with tiny crinkles.
He wished what happened the first time they met would happen again today. For some reason, a little ewe had stopped next to his foot and stuck to his leg and when Brika came close and began to prod it with a long, thin stick, the little ewe stuck even closer and did not budge. Dimyan laughed and so did Brika and he smelled musk wafting through the smell of sheep wool of her clothes. It did not occur to him that such a young woman wore musk or some other perfume, He thought it was the smell of her sweat. And on that day he first met her, it also did not occur to him that ten days had passed since he had arrived here, and that his desire for a woman was becoming aroused. He found himself staring at her big, dark eyes and her slightly pale brown face and the two beautiful dimples on her cheeks. He saw her lips tremble when she did not speak but also when she spoke. Above the upper lips was fine fuzz that was truly exciting. He saw her hands under the sleeves of her gallabiya, small and delicate, their bones almost visible under the skin.
“Herr, herr,” she said, trying to dislodge the little ewe that had attached itself so closely to Dimyan’s leg that he had to spread his legs to give a chance to the ewe, which was enjoying their proximity, to pass through them.
When the situation became awkward, Dimyan said, “Leave her be. Don’t break her heart.”
But Brika bent down and picked up the ewe and raised it to her chest, and it rested there meekly, turning her muzzle toward Dimyan and bleating thinly. Dimyan laughed and so did Brika, who said, “She knows you.”
She kept laughing as she hurried to the sheep and left the ewe with them, saying, “Herr, herr,” as did her brother. They all left Dimyan, who found himself the following day waiting for Brika with cookies and chocolate. They kept meeting like that every day for a short while.
Today he found himself saying to her, “Brika, I know your name from Hilal, the stationmaster, but you haven’t asked me my name.”
“What’s your name?” she asked with a smile.
“Dimyan.”
After a pause, she repeated the name, “Dimyan, Dimyan, Dimyan” and said, “Nice.”
Dimyan left her for a little while, went home, then returned carrying more chocolate. She was waiting for him behind the station, and a short distance away her brother was keeping an eye on the sheep. Brika ate a piece of chocolate with obvious relish and gave her brother two pieces.
“You like chocolate?” Dimyan asked.
“Yes. My father buys me some when he goes to Amiriva. This is better.”
“What does your father do in Amiriya?”
“He sells and buys.”
“Is he a merchant?”
“No. He just sells and buys.”
There was an awkard silence, then she added, “He sells the sheep and buys what we want. Nothing more. He doesn’t make a big profit.”
Dimyan understood; it all made sense. He found himself saying without thinking, “And the little one?”
“What about him?”
“Would he tell your father that you sat with me?”
She laughed and said, “I’ll tell my father.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, surprised at her courage.
“Afraid of what? We are Arabs, Bedouin. We are not afraid.” After another pause, she said, “Your name is Dimyan?”
“Yes.”
“It would be a good name for a girl.”
He figured that that meant she liked the name. It surprised him that she did not realize that he was Christian. Perhaps she did not dwell on it. Perhaps she herself was Christian. Yes. Some Christians had fled here as they had fled to southern Egypt. But what good would all these illusions, or even facts do him?
They met many times. Dimyan found himself holding her palms and turning them over as she laughed gleefully. Her hands were not warm, but little by little warmth came into them and to his own hands. But was it not possible that this young Bedouin woman was simply treating him like a father, nothing else? Could he not think about that? But the look of profound happiness in her eyes betrayed something else, and he was not going to let anything rob him of his happiness, which the good desert had given him unexpectedly.