Later, Hilal rummaged through his drawer for his journal and found the yellowed paper with the old headline: “Girl Makes Moon Disappear.” He decided to use part of his weekly salary to go to the Cirque de la Lune and see Qamar’s high-wire act in person.
Qamar had discovered, forty-eight hours after her parents’ death, that she must marry Omar, a family friend who would take over responsibility for her. This final blow had sickened her so much that she decided to present her show without a safety net. At first this made the circus ringleader Laurent’s stomach churn, but eventually it brought the show good publicity, so he let her do it. She walked the wire en pointe, performing flips and splits, pliés and twirls, all the while hoping to fall and break her neck. She never did. Suspecting it would take riskier moves for her death wish to come true, she incorporated a pigeon (a vulture) and a cat (a tiger) into her act. Hilal watched her from the front row, his heart drumming like a tattered tabla.
After the show, he followed her home. She knew he was trailing her, so she walked through strangers’ courtyards, under banana trees and their huge leaves, in and out of buildings, and hid behind jasmine-trellised walls, her heart beating hard until she lost him.
Once home, she sat out in the balcony and soaked her bloodied toes in ice water. The residence, over seventy years old, had balconies, each covered by a mashrabiyya. From her balcony, she could see Cleopatra Beach and a broken moon in the water, the obelisk in the middle of the nearby square—a leftover piece of history. Archaeologists had observed it the previous summer, and said the ancients placed it strategically so that it lined up with a constellation, like a finger pointing to the heavens.
Qamar’s bed was on the balcony; she moved there after her parents died. She began sleeping in a black nightgown, mourning them in her dreams.
Hilal believed she had the courage he lacked. That was why he thought he loved her. He would never be able to walk on the moon, but he formulated a plan. The President let him dabble with anything as long as it didn’t involve explosions. And that was fine with Hilal: his rocket didn’t need to explode.
On the night of the Mouled—the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday—Qamar, depressed, with only a few weeks of freedom remaining before her wedding, went out to join the festivities. That night, all of Alexandria was a circus; there were colorful celebrations on every major street. Sufi dancers in white robes twirled around in red-and-white calligraphy-covered tents—twelve dancers in all, weaving around themselves and in a circle, perfectly synchronized, like the planets.
Qamar remembered one Mouled in particular: her father took her to the pastry shop where they bought arouset el-Mouled, the traditional doll of the Mouled. The doll was made entirely of bright pink sugar and Qamar used to think that it looked like a ballerina. She had refused to eat her doll and kept it on her bookshelf. The next morning, she was horrified to find only part of the doll’s dress left, and even that was covered in small black ants busily chewing at its pretty pink skin. Qamar decided not to buy a Mouled doll this year. She visited the many tents and walked back and forth on the Corniche, finally stopping at the eastern harbor.
That was where Hilal saw her. He almost didn’t recognize her; she was wearing jeans, dirty sneakers, and two uneven braids that were partially covered by a deep-blue kerchief. He stood next to her and said that he used to fish the face of the moon. Then he asked if she’d been the nine-year-old girl from the newspapers. “That bitch Zeinab,” she said, and he got to hear the part of the story the newspapers didn’t print.
They walked along the ocean road, Qamar half-wishing Omar would see her with Hilal, assume she was a slut, and break off the engagement. Arriving at her building, they stood in front of the café at the bottom floor. Several older men sat out front, smoking honeyed tobacco out of old sheeshas and swapping stories. Hilal pointed at a small black-and-white television in the corner. When Qamar turned to the flickering screen, she saw Michael Jackson onstage wearing shiny gloves and doing the moonwalk.
“Kul sanna winti tayeba,” he said. “Merry Mouled.” He gave her a pink Mouled doll and she accepted it, figuring her ant story would be too complicated to tell.
Qamar went home, sat on the balcony, and ate the pink sugar doll. She began with the doll’s feet, then the legs, then devoured the torso in less than thirty seconds. The head took a little longer. Too full to eat the arms, Qamar flung them onto her nightstand and almost passed into a sugar coma. She got up and took all her clothes off, then looked out of the mashrabiyya and onto the street, where Hilal stood by the obelisk. She wondered if he could see her and reached over to her black nightgown, pausing a moment before slipping it on. Then she tumbled into bed and fell asleep at once.
Hilal did see her—the brown skin behind the wooden lattice partition. The moon shone its borrowed light through the screen and cast intricate shadows across her breasts, her belly, her legs. He felt as though he’d stolen something sweet, and after she disappeared, he walked home, feet bouncing off the asphalt.
The next day, the doll’s arms, intact, shone pink. Not an ant in sight.
Hilal began attending the Cirque de la Lune often enough to get in free. He was unaware that Qamar’s wedding day was fast approaching, and that this was the reason she now used a unicycle with two high wires in her act, jumping from one to the other. She still refused a safety net. One evening after the show, Hilal asked if she’d like to go to the Montazah—the public park at the northeast end of Alexandria that used to be King Farouk’s summer palace—popular romantic hangout.
“So you can tell me about the deer that used to wander around there and we can listen to how nice the waves crash and you’ll try to kiss me? Ah, no,” she said nervously in one breath.
“What would you rather do?” Hilal said, looking over at an old man fanning corn over coals on a straw crate.
“I almost broke my neck, and I’m still in ballet slippers. I’ll give you one guess.”
“You want to go home and go to sleep. I understand. Good night,” he said, flagging down an orange-and-black taxi.
Qamar made a loud buzzer sound. “Wrong. You guessed wrong. I want ice cream. I want two scoops. On a cone.” He laughed and said something about ballerinas not being allowed to eat more than three grapes a day. “That’s why I quit,” she lied.
The cab took them to Sultana Sweets. Hilal ordered one scoop of vanilla on a cone, and Qamar said the scoop looked like the night’s full moon.
They sat on the bridge. He stuck his tongue out to lick the full moon, but it fell off the cone and onto the ground. “Very coordinated,” she said. “I’d like to see you walk the rope sometime.” The bridge stretched over Desert Highway 1, the third most fatal motorway in the country. They watched the cars go by, trucks brushing the soles of their shoes.
“I have a rocket,” he told her. “Built it myself. Wanna go for a ride with me?”
“Very funny,” she said.
He said he was serious. That he wanted to go to the moon with her. That she’d made the mistake, when she was nine, of waiting for it to come to her.
“The moon is at 325 San Stefano Street. Metwalli’s got it. I’m getting married next week, did you know that?” She said this without looking up from her ice cream. The cars zoomed by beneath them, and Hilal wanted to jump, to make a pretty design on the asphalt below.
“There’s no reason why two people need to know each other’s every flaw before they get married,” she said in between licks. “No mathematical law or theorem for falling in love. It isn’t like the distance to the moon. It’s much less than that, and more doable.”
The din of passing traffic made it difficult for him to hear her clearly. “Are you saying you love me?” he said.
She