This untroubled street, which not an hour ago was bathed in sunlight, its head dipped in water, was now gripped by chills, and it hurried to wrap itself in a navy-blue sailor’s coat with silver buttons. There, in the heart of the bluish silence of twilight, was a loud, bright spot of light. A group of people wearing white, a cheerful ruckus coming from the center of their circle. The spot of light disappeared into the fabric of dark blue velvet, and then lit up again under another streetlamp. Only the buzzing did not fade away, but rather grew stronger, morphing into roaring laughter, the laughter of joviality.
Victor looked at the light and knew. His prayers had not been answered.
David Hamdi-Ali had scored a sweeping victory over his racing opponent.
15. LEILA
From twenty years away, beyond lands, seas, oceans, exiles … as an archeologist wandering in the darkness of oblivion, carrying the flashlight of memory that lights small corners here and there: an ancient mural dolled up in red, yellow and gold; a fresco that had once known the blessing of sunlight; the diagonal rays of Aten, god of the sun, ending in tiny hands, giving the grace of sun to the head of the pharaoh and the head of his adored Queen Nefertiti.
Robby dances his Nefertiti dance. Only Aten himself knows how this bashful boy found the courage to improvise an ancient Egyptian dance. Thérèse, at the piano, messes up Samson and Delilah as best she can, and only Marcel the musician wrinkles his face at a tuneless note that no one but him notices. Victor’s disdainful eyes do not break the ceremonial serenity of Robby’s angular motions. Only one small worry trembles in his heart, but he does not show it: the overturned bucket, the fact that it might once more fall on his nose, which is protected with a pink bandage. But the bucket cooperates and stays put.
The dance went off without a hitch. Well, almost without a hitch: in the middle of the show, while Robby was certain that his audience was mesmerized, old Aunt Tovula sighed and said, “Pisharé!” meaning, “time to pee,” and even stood up to carry out her plans. This innocent comment raised thunderous laughter that blurred the impression made by the show. Seeing what she had done, she sat back down with a teasing grudge. “Qué hay? Ma qué ténéche?” she asked with protest. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?” Then her face softened and she turned to Robby’s mother for some affection: “Qué diché? What did I say?” Several voices joined together to hush the old lady and Robby bit his lips, but knew that the show had to go on, and decided to ignore the incident. Slowly, the tumult died down and the dance continued. Once it was over, laughter broke out again at the sight of the poor old aunt running urgently toward the bathroom. Now even Robby allowed himself a small smile. Aunt Tovula was his favorite, and he couldn’t stay mad at her.
Somebody started to clap and the rest followed. Thus, the honor of the dance was restored. Robby’s face grew serious again immediately. A light bow, the lightest, the Queen of Egypt wouldn’t bow very deeply, let alone with this bucket atop her head, which might fall to the ground in a metallic clatter.
Thérèse used this opportunity to give Robby a suffocating, pre-maternal hug, until his head was pressed between the evil hardness of the bucket and the generous softness of her ripening breasts. Now that he’d tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, fed to him by Victor, he could no longer lean his head against this feminine tenderness without blushing and pulling away a little. The grownups laughed. Juliette wanted to hug him as well, but he wasn’t there anymore. In a flash, he was in the back room, at the end of the hall, explaining that he had to change. He didn’t turn on the light. It felt urgent to get out of these ridiculous women’s clothes. Had he actually been good, or were they just making fun of him? He was mad at himself for not being able to let go of these maddening thoughts. Why can’t he do anything simply and fully without pointless pondering? He stood in his underwear, looking out the window. The moonlight painted his body silver, and cool, damp air touched him in a light, pleasurable caress. The window across the street was dark—Dora and Louis Abarbanell were among the audience at his performance. He loved small, delicate, fragile Louis, torn between his love for his big, sad mother, and his yearning for his father, small and fragile like him. Every Sunday morning his father picked him up for a walk on the boardwalk, where he treated him to black, sticky licorice. Louis hated licorice, but never dared tell his father, so as not to hurt him. Once, Robby asked to join them on their walk, but Louis forbade it with burning zealotry. A child like Robby, growing up in a harmonious household, could never understand such a strong response.
He loved little Louis, and almost refused to skip a grade because of him. When they both started at the Alexandria Jewish School, the Lycée de l’Union Juive, (an exceptional institution with no religious affiliation and with classes taught mainly in French, with a skimpy handful of Hebrew and Arabic and a bit more English), they were both immediately enrolled in second grade. They shared a desk and were happy. On the very first day, the teacher asked for a volunteer to come and draw anything they wanted on the blackboard. Robby went to the head of the class and drew a curvy De Soto, the newest model. The teacher was amazed. Children who can draw like that belong in third grade. During French dictation Robby had only four spelling mistakes—once he forgot an s at the end of a plural form, and another time he forgot to double a consonant—nothing major. Kids who can do dictation with only four mistakes belong in third grade. He already knew multiplication and division, though in a slightly different method than that taught by Madame Aguion.
“Who taught you all of this?” asked Mlle. Sasson, his homeroom teacher.
“My sister,” Robby said proudly.
“You don’t belong in second grade,” she announced. “You belong in third grade!”
“And what about Louis?”
“Louis is little!” she determined.
“But …”
“You’re moving to third grade. You’re going to be an architect!” she prophesied.
“I don’t want to skip a grade,” he said gravely.
Mlle. Sasson’s large eyes grew wider. Her thin, translucent skin stretched over the bones of her skull. For a moment she didn’t know what to say. Could it be? Why would a boy want to stay in a lower class when given the opportunity to move ahead?
“I want to be with Louis!” His stubborn eyes focused on the De Soto’s round contours. He wished he could wipe that perfection away with a wave of a hand.
“Fine, sit down.”
But the teacher didn’t give up. She spoke with Madame Aguion, the principal, who spoke with Robby’s parents. His parents convinced him to move to third grade, and he did. At the end of the year he was second in his class and won the Tableau d’honneur, a sign of appreciation for his achievements. Second, not first. Why not first? Two opponents fought him for the desired title: little Lilianne, with her fox-face and dimples, and Fifi, with the dreamy eyes and the deep, throaty voice. Lilianne came in third, and Fifi first. Robby thought: if I even know what love is, I think I love Fifi. She always had the right answers. She wasn’t brilliant, but she was calculating and calm, making his heart twirl with her quiet, confident voice. Victor asked him that afternoon if he didn’t want to screw Fifi, and Robby hated him for this intrusion upon his lofty emotions.
The sounds of Monti’s Csárdás, played on the violin by Marcel, reached Robby’s mind through a fog. He liked watching his cousin play: the closed eyes, the chin leaning against the instrument, the relaxed concentration, all in contrast with the quickness of the playing hand, a breath-taking striving toward perfection. A great future had been foretold for Marcel. Next to him was his younger brother, Roger. Roger was retarded. No one foretold anything for him. Children made fun of him, grownups nodded at him politely, and a wily tumor kept growing inside his brain, pushing everything off toward the walls of his skull. His face was covered in fresh, ugly bruises from the falls he had whenever he lost his balance. He died that very summer. Robby didn’t go to the funeral. They tried to shield children from suc
h harsh experiences. Roger’s mother hardly shed a tear for him. His old nanny, who took devoted care of him through all his years of illness, cried her heart out.
Happily, thanks to Marcel’s playing, Robby’s entrance did not receive any attention. He was a star tired of the limelight, craving anonymity. He sat down next to his mother and leaned his head against her arm.
David Hamdi-Ali sat in the middle of the hall, very close to Robby’s sister, and the two of them were in the midst of a giggly conversation, ignoring all the hints and gestures and even bitter words that let them know that their brash chatting was interrupting the recital.
Sunken between the sofa cushions, Robby’s sister’s warm breath tickling his face, David was the happiest man alive. His fast, agile horse, Esperance, had beat Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni’s horse. He was proud. He finally broke the prestige of “unbeatable” Al-Tal’ooni, the Muslim jockey, the star who had come all the way from the wandering tribes of the Libyan Desert to the refined racetracks of Alexandria, and who instantly became the pet of the city’s European women. Ahmed was black, skinny and shrunken as a carob that had dried in the sun. Among his proud, masculine tribe he was considered to be an unfortunate genetic mistake. His father barely acknowledged him, and all agreed that the rough desert, which had its own wise natural selection, would find the only solution for this strange creature. He was neglected and forgotten, exempt from any and all duties, and could give himself completely to his one passion: riding horses through the desert. Legend has it that one day the head of the Bedouin tribe threw a hafla, a feast, in honor of the British consul, who occasionally liked to put on a Lawrence of Arabia gown and visit tents and sit on the ground and eat with his hands. As part of the feast, the sheikh arranged a Fantaziya—an eques-trian extravaganza starring the entire shabab, the gang of young, beautiful, strong tribe members. In the middle of the show, the mysterious black knight emerged from the heart of the desert, shocking everyone with riding skills never seen before from Mecca to Benghazi. The Muslims swore that this horseman was born of the desert, while the British consul mumbled, “Sir Ivanhoe, I presume?” raising polite laughter among the European posse. When the black knight unveiled his face, the amazement reached its crescendo. The consul’s wife immediately decided to adopt the boy, turning him into the playboy of Alexandria’s high and bored society. His highness did not think much of the idea, but since he was twice as old as his wife, he dared not stand in the way of her follies. The sheikh, the boy’s father, saw it as his duty to decrease Ahmed’s perceived value and revealed each one of his shortcomings, even going so far as offering her the pick of his fifty sons, all large and burly, a sight for sore eyes. But the lady insisted. The sheikh could not understand how such a beautiful woman could choose the ugliest, most crooked of them all, but since he didn’t want to insult his guests, he agreed to give them the boy. The legend does not explicate the nature of the relation-ship between the lovely consul’s wife and her insect-like adoptee, but reality shows us that the lady turned the wild beast into a star of the racetrack. His name was heard beyond the borders of Egypt, exciting the imaginations of quite a few European women.
David Hamdi-Ali was proud of having beaten a legend.
But that wasn’t on his mind at that moment. Tonight she’s mine, he thought. She’s finally mine. Perhaps she’ll even let me touch her breasts. Not by coincidence, a fake accident, but for real, and these hands will fondle them. Robby’s sister wondered why he kept kneading his handkerchief. Damn! Those breasts, so close, yet so far. Will she let me kiss them? Maybe she’ll let me touch them but not kiss them, or maybe she’ll let me kiss them but not t… No, logic determines that she’ll let me touch them but not kiss them, or maybe not even touch. Damn! Those breasts, so close, yet so far …
Dried fruits, almonds and nuts were served. The kadaif and the boyos had already been brought out. Marzipan too, called massapán in Spanish, and called by Robby’s grandmother pita d’almendra, almond pastry.
Robby’s cousin Raphael, Aunt Tovula’s son, whose nickname for Robby was Petit Tigre, sang a song he improvised about Esperance, David’s hope. Robby was immensely impressed. A more mature mind might not have been so taken with the song, but Raphael’s voice was a clear tenor, and the applause was loud and enthusiastic. Grandma immediately asked him to sing the two songs that made him the toast of the Auberge Bleue: Triana and Antonio Heredia Gitano. He gladly obliged, and as he sang, Grandma couldn’t help but accompany him and ruin the performance. “Triana, mi Triana,” she called excitedly, her green eyes glowing. Occasionally she sang the lyrics before the music, as if announcing their approach, and other times she repeated lines, confirming them: “ya viene’l dia, ya viene’l mare, here comes the day, here come the waves!”
“Yassoo!” the guests cheered in Greek.
Por tu culpa culpita yo tengo
negro negrito, mi corason!
Your accusations make me feel guilty,
and evil thoughts fill my heart!
“Es verdad!” she finally said. It’s true! No one knew for sure what she meant, what was so true.
Raphael asked Robby’s grandmother to sing a song for him, and she refused, claiming to have a sore throat. The others began pleading. Finally she agreed to sing one dedicated to Raphaelico himself. When she began, no one could see the connection between this song, half Spanish and half Turkish, and Raphael. But when she reached the final lines, they all burst out laughing:
Antes eran maronchinos,
agora punios al garon;
No te paresca qu’es lo de antes,
agora te commando yo!
Even Blanche, Raphael’s fiancée, laughed when he translated the song for her: I gave you cookies first, then fists straight to the neck. Don’t think it’s like before, now I’m in command. They were about to be married in the fall and move to Israel immediately after. Robby’s grandma wasn’t impressed with the pretty, smiling face of “esta cocona, Blanche,” who came from Corfu. Grandma always said, “Corfioto—loco!” meaning, “Corfu natives— crazy!” claiming they should not be trusted. Years later, one scorching hot Israeli day in the desert town of Beer Sheba, when Raphael finally received signed divorce papers from Blanche, who made his life miserable, he sighed and admitted that his old aunt had been right, at least in his case.
David and Robby’s sister used the first opportunity to abscond. The two mothers smiled. Robby’s grandmother made an appropriate remark, and all agreed they were a fine-looking couple.
Suddenly, David’s father spoke: “Today … today a dream came true … my dream.” Then he closed his eyes and said no more. They all looked at him. He’d been so silent all day. Nobody expected to hear such a personal, dramatic statement from the quiet, fez-wearing man. Just like Victor, there was a kind of gloomy estrangement in Joseph Hamdi-Ali. You would never expect those pursed lips to let out such banal words, words that could have been spoken by any of the other guests.
The silence and the questioning looks did not confuse him in the least. He adjusted his fez and added, “It reminds me of my youth, when I myself was a jockey.”
“You were a jockey, Mr. Hamdi-Ali?” someone tried to make friendly conversation.
But Joseph did not answer, only chuckled to himself, deep in his own world.
Emilie took it upon herself to explain. “You should have seen him. It was as if he were born on horseback!” A hidden tremor rushed through her body. Light, hesitant lust swirled through her belly, sending waves to her breasts. She was grateful to Joseph for providing her with a beautiful life, and was proud to have given birth to such a handsome, wonderful boy as David.
“I used to have an Arabian mare, thin and noble. Leila was her name, because she was black zay el-leil, like the night. Her coat was smooth and shiny, you could pet her for hours, with her sounding little snorts of pleasure. One day, during a race, in a faraway country, she jumped over a hurdle and sprained her ankle as she landed. Leila knew one rule: you don’t stop before the finish l
ine. So she kept on galloping, turning the sprain into a fracture. She strode on three legs, the fourth one hanging limp in the air, and she made it fifty yards to the finish line before falling to the ground, writhing in pain. The vet tried to put a cast on her, but she refused any infringement on her freedom, and she kept jumping and twisting and moaning with pain. Poor Leila! Horses are not like men. They don’t know that the cast or the bandage are meant to help, and they cannot make do with only three legs, because they need four to carry their weight. Especially a proud mare like Leila. She wasn’t one to walk around helpless, and she wouldn’t stop acting out, crying and hurting herself. There was no way to control her, and without the cast she had no chance to survive. My heart broke. I was the one who pulled the trigger …”
Tears choked him. In his mind’s eye he saw Leila galloping in the dream tracks of his boyhood, all nobility and grace. He looked around him with cloudy eyes. He had no idea what the others thought of his story, nor did he care. His gaze was introverted. Suddenly he yearned to sit on the ground with his legs crossed and smoke a hookah and roll prayer beads between his fingers. Just like that, simply, endlessly, for a hundred years, two hundred, for eternity. Maybe that is heaven? A hookah and beads, into eternity?
He stood up, excused himself and went to his room, old and bent over, the fringe of his fez dancing happily against a miserable wrinkled face.
Everyone sat silent and gaping. No one had even noticed old Hamdi-Ali until then. It had seemed as if the Hamdi-Ali family story flowed along calmly on the surface, never penetrating the dark caves behind the quiet old man’s eyes. And then, all of a sudden, a monologue. The man spoke, said his part and vanished into the shadows.
Alexandrian Summer Page 6