A bottle of water flies up to the loft and Magdi Ali catches it and shouts thanks. The child disappears through the sawdust and back into the sunlight. Ali scrapes his planer, pale curls weightless as snow tumble around his sandals, his glue pot simmers on a stove. He tightens strings of copper and silk until the pluck-pling of ancient music rises from his worn hands and drifts out the door.
A single note. Then it vanishes.
"I don't play, really, I just make."
Ouds. He has made thousands over the years. A stringed instrument with a shell shaped like a polished turtle, it's the Arabic cousin of the lute. Its rhythms and laments have played through the centuries, from caravans to palaces to the orchestras of belly dancers and divas. It was once as prevalent as the call to prayer, a sound engrained, especially here on Mohammad Ali Street, where musicians reigned until they began slipping away years ago to clubs and cabarets out near the pyramids.







