Cairo Stories

by Anne-Marie Drosso

  Laughing, his Aunt Lizzie said, ‘So the young man is defending family values, and the old lady is spurning them. Well, well!’

  ‘Someone has got to defend the family,’ he joked, relieved at the change in her tone.

  The change was short-lived: raising her voice she retorted, ‘I don’t care a wit about family.’

  The young man hung his head. His initial optimism was starting to desert him. He decided to give it one more try. ‘What is it that you would like, Aunt Lizzie? Please, tell me.’

  ‘To be left alone.’

  He pursued, ‘What could they do to persuade you that they care, that they mean well?’

  To the young man’s amazement, his aunt replied, without any hesitation, as if she had given the matter much thought: ‘To start with, they could give me some of our parents’ possessions. They took everything, everything!’ And with a dismissive shrug, she added scornfully, ‘That will be the day, the day they agree to part with some of those heirlooms.’

  ‘But Aunt Lizzie,’ the young man burst out, ‘what would you do with these things? You …’

  Cutting him off, his aunt replied, a noticeable tremor in her voice, ‘Are you trying to tell me that, at my age, I have no need for these things since I have no children, whereas they do?’

  The tremor made the young man aware that he had inadvertently touched on a subject that was very painful to her. ‘Come on, Aunt Lizzie, you’re being unfair. All I was going to say is that you have managed to create such a wonderful feeling in your apartment that I’m not sure any addition would enhance it. In fact, it might detract from it.’

  She replied, not looking at him, ‘I want my fair share of things. You can tell them exactly that, should they ever ask you what it is I want.’

  He pinned his last hope on a matter that, he thought, might put her in a more benign mood. ‘They were hoping to see you, next week, for your birthday – I heard them discuss it,’ he said.

  She did not answer.

  He realised that more talk on the subject would get him nowhere. So he suggested a game of scrabble, a game at which she remained unbeatable. She immediately perked up.

  That evening his Aunt Lizzie beat him by a huge margin. The young man left her, feeling doubly defeated. ‘By the way, you can tell them not to worry; I don’t want any more falseness in what’s left of my life, but they can have and will get whatever I leave behind,’ she said just before he kissed her goodbye. When he protested that money was not the motive behind their wanting to see more of her, she answered, ‘Oh Joe, you’re so naive.’

  * * *

  The morning of her birthday Aunt Lizzie’s phone did not ring. Her brothers and her sister appeared to be respecting her wish to be left alone. Nieces, nephews and great-nephews, even her favourite Joe, did not call either. As usual her few surviving friends called in the late afternoon. She felt, she had to admit to herself, forgotten by all. But she quickly berated herself for waiting for the phone to ring; and for finding the silence of her apartment unusually oppressive just because it was her birthday.

  Until the previous year, her brother, the one she now sometimes called a thief, had always sent her gladioli on her birthday. No matter where he happened to be, he would have an immense bouquet delivered to her door, first thing in the morning. Why always gladioli, she had never understood, or dared ask. Her favourite flowers were forget-me-nots.

  The younger brother, Joe’s grandfather, seemed to have a fixation on handbags. Every year she could count on his giving her a handbag. He would invariably tell her that he could not resist buying that particular one because he thought it was just her type of handbag. The handbags, all stylish, gradually came to occupy five shelves of her wardrobe. She had considered using a couple of them as decorative items in the apartment – some were by now vintage – but had never got round to it.

  Her sister had been the unpredictable one. Her presents would be a true surprise – sometimes delightful, often disconcerting, like the imported bread-making machine that became a family joke since Aunt Lizzie hated gadgets, had never baked in her life and was unlikely ever to bake.

  Just as she was thinking, not with total detachment, that this would be the first of her birthdays to go unacknowledged by her family, she heard a key in the door. The maid had arrived. That her presence would make the morning pass faster was Aunt Lizzie’s immediate thought, although the idea of chit-chatting with the young woman – an enjoyable pastime on other days – had little appeal this morning. It would feel dishonest, on her part, to be pretending to take an interest in the woman’s life – their main topic of conversation – when her heart was not in it.

  Around eleven in the morning the bell rang, two quick rings – Joe’s customary way of announcing himself. Aunt Lizzie, who had been lying on her chaise longue, closed her book and sat up. He had come after all! The maid let him in. Aunt Lizzie could hear him exchange the usual pleasantries with her. He was very good that way; he knew how to give a personal touch to any conversation.

  The young man, still a boy in her eyes, marched into the room whistling and carrying several bulky bags which, before giving her a hug and a kiss, he proceeded to empty on the couch opposite her chaise longue, lining up several beautifully wrapped packages.

  ‘What’s all this?’ his aunt asked, befuddled.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, then added with exuberance, ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Lizzie. Isn’t it time for some cake?’ And he gave her another kiss.

  ‘Young man,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘did you think of bringing any? You won’t find any cake in this household!’

  It was true; she had no cake to offer Joe.

  ‘Stupid me!’ he exclaimed, tapping his forehead. ‘You open your presents, and I’ll run to the bakery. I’ll be back in a flash with your favourites, apricot mille-feuilles and babas.’

  Before she could say no, the young man was hurrying out of the room, urging her to have a look at the birthday presents he had put on the couch.

  ‘But how come so many of them?’ Aunt Lizzie asked. ‘Have you won the lottery?’

  ‘Not yet, but I plan to,’ he answered and rushed out.

  Except for one, which most probably contained a book, the packages were big. There were six of them in addition to the small one. Presents from her brothers and sister? Might that be it? But then why six packages? Mystified, Aunt Lizzie got up and started to unwrap the biggest package, which was heavy as well as big. It did not take long for her to guess what was in it. It was a table lamp, one of the many table lamps in her parents’ house. The leg was made of copper and the shade of Venetian glass. The lamp was neither pretty nor ugly. She remembered it being used in one of the guest rooms that had also served as a sewing room.

  With an angry expression, Aunt Lizzie attacked the next package. It was even heavier than the first. Halfway through unwrapping it, she recognised another of her parents’ possessions, a round and nondescript crystal fruit bowl. By now her expression was positively sombre.

  ‘Crumbs,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Crumbs,’ she repeated, thinking, ‘so that’s how they’re trying to placate me! They’ve the temerity to send me these things as presents! That beats all! They must think that I’ve become completely senile.’

  Without bothering to unwrap the remaining presents, Aunt Lizzie returned to her chaise longue, mulling over what to tell Joe: it was best to say nothing. The sight of the packages on the couch – one opened, the other half-opened and the others untouched – would be enough to convey the message.

  She was right. When he returned with a tray full of mille-feuilles and babas, his aunt’s glum expression and the sight of the half-opened and unopened packages told him the whole story. Having his grandfather, great-uncle and great-aunt send Aunt Lizzie some mementoes from their parents’ household had not repaired family relationships. It had failed miserably. Far from softening his aunt, it seemed to have angered her.

  Normally easygoing, the young man felt a surge of anger we
ll up – anger at his aunt for complicating matters and trampling on everybody’s goodwill. For a few seconds, he stood right in the middle of the room with the tray still in his hands, telling himself to calm down. She was after all well into her eighties.

  Her eyes shut, she pretended to be resting.

  ‘Aunt Lizzie?’ he whispered, suspecting that she was awake.

  ‘Oh, you’re back,’ she replied and turned her head towards him. ‘It was good of you to get the cakes,’ she said, with what seemed to him like forced warmth.

  He suddenly remembered the birthday cards they had entrusted him with. He decided that he would leave them on the hallway table, next to the front door. He would not give them to her now. Nor would he point out to her that, amongst the unopened packages, was his present, a collection of short stories by Patricia Highsmith, whose novels his Aunt Lizzie had described to him once, sort of jokingly, as appealing to her evil side.

  ‘Would you care for some cake?’ he asked her in a flat voice.

  She could tell from his tone that he was upset and felt sorry for him. He had done his best to bring about a reconciliation, and she had let him down. She wished she had not. However, she could not make herself say that she was pleased with these absurd peace offerings. Joe would have to come to terms with the fact that the best of intentions can misfire.

  They ate a baba and a mille-feuille each. In silence.

  ‘Forgive me Joe, if I seem dejected today. I’m a bit tired,’ she told him after they had finished eating. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night,’ she explained apologetically. Then she praised the quality of the pastries.

  His usual gentle disposition returned. She looked so feeble and frail, so vulnerable, that feelings of anger towards her seemed totally out of place. ‘I guess you’re too tired for a game of scrabble?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re right, not today. Besides I wouldn’t want to lose, just because I’m tired,’ she said in an obvious attempt at lightening the atmosphere. Then she suggested, ‘Let’s listen to some music, something cheerful.’

  He put on some light guitar music, then some easy jazz, then some accordion music. They didn’t talk much that afternoon, but he felt good in her company. Being in her apartment often gave him the feeling of being in a cocoon. If she were to deny him the privilege of these visits, he would miss that feeling.

  When the time came for him to leave, she told him more effusively than usual how much she had appreciated his presence. Then she said, ‘I think it would be best for you to forget about these unresolvable family matters.’

  On his way back home to his bachelor suite (his parents were still not reconciled to his living on his own), Joe wondered what to tell the family about the afternoon’s turn of events.

  After he had left, Aunt Lizzie quickly made up her mind that the packages on the couch must go. In the morning she would ask the maid to put them in storage. It was too late in the day for that now. She did, however, remove the smallest package from the lot and opened it. As she thought, it was Joe’s present. She was touched.

  * * *

  Aunt Lizzie went to bed early on her birthday. During Joe’s visit she had made an effort not to saddle him anew with her grievances against her brothers and her sister. As she lay in bed, she congratulated herself on having avoided the subject. She also wondered whether she would ever succeed in explaining to him, in a meaningful way, the origins of her feelings towards them. But how can one distil a lifetime of hurtful associations in a conversation? No amount of explaining can really do it. The few times she had tried, she had ended up feeling debased by it all, feeling mean and callous. The benefits of venting her ire had been minimal. So she was definitely pleased with herself for having kept her calm and having said nothing. And yet she was agitated. Sleep eluded her. It took longer than usual for her sleeping pill to work.

  She woke up disturbed, in the middle of the night. She had dreamed of her mother. It had been a very long time since she had had such a dream. Her mother, looking sad, was sitting on a folding chair, at the beach in Alexandria. The image of her mother looking sad kept her awake for quite a while. She could not remember ever seeing her mother looking sad – angry, yes, but never glum the way she appeared in the dream.

  It must have been dawn by the time she finally fell asleep again as the birds were chirping. This time she dreamed of her childhood. It was an adventure dream involving her brothers and her sister – a happy dream with a lot of running around and hiding behind trees. Yet the dream disturbed her.

  When she finally got out of bed, she was out of sorts. Making tea she caught herself thinking that it did seem pointless to be making a point at such a late stage in life. So what if one of her brothers was not a model of moral rectitude? So what if the other was timorous and her sister rather a prima donna? The four of them shared a past, an indelible connection.

  Aunt Lizzie checked the time. It was not long before the maid would arrive.

  After her second cup of tea, which gave her almost as much pleasure as the first, she considered which one of her brothers or sister to call first, were she to call any. She leaned in favour of calling Joe’s grandfather first, but wasn’t clear in her mind on how she would deal with the sore issue of the presents, the mere thought of which immediately reignited her anger. She decided that only once the packages were out of her sight would she have enough peace of mind to consider seriously whether to call Joe’s grandfather.

  The maid found Aunt Lizzie waiting for her in the kitchen and received, right away, the instruction to put the objects and packages scattered on the living-room couch into the storage closet.

  When the maid suggested, after much admiring the lamp and the bowl, that there might be a good spot for them in the apartment, Aunt Lizzie proceeded to leave the room, barely containing her exasperation at what felt like meddling in her affairs. But, just before reaching the door, she turned around to tell the maid, irritably, that she could take the whole lot home, if she wanted to.

  ‘But …’ the maid began saying.

  ‘No buts or ifs,’ Aunt Lizzie interjected. ‘Do you, or don’t you want them, including the objects that are still wrapped?’

  ‘I’ll gladly have them,’ the maid said hesitantly, adding, ‘As long as you’re absolutely certain that this is what you want. Are you sure that you don’t want to open the packages?’

  ‘I’m sure’, Aunt Lizzie stated, and, the matter done with, was glad to hear the phone ring.

  * * *

  It was Joe’s grandfather. He started the conversation by wishing her a belated happy birthday; then, not knowing what tone to adopt, he paused, evidently waiting to take his cue from her. She replied with a curt thank you, after which she was silent. Knowing that this would make him feel ill-at-ease, she felt a little sorry for him. He would have counted on her making conversation. Unlike his older brother, he was not so good at keeping a conversation going. As she was expecting, he too kept silent, so she made a move, and said, ‘Joe stopped by yesterday. He’s in good shape and seems happy.’

  Much relieved that she had broached a neutral topic of conversation, her brother promptly agreed, ‘Yes, he seems to be doing very well. He likes his job and seems to be very happy living on his own – an arrangement I didn’t approve of initially. But it has made him more mature. So there must be some good in it!’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you were opposed to that arrangement,’ she replied, in what sounded to him like an aggressive tone.

  Seeing no point in arguing over such a subject, he backtracked slightly, ‘Well, I’m not dead set against it, but …’

  Without giving him a chance to finish she changed the subject. ‘Tell me,’ she said, and this time there was no doubt about the nature of her tone – it was aggressive – ‘why did you, Paul and Mary send me those odds and ends?’

  This was a frontal attack. At the outset of any verbal confrontation he was prone to stuttering. The stutter would go away as he gathered his thoughts. ‘Well … well …
oh, well, we thought …’

  Seething with indignation, she burst out, ‘What’s the meaning of sending me – for my birthday – things that belonged to Mother and Father?’

  ‘Well … well … we thought that it, it would please you. Well … that’s … that’s what we were led to understand by Joe.’

  ‘Oh, come on, George! Don’t point the finger at Joe. Leave him out of this. He’s not the culprit. He means well.’

  ‘It was his suggestion,’ her brother exclaimed. ‘Joe told us that this was what you wanted.’ By then, he had overcome his stutter.

  ‘So you, Paul and Mary jumped at the opportunity to use my birthday to avoid settling outstanding accounts?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, you’ve got us totally bewildered! We honestly thought it would give you some pleasure to receive those things. Call them birthday presents, call them family treasures, it doesn’t matter. Does it?’

  ‘It does,’ she replied, with utmost earnestness.

  ‘I guess I don’t understand,’ her brother said, cursing himself for having called her.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she asked sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t know, Lizzie. Frankly, I don’t. What more do you expect me to say? I could point out to you that, years ago, when Mother died, you showed no palpable interest in any of their belongings. You gave us the impression you wanted nothing to do with our discussions of how things should be divided. You seemed to look down on us for having these discussions. Now, we’re hearing a different story.’

  ‘And what about the money?’ she asked.

  ‘What about it?’ he queried. ‘Everything has suddenly become so complicated, Lizzie. It’s beyond me.’

  ‘Look,’ she said more softly, ‘if you really want uncomplicated dealings with me, then we must first resolve these issues. Have them all out on the table. All of these issues. With Paul and Mary present, of course.’