Our Grand Finale

by Laraine Denny Burrell

  One evening I am hanging out with a group of friends at an apartment when I am introduced to a Lebanese boy, Tariq, who is known for his palm readings.

  “Laraine, let Tariq read your palm. He’s very good.” Mustafah nudges me toward Tariq.

  I laugh, offering minimal resistance. “I don’t believe in those things.”

  “Go on, Laraine, just for fun.” This from Elena, another dancer.

  After good-natured cajoling I am persuaded to let Tariq read my palm. Intrigued, I give him my hand, palm up. I watch his head bow, and his dark hair falling over his brow as he peers intently at my palm. His long index finger traces the lines etched into my skin. I smile at the gentle tickling feel, enjoying this amusement.

  “You will be famous. You are going to make your future husband unhappy. And you will only ever have one child, a son.”

  I laugh at these prophesies, not knowing whether to believe him or not, but they are notable enough that they stay in my mind.

  As special as my nights performing are to me, so are the days where my education expands beyond anything imaginable. I ride camels in the Sahara Desert, including one called Jack Albert, a disgruntled beast doing as he is told only because he is whacked with a stick. Some of the other dancers and I negotiate a deal with the stable owner, and for fifty Egyptian pounds I buy the right to my own Arabian stallion, riding him every day for the time I am in Cairo. My horse is called Prince Philip. I’m not sure why. It is an odd name for a horse, and I have a feeling that the name changes depending on the nationality of the rider. But I am in heaven, my lifelong imaginations coming to life as I gallop flat out across the desert, in front of the Sphinx and the pyramids, and on a beautiful chestnut Arabian horse no less.

  My friends and I ride across the Sahara Desert to Sahara City, an open-air nightclub and bar sitting alone among the sand dunes. We take a break at the club, ordering lemonade to quench our dusty thirst before reluctantly returning back across the desert to the stables. For me it is the realization of all those photos I had clipped out of magazines and newspapers as a child. I ride mimicking the forward racing position of the jockeys I had watched for hours on television. But the horse is as untrained as I am, and the only way I can stop the animal is to ride him into a sand dune where the sandy slope slows down his gait until he is forced to stop.

  A guide we befriend from the stable takes our group out for rides beyond the city. We get to know the locals, and we ride out to places tourists never discover. One day we ride south to Sakkara to visit another array of pyramids. The ride there and back takes most of the day, and we ride across the sand hour after hour without meeting another soul. The ride takes us back in time to an era where nomads traveled the desert for days without seeing civilization. I enjoy this experience tremendously. I am pleased to see that there are areas of the planet that are not overcrowded, that are left natural, untouched, even if it is an inhospitable desert.

  Another time we ride out into the desert with a local friend acting as a guide, and we come across a sand dune with an incongruous green-painted wooden door placed on its slope. As we dismount from our horses, the guide goes over to the sand dune and opens the door.

  “Come inside,” he invites with an intriguing smile. “I will show you something special. Few foreigners will see this.”

  Without hesitation we follow behind him through the door into the sand dune. Inside the door is blackness.

  From his pocket, the guide pulls a flashlight, which now offers minimal light.

  “We have to go down a ladder and then crawl along a passageway, and then you will see. Follow me.”

  We follow the beam of the flashlight and are taken down a steep ladder. We are then directed to crawl on hands and knees along a narrow passageway well underground, at the end of which is a room carved out of stone where we are able to stand again. The beam of the flashlight displays a large stone rectangular-shaped object sitting immovably in the center of the small room. It’s the tomb of an Egyptian queen. Its existence is something not many locals are aware of, and it’s certainly not accessible to tourists. I am awestruck knowing I am one of the few people to have ever visited this queen’s tomb. I run my hand along the rough top of the stone tomb, my fingers sweeping the centuries of dust into small piles. I wonder who this queen was, what her life was like, but before I get too involved with my thoughts, the guide says we have to leave. There is too little air in the tomb for us to stay long.

  Another ride takes my friends and me out east of the city along an old canal extending away from the River Nile. Here I see people living just as they had thousands of years ago, using zebus hitched to a wheel and walking in circles to grind corn, and fashioning Archimedes’ screws to lift water from the canal into the water channels, dirt trenches lining the fields. That same ride takes us back in time to a village untouched by modern day. We are treated like royalty, sitting on mats on the floor in a villager’s stone house, drinking a sweet tea. The homeowner is honored to have the European guests. My blonde hair is touched and felt by the women of the village, who are amazed by its color. I am privileged, not because of my own upbringing, but because I have here the unique chance to glimpse these people and their way of life, to be welcomed into their homes, their village, to see and understand that there are different ways of life, and to learn that none are more right or wrong than the next.

  “It’s time!” Debbie shouts excitedly to the rest of the cast. We all scurry out of the dressing room at the Mena House, ready for the evening’s adventure. It is Angelo’s birthday, and my castmates, Mimis, and I have collaborated to create a unique Middle Eastern celebration for him. We arrange for a bedouin tent to be set up out in the Sahara Desert near Sahara City. There will be a feast of Egyptian food, we will sit cross-legged on cushions, and there will be a bedouin band and dancing horses as entertainment. Those who have horses will ride across the desert to the site, while others, including Mimis, will drive cars along a dirt road passing near the site.

  Now, at two in the morning, after the second show of the night is finished, and costumes put away, the other dancers and I excitedly run across the street to the stables by the pyramids, where our horses are saddled and ready for us. Despite the late hour we are full of vigor and chat excitedly about the party.

  “This is great!” I exclaim to no one in particular as I mount up. I feel my horse’s own nervous excitement beneath me as he prepares to gallop out at this unusual hour.

  Debbie responds, “I am so glad you convinced me to learn to ride, Laraine. What a fun thing to be doing, and in the middle of the night!”

  The other riders offer their own similar comments, and as we take off riding around the pyramids and out across the sands of the Sahara under a full moon, the uniqueness of the occasion is not lost on any of us. We ride as a group. The only sound is the pounding of hooves on soft sand. For me this is bliss. It is exotic. I am riding a beautiful Arabian horse at full gallop across an extraordinary piece of the world under a full moon. It is exhilarating, freeing. It is beyond anything I have ever imagined doing.

  We arrive at the bedouin tent to find it beautifully decorated with colorful braids, bells, and banners. It is lit with hundreds of candles, and there’s not a hint of a breeze to disturb them. A sumptuous array of Egyptian food is laid out for us on low-lying tables inside the tent, and we sit on the plump cushions, eating and drinking as locals kindly serve us, figs, fruit, couscous, taking good care of us even at this late hour. The rhythmic music and beating of the drums add to the excitement of the occasion. Many people had taken the risk and driven along the bumpy desert road, not wanting to miss this exclusive party. The tent is packed with people lounging on the fat cushions, or standing in conversation, all making Angelo’s birthday a success.

  Guests move outside to continue the celebration under the full moon as the dancing horses raise dainty forelegs in time to the bedouin drums, their harnesses jangling in rhythm to the music. For me this is the most wonderful party I
have ever attended. It is an Arabian movie set come to life. I look around at the opulence and extravagance of the party and sadly realize how little it had cost us Europeans to fund. The wages we earn are of a much higher value compared to the low incomes of the Egyptians, so while it cost us only a few pounds each for the party, that would equate to a month’s wages for a local. On the positive side, it has put well-needed money into the pockets of the many locals who have assisted in making the party possible. They deserve every penny; it is a wonderful evening.

  After living and working for six months in Cairo, the dance group is moving on to Iran. But not me. I realize I have a health problem. It has been plaguing me for a couple of months, making me uneasy, and I decide it will be best to go home to England. I say goodbye to my friends, to my wandering lifestyle, to the fun and freedom, and book my ticket home. With Mimis promising to phone me often and offering me anything that I might need, I go home to face the consequences.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  The high-pitched scream unexpectedly cuts into the quiet of the morning, reverberating around the house, its echo bouncing off the walls. It sounds like Mum. It comes from upstairs and is followed by a torrent of cursing in a Scottish brogue: yep, definitely Mum. I bound up the stairs, hastened by the shocking timbre of the cry, and find Mum in her bedroom.

  “Would you look at that?” my mother says, pointing toward a drawer at the side of the bed. “Gave me the fright of my life!”

  I look into the drawer and laugh. Inside are multiple pairs of false teeth, pink gums and white teeth all grinning up at us as if laughing at the practical joke they had just played.

  “He wouldn’t throw a thing away.” Mum shakes her head. “Well, they’re going in the bin now.”

  She pulls out the drawer and unceremoniously tips its contents into a bin, the act accented by the clatter of hard plastic hitting the metallic side of the bin.

  I think to myself, This was typical Dad, always the comedian, making my childhood a compendium of banter, witticisms, and jokes. Dad’s false teeth would often become the center of much jocularity, particularly when he had had a few drinks. He would amuse us all by playing with his dentures, pulling faces to make us laugh. Here he was still playing the jokester, even after he was gone. I look down at these personal items to be discarded as trash, their usefulness over, their relevance to my father’s life and my own memories finished. A twinge of sadness hides below my laugh. Of course we have to let go of the belongings that had accessorized my father’s life. We have to physically and permanently remove the tangible evidence of his existence. It is a natural part of the healing process.

  The false teeth don’t end with the drawer. Over the next couple of days as I help sort through my dad’s things, I find more and more pairs: in the pockets of his Mackintosh (why he had a pair there was anyone’s guess), in a box stored high on a kitchen shelf, and in a tin in the garage. My father had lost his teeth when he had childhood rheumatic fever; over the next sixty-plus years, he had worn dentures and, apparently, kept every one of the sets he had used during his lifetime. They are an odd historical collection not only of how dentures were made over the years from the 1940s to the present, but of how each set in its own way had traveled part of Dad’s journey with him, some to foreign countries, but each allowing my father to speak to us, to smile his handsome smile, and even to joke with us.

  The dentures keep appearing in odd places. Each new find is another grin and a reminder of Dad the comedian. I am thankful I found them. Dad’s clothing is going to a charity shop. Imagine the shock of the new owner of his Mac finding a pair of false teeth in the pocket.

  The false teeth are not the only oddities I find among Dad’s belongings. There are containers of all shapes and sizes, including old metallic tobacco tins, and biscuit tins of buttons bearing anchors, cloth badges, and other insignia saved from his old naval uniforms. A plastic Brylcreem container is filled with foreign coins. Apparently, Dad threw nothing away.

  In a small cardboard box I find a fake rubber finger, dripping with blood, which I remember from my childhood and which would appear at opportune moments around Mum’s vicinity, such as on the shelf in the kitchen cupboard, or in the fridge, in Mum’s teapot, or in the biscuit tin. Dad and I would measure the success of the joke by the volume of Mum’s scream or curse. I remove the finger from the box and feel its rubbery softness between my own fingers and smile as I study the gruesome digit.

  I remember the joke and novelty shop on the corner of Charlotte Street and how on Saturdays I would take my pocket money to the shop and buy some novelty that in those pre-computer days we all thought was very clever. Cat poop was a favorite, with Schickrys getting the undeserved blame and on more than one occasion being “shooshed” out of the house by my mother. The bugs that could be moved with a magnet were another favorite and usually got a good rise out of Mum. Something I definitely inherited from my dad is a love of practical jokes.

  Mum asks me to take on the onerous task of clearing out the things Dad had stored in the attic. Unable to ignore this chore any longer, I climb the ladder into the vast archive looming over the house, the brain trust of clutter and memories for the family extending over many generations and over many more decades. As expected, I find it full of boxes, old suitcases, plastic bags, and other miscellaneous containers, and overall the space at first view appears nothing more than a dirty, musty storage area for rarely used, or forgotten items. Probably no different from any other attic in England. At least Dad had rigged a light bulb near the entrance of the attic, making it easier to see what inanimate objects stood ready for my attack.

  I’m not thrilled at having to take on this task, especially in this dark, unfriendly, space thick with dust and unrecognizable living organisms. I hate organizing things, especially someone else’s clutter. But being the dutiful daughter, and the only one of us three women with two legs and enough youth to climb up the stepladder and hoist myself up into the attic entrance in the ceiling, I know that I am the only person who can take on the task. I look around at the clutter and hear myself sigh heavily. This is going to take me days.

  At first I don’t know where to start. I take a general inventory of what is immediately visible. I see planks of wood and rolls of wallpaper, bags of Christmas decorations, old lamps, a Hoover from the 1950s, and the old sewing machine and sewing box I remember from my childhood—and tools, all sorts of tools everywhere.

  I briefly wonder why Dad had so many tools in the attic when his garage-cum-workshop at the end of the garden is overflowing with tools, accessories, and media such as wooden planks, tiles, PVC piping. Tools epitomized my dad. As long as I can remember, my dad had a long list of projects to do for other people. He would build cabinets, tables, and all sorts of other furniture for anyone and everyone. He would paint and wallpaper rooms, fix cars, do electrical rewiring, do whatever odd jobs a person needed, and he did them well. He even invented a type of safety ladder, and I recall he mentioned a patent, but I had never asked him about it. I make a mental note to research the patent further.

  When my dad was on leave from the Navy, he spent his time doing jobs for neighbors, family, and friends. Later after he retired from the Navy and worked in a factory, his workload and the number of jobs he did for others grew as he had more time to give. Mum often complained that he spent too much time working for everyone else: for family and friends, people he worked with, neighbors, even people he didn’t know but to whom he had been referred. She complained that he did not have enough time to do things around our house. Dad rarely sat in front of the television at night unless he had a project manual or do-it-yourself book in hand. His evenings and free time were spent in the garage, doing his projects regardless of the weather or temperature.

  No matter whose house the family visited, there were always signs of Dad’s handiwork, be it in the form of painting, wallpapering, woodwork, handmade furniture, a car sitting outside the house that Dad had worked on. He wa
s generous with his time and his skills, never refusing a request for help. I didn’t think much of it until years later after he retired when Mum laughingly told me about the list of jobs she had ready for him to do. I became concerned. I complained to Mum that Dad needed time to rest. He should be allowed to slow down a little at his age. He was not as young as he used to be. High ladders and long hours would take their toll. But Dad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say no. Perhaps Mum wouldn’t let him. I had to trust that his working so much and so hard doing projects for other people gave him satisfaction.

  I am surprised at what I find in the attic; surprised at what had not been thrown away. I see items that had been hidden out of sight for years but that immediately bring back fond memories. Not one to get too fussy about dust and dirt, and just wanting to get the job done, I sit down on a dusty wooden floor beam next to one box and begin sifting through its contents. I take out items one by one, inspecting them and cataloguing them in my mind. At least it is quiet up here. At least this keeps me busy and gives me something to think about other than Dad’s passing. At least I am doing something to help the family after being absent for the past thirty years, off gallivanting around the world. Now it is time to organize the family junk and figure out how to get it down from the attic and disposed of appropriately.

  But as I begin going through the boxes, pulling out and studying their contents, holding the more intriguing items closer to the light bulb for a better view, and conducting a mental inventory of what I find, it slowly dawns on me that what I am uncovering is not junk; they are not discarded or unused or unwanted items, but an intriguing assortment of objects that my father had gathered and kept over the years. Each item has a personal significance to my father. They are a treasure trove of my dad’s life, the things he had wanted to keep. These are mementos from his past, each having a special meaning and value to him; things worth holding on to for sixty, seventy years or more. No wonder he kept them up here, away from Mum who would throw out the lot. “Rubbish” she would call it all.