Текст книги "No One Sleeps in Alexandria"

Автор книги: Ibrahim Abdel Meguid

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“We have received from the Reverend Boulos Roman, from Asyut, a description of this animal. He said that it resembled a rabbit, that it chewed its cud but that it did not divide the cloven hoof, that it was one of the beasts that God ordered the Israelites not to eat, since they were unclean. He added that it was sometimes known as “the sheep of Israel,” that it lived in the rocks, and therefore was known for its wisdom. Solomon mentioned it in ‘Proverbs,’ saying, ‘There be four things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise: the ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer; the coneys are but a feeble folk, yet make they their houses in the rocks; the locust have no king, yet go they forth all of them by bands; the spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces.’ When the prophet David enumerated God’s mercy toward man, beast, and bird, he said that He created the rocks as shelter for the coneys. In some translations, the word ‘rabbits’ has been used, and even though they resemble each other, each was mentioned separately in the Bible, first the coney, then the rabbit. The fact that it was mentioned in the Bible tells us that it is found in abundance in Palestine.”

17

Humans, no matter how numerous, who among them

knows anything about himself?

Babylonian saying

There was a lot of work the last few days of winter, as cold air seared the faces in the early morning. The wind grew worse, especially after Magd al-Din and Dimyan went beyond the wall to the wide open space above the railroad tracks. There the month of Amshir had a chance to show itself in its true colors, as eddies whirled the dust suddenly, letting loose the cold wind, after which crazy rain poured down from a cloud that had raced in from some distant place. On their usual morning route, Magd al-Din and Dimyan no longer felt provoked by the silent operator of the Raven, who still stared at them. Dimyan noticed that the man had grown a beard and now was rarely ever seated, but instead was constantly walking back and forth. Dimyan asked Magd al-Din whether the man had actually gone crazy. Magd al-Din gave him his usual, vexing response, “Leave the creation to the Creator, Dimyan.”

The workers had the task of completing a two-kilometer extension of the rail line, as the present lines could not accommodate all the trains waiting to enter the harbor. The two direct long-distance lines to and from the desert also had to be clear of all other trains.

The open area extending behind Alexandria, from Muharram Bey to Qabbari and passing by Ghayt al-Aynab and Kafr Ashri, was crowded with hundreds of cars and dozens of black steam engines that never stopped moving. They carried weapons from the harbor to the desert, or weapons and soldiers coming from Suez, or those that had been on furlough in Alexandria, as well as prisoners of war. Several trains arrived from the Cairo warehouses with dozens of flatbed cars carrying crossties, rails, and thousands of huge screws and nails, as well as the square steel plates placed between the cross ties and the rails. Trains coming from the Western Desert brought huge amounts of ballast. The area was suddenly filled with railroad policemen in their distinctive yellow uniforms, stationed near and around the equipment unloaded by the workers and the winches moving on rails. The workers, numbering over a hundred, gathered from all the posts to take part in this giant task that had to be finished in record time, even if they had to work day and night.

Despite their woolen outfits, the cold assailed the workers at the neck, sleeves, and hems of their pants. The heat of working was no longer enough to give them warmth, as the wind and the open space gave them no shelter. No one was allowed to take a lunch break, now reduced to one hour, at home. The workers accepted all this hardship, bothered only by the intermittent downpours. The rain forced them to run and take shelter next to or under the nearest car, but as soon as they returned to work, it came down again. On several occasions they made light of it and stayed at their work posts, but it would surprise them by coming down longer and harder. They found themselves obstinately matching wits with the rain.

They divided themselves – actually, their foremen, who were traditional experts at that kind of work, divided them into teams. One team was assigned to level the ground. Their tools were pickaxes and shovels. Another team poured and leveled the ballast in the spots where the crossties would be placed. Their tools were baskets and shovels. A third team was charged with arranging the ties. Their tools were their shoulders, on which they carried the tics. Another team had to carry the rails and place them on top of the crossties and the plates. One team was to fasten the rails to the crossties, using the spikes, which went through the steel plates under the rails and into the crossties, and which secured the two sides of the rail from the bottom. The last team tamped the ballast under the ties. The foremen’s task was to measure precisely the gaps between the rails horizontally and the bends to make sure that the exact number of millimeters was left between sections of the same rail, so that when the rails stretched in the summer or shrank in the winter, they would not buckle. And, like all workers in the world, it was impossible to endure the hardship of long, arduous work without singing rhythmically, “Haila hop haila, haila hop haila.” This was especially true of those who carried the rails, each of which was eight meters long. Each of these was carried by ten men, who sang as they carried it, then gently lowered it to their feet, and then, all at once, let go of it on top of the plates and the crossties. Then they moved back, leaving the place to the fastening team, which placed the huge screws that went through the crossties, using a long key in the shape of a tube, at the bottom of which was a square cavity the size of the screw head. All the while they sang to the saints about the pain in their backs, about their children, and about the English, who abducted the women. Then they would laugh as Hamza watched.

Hamza was always among the rail carriers, despite his being shorter than his colleagues. As Hamza watched the fasteners spread around the rails, they seemed to him like desert hornets, as they hovered close together and moved their arms all the time. He sometimes imagined that they had sprouted wings and flew in the sky, holding the rail then riding it as if it were a magic carpet. Then he would laugh. From time to time, Dimyan would stop tamping the ballast under the crossties and look at Hamza in the middle of the line of men carrying the rail. He would realize, in surprise and admiration, that his short colleague was very smart, that he did not carry anything since the rail supported on the shoulders of his tall colleagues barely touched his shoulders. Hamza must have realized the meaning of Dimyan’s occasional glances at him, so he would sing:

I am a hardy camel,

my only trouble is the camel driver,

A grouchy man who’s not up to his task.

Or:

An orphan whose family is lost

Is lost in this country.

Or less loudly but with more feeling:

A prisoner of war in time

Can he sold to the nobility

But the people of a free country

Employed him as a servant.

“Bravo, Hamza. May God inspire you,” the workers would say, only to be silenced by the downpour and run to take shelter in the cars.

The workers did not have fixed duties, but changed them every two days. Usta Ghibriyal was of the opinion that they should change every day, as that was more restful for the body and did not tax the workers’ abilities. But Usta al-Bayya, foreman of Post Number Two, said the change would be better every two days. Al-Bayya was an old foreman, and his recklessness was so widely known that the workers nicknamed him ‘the crazy one.’ So no one could argue with him. Al-Bayya said, “Two days is better for the workers – they are as strong as donkeys.” When he spoke, al-Bayya sprayed, a fact that made anyone speaking with him end the conversation as quickly as he could. In reality, all the jobs were equally hard, despite the apparent differences. Dimyan was of the opinion that all the jobs were so horrible that he prayed silently to Mari Girgis, the Martyr, who had given him that job, to fill the sky with black clouds so the rain would never stop, and the rails would come undone, and the trains would overturn, and the Allies would stop fighting the Axis. Then he would find time to learn reading and writing, subjects in which he had not made much progress, even though he had to take a test in a few weeks, otherwise he would not get a raise the following year. He would say to himself, “Lord, Most Holy, who created us and put us in heaven, but we disobeyed you by the counsel of the serpent and fell from life everlasting. But you did not abandon us but sent us saints and prophets to look after us. Then one day you appeared to us, who sat in the dark, with your only son, our savior Jesus Christ, who died that we may live. Make us worthy, Lord, to partake of your holiness to purify our souls and our bodies. Have mercy on us, God the Father, Kyrie eleison. Kyrie eleison.”

Other workers were quite content with the area, which resembled paradise in its expansivcness and seclusion. No matter how tiring the work was, all it took was a few moments of rest, in which they would stretch out and take in the mysterious expanse, for them to forget everything: the world beyond, which might actually be better, or their homes and families. The passing trains loaded with soldiers and weapons and other things looked as if they had descended from the sky and were going back there. The moments of excitement and talk about soldiers and receiving their gifts soon gave way, vanishing into another imperceptible world and time, far more mysterious than either. All their thoughts of the world were centered on the vast open space, which gave them an exhilarating sense of eternal contentment.

The black clouds, low and heavy like German planes when they attacked the city at night, approached. The weary sun moved and hid behind the massive black clouds, promising rain. One moment later the downpour began, and everyone left everything and hurried to the cars. Merely seeking shelter beside one of the cars would do no good, for the rain did not come from any one direction, so groups of workers looked for empty, closed cars. Dimyan said to himself, “Have I really become that close with Mari Girgis?” His eyes welled up with tears as he felt serenity flowing into his soul. Did the Lord really love him that much? Dimyan got into a nearby caboose, where he found al-Bayya, Hamza, Usta Ghibriyal, Magd al-Din, and a number of other workers. Ghibriyal immediately sat down on a side seat, took out his notebook and indelible pencil from his upper pocket, and began writing in his elegant manner, without taking off his beret. Al-Bayya, on the other hand, removed the scarf around his neck and took off his skullcap, revealing a totally bald head that was as red as his face, probably from running for cover. The sound of a distant train was getting nearer, as was the sound of English soldiers singing and Scottish bagpipes. It was impossible for any of the workers to leave the cars where they had taken cover, as the rain was coming down in buckets, soaking the dusty ground in a few seconds. They looked from the doors and windows of the cars at the soldiers, some of whom were also looking at them through the train windows. “They’re getting drunk on the train, I swear,” Hamza said, laughing in amazement. But no one paid any attention to what he was saying as the sky suddenly darkened, then lightning was followed by incessant thunder, and it seemed that the seven heavens were going to come crashing down on the bare ground. The men were afraid and fell silent for a few moments, until al-Bayya said, “It seems the English are planning something, Usta Ghibriyal.”

The latter raised his head from the notebook, stopped writing, and said, “The English are always planning something, Usta Bayya.”

“The English have defeated Graziani and now feel secure,” Hamza blurted out. “What they’re planning now is not to leave Egypt. I hoped Graziani would defeat them, but the idiot let me down, may there be a curse on his house!”

Al-Bayya looked askance at him and said, “So, you prefer Italy to England, Tumbler?”

Dimyan and the other workers laughed at ‘Tumbler,’ which al-Bayya was the only one to use, but which fit Hamza. Magd al-Din, who had taken out his Quran and was reading silently, smiled and noticed annoyance and anger in al-Bayya’s eyes, which were very strange, as they looked at you and past you at the same time. The fact that they were blue helped strengthen that feeling.

“Why don’t you answer? Talk to me,” persisted al-Bayya.

The dark outside was compounded by a dust storm, even as the rain kept pouring down. Pebbles and flying sand were now audibly hitting the sides of the caboose. Magd al-Din hurried to close the windows, but the wind carried the dust through the open doors.

“I knew from the first that this was a black and dusty day,” coughed Hamza.

Everyone, including al-Bayya laughed. Magd al-Din, no longer able to read, put the Quran back in his pocket. He remembered Zahra, whose time was approaching. Will God give him a son this time? He decided that she would give birth in the village even if he did not go with her. He could not bear to be separated from her now, but he would be able to bear it when the time drew nearer.

Everyone fell silent, and eventually al-Bayya said, “I was hoping Graziani would win, too, Hamza. I hate Churchill.”

They had forgotten the conversation that had taken place earlier, and now al-Bayya brought them back to it.

“I hate him, too, Churchill,” Hamza said cheerfully, no longer afraid of al-Bayya. “I know that you met him, Usta, when he visited Egypt in ’36. I met him, too, but I didn’t like what he had to say. He’s full of hot air. He fooled Nahhas Pasha and made him sign a meaningless treaty.”

An ominous silence descended upon everyone, for what Hamza was saying was total rubbish, but they were surprised to hear al-Bayya say, “You’re right, Tumbler.”

Dimyan could not hold back his laughter, and everyone joined in except Usta Ghibriyal, who smiled to himself, as did Magd al-Din.

“Do you remember, Usta Bayya,” Hamza went on, “what the poet Bayram al-Tunsi said about Churchill and Nahhas in ’36? ‘If Chamberlain’s a greedy man who wants to pull a fast one on Tharwat, he’ll be lost. Let His Excellency know that we’ll make trouble – we’ve got nothing else to do.’“

Everyone looked around in disbelief, wanting to laugh but unable to. Exasperated and barely suppressing his laughter, Dimyan burst out, “What Chamberlain and what Tharwat balderdash, man? That was way back when we were kids. What does Chamberlain have to do with Churchill or Tharwat with Nahhas?”

Hamza did not reply, did not even bother to look at him, but rather looked at al-Bayya with humility in his eyes. Everyone waited for al-Bayya’s response. He calmly said, “Everything you say is right, Tumbler. Those were the days.”

Nothing was heard after that except the thunder and the downpour, which continued until the evening. The rain stopped then, as if to give them an opportunity to go home. They came out of the cars like little chicks shivering with cold. They decided to leave everything in place until the morning, but two long trains filled with white, black, and Indian soldiers appeared, moving slowly one after the other. As usual the workers lined up on both sides, and the usual voices were heard: “Welcome Johnny,” “Welcome Indian,” “English good,” “Germany no good.” The laughter of the soldiers could be heard through the open windows and doors. That night the soldiers threw the workers many cans of tuna, corned beef, cheese, and cartons of chocolate, tea, and cookies. The workers were now running back and forth alongside the trains. Magd al-Din was content with what the soldiers threw to him, so he did not run. Neither did Dimyan, who was watching Hamza, whose short stature made him look comical as he approached the steps of the train cars and raised his arm to the soldier standing there, but not quite being able to reach to get the goodies, which forced the soldier to go down one step. Hamza took what he was given, then put it on the ground and quickly moved to follow another car and another soldier. Hamza knew that no one would touch anyone else’s loot and that, had it not been for the dark, they would have divvied it all up equally. Hamza was energetic that evening. Dimyan saw him reach out his hand to an African soldier who suddenly let go of the cookie carton and grabbed Hamza’s hand, and in one quick move lifted him on the steps of the car, then pushed him inside. Dimyan shouted, “Hamza,” but no one heard him. The trains passed, and the workers began to gather their loot, but Hamza’s remained on the ground. “I saw the African soldiers carry Hamza into the car,” Dimyan shouted. The workers laughed and al-Bayya said, “Hamza is an acrobat – he’ll defi-nitely get off the train near the house. Gather his things and take them to his house.” But Dimyan, who had moved closer to Magd al-Din, sensed something else, which Magd al-Din also understood but did not want to believe.

18

The hearts of the lovers have eyes that see

what others cannot.

al-Hallaj

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.

Pleasure, ephemeral, will take flight toward the horizon

Like a sylph making a hasty exit to the wings;

Each instant gnaws a piece of the delight

Given each man for all his life.

Three thousand six hundred times every hour, the second

Whispers: Remember! In an insect voice,

The Instant says: I am the Past,

I’ve sucked out your life with my loathsome proboscis!

……………….

Soon the hour will strike when.

Everything will tell you: Die, you old coward! It’s too late!”

She admired his performance and his recklessness, with his half-closed, perpetually sad eyes, his fragility in the midst of the great, green space, that very tender being who could be carried away like a feather in the wind, never to return. And yet it was to that same being that all the open space and all the greenery submitted. He was the master that the gods had made, not knowing that he would be rebellious, always aiming to play their role. That also would be the cause of his perennial anguish.

He reached out and held her hand, and she left her bag next to his and stood up. He leaned her against the trunk of the tree. Three egrets flew from the tree when he started kissing her neck, as she made faint gestures of resistance.

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m speaking about death today,” he said.

“Enough,” she said as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He had gotten used to her doing that, and she had gotten used to his backing down. She took his hand in hers as they walked along the edge of the field.

“I liked that a poet should write about a wall clock,” he said. “The poem is by Baudelaire and is called “L’Horloge.” I didn’t realize it’s tone was so dark until I had worked on it and I did not stop. Next time I’ll translate cheerful poems for you – I’ll translate crazy poems by Rimbaud and Verlaine.”

She did not say am thing. They walked in silence. A peasant, his wife, and two children emerged from a cottage and watched them in surprise; they had never seen anyone so clean, young, and beautiful.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t talk to them,” he said and gripped her hand. When they reached the peasant and his family he said, “May peace be upon you,” and they quickly replied, “And upon you peace, Please come in.”

He smiled and she smiled, and they headed back to the tree as the peasant and his family continued to watch them in surprise. The clear day and the gentle breeze had added to their glowing looks. They heard the peasant woman saying, “City folks are so pretty!” They laughed and hurried to the tree. They must have rowed a great distance, if the woman spoke of them as city folk. They had gone deep into the countryside, or so they thought. Rushdi raised his head toward the sky and looked at the sun overhead. He said to himself, “The clock, alwavs the clock,” and took her by the hand to the rowboat, still where they had left it. They sat facing each other, with the oars between them. He started rowing and as soon as he got to the middle of the canal, she placed her hands on his and said, “I’ll help you.”

She smiled and the world looked even more brilliantly beautiful. What happiness! Where did he get the courage that day the two schools had the contest, and how did his daring bring him to this point beyond reality? His body was shaking. He wanted to enter her to the point of no return. He needed to tear her up every which way, to lose himself completely in her, and she in him. Who would believe this was his first love experience? It began at an incredible speed, with an incredible girl in her simplicity, beauty, and religion. Who remembered religions now? She was laughing as the sun behind her lit the world around her delicate body. Next time, he would choose a spot farther away. He would not listen to her gentle appeal to stop as her body shook. He would go further.

“She is a beautiful girl with a magnificent neck who lets her hair drift languidly in the wine of her complexion. She walks like-kings and sits like sultans. Her eves invite humanity to explode, to dissolve in her open arms and her full breasts. The beauty of her flesh is a heavenly gift.”

“What did you say?”

“I was remembering some beautiful poetry. But unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I’ll get to see France.”

“I was making a lot of progress in French until you came along and slowed everything down.”

“Were you going to continue?”

“Yes. You’ve made me fall in love with France.”

“But unfortunately we won’t see it.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist. The war will surely end soon. We’ve got enough time.”

He fell silent for a moment then asked, “You really think so?”

She smiled and did not answer. In the distance, there were some sailboats coming toward them, filled with sacks and some southern sailors in their blue and gray gallabiyas.

“They make a long voyage from south to north,” he said.