Cairo Stories

by Anne-Marie Drosso

  Some family members had taken to saying that luck had been on his side. ‘You twits,’ he wanted to retort when they made these inane statements. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. Business acumen and daring, that’s what did it!’ He usually ignored their remarks, though sometimes he would explode: ‘You’re clueless!’ he’d nearly shout. ‘You think that it’s luck that got me to gamble on buying land in parts of Cairo that nobody had thought of as potential residential areas, and which are now highly prized neighbourhoods? And was it luck that got me to gamble on building big, modern ten to twelve-storey structures for which I hired architects whose modernism you scoffed at, and now anybody into building anything is imitating my buildings?’ Confronted with his anger, the offending family members sought to placate him, saying something like: ‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I didn’t mean to downplay your many accomplishments – not at all! But Selim, you must learn to relax a bit! You explode over the slightest thing. Think of your health.’ Far from soothing him, such words would irritate him even more. He’d have to make an effort not to respond with another outburst, not to scream ‘Only those who do nothing worth mentioning can afford the luxury of relaxing and thinking of their health.’

  Family was important to him – very important – but individual family members often got on his nerves; they could be so maddening. That’s why he had taken to speaking loudly and volubly in their presence. He wanted to pre-empt their talking. It was not that he loved hearing himself speak, but he much preferred hearing himself to hearing their gossipy chatter and gratuitous advice.

  Funnily enough, his sister’s constant chatter he didn’t mind. She was so absolutely self-centred that it was laughable. She never volunteered any comments about his character, or his life: it was always her life and the trials and tribulations of being a diplomat’s wife. A diplomat’s wife! What a joke! Her husband was a little consul (little in all senses of the word) – the consul of Brazil in Alexandria. There was nothing Brazilian about the man. He was just another Syro-Lebanese turned into a useless consular agent – basically a glorified paper-stamper. Poor Warda had insisted on marrying the man, despite his obvious lack of any redeeming qualities. Soon after the marriage she had discovered how little glory there was in the life of a consul’s wife and, for all intents and purposes, was now leading a separate life. Yet she found it necessary to pretend she was not, and seemed to feel obliged to continue complaining about her quasi non-existent life as a diplomat’s wife. But she had a great sense of humour. That is what made him, and others like him, half-listen to her flood of words. Nothing she said could be taken seriously. ‘Warda lies the way she breathes,’ people declared as soon as she was out of sight. Lies or no lies, she was entertaining. A born actress, and so she got away with it. Yes, Warda he usually indulged. He let her hold the floor.

  His eldest brother Zaki, Warda’s opposite in temperament, he had always listened to attentively. Zaki had been that rare and fine breed: a cultured man without any pretensions, as well as thoughtful, measured and perceptive. He had not shared Zaki’s perspective on life. Yet hearing Zaki speak about any number of subjects used to force him to consider matters in ways he would not otherwise have done; unsettling ways, since they undermined the significance he attached to money and power. Their mother had once said to him, ‘Zaki has a humanising influence on you.’ He had not liked at all the implication of her remark, even though he had been vaguely aware that Zaki had this effect on him. It was not just what Zaki said but who he was.

  Now, both his mother and Zaki were gone. His mother had died shortly after Zaki. The truth was that he missed him much more than he missed her. He missed his wisdom and kind wit. It still hurt him to think of Zaki’s death, almost fifteen years ago – a death that had taken the whole family by surprise, although it should not have. Zaki had suffered from bad health for many years. They should have been prepared for the worst, but they were not. They had got used to the fact that long-suffering Zaki was often unwell. They had ruled out the possibility that he might succumb to his ailments.

  After Zaki’s death Selim would often catch himself thinking, ‘What would Zaki have had to say about that?’ However, there was one question he avoided asking himself: what would Zaki have thought about his breaking off all ties with Zaki’s youngest daughter, even banishing her from family gatherings over which he presided, after she had married, in defiance of his wishes, a useless, penniless, glib talker, twice her age – a so-called cultured man, who lacked any business sense and seemed to think that he could live off fresh air and conversation? The girl had eloped with that idiot at the tender age of eighteen. And she had had the gall to tell him, the last time he had seen her in his office, which was also the last time he had laid eyes on her, ‘But how can you object to him? You used to praise his wit and describe him as one of the few men in Cairo with whom you enjoyed having a conversation. You introduced him to me. And now you tell me he is no good. Why? Because he has no money? Well, my father never thought that money was all-important. I suppose I am my father’s daughter, at least in that respect.’

  Oh, he could have killed the girl for saying these things, right to his face. She had said them calmly, though it had been obvious to him, from the colour in her cheeks, that she was boiling inside. A pretty girl, promising to become even prettier, yet foolishly choosing a skimpy life for love! What she believed to be love! But what does an eighteen-year-old know about love? Spendthrift, Zaki had left little money behind, though he had worked hard. So the girl was left without much in the way of a dowry. Now, he, Selim, would have given her a reasonable dowry had she chosen the right man; he would have. He owed it to Zaki, whose tireless efforts had once got him out of an ugly legal pickle. He would never forget how Zaki had once shelved his legal practice to extricate him from a legal mess he happened to be in. And had succeeded, never asking anything in return. The silly girl would have got a dowry. With her looks, with her father’s reputation as one of Cairo’s finest lawyers and with the family’s name, she could have aimed reasonably high. Her marrying this good-for-nothing older man had really upset him when the marriage took place, and he still got upset whenever he thought about it. He suspected that Zaki would have disapproved of his intransigence, and would have wanted him to be more accepting of the girl’s choice. Well, he was not about to go and ask for her forgiveness now. It was out of the question. He had heard recently that money was becoming a real problem for the couple. That should teach her a lesson. He had warned her and warned her and warned her. What else should he have done? Surely Zaki would understand that he had acted in absolute good faith, taking his role as her guardian very seriously. Damn it! Why was it that, just about every time he thought of Zaki, he thought of the girl too, and ended up feeling awful about it all? This silly marriage of hers had managed to come in between him and the memory of Zaki.

  The girl had been correct to point out that she was her father’s daughter in attaching more significance to love than to money. Nobody had ever understood Zaki’s choice of a wife – a mysterious, impoverished foreigner with a certain charm but nothing else. The woman had an air of vulnerability that made one want to protect her from life’s many vagaries, which was not a good enough reason though to marry her. But Zaki had.

  He, on the other hand, had made a solid marriage. When the time came to marry, he had set his eyes on Leila, a wealthy girl, whose father ran large department stores in Egypt. He had had no problem winning her father’s consent. The father had wanted to ensure that his daughter would be on an equal footing with him financially, so Leila had entered the marriage with a substantial personal fortune, her father’s stipulation being that every bit of it should remain hers. She could do with it as she pleased, but was not to give it to her husband. That condition had not bothered him in the least. He had understood perfectly well the father’s wish to safeguard his daughter’s interests. He had no need for her money anyway. He had wanted a girl with money, not to lay his hands on the money, but because
he felt he deserved a girl with money and would gain from the boost to his status. Possession of this small fortune had given his wife an independence of mind and action that he, curiously, had come to appreciate.

  Although not a love match, their union had proved to be a successful one. That she was a sensual, good-looking, buxom woman (perhaps a bit too fleshy) had cemented the marriage. His own physique left a little to be desired. Short, with a tendency to redden whenever he got heated about anything, and without any of the angular features typically associated with masculine beauty, he could not have won hearts on account of his looks. His big, booming voice was an asset though and made up for his insignificant physique. He had cultivated this voice, and using it was like a drug: he had become addicted to the effect that this big, barking voice of his had on people, relishing how they seemed to cower whenever he opened his mouth. Three people had been spared his big-voice treatment: his mother, Zaki and Leila – well, not entirely spared, for they had witnessed him in action, but he had never directed his barking voice at any one of them.

  * * *

  ‘Lost in thought, Selim?’ He looked up, frowned as he detested being caught unawares, and muttered, ‘Work matters, work matters,’ while thinking to himself ‘What bad luck to bump into him; I’m already late, and he’ll want to talk endlessly. It’ll be difficult to shut him up without offending him, and, if I do, I’ll hear about it from everybody in the family for days on end.’ The man whom he had met so inopportunely was the husband of a distant relative of Leila’s. It was common knowledge in town that the man had married the woman for the tiny bit of money she had. Yet everybody felt sorry for him; she was notoriously bad-tempered and made him pay dearly, with her perpetual complaints, dark moods and suspicious nature, for every piaster she let him have.

  He quickly decided that his best strategy was to try to expedite the meeting with joviality; so, tapping the man on the shoulder, he said, loudly and cheerfully: ‘Butrus, you look so well; life must be treating you well these days.’

  ‘Oh, Selim, things aren’t going as well as you think. Salwa is very worried about the future.’

  ‘Worried about the future?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t need to tell you that we’re facing hard times. The price of cotton hasn’t recovered; so she’s getting less and less money from the land. She’s not happy, Selim. She’s not happy at all, these days. What do you think about the present state of the economy – here and abroad?’

  ‘To discuss economic matters with this idiot is beyond my present abilities, really beyond them,’ he thought to himself. Yet he managed a smile and exclaimed, ‘Only God knows, Butrus; only God.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter,’ the man replied, sounding cross and then, lowering his voice, ‘And what do you make of this ever-mounting nationalism? Just yesterday I overheard someone say, at the café, that we, of Syrian origin, are not Egyptians, that we are intruders and cannot be trusted.’

  ‘Butrus, why are you all doom and gloom this evening? Lighten up a bit!’ By now, he was getting irritated, and his tone clearly reflected it. ‘Look, I must be going, or else Leila will be very annoyed. I was supposed to meet her at the Semiramis at eight-thirty, and it’s well past nine. Say hello to Salwa, and do tell her not to worry too much.’

  ‘What’s happening at the Semiramis? A special occasion?’

  ‘There’s a charity function, with a lottery and what not. Don’t ask me what tonight’s noble cause is, I’m not sure.’

  ‘But who’s going to want to give any money? Everybody’s concerned about the future. Now’s not the time to give to charities.’

  ‘Well, I can only hope that some charitable souls will be attending the event. Leila’s counting on it. She’s on the board of the organisation sponsoring the event. Look after yourself. We’ll talk some other time, when I’m in less of a rush.’

  ‘Go, Selim; go or else, as you said, Leila’ll be angry. Pass on my greetings to her.’

  ‘I definitely will.’

  Phew! Free at last. He should hurry as it was getting late and, while he did not fear Leila’s anger (she did get angry sometimes), he did not like to upset her unnecessarily. He liked to think of himself as a considerate husband. In her own way, she was also considerate of him.

  So now, even a nobody like Butrus was running around, spreading stories about Egypt being in the grip of nationalist fervour. He generally avoided discussing questions of nationalism and identity. He frowned upon the tendency amongst some of his Syro-Lebanese Egyptian friends, to discuss questions such as: are ‘we’ Egyptian, and if not, what are ‘we’? Why is it that they feel threatened by ‘us’? Why do ‘they’ say that ‘we’ must learn to integrate with Egyptian society? Are ‘we’ not part of it? There were those – a minority – who said that the criticisms were justified, that ‘we’ were far too admiring of everything European. When occasionally he had expressed his views, it was to say that people have basically sealed their fate, once they start thinking in terms of ‘we’ and ‘they’. For him, it was a straightforward matter: he thought of himself as part of the country. His skills and enterprise had contributed to developing its wealth. His parents and grandparents and great grandparents had contributed too. The family had done well in the country. So thank you, Egypt! But the country had also got quite a lot in return. The so-called Syro-Lebanese should be grateful, but the country should also be grateful. And as for this empty talk about identity and nationalism, to hell with it! Leave it to those without any appreciation of what makes a country’s economy tick. Those with any economic sense generally ignored all this claptrap. Granted, some prominent figures had latched on to nationalism to further their special economic interests, hoping for whatever protection they could get under its umbrella, but these were men unable to stand on their own two feet. They were men without any intrinsic merit. He was getting all heated up just thinking of them.

  He looked at his watch, and hurried. A couple more minutes and he would be at the Semiramis. He should have had the chauffeur pick him up, but he had been in the mood for a walk. Unfortunately, bumping into Butrus had spoiled the walk for him.

  There was undoubtedly truth in the charge that, over the years, ‘they’ – the so-called Syro-Lebanese – had become culturally more oriented towards Europe. Had he not himself consented to Leila’s wish to send the girls to school in Switzerland? On the other hand, he had been absolutely firm about one thing: the boys would be educated, from start to finish, in Egypt, as they would be going to Cairo University. He wanted them to be as fluent in Arabic as they were in French. If they were going to do business in the country, they’d better know it inside out. Europe was alright for the girls but not for the boys. Wasn’t this a clear indication of the significance he attached to the country? This growing infatuation with Europe was more of a woman’s thing anyway. Clothes and culture were more on women’s minds than men’s.

  * * *

  ‘Selim, slow down, what’s the hurry?’ Emile Z., the head of a large timber company rumoured to be in trouble, had caught up with him. They were almost at the Semiramis. Seeing them coming, two doormen were already holding the door wide open. ‘The evening promises to be such a bore,’ Emile Z. whispered to him, ‘why don’t we go in for half an hour or so and then retreat home – yours or mine – for a game of backgammon?’

  ‘We’ll see how things develop,’ he replied, walking into the Semiramis to the doormen’s profuse greetings and bows.

  ‘Leila must be very pleased,’ was his first thought as he entered the huge and sumptuous banquet room in which the function was being held. The room was packed. For Leila, the evening would be a resounding success as long as they managed to raise some money. There, in one of the room’s many nooks, she stood, in a shining red velvet dress he had never seen before, talking in an animated fashion to a man who seemed, from a distance, rather young. He could not tell, from that distance, whether he knew the man or not. His eyesight was no longer what it used to be.

 
; There were two – no, actually three – things he minded about these big, formal occasions. First, there were far too many people, and he hated small talk. He was not good at it. He much preferred intimate gatherings. In fact, what he liked best were the small parties Leila threw at their place. He liked to be the host. It gave him a measure of control. This whirling around in a large room, glass in hand, to exchange a few words with this one then that one, was definitely not his cup of tea. Young men on the make tended to love these functions for the opportunity it gave them to talk to the rich and powerful. Fortunately, he was well past that stage and had never actually played the game that way, even when he was young. He had always preferred private talks, in more private settings. Probably because he was not good at glib chatter, which was the strong point of this worthless Antoine, the man who had absconded with his niece. That man was in his element wherever he could talk, no matter how large or small the crowd was. Was there any chance he might run into him tonight? He very much doubted it. The man did not have enough money to come to these functions. But in the unlikely event of the couple showing up, he would simply leave.

  So, he resented having to engage in small talk with a large number of people. And buffet dinners got on his nerves, however good the food was. He liked to be waited on at a table. Dinner was the time of the day when he could finally relax. Lining up behind a table with a plate in his hand was the last thing he wanted to do at dinner time.

  The third thing he disliked about these sorts of occasions is that he often had to pretend to be jealous and put on a show of possessiveness. An inveterate flirt, Leila seemed to think that the bigger the event, the more flirting was required of her. At bottom, he did not care and, in all fairness, could not hold it against her. How could he? She had behaved like a flirt, even during their engagement. How far she actually went with the men she flirted with was not something he liked to dwell on. Very early on in their marriage he had given the matter some thought, and had reached the conclusion that there was no reason for him, neither sentimental nor practical, to stand in her way, as long as she was discreet about whatever it was she was doing. If she wanted to flirt in public, in his absence, so be it. But, in his presence, it was another story. Then he had to pretend he cared and, at some point, interpose himself. One evening, when he had had to do exactly that, it had occurred to him that she would be, most probably, disappointed, were he to keep passively out of the way. She too kept an eye on him during these big parties. One would have thought that she would welcome him being occupied with some other woman, which would give her the licence to indulge in all the flirting she wanted. But no, that was not the case. Whenever she sensed an interest on his part in another woman, and she had a sixth sense for these things, she quickly made her presence felt. She did have a jealous streak. But was it possible that she too was only playing the part of the possessive wife, while feeling little underneath?