before them who sat silently, their faces veiled.
“We’ll get off at Attarin,” Sitt Maryam told her. “This streetcar goes around in a circle, from here to Attarin, then Abd al-Munim Street, then Istanbul Street, and Safiya Zaghloul and the Chamber of Commerce, then Manshiya and Bahari from Tatwig street, and comes all the way back with the same ticket—something of a joy ride.”
Zahra did not say anything. She could not understand how anyone could spend all that time on the streetcar. It seemed to her that women here had no work to do. She smiled. The streetcar moved and she was taken aback for a moment, her heart beating fast. How could she have left the house without her husband’s permission? How could she have left her baby daughter with people she had just met for the first time? Was it enough that Bahi said they were good people? And since when did Bahi say anything useful? But she could not go back. The vast white space captivated her eyes, and she gave in to it. Where was this city taking her?
She let herself study the two- and three-story homes, with their narrow doors opening onto silent courtyards. The old facades hadbalconies on which a few items of wash hung haphazardly to dry. A few stores had opened their doors. She noticed that Sitt Maryam paid the conductor a half-piaster coin and took back a millieme and two tickets. Sitt Maryam saw her looking at the broad window of a store where the streetcar had stopped, a window displaying pots and pans and beautiful china and glassware. She told her these were Ahmad Ibrahim’s stores, the most popular stores in Karmuz and Raghib, and that they could buy whatever Zahra needed on their way back from getting the furniture.
Zahra found herself adjusting to the slow flow of movement around her in the street, and to passengers getting on and off the streetcar. Suddenly, though, she was overcome by a strange smell, and they were in the middle of a street crowded with butcher shops, with carts piled high with cow, water buffalo, and sheep feet and heads and organs, lined with stores displaying small slaughtered sheep with clear red stamps, and filled with a crowd of women wearing black body wraps.
“Let’s get off here. This is Bab Umar Pasha. We’ll cross Khedive Street and go into Attarin.
They got off. Zahra’s eyes could not settle on any one thing for long. A refreshing breeze in Khedive Street began to soothe her. She noticed that the first floors of the houses were predominantly dull. The stores in Attarin were now all open and showed long, deep interiors that looked like manufacturing shops. Zahra looked up several times at the balconies.
The houses here were huge, taller than any she had seen so far. The doors were wide and the spaces inside enormous, filled with cardboard boxes and other things she did not recognize. The balconies were beautiful, resting on supports shaped like animals—little lions, tigers, and rams. The balconies had railings of shiny, black and green wrought iron. A few women stood on the balconies hanging out laundry, while a few others sat in the sun. Many of them were old, with loose gray or henna-colored hair and flabby white arms that could be seen, bare, through the railings. Zahra smelled the water sprayed on the ground in front of the stores. In more than one small alley she saw small cafés in which one or two patrons sat smoking narghiles or reading the papers.
All at once, groups of beautiful young women appeared, laughing. They wore colorful tight pants and tight tops, and their faces were made up and their hair donc à la garçon. Zahra was astonished that women would cut their hair in this boyish style. Sitt Maryam noticed Zahra’s reaction and said, “Don’t worry about it.”
From inside one of the stores, Zahra heard someone comment, “Well, well, well! When are we going to become English?” Then she heard the young women laughing boisterously. One of them shot back, “When hell freezes over, buster!
“We’ll get off at Attarin,” Sitt Maryam told her. “This streetcar goes around in a circle, from here to Attarin, then Abd al-Munim Street, then Istanbul Street, and Safiya Zaghloul and the Chamber of Commerce, then Manshiya and Bahari from Tatwig street, and comes all the way back with the same ticket—something of a joy ride.”
Zahra did not say anything. She could not understand how anyone could spend all that time on the streetcar. It seemed to her that women here had no work to do. She smiled. The streetcar moved and she was taken aback for a moment, her heart beating fast. How could she have left the house without her husband’s permission? How could she have left her baby daughter with people she had just met for the first time? Was it enough that Bahi said they were good people? And since when did Bahi say anything useful? But she could not go back. The vast white space captivated her eyes, and she gave in to it. Where was this city taking her?
She let herself study the two- and three-story homes, with their narrow doors opening onto silent courtyards. The old facades hadbalconies on which a few items of wash hung haphazardly to dry. A few stores had opened their doors. She noticed that Sitt Maryam paid the conductor a half-piaster coin and took back a millieme and two tickets. Sitt Maryam saw her looking at the broad window of a store where the streetcar had stopped, a window displaying pots and pans and beautiful china and glassware. She told her these were Ahmad Ibrahim’s stores, the most popular stores in Karmuz and Raghib, and that they could buy whatever Zahra needed on their way back from getting the furniture.
Zahra found herself adjusting to the slow flow of movement around her in the street, and to passengers getting on and off the streetcar. Suddenly, though, she was overcome by a strange smell, and they were in the middle of a street crowded with butcher shops, with carts piled high with cow, water buffalo, and sheep feet and heads and organs, lined with stores displaying small slaughtered sheep with clear red stamps, and filled with a crowd of women wearing black body wraps.
“Let’s get off here. This is Bab Umar Pasha. We’ll cross Khedive Street and go into Attarin.
They got off. Zahra’s eyes could not settle on any one thing for long. A refreshing breeze in Khedive Street began to soothe her. She noticed that the first floors of the houses were predominantly dull. The stores in Attarin were now all open and showed long, deep interiors that looked like manufacturing shops. Zahra looked up several times at the balconies.
The houses here were huge, taller than any she had seen so far. The doors were wide and the spaces inside enormous, filled with cardboard boxes and other things she did not recognize. The balconies were beautiful, resting on supports shaped like animals—little lions, tigers, and rams. The balconies had railings of shiny, black and green wrought iron. A few women stood on the balconies hanging out laundry, while a few others sat in the sun. Many of them were old, with loose gray or henna-colored hair and flabby white arms that could be seen, bare, through the railings. Zahra smelled the water sprayed on the ground in front of the stores. In more than one small alley she saw small cafés in which one or two patrons sat smoking narghiles or reading the papers.
All at once, groups of beautiful young women appeared, laughing. They wore colorful tight pants and tight tops, and their faces were made up and their hair donc à la garçon. Zahra was astonished that women would cut their hair in this boyish style. Sitt Maryam noticed Zahra’s reaction and said, “Don’t worry about it.”
From inside one of the stores, Zahra heard someone comment, “Well, well, well! When are we going to become English?” Then she heard the young women laughing boisterously. One of them shot back, “When hell freezes over, buster!
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