Ibrahim Meguid - No One Sleeps in Alexandria

Magd al-Din could not laugh, nor could al-Safi al-Naim, whose face turned ashen with fear. He stopped playing his role as interpreter, but Bahadur ordered him to translate at once.

Actually al-Safi liked what Dimyan had said; he got some satisfaction out of it. After all, he was an Arab like Dimyan and Magd al-Din, and they all came from the Nile valley. That was why he translated precisely and slowly what Dimyan had said. The dark of the twilight was descending upon the desert as the night breeze was stirring. The moment al-Safi finished the translation, Bahadur’s hand was on his revolver. He stood up, hurling curses in Hindi at Dimyan, who had jumped up to flee the moment Bahadur got up. Shots rang out in the air behind Dimyan, but he was not hit. The dark helped him escape. Bahadur stood for a few moments fuming with rage, then roared in Hindi at the young soldiers and they all left. He looked askance as al-Safi and Magd al-Din, who in turn got up and moved away. As soon as they were at a safe distance they burst out in jubilant laughter.

What Dimyan did could have cost him his life. How easy it would have been for a bullet from Bahadur’s revolver to hit him! Shooting was going on all day long, trying out new arms, killing scorpions, snakes, and desert rats, or hunting foxes. Sometimes rifles went off, hunting birds that appeared suddenly in the sky. In addition to the sounds of gunshots were the noises made by the planes dashing off from time to time to bomb Alexandria or to return to their airfields in Tripoli and Benghazi, with anti-aircraft guns following them, going and coming. A bullet shot by an angry Indian would not make anyone pause. Who would pause at the killing of a worker at a small, almost deserted crossing in a tiny, Httle-known village that no one had ever heard of before? That was what Magd al-Din and Dimyan spoke about until midnight. Dimyan asked Mari Girgis to protect him from the wretched Indian Sikh and he pledged that if he did that he would himself burn frankincense at the martyr’s church in Ghayt al-Aynab, would light seven candles, and would stay for a week in the service of the church. He fell asleep only after he felt that Mari Girgis would grant him his request.

In the morning Magd al-Din asked him not to leave the house until he had seen Bahadur and tried to calm him down. At noon al-Safi al-Naim came to Magd al-Din in the wooden kiosk next to the crossing. He was smiling, and as soon as he got close to Magd al-Din he burst out laughing. He said that Bahadur had left with a battalion early in the morning to join an Indian division at the border where fierce fighting was taking place. Magd al-Din smiled in relief and felt his body sharing in his joy, so he could not stay put. He left al-Safi al-Naim and hurried to Dimyan to give him the good news. Dimyan was so overjoyed that he felt he was being lifted from the ground, but he stood scrutinising Magd al-Din. Had the love between him and the martyr grown so much that he would never let him down? He let two tears drop, and went out with Magd al-Din, ecstatic at seeing the desert — vast, white, beautiful, and brilliant — with a sky so purely blue, like a faraway sea, and the world expansive and without end.

At night several days later, as they both lay on their government-issue mattresses on the floor in a corner of the room, Dimyan said, “I’m longing for Alexandria, Sheikh Magd.”

In the morning, Dimyan had seen the sheep coming from a distance, with the little boy strolling in their midst and Brika walking behind them. She looked small, but as usual he thought that she would grow as she got closer. His heart started pounding. There she was, appearing after a long absence. He had thought seriously yesterday and the day before of going to her village himself. He even walked a long way south, but when he could see nothing in front of him except vast dunes in every direction, he feared getting lost. Quickly he returned, retracing his steps, and when the railway station loomed in the distance, he took a deep breath and thanked Jesus Christ, the Virgin, and Mari Girgis and all the martyrs and saints he could think of. He had almost forgotten that he had a pledge to fulfill. It was now time for him to forget Brika and to go to Alexandria to fulfill his pledge.

Yet Brika would not let go of him, appearing just at the time that he had decided to get used to forgetting her. But she was not getting bigger as she got closer. His heart kept pounding even more. When she got closer still, he realized that it was not Brika, and the gleam in his eye faded, as did the joy in his heart. He had thought of running to the house to bring as many of the gifts he used to give to Brika as he could. But he forgot about that. He saw Hilal from the door of his room, and he thought he was the rival he did not know, come out to see him and gloat at his misery. Magd al-Din was at home and Dimyan missed him. He wished he could rest his head on his chest like a little child.

As soon as the girl stopped with the sheep and her brother behind the station, he approached her and asked her about Brika. Laughing she said, “You’re Dimyan!”

“Who told you?”

“Brika. She loves you, and she asked me to give you greetings.”

This girl, who could not be more than ten years old, was talking with the matter-of-factness of an experienced female. What kind of people are these Bedouin, and what is the secret of their being so candid and straightforward?

“Where’s Brika?”

“She made a jlasa and got married to my cousin, a horseman who reads and writes and has a good head on his shoulders.”

He left her and walked to his house from which he brought as many gifts as he could.

“For me?” she asked.

“For you and Brika,” he said.

He went home and asked Magd al-Din to go to work in his stead. He lay down facing the wall, finding the room to be completely empty. After reaching forty a man yearned to be young again. He should have realized that and gotten over it in peace. Besides, could he have counted on this wretched love to succeed? Brika was a Muslim, and he a Christian. Even if Brika was Christian he still could not divorce his wife. Every way he looked at it, it was doomed to fail. He should not have laid his heart open. But that was what happened, anyway. The only thing he could do was to fulfill his pledge to his shepherd and comrade, Girgis the Martyr.

In the evening he asked Magd al-Din, “What happens if I go to Alexandria and don’t come back? Would anyone ask about me? I don’t think so. And you too, you can come with me. Us being here doesn’t make any sense. Mr. Spike no longer asks about us. The inspector who visits us every month hasn’t come in two months, The trains are few and far between. Hilal or any Indian, African, Australian, New Zealander, Egyptian, or English soldier can handle the crossing. Us being here is meaningless, it’s absurd, amid all these soldiers from all over the world.”

Magd al-Din could not get into the discussion with him. He was not used to Dimyan having this tone of despair. Something must have gone wrong in Dimyan’s mind, nothing less. But Magd al-Din started to think about their strange situation here and about his own situation, his being so late in seeing his son Shawqi, far away in the village. This was too much for a human to bear. But he said calmly, “You go, Dimyan, and don’t worry about it. I’ll wait for you until you come back.”