The Cairo House

by Samia Serageldin

  Gigi could see that Papa was not up to handling the paper pusher’s calculated insolence that day. He was trying to control his temper and fumbling around in his pocket for an Angicid pill to stick under his tongue. She drew him away.

  ‘Come on, Papa, it’s not worth upsetting yourself. Let’s go home now, we’ll take care of it later some other way.’

  She promised herself not to expose her father to that kind of situation again. The next day she went to lunch at the Pasha’s and mentioned the difficulties she’d had at the passport office. He made a phone call and sent her over with his driver half an hour later. It was taken care of immediately.

  Gigi pulled up a lounge chair beside Papa on the terrace. ‘Hello, Papa.’

  ‘Hello, darling. Come tell me about your trip. Where’s Tarek? Have you put him to bed?’

  ‘Mama is doing that tonight.’

  ‘Tell me all about Jedda.’

  ‘Yussef seems to think we should live there for a while, I don’t know how long. I don’t think I could take it, especially if he expects us to stay as Bandar’s guests. The Emir and his wife are very kind, that’s not the problem, but you wouldn’t believe how monotonous the life the women lead there is.’ Khadija and her friends woke very late, about two o’clock, and spent the rest of the afternoon getting massages and manicures. Their one passion seemed to be shopping, and occasionally they covered themselves from head to foot and got driven to a mall, but mostly they waited to go on shopping sprees to Europe. In the evening they watched endless videos while waiting for the men to be free. Every so often they dressed elaborately for a party; lavish affairs, with hired entertainment, belly-dancers and singers, but all women, from the guests to the musicians. Then sooner or later some of the guests themselves got up and belly-danced to entertain each other. She sighed. ‘Papa, I couldn’t breathe while I was over there. And it would be no life at all for Tarek, I’d have to leave him behind.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Gigi, if Yussef stays here, his father will keep him under his thumb forever. I know Kamal Zeitouni.’ He sighed. ‘The only alternative is for Yussef to try to make a career for himself abroad. You could go back to London. A lot of young couples are trying to establish themselves abroad, but they generally don’t have as much going for them at home as you and Yussef do. But if you want to be independent of his father, that’s the price you’ll have to pay. It will be hard, the first few years especially will be very hard, you won’t have the lifestyle you could have had here.’

  ‘So you think we should go back to London?’ Gigi was glad of the dark, so he couldn’t see that she was close to tears.

  ‘Don’t ask silly questions. Do you really think for a minute that I want you to go away? My only daughter? Just when you come back after being gone to England for years and years? Do you really believe I want you to go away again, and take the child with you, this child that is such a joy to us, your mother and me?’

  Gigi rubbed her head against his shoulder in the dark.

  ‘If Yussef were mean to you, if he had vices, I wouldn’t encourage you to put up with him for a minute, you know that –’

  Gigi hesitated. But certain things, once said, could not be retracted. She shook her head.

  ‘Then you have to do what’s right, Gigi, for Tarek’s sake. You’re my daughter, and your mother’s daughter.’

  She remembered the conversation overheard, so many years ago now, through the French windows of Mama’s bedroom. She wondered if Papa were thinking that Mama had stood by him through thick and thin. For the first time she wondered, too, if her father’s disillusionment over Gina’s story had colored his perception when it came to her own engagement to Yussef and now her marriage. Perhaps it was the disappointed romantic in him that had settled for a loveless marriage for his own daughter. She remembered the look on his face when Gina had come to say goodbye, the day she left for Lebanon, abandoning her children and her country; Gigi couldn’t bear to disappoint him that way.

  In the dark she could sense, more than hear, Papa draw furiously on his unlit pipe. She knew how frustrating it was for him to see her unhappy. It frightened her to think that she might be responsible for bringing on one of his attacks.

  ‘It’s all right, Papa, really. It’ll all work out, don’t worry. Oh, did I tell you about Om Khalil and what she did in Jedda?’

  ‘Papa, do you need anything before I go to bed?’

  ‘Rub my leg for me for a minute. It aches tonight.’

  Gigi sat down at the foot of the bed and rubbed his calf muscle as he lay with his knee bent. She knew Papa’s circulation was very poor, his hands and feet were always cold.

  ‘Do you know,’ he murmured, ‘I used to be something of a chess player, when I was young.’

  Gigi was surprised. She had never known her father to play chess. Perhaps he was half-dreaming; she heard his breathing change and realized the strong sedative he took had taken effect. But he would sleep only fitfully, and long before dawn be unable to rest.

  Gigi tiptoed to the door then turned around for a last look. Her father’s breathing was loud and laborious, every breath seemed to take so much effort, she wondered how he could keep it up.

  He couldn’t. During the night the blood clot that had caused the pain in his leg had migrated in his blood. By morning it had reached his heart and the death watch had begun. The two doctors came and went, setting up an oxygen tent and hooking up intravenous lines. Shamel had refused to go to the hospital; he wanted to die at home.

  The salons filled with the nearest relatives: the Pasha, Nabil and Zakariah, Tante Zohra, Uncle Hani. Mama did not leave Papa’s side and left it up to Gigi to make sure the suffragi served tea or coffee to each new arrival, that the maid, Khadra, brought guest towels and a prayer rug to Tante Zohra, that an ashtray was found for the Pasha. Leila came to take Tarek out of the way.

  Gigi had just finished answering the telephone – another concerned relative – and hurried back to her father’s room with the bottle of rubbing alcohol the doctor had asked for. At the door what she saw made her cry out and drop the bottle. The two doctors were pounding on her father’s chest and his legs were bouncing on the bed, the intravenous drip tube flying out of his arm.

  ‘Stop! You’re hurting him! Stop!’ she screamed.

  The younger of the two doctors pushed her out of the room and closed the door, calling tersely to Uncle Hani, who was just outside: ‘Keep her out till it’s over.’

  The next few hours blurred into a haze as the sedative she was given took over. She vaguely remembered throwing up while Madame Hélène held her head, as she had done when Gigi was a child. She was barely aware of Leila bringing Tarek back, and tucking him into bed beside her. She half-woke in the middle of the night and stumbled over to her mother’s room at the other end of the house. Mama was asleep, heavily sedated. Khadra lay on a mattress on the floor at the foot of the bed. She raised her head when she saw Gigi and put a finger to her lips. Gigi crept back to bed.

  Then it was sunrise. Tarek stirred beside her. Gigi drew him closer but he wiggled away and slipped out of bed. It was only when she heard the patter of his little bare feet on the hardwood floor of the corridor that she realized he would head straight for his grandfather’s room, as he did every morning when he woke early. Gigi flung herself out of bed.

  ‘Tarek, no!’

  But it was too late, he was speeding through the corridor and had reached the sitting room that led to Papa’s bedroom. Madame Hélène, slumped mournfully in an armchair by the door, heard the little feet. How, despite her creaky old knees, she was able to shove herself out of the armchair; how she managed to catch the little blue-pajama’d figure in full flight; this Gigi would never know. She only knew that an angel was standing guard that morning.

  ‘Viens, mon petit, Monsieur is sleeping late today, we must be very quiet.’ Madame Hélène led Tarek away.

  The doorbell rang, making Gigi jump. She hurried downstairs. She was surprised to see Tame
r’s tall, lean figure at the door.

  ‘Tamer! What are you doing here?’ She pulled him in by the hand and closed the door.

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you. Only when I heard, I wanted to be the first one here in the morning to see you. And to make sure that I could be one of the pallbearers.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart.’ Gigi gave him a hug. ‘Did you tell anyone you were coming?’

  ‘No, it was my idea.’

  Gigi had guessed as much because no one had told him that pallbearers needed to wear a black tie.

  ‘Wait here for a minute, I’ll get you a tie.’

  She went upstairs to her father’s room. Papa had any number of black ties that he kept for funerals and visits of condolences. She would lend one to Tamer.

  She entered Papa’s room without hesitation. He looked as he would if he were asleep, except for a bandage around his head holding his jaw closed. The other discordant note was an electric fan whirring on the bedside table. Gigi leaned over the bed. ‘Hello, Papa.’ She brushed his hand.

  ‘Touching the dead causes them pain!’ A strange voice boomed behind her.

  Gigi spun around. A fikki sat cross-legged on the chaise longue, partially screened by the clotheshorse. He adjusted the white turban on his head, balancing an open Koran on his knees. His shoes were on the floor.

  ‘Who let you in here?’ Gigi asked.

  ‘I was called to pray for the soul of the dead through the night.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Gigi turned back to Papa, trying to ignore the presence of this stranger in her father’s bedroom. But as soon as she leaned over the bed again the man began remonstrating.

  ‘Touching the dead causes them pain!’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m his daughter. I wouldn’t hurt him.’

  ‘The soul of the dead feels the slightest touch!’

  Gigi lost patience. ‘Look, why don’t you go downstairs now and have a cup of tea. You must be tired. Tell Khadra – that’s the maid – tell her I said to make you breakfast. Go on, please. The mourners will be here in a minute and you won’t have another chance.’

  She ushered the fikki out. She looked around Papa’s room. It was so tidy, the dressers clear of clutter: no books, papers, letters or trinkets; only his keys, a pen and the cold pipe in a silver ashtray. She stared at the bedside table with its neat array of prescription bottles, the clotheshorse with his pants crisply folded at the crease. She opened his closet. Everything was impeccable. The suits and ties were not new and yet looked hardly used. The tie rack was arranged according to colors, and there were a dozen black ties hanging side by side. She chose a relatively recent style for Tamer.

  She had never noticed before that her father was a tidy man, or that he used his possessions lightly, as if they were borrowed. Some people took up so much space in this world, surrounded themselves with clutter and bustle, staking a claim on life. But with her father, when his body was borne away and the tray of medicine was removed, the room in which he had lived for nearly thirty years would look as if it had never been occupied.

  It was as if he had packed his bags and been ready to go, a long time ago. Gigi reproached herself for having been too engrossed in her problems with Yussef to notice the luggage standing ready in the corner.

  At nine the men came. The last Gigi saw of Papa was his body being carried out of the house, wrapped in white sheeting, on a pall borne by six men, including Tamer. The men left the house for the cemetery. Mama stood by the door, as speechless and dry-eyed as Gigi. The lack of a display of emotion apparently offended Khadra’s sense of what was fitting and due to her kind employer. She took it upon herself to remedy the situation. She started to wail at the top of her voice as the silent procession went down the stairs to the waiting cars.

  The two salons of the Cairo House overflowed with women in black. In a powerful baritone, a fikki seated behind a screen chanted verses from the Koran.

  ‘Those who believe, and the Jews,

  And the Christians and the Sabians

  Those who believe in Allah and the Last Day

  And are righteous in their deeds

  Shall have their reward with their Lord

  They need neither fear nor grieve.’

  For the first time Gigi concentrated on the chanted verses. She tried not to fear or grieve for her father. Papa had been righteous. She had never known anyone with a more absolute sense of right and wrong. But she knew that it was a morality undictated by fear of divine retribution. Had he believed?

  In the intervals the suffragis circled with trays of Turkish coffee and ice water. Gigi sat at one end, surrounded by her cousins and school friends. Mama and Tante Zohra each held court at opposite ends of the salons.

  The men held their reception for condolences under a huge awning of carpeting set up in a square in front of one of the major mosques in Cairo. Hundreds of chairs were packed under the awning to accommodate the crowds that came to pay their condolences to the Pasha; now that he was back in the political limelight his brother’s memorial service was no longer a family affair.

  The Pasha had organized everything for the three days of official mourning. All Mama and Gigi had to do was to dress in black and drive over to the Cairo House to receive visitors. This arrangement contributed to the unreality of the situation for Gigi.

  The fikki’s disembodied voice rose again from behind the screen.

  ‘Seek refuge with the Lord of the dawn

  From the evil among his creations

  From the darkness as it spreads

  From witches breathing spells

  From the evil eye of the envious.’

  Tante Zohra let out a long, loud sigh. Gigi crossed the salon and sat down beside her. Her aunt dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Ah, my poor Gigi, what a loss! I never thought I would outlive Shamel, he was the youngest of us all. But he was always too sensitive, he took everything to heart. It wore him down. People like that aren’t tough enough to deal with this cruel world.’ She patted Gigi’s hand. ‘He worried about you so, you know.’

  On the last day, a slim woman with dark brown, upswept hair arrived late in the afternoon. She went straight to Tante Zohra and hugged her, and they both started weeping. It was only when she turned to Gigi and Mama that Gigi recognized her. It was Gina. Gigi had been fourteen the last time she had seen her.

  She hugged Gigi. ‘How you’ve grown! It must be ten years since I last saw you. The last time I saw Uncle Shamel, Allah rest his soul. You can’t know how much he meant to me. But it’s so good to see you, darling Gigi!’

  Driving home, Gigi couldn’t wait to tell Papa that she had seen Gina again after all these years. That she looked older, but that you could still see traces of the charm that Papa, and other men, had found so irresistible. Then it hit Gigi that Papa would not be home to hear about Gina. He would never be home again. She would never be able to talk to him again, about anything. That night, for the first time, she cried.

  In her sleep she thought she saw Papa come in and close the windows. When she woke in the morning she realized it must have been a dream, evoked by the sound of the wind rattling the shutters.

  Mama could not sleep alone, since Papa’s death. Khadra slept on a mattress at the foot of her bed.

  That day was the first day they had lunch together at home, rather than at the Cairo House. Mama, Gigi and Madame Hélène tried to make conversation, for Tarek’s sake. Suddenly Tarek piped up:

  ‘Grandpa came and closed the windows in my room last night.’

  Gigi dropped her fork and stared at him.

  Mama understood. ‘You too?’ she asked Gigi. ‘He closed the windows in your room too?’ The tears came to her eyes. ‘He never came to my room. Why didn’t he come to me? Is it because Khadra sleeps in the room?’

  ‘Oh, Mama, what an idea.’ Gigi jumped up and hugged her. But it shocked her that her mother, usually so rational, had accepted without question that it was Papa’s spirit, rather than a dream, that had vi
sited both Gigi and Tarek that night.

  Yussef came back from Jedda a week after Papa passed away. He had only learned of his father-in-law’s death upon his return. The day of the burial Kamal Zeitouni had taken Gigi aside.

  ‘It’s best not to tell Yussef about this just yet. He’ll be back in a week anyway. Telling him will only take his mind off his work, and there’s nothing he can do.’

  Nothing, Gigi thought, except to console his wife, if only by a phone call. But it was typical of her father-in-law. She wished Yussef had been there, she needed to cling to him for perhaps the first time in their marriage. With Papa gone, she felt exposed and vulnerable.

  When Yussef arrived a week later, late in the evening, Tarek was already in bed. Gigi took Yussef into the salon. She switched on a lamp and they sat on the sofa in the half-dark.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I wish Uncle Kamal had called you. I would have called you myself, but you never gave me the number at the Emir’s guesthouse.’

  ‘Father had it.’

  ‘I know. But he didn’t think you should be told till you came back.’

  ‘Yes, he was afraid it would be a shock. He likes to spare me as much as possible, that’s the kind of father he is.’

  Gigi bit her lip. She changed the subject.

  ‘So, did the deal go through all right?’