Short story by : Abdel Latif Moubarak
Egyptian writer
It was six o’clock in the morning when Albert opened the wooden shutters of his window overlooking Haret al-Yahud (the Jewish Quarter), a labyrinth of alleyways nestled within Cairo’s bustling El-Muski district. He breathed in the morning air, a familiar blend of incense wafting from nearby shops and the rich aroma of fresh ta’ameya (falafel) frying at “Am Abdo’s” cart on the corner.
Albert, a man in his late fifties with round spectacles and silver hair, could never see himself as anything other than a part of this city’s soil. His father and grandfather were buried here, and in this very house, he had learned to laugh in Egyptian slang and haggle with local merchants with easy warmth. To him, religion was never a wall; it was merely a small detail in a vast Egyptian identity that embraced everyone.
On Abdel Aziz Street sat Albert’s shop, dedicated to selling and repairing watches. A vintage wooden sign bore an elegant Arabic script: “The Honesty Watchmaker – Albert and Emad.”
Emad was his Muslim business partner and lifelong friend. They shared everything: their morning coffee, family secrets, and the shop’s ledgers. On Saturdays, Emad managed the shop alone so Albert could observe Shabbat. On Fridays, Albert closed up early to give Emad time to catch the congregational prayers. Neighbors passing by would call out, “Good morning, Khawaja Albert!” He would reply with a warm smile and a flawless Cairene accent, “Good morning, Si Mohammed, drop by tonight for some tea.”
Albert’s bond with his neighbors was not a matter of shared walls, but of interwoven souls. During the holy month of Ramadan, his wife Rachel would bake trays of minced-meat roqaq pastry to send to their neighbor, “Um Ahmed.” In return, Um Ahmed never baked her Eid cookies without setting aside a generous portion for Albert and his family, beautifully arranged in a decorated tin box.
Albert still remembered the eve of Yom Kippur the previous year, when a sudden illness prevented him from going to the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue on Adly Street. That night, the neighborhood men refused to leave him be. Sheikh Mustafa, the imam of the small local mosque, came to visit him along with the neighborhood doctor. They sat around his bed, joking and telling him to heal quickly because “the alley is dark without you.” It was moments like these that made Albert feel rooted in this earth like an ancient sycamore tree.
International politics soon began to cast a heavy shadow over the peaceful streets of Cairo. By the mid-1950s, the tone of the radio broadcasts changed. Strange, unfamiliar faces appeared in the alley, looking at Albert with glances he had never encountered before—glances heavy with suspicion and mistrust over geopolitical events that neither he, nor any ordinary Egyptian Jew, had a hand in.
Albert would sit in front of the large wooden radio, listening to the news with tears welling in his eyes. He felt a profound sense of injustice. He had never known any homeland but Egypt, and he had never sung any songs other than those of Sayed Darwish and Umm Kulthum. One evening, he whispered to his wife, “Rachel, people are forgetting that we are the children of this country. They are starting to see us as strangers… How can we be strangers when we have a story in every corner of this city?”
The day came when his cousin Youssef, who lived in Alexandria, arrived at his doorstep. Youssef carried packed suitcases and a face marked by terror. He told Albert in a stark, definitive tone, “It’s over, Albert… Businesses are being seized, passports are being revoked, we are no longer safe here. We must leave; there are ships departing for Europe.”
The weight of those words hit Albert like a lightning bolt. He felt the walls of his home closing in on him. At first, he refused categorically, shouting with a choked voice, “I am not leaving my house! Where would I go? My language is Arabic, my laughter is Egyptian, and the bones of my ancestors rest in El-Basatin cemetery! I will die here, but I will not leave.” But Rachel burst into tears, pointing to their young children who were now facing constant harassment at school. Albert realized, with a breaking heart, that staying had become impossible.
The night before their departure, Albert did not sleep for a single second. Under the cover of darkness, he walked down to his shop on Abdel Aziz Street, not wanting Emad to see him packing. He unlocked the door and looked at the watches hanging on the walls; their hands seemed to have stopped ticking entirely.
He gathered his precision tools and a magnifying loupe that his father had gifted him, slipping them into his coat pocket. He left a letter on the desk for his partner Emad, his tears blurring the fresh ink: “My brother and my life, Emad… I leave you the shop, and with it, I leave you my soul. I did not want to go, but the wave is higher than both of us. Remember me whenever a clock strikes the hour in this shop.” He slid the key under the door and walked through the deserted streets, listening to his footsteps on the asphalt as if they were a final goodbye.
The sun of their final day rose. The three wooden suitcases stood near the door like coffins. Um Ahmed, their neighbor, arrived weeping bitterly and held Rachel in a tight embrace. Sheikh Mustafa stood on the threshold, clutching Albert’s shawl with eyes reddened from crying: “You will leave a void that no one can fill, Khawaja Albert… Forgive us if we ever fell short.”
Albert’s voice caught in his throat; he couldn’t utter a word. He simply squeezed Sheikh Mustafa’s hand tightly. They climbed into the black-and-white taxi heading to the railway station for Alexandria, where the ship awaited them. Throughout the entire journey, Albert remained glued to the window, his eyes devouring the streets of Cairo: the shop fronts, the cinema billboards, the hibiscus vendors, the Nile flowing like a vital artery… He was bidding farewell to every inch as if tearing away a piece of his own flesh.
The train arrived in Alexandria, and the salty sea air whipped their faces, but it could not wash away Albert’s grief. On the platform, crowds of departing emigrants hustled—pale faces that looked just like his, marked by the same emotional collapse. They were Egyptian Jews, Italians, Greeks… all bound by a single destiny: a sudden uprooting from a land that had nurtured them for generations.
Through the crowd, Albert caught sight of a man running breathlessly, shouting his name: “Albert!.. Albert!” It was Emad. He had traveled all the way from Cairo, heedless of the exhaustion. The two friends threw themselves into each other’s arms amid the stares of passersby, weeping like young children. Emad pulled a small, knotted piece of cloth from his pocket and said, “Take this with you… It is soil from our alley. I put it in this pouch so you can breathe the scent of Egypt wherever you go.” Albert found no words; he placed the pouch into his coat pocket, directly over his heart.
Albert and his family boarded the massive ship bound for Marseille. He stood on the deck, gripping the iron railing. The ship began to move slowly, emitting a deep, melancholy whistle that echoed through the port like a cry of pain.
The outlines of Alexandria began to recede: the harbor lighthouse, the Qaitbay Citadel, the ancient city’s promenade. The other emigrants looked toward the western horizon toward Europe, but Albert kept his body turned west while his eyes remained fixed on the east, on the south… toward the Egypt that was gradually dissolving into the sea mist. He felt an intense chill in his limbs and the heavy certainty that a massive part of his identity had dropped into the waters of the Mediterranean, never to be recovered.
Many years passed. Albert now lived in a small apartment on the outskirts of Paris. He had opened a tiny watch repair shop, but he never learned how to smile at French customers the way he used to smile in El-Muski. His French was broken, and his soul continued to speak Arabic.
Every night before sleeping, Albert would open a small velvet box, pull out the cloth pouch Emad had given him, inhale the scent of the dry earth, and listen to the ticking of an old pocket watch he had brought from Cairo. To him, that ticking sounded exactly like the heartbeat of the city he had left behind. Albert died in exile, consumed by nostalgia, but he left a final promise for his children: “If times change, take this soil and return it to the alley… Only then can my soul finally rest.”
