Текст книги "No One Sleeps in Alexandria"

Автор книги: Ibrahim Abdel Meguid

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

9

A city becomes a world

when one loves one of its inhabitants.

Lawrence Durrell

During the feast at the end of Ramadan, Magd al-Din found out for sure that he had lost his land. His brother-in-law visited him and learned of Bahi’s death. Magd al-Din told him to spare his mother the trouble of coming to visit her son’s tomb or better still, not to tell her at all. His brother-in-law told him about a project for an expressway that would go through the village and many people’s property, including Magd al-Din’s, and that no one could expect adequate compensation, and the mayor was behind the project. Magd al-Din remembered Bahi telling him to kiss his land good-bye and was silent for a long time, until he heard his cousin and brother-in-law say, “Emergency laws are in effect. The mayor can banish anyone – he can kill anyone, too. The emergency laws give him the right to do whatever he wants. May God protect the country and the people.”

So Magd al-Din can easily be killed. That is what his brother-in-law is suggesting.

“Anyway, if you happen to get any compensation, please send it to me.”

His brother-in-law gave him twenty pounds, his share of the year’s crop. Magd al-Din realized that that was the last money he would ever see for his land. He also realized that he had to stay in Alexandria for good.

Alexandria was getting colder. Rain had fallen off and on for several nights in a row. The alleys and streets south of the city had become muddy. Zahra did not know how she would spend the feast days in her new city. Camilla and Yvonne promised to take her on a boat ride on the Mahmudiya canal and then to visit the zoo, but Zahra said she could not do that. Sitt Maryam said she would take her to the fish market in the afternoon before the feast to buy fish, and that the fish of Alexandria were irresistible. Zahra agreed to go out with her, especially since Magd al-Din had told her to celebrate the feast as if she were still in their home village, that grief was not called for, was useless even. He used to buy the traditional nuts and raisins from Tanta. This year he bought very little, less than he used to, from the square. Zahra needed to get out of the house one more time. True, her life at home passed quietly, and the two beautiful girls gladdened her heart with their beautiful spirits, as did Sitt Lula with her shapely figure, overpowering beauty, and merry character. But that was not enough. In the village she used to go out with Magd al-Din or by herself in the sun and the breeze in the fields, or into the shade in the heat of the day. Her feet were crying out for a walk, and her body ached for fresh air.

She took the Abu Warda streetcar with Sitt Maryam. They got off at the end of the line and walked a little on Tatwig Street up to the coast. In front of them was the king’s white palace with many windows and the tall palm trees swaying with the wind and the guards with arms at the ready. A few men and many women, their plump bodies wrapped tightly in shawls, were walking along. A few Citroen and Packard cars had stopped with the people in front of the fish market. The fresh smell of the sea dispelled the fishy odor and filled their lungs with a refreshing breeze. The air was cold; dark clouds hung over the sea as the sound of the waves, which they could not see beyond the market and the police station, reached their ears. In front of the fish market, the vendors sat on the sidewalk or stood in their black or white vests and loose Alexandrian pants, also black or white, with hand-woven round, white rimmed hats. On the low tables were fantastic displays of fish in many varieties and colors ranging from silver to white, red, gray, and black. Sitt Maryam pointed to one type of fish and said it was called pigeon fish – big-bellied red fish that she said was not good, but that the poor bought to make fish soup. Zahra shied away from it; she did not want to be poor and buy it, in spite of its beautiful color. Red snapper was more beautiful and better. She bought some of that. She also bought some striped mullet. Meanwhile, Sitt Maryam was explaining to her the different kinds of fish and what they were good for. Of a particularly small fish she said that even though it was very cheap, it could be used in a delicious stew, which she would teach her how to cook, and would also teach her how to make fish casseroles with red rice. For some inexplicable reason Zahra suddenly thought of the statue of Muhammad Ali on his horse in Manshiya and whether it would be possible for him to get off the pedestal and take her and Magd al-Din back to her village. Sitt Maryam must have guessed that Zahra had been preoccupied for a few moments, so she offered, “How about a little walk on the corniche? It’s still too early for sunset.”

“The fish will go bad.”

“It’s cold and the fish is fresh.”

Zahra walked like a little child following her mother.

During the feast, Magd al-Din realized that he had lost his land and that he had to stay in Alexandria. As soon as his brother-in-law left, he felt he had to get out of the house. It was not enough to visit Bahi’s tomb and distribute alms. He had no work during the feast; none of the temporary workers had. He wished that Dimyan would visit him. On the morning of the last day of the feast, Dimyan did visit him, and just in time, as he was at his wit’s end. He did not know anywhere to go in Alexandria farther than the Mahmudiya canal and the tombs in Karmuz.

“How about giving your wife a chance to visit with the neighbors and coming with me?” Dimyan said as soon as he sat down, and Magd al-Din agreed without hesitation. He noticed that Dimyan was now wearing shoes, had been wearing a new pair for a week, and this time he had on clean woolen trousers and an old, but clean, wool jacket.

“We’ve been working for a month now,” Dimyan said to Magd al-Din. “1 bought new shoes in the hope that I’ll keep my job. But rolling those bales is hard work, Sheikh Magd, and I’m skinny.”

“You’ll get used to it, Dimyan. Hang in there until we find better work.”

“I also bought the shoes in the hope that I’ll find a better job, but I don’t know what kind of work is better than what we’re doing.”

Magd al-Din laughed quietly, then went out with his friend to take the streetcar. They walked through the hubbub of the children on Ban Street, with their bright new clothes and colorful bicycles, which they dragged with difficulty on the unpaved street, and through groups of children gathered around vendors of balloons, candy, and, despite the cold weather, ice cream.

At the streetcar roundabout at Sidi Karim, where the road was paved, there were more children and even greater noise. Magd al-Din and Dimyan got on the streetcar.

The parade of children was uninterrupted even by the streetcar, which was moving slowly. They looked like joyous, colorful little birds. Magd al-Din and Dimyan got off at Khedive Street, where most of the stores were closed. They turned into Station Square.

A military band in the middle of the park was playing the songs of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab and Umm Kulthum, surrounded by crowds of children, young people, visitors from the countryside, and inhabitants of the city.

“Watch out for the thieves in the crowds,” Dimyan said to Magd al-Din, as they approached the audience. They stood there for a whole hour without feeling the passage of time. Magd al-Din had not thought that music could transport a man to such heights. They walked away in silence, as if they had just finished saying their prayers. The circle around a juggler enticed them to stop.

“Here thievery is very real. Half the people standing here are thieves the juggler knows,” said Dimyan.

“I have fifty piasters in my pocket. They can steal it if they like,” said Magd al-Din.

“You’re smart, Sheikh Magd. But I am smarter,” Dimyan replied with a smile. “I have nothing in my pocket.”

They burst out laughing and pressed into the circle.

In the middle was a man in his fifties wearing tight old trousers and a tight jacket under which he wore a white turtleneck. He had on a pair of cheap black shoes that were too big for him and had no laces. It looked as though he had never polished them. The shoes looked even bigger because his trouser legs were tight and slightly too short, and his legs were thin. The socks rested on top of the shoes.

“Look – it’s Charlie Chaplin’s shoes, and his mustache too,” Dimyan said excitedly. The man had Chaplin’s mustache, which was still black. Magd al-Din did not know who Charlie Chaplin was.

“Been to the movies yet?” asked Dimyan.

“No.”

“One of these days, I’ll take you to see one of Charlie Chaplin’s films.”

The juggler was explaining what he was about to do, the miracle that no magician in the world had done, not even the infidel Houdini. No one knew who this Houdini was. The juggler said that he would use a person as a water pump, and would make water come out of his mouth and nose. He motioned to a barefoot peasant with disheveled hair and a dirty gallabiya to approach, which he did. He told him to bend over and he did. When the peasant raised his head a little from his bent-over position, the juggler rebuked him, telling him not to do it again or he would obstruct the flow of the water: “The water doesn’t go up, jackass!” The audience laughed. The juggler stood right behind the peasant’s rear end and began to operate an imaginary pump with his hand, as everyone watched in silence. Suddenly the bent-over man spread open his hands under his mouth and water poured out on his palms. He got up, choking and coughing, as the juggler hit him hard on the back to help him breathe. The juggler then went cheerfully around the circle among the spectators, who were laughing in surprise. “Did you see this great act?” he proclaimed. “I challenge any magician, I challenge Hitler himself, that same Hitler who’ll teach the English to behave and who’ll do bad things to them, I mean—”

The audience laughed louder after he said the obscene word. He had a small tambourine in his hand that he used to collect the piasters and pennies that the spectators were giving him. The peasant who had taken part in the show had gone back to the audience. Then the juggler began to speak of another trick that he would perform. But Dimyan shouted to him to do the pump trick again. It seemed that the juggler did not hear him or that he ignored him, so Dimyan continued to shout, requesting that he do the trick again, and several others joined him.

The juggler stood with a confused look on his face. He had taken out some ribbons with different colors from a cloth bag on the ground, so he returned them to the bag and looked at Dimyan defiantly. “You want the pump? Okay, come on over.”

Dimyan had followed with his eyes the man who had taken part in the show and saw that he had moved away and disappeared. He let himself be led by the juggler, who said to the audience, “If no water comes out, it’s because he’s stuck up.”

The audience burst out laughing and Dimyan was annoyed. Some members of the audience kept shouting, reassuring him that water would come out. The juggler told him to bend over, using an obscene word, and Dimyan complied, realizing for a moment how wrong the whole thing was. He had wanted to embarrass the poor juggler in front of the people. But he was not as smart as the juggler, and perhaps the latter would make him the laughingstock. But he did not back down. He bent over, and the juggler moved back a little, pretending to examine the middle of Dimyan’s buttocks closely as the audience laughed. Then the juggler began turning his index finger in the air in front of Dimyan’s buttocks, and the audience laughed more. The juggler kept saying, “We’ve got to clean it out,” and each time, the audience laughed. Blood was now rising in Dimyan’s face, and Magd al-Din felt sorry for his friend for putting himself in such a situation.

“Here goes!” shouted the juggler and turned the imaginary-arm of the pump but no water came out of Dimyan’s mouth.

“Wait for the surprise,” the juggler went on. “No despair with life, in the immortal words of the great Saad Zaghloul!”

Then he backed down a little and kicked Dimyan in the buttocks as hard as he could, making him fall to the ground on his stomach, his face almost hitting the ground, had he not leaned on his arms.

The juggler stood back, saying to the audience, “His pump’s empty – it gave the jinn a hard time for nothing. That’s why I hit him in it.”

As the audience laughed boisterously, Magd al-Din stepped forward to help Dimyan up, but Dimyan suddenly leapt on the juggler’s back, sitting on it in such a way that the man was forced to stoop. Dimyan rained blows on the back of the man’s neck, then jumped off and stood waiting for a fight. But the juggler looked at him, then ran and gathered his pile of things in his cloth bag and ran away.

The money that he had collected was scattered every-where, and everyone in the audience, young and old alike, rushed to pick it up. Magd al-Din and Dimyan left in silence, turning into Nabi Danyal Street toward Raml Station. After they had moved far enough away, Magd al-Din could not help asking Dimyan, “What did you do that for? We all know that the juggler’s a trickster, but it’s a show and a livelihood for him.”

“I don’t really know why I did it, Sheikh Magd. I only meant to have some fun with him.”

Magd al-Din had never seen the world as colorful as it was that day. In the village, the feast also had children playing games, watching puppet shows, and engaged in other distractions. In the village, children’s clothes were also new, but something there always made them appear old, perhaps because of bad fabrics and poor designs. Certainly the dull colors of the houses there and the dust kicked up by the donkeys that the children rode had something to do with making things appear older than they were. He did not want to remember the village now, anyway – let Alexandria take him to her heart. The open space here was whiter than Ghayt al-Aynab; the expansive blue sea inspired a feeling of serenity and rest. The clouds had left the city today, the wind calmed, and people were told to go out and have a good time.

“Battleships all the way to Bahari and Maks – English, French, Australian, and otherwise,” said Dimyan to Magd al-Din when he saw him staring at the eastern harbor in the distance, and the military ships that filled it, with their foreign flags and big and small cannonry on board, and a few soldiers moving on the decks. Next to the ships, their shadows moved, up and down with the movement of the waves. Could Hitler actually make it all the way to Alexandria? Everything around Magd al-Din seemed to suggest that, ever since he had arrived. It was noon, and the statue of Saad Zaghloul loomed tall and awe-inspiring as he looked at the sea, pointing downwards. In the park below him, the children were having fun, and young men and women were sitting in peace. It was a splendid autumn day on which the rain-keeper kept the rain away from the happy people.

“Those are Australian soldiers.”

Magd al-Din was looking at a number of tall soldiers with blue berets.

“They speak English like the English soldiers, but they’re taller,” Dimyan continued. “If you see two soldiers together, the taller one is usually the Australian. Their country is big.”

Magd al-Din wanted to tease his friend. “What good would it do me to tell the Australian from the English?”

Dimyan looked at him for a moment, then smiled and replied, “True. What good would it do you or me? Perhaps just speaking about things has uses that we don’t know.”

They laughed and kept walking. As they passed some African and Indian soldiers, Dimyan said, “Soldiers from all over the world. The Africans have little tails – everybody says that. The Indians are so full of themselves, they walk like they’re lords of their own manor. You know something? I wish I could go up behind one of them, slap him on the back of the neck, and run.”

“These are poor men, Dimyan. They left their countries against their will, and none of them know whether they’ll go home or not.”

Dimyan fell silent, truly touched. A number of English soldiers appeared on the corniche, and a few of them were women. Some of the men had put their arms around the women, and some kissed quickly as they walked. Out of nowhere, many horse-drawn carriages appeared from behind, engaged in a mad race, carrying local lovers, foreign lovers, and drunken soldiers, both men and women. The pedestrians tipped their hats and berets to the riders, and the air filled with boisterous revelry.

“We are now in Manshiya. This is the statue of Ismail Pasha,” said Dimyan, pointing to its semicircular pedestal. “Ismail Pasha is King Farouk’s grandfather, or his relative, anyway. He was the one who built the Ismail Maternity Hospital. They say he’s the one who built the city of Ismailiya, that he was the one who first moved to educate girls.”

Magd al-Din did not need to hear anyone talking, but he let Dimyan continue. He really wanted to drink in the light, the refreshing breeze, and the water of the sea. He felt his chest expanding, and his spirit revived. He would postpone the noon prayers until mid-afternoon, or even wait until he went home at sunset. Dimyan had told him that they would walk to Anfushi, and he was happy for that. Dimyan must have sensed his friend’s secret desire and stopped talking. They walked in silence.

When it had rained during Ramadan, some streets, as well as the untiled sidewalks, became muddy. In the early morning, people going to work and students going to school walked as close as possible to the walls. At the Sidi Karim roundabout, Magd al-Din saw the water collecting near the sidewalks; it was so high people had to wade through to cross the roundabout or to reach the streetcar. The road there was paved, but it lay at the bottom of the slope that began at Raghib Bridge. The narrow sewers could not handle all the water.

Magd al-Din saw three barefoot young men standing on the sidewalk, their pant legs rolled up to their knees, wearing old, tight pullovers torn at the elbows and shoulders. For two pennies per person, they were offering to carry pedestrians from one sidewalk to the other or to the streetcar stop. Some pedestrians had placed a row of stones, a sort of bridge to cross the street, but the three young men removed the stones so that they were the only bridge. The women and girls had to walk all the way to Raghib Bridge and cross at the other side, where there was barely any water, then go back to the streetcar stop.

One of these young men was Hamidu, the only son of the woman who sold vegetables at the entrance of the house opposite Dimitri’s, and who had an amazing story to tell Zahra every time she bought anything from her. Hamidu had a long scar on his cheek and looked quite strong. After finishing this odd work, he would lug his shoeshine box and tools on his shoulder and head for the public squares or the cafés. Hamidu’s hair was always disheveled, giving the impression at first that he was crazy. He never talked to anyone on the street and was never seen without his shoe brush in one hand and in the other a falafel sandwich, which he would wolf down part way, then place whatever was left of it in the first crack in the wall that he came across.

Magd al-Din saw Hamidu carrying people across the street for a few pennies and asked Dimyan whether this strange kind of work was common in Alexandria. Dimyan told him that only happened on the hungriest days.

Hamidu’s image haunted Magd al-Din as he walked with Dimyan along the coast in Bahari and Anfushi. The wind made the tops of the tall, elegant Indian palm trees sway, their lush green fronds waving in front of the baroque balconies and facades of the old apartment buildings. The air here had the taste of cool, fresh water; the corniche curved gently, and the small fishing boats rested on the shore, nets piled high or stretched out, and no fishermen in sight. Today was the feast, and God was watching over everything and everyone.

Magd al-Din looked at the crowd of young men and women, taking in the refreshing smell of the sea and the grass, the sight of the vendors of peanuts, seeds, and roasted sweet potatoes. The horse-drawn carriages that had been going so fast were still speeding along, carrying lovers to the vendors of fried fish and shrimp, clams, and crabs. Magd al-Din decided that the whole scene did not suit him. How could he, a pious sheikh, be a witness to all these displays of love, coquetry, and mischief? So he asked Dimyan if they could go back as soon as possible, since the mid-afternoon prayer time was approaching, and in the winter, the time between that and the sunset prayer passed in the twinkling of an eye.

“We need a glass of tea in some café,” Dimyan said. “What do you think?” Magd al-Din thought sitting at a café was more proper than being in the midst of all the revelry.

Dimyan took him away from the coast, and away from Tatwig Street, busy with the streetcar, decorated stores, and children running in every direction.

He must have sensed what was bothering his friend. In no time at all, they found themselves in Manshiya, which opened up before them, dazzling light pouring through the spaces between its broad, low buildings with capacious balconies and wrought-iron railings. Most of the stores were closed because of the feast, but restaurants and bazaars were open for business, as were the money changers on the sidewalk, their glass counters filled with coins and banknotes from all over the world. Despite the feast, many of them were busy at work, always wearing their eyepieces. The statue of Muhammad Ali stood high in the middle of the square. Magd al-Din and Dimyan sat down at the Nile Café.

“This is the brokers’ café,” Dimyan told his friend. “The stock exchange is right in front of you.” He pointed to the middle of the square, where there stood a splendid white building with long, high windows and an imposing balcony. “And this,” he added, “is Tawfiq Street. The exchange is closed today. How many homes it has supported and how many it has ruined!”

Magd al-Din pondered briefly what Dimyan said, his eyes involuntarily scanning the patrons, staring at their prosperous faces and thick white or dark glasses with golden frames. Those who did not wear glasses seemed to be focusing on something not quite there. A strong smell of tobacco smoke filled the air. Magd al-Din lit a cigarette and rolled another for Dimyan. He saw Hamidu come into the café carrying his shoeshine box. He watched him stand there studying the patrons, tapping the box lightly, then quickly go over to an English officer in military uniform who had taken off his green woolen cap and placed it on the table. The officer, about thirty years old, had a strong, ruddy complexion.

Hamidu sat in front of the man and, placing the officer’s feet on his little stool, began to shine the black boots with white buckles. The officer was busy reading a foreign newspaper.

Magd al-Din did not take his eyes off Hamidu. As he watched him, he finished shining the boots, then started feeling them with his fingers. Magd al-Din did not know what exactly Hamidu was doing. Then Hamidu pulled the little stool from under the man’s feet and lowered them gently onto the floor and stood up. Magd al-Din saw clearly that the officer gave Hamidu a one-pound note. Hamidu took it, then reached out and took the officer’s baton, which the officer had placed on the table. The officer looked very puzzled, and before he could speak or protest, Hamidu had run away with the baton and the pound. The officer tried to overtake him; he got up, but as soon as he tried to move, he came crashing down, almost breaking his head and injuring his face. Luckily for him, there were several chairs in front of his, which helped break his fall, so he did not hit his face. He ended up on his back on the floor, writhing in pain and raising his head trying to see his feet. When Hamidu was feeling his boots, he had been tying the laces together – that was why he had lowered the officer’s feet gently to the floor. There was a commotion in the café. An English officer stood up and took his gun out of its holster. An Indian soldier stood, befuddled, watching Hamidu run away on Tawfiq Street. The café patrons laughed for a moment, then were silent again out of pity for the young officer lying on the floor in pain. The waiter then quickly went over to him, untied his shoelaces, and helped him up to his scat. All the patrons were now looking on in silence, awaiting his reaction. The officer, too, was silent, then in broken Arabic he swore, “Bastard!”

Everyone laughed, and he got up and left the café in embarrassment.

The last few days of the year passed quickly. Rain came down hard, almost flooding the city – which during the winter suffered torrential rain for days and days, then the rain would stop for several days, then it would rain again nonstop, and sometimes the rain changed to hail. Work opportunities were now scarce. The textile mill laid off Magd al-Din and Dimyan, and once again they had to go job hunting every day. The ships arriving in Mahmudiya Canal were few and far between. Sitt Maryam had told Zahra that during the last few weeks of the year, Alexandria suffered successive, almost continuous storms, until Epiphany, and then the storms would increase in frequency and fierceness in the following month, the last of the year. Camilla said, laughing, that the thunder was going to sound like bombs and would shake the houses, and lightning would dazzle the eyes. Zahra looked at her admiringly as she added that the best thing to see in Alexandria was the coastal road, the corniche, in the winter when the waves rushed in and crossed the street, crashing against the apartment buildings. She said the winter weather had prevented her from going to see Abd al-Wahhab’s new film, Long Live Love. The dark, cold, and rain made Amm Mahmud, vendor of the crime sheets, appear only rarely. News of crimes and scandals, however, still circulated among the people, who learned, for instance, about the young man killed by his colleague at night in the Labban neighborhood, and another young man whose body was found in a closed kiosk in the Farahda neighborhood. They found out about the second incident of a woman marrying a man while still married to another, and the man who had killed his own father a long time before, and on the day of whose execution the black flag flew above the Hadra prison.

On the clear days when he did not work, Magd al-Din was now spending most of his time at the café by the bridge. Dimyan, who kept him company most of the time, would ask him to read the paper out loud, even though he frequently expressed surprise that Magd al-Din kept buying the paper whenever he was not working. “How can you pay five pennies for useless words and lies?” he would ask. Magd al-Din had grown fond of knowing what was going on in the world. He only read the big headlines about the state of war in the world, then the crime section and the obituaries. Why? He did not know.

Hitler had liquidated his enemies in the German aristocracy and the remnants of the empire, as well as all who opposed him after the incident in Munich. The Italian legation celebrated the birthday of King Victor Emanuel III. The Egyptian government banned trade in cigarette butts, which was common among street children, who collected the butts in cafés and clubs, and on public transport vehicles and in the stations. They collected them as quickly as sparrows collected grain and then sold them to poor peoples’ smoke shops. The sly fox Mr. Churchill, first lord of the admiralty, gave a speech in which he talked of the Allies’ losses at sea over the ten weeks since the outbreak of the war and how England would not be intimidated by threats. The Wafd party leaders visited the tomb of Saad Zaghloul on National Struggle Day, which the government did not observe. Al-Ahli Cinema screened Ali al-Kassar’s film Lend Me Three Pounds. New camps were established to train the Territorial Army, which paraded before the minister of religious endowments at camps in Sidi Bishr and Damanhur. Despite the cold weather, the troops paraded in khaki shorts secured by wide suspenders and short-sleeved khaki pullovers over long-sleeved khaki shirts, with caps on their heads, and long Enfield rifles on their shoulders. The Monsignor nightclub opened the winter season by playing Argentinean music and Spanish songs. Forms were distributed to inhabitants of Karmuz, Mina al-Basal, and Gumruk to determine whether or not they wanted to be evacuated from Alexandria if the war reached it and where they would like to be evacuated to. No such forms were distributed in the poorer Ghayt al-Aynab neighborhood, which was part of Karmuz, even though it was separated from it by the Mahmudiya canal. The king inaugurated the new session of Parliament. A bullet discharged by a soldier’s gun killed an officer on guard duty in front of the governorate building. The officer’s funeral was marked by an official procession, then he was sent to his village of Quwaysna, where he received another official funeral procession. The soldier was executed. The lawyer in Alexandria had appealed the sentence, since the court had not given the soldier sufficient opportunity to defend himself, even though he had insisted that his rifle discharged accidentally. The black flag flew over Hadra prison for the second time in less than a month.

The Dutch steamer Simon Bolivar was sunk, and war with Germany loomed on the horizon. The appeal for peace made by the king of Belgium and the queen of the Netherlands failed. It was announced that Britain was now spending six million pounds a day on the war. Poland was now in total ruin, and Jews there were gathered in one neighborhood surrounded by barbed wire. No sooner had December dawned than news came of the Russian attack on Finland. German mines were sinking more and more of the Allies’ ships. The world was taken aback by the viciousness of the Russian attack and the aerial bombing of Helsinki. English cruisers had laid out a plan to sink the fearsome German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee. The cruisers Achilles and Exeter baited it in a battle that people followed every day. It was a bloody match between wolves that went on for a few days, after which the Graf Spee entered the port of Montevideo in neutral Uruguay. The two cruisers lay in wait for it just outside the territorial waters. What was Graf Spee going to do, and how would it break out of this blockade? There were casualties on the pocket battleship, as well as British prisoners of war that the Graf Spee had picked up after their ships had sunk, but now it could not make it to the Atlantic. Its captain was ordered to scuttle his ship outside the territorial waters. The captain and his crew sank the ship in front of spectators who had come from all over to Montevideo to watch the deadly battle and record it. Laurel and Hardy got back together, and their many fans were happy. A British army car struck an Egyptian citizen on Maks Street, killing him instantly. No next of kin was found. A certain Muhammad Musa threw himself out of a window in the government hospital and died. No one knew whether he had been killed, committed suicide, or was overcome with hysteria. Fighting between Russia and Finland continued, and the Finnish army stood its ground and scored surprising victories. The Graf Spee captain Hans Langsdorff committed suicide. He had held a press conference in which he told the journalists that he had nothing to offer them, but that on the following day he was going to give them something big; he kept his word and gave them his suicide. Hitler threatened that he would wipe out England by sending out a thousand planes every day. In the Far East, the war between China and Japan flared up, and the whole planet appeared to be one big fireball, on an unknown part of which Magd al-Din, Dimyan, and dozens like them were looking desperately for work. Magd al-Din was puzzled by that half-crazy young man whom he always saw appear out of nowhere near him at the doors of companies, or hurrying alongside him from place to place. No one ever gave him any work. Magd al-Din got used to his twang, and always took pity on him and more than once gave him a five-piaster piece. Occasionally, Magd al-Din would see the young man following him, until he would enter a café and sit down, whereupon the young man would go into the café too and sit at a distance, looking at Magd al-Din with his mouth open. Magd al-Din would then order him a glass of hot tea. Dimyan would say, “This is your jinn brother, Magd al-Din, who came out from underground.” Magd al-Din would look at the idiot boy and see him as one of God’s little children, lost but also blessed. Who could know?