Alexandrian Summer

by Yitzhak Gormezano Goren

  Robby looked at Victor and saw that he was close to tears. His pouting lips were trembling, and his appearance was somewhere between touching and pathetic. Robby wanted to make a gesture of sympathy. Victor saw this and twisted his face in ridicule, winked toward his father, chuckled and twisted his finger against his temple, as if saying, “My father’s cuckoo!” Robby kept looking, and Victor could take no more and ran to his room. Robby didn’t laugh at him.

  The old clock chimed twelve.

  A sigh of relief. The clock had broken the discomfort, giving someone reason to say, “What? It’s midnight already? So late!”

  That night, Robby dreamed of Leila, but couldn’t remember his dream in the morning.

  16. THE TURK IS ALL MAN

  Never rest on your laurels.

  Never get blinded by fame.

  Think about Ahmed’s revenge race.

  And most important—maintain a strict diet!

  Mount your mare next Sunday without the overconfidence of the gullible rabbit racing against the wise turtle.

  Nevertheless, do not forget that your victory last Sunday was a promise of future victories.

  A promise for you to keep.

  And one more thing—don’t fall in love with your mare.

  Remember what happened to your father, when he became attached to Leila with chains of love. Her tragic death killed my career. I became a trainer, but a trainer is but a pale shadow of the jockey, his pleasure and excitement merely shadows of the pleasure and excitement enjoyed by the jockey. The trouble is, other horses are merely the shadow of Leila. I could never get used to other horses. Don’t fall in love with your mare, my son! Horses are more loyal than women, but they don’t live as long.

  David nodded and nodded, and his silent father sipped his Turkish coffee and talked and talked. They were alone on the balcony, in the light breeze. Joseph was not one for conversation. He was shy and uncomfortable around people. The scents of dainty women’s perfumes and of the tobacco of cleanly-shaven men filled his heart with yearning for the smell of horses in their stable. He loved the noble silence of the horse, its serious eyes, the respect it awoke in anyone who watched. Nothing like a donkey or a mule. He raised his eyes toward his son: handsome, tall, thin (but for that tendency to put on weight—an endless battle!) and a shadow passed over his face. Why was his heart not content with the glittering joy in David’s eyes? Why did he have a bad hunch? He was worried about Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni’s cold, penetrating stare. After the match, he came over to shake David’s hand. His shake was friendly, sportsmanlike, a hand that had learned from the Brits how to lose gracefully and not hold a grudge, but his eyes, oh, his eyes were of the desert. Blood vengeance, they cried. And who knows if it wasn’t by order of the lady, the consul’s wife, that he came over with his gesture of camaraderie? Ahmed would not rest. He’d do anything to win back his glory. The Muslim isn’t one to give up his honor lightly. Who knew better than Joseph? But it had to be stopped, at all costs. His dream was about to come true. Not through him, but through his son. What’s the difference? What he couldn’t achieve, his son would, with his assistance. A flame ignited in Joseph’s green-hued eyes. A look of clear determination shot a flash of steel through them. He searched for the same sternness in his son’s eyes, the one that provides heroes with the glow of glory, but couldn’t find it. A dull worry gnawed at his heart. Something of Emilie’s refined softness had transferred to their son. He lacked the desire for perfection, and perhaps a masculine pride, without which, how are men better than women? Joseph loved Emilie more than life itself. He always had. Nevertheless, in their early years of marriage, he occasionally tied her to the bed frame and whipped her bare back with his belt, not because of something she’d done, but just to maintain balance, or rather, to maintain the superiority Allah had given man over his wife. Emilie accepted her sentence, because that was the oossool, the law of man and nature, and that was how it should be! The Turk is all man. Not like the Egyptian men here. The Turk knows about respect, and loyalty, and love … A deep yearning for Emilie’s soft, white skin dulled the daggers of his eyes for a moment. He reached for his son, and as he caressed his face he imagined for a moment that the face was actually his young wife’s. He wanted to tie the boy to the bed frame and lash his bare back, but knew that these were new times, and he had to accept them. A foul taste filled his mouth, almost making him sick. Tender ululations sounded from the Arab café on the corner, the divine voice of Umm Kulthum, legendary mother of song, emerging like a ray of light through red clouds … oh, the hookah … the beads … and Umm Kulthum.

  Suddenly the clear voice of the godly singer was disrupted by an off-tune screech. An old man in britches and a turban was turning the lever on an organ down in the street, playing some cheap Western tune. A young man in a ratty sailor’s uniform broke into a monkey dance to the sounds, and joked nonstop about the monkey’s red but-tocks. A boy walked among the crowd with a hat in his hand, and once the show was over, solicited tips from the onlookers. Some paid and others refrained. The old man pulled the hat off the sailor’s head and raised it toward the balconies. David laughed and threw a few coins down, and the three of them dispersed to collect the ringing treasure, simultaneously bowing.

  Joseph wanted to ask his son, “Did you screw her?” but how dare he ask his son such a thing? Let him sleep with her and be done with it! A man should not walk around with pain in his testicles. Especially not a jockey. A jockey mustn’t be in love. Love gives you an appetite, and appetite makes you eat—oh, that tendency to put on weight!

  Joseph shook his head, and the jolly fringe of his fez moved along with him.

  17. IT’S EITHER ME OR …

  She let him touch her breasts! They snuck out of the party, squeezed into the Topolino, and even before they went on their way he made a first attempt. She hit his mischievous hand, hard. A nightclub in Bulkeley. Dancing cheek to cheek, so close, eyes almost shut. At the table, in a dark corner, he tried his luck between her thighs. His hand was returned to its place shamefully. Leaving the club, their eyes were on the sea. The full moon brushed silver twinkles along the waves. A languid tango filtered out from the club. He put his arm around her neck, heavy, as if by accident, on her left breast, over the blouse, of course. This first feel went by without a hitch. He squeezed a little, to show her this was no accident, so that she couldn’t pretend not to know. She didn’t react, only hummed the tango and stared at the moon. He was proud of his achievement. He advanced slowly, already reaching the neckline. From there he could take a sharp turn down toward her skin. His hand continued in its expedition. His excitement grew. His fingertips were already wandering the no-man’s-land between the tight brassiere and her soft, supple skin. That smoothness intoxicated him. Suddenly he felt the brash coarseness of the nipple. He was about to shout with joy. The bra wasn’t so tight around the nipple, and his fingers had some leeway as they played with the hardening breast.

  She was bored, but still expectant. Perhaps a miracle would happen? Someone to take her out of this abysmal boredom, which made her simultaneously indolent and dissatisfied. She would even let him kiss her. Why not? He doesn’t smell bad, not even of cigarettes. To him each step was an accomplishment. To her each step was an experiment, an almost desperate attempt at breaking the magic circle. Neither of them was simply enjoying the moment.

  Lips touched lips. Tongue touched tongue. His hand still inside her bra. He tried to push the other hand around her back to undo the clasp, but the twisted position they were in hindered his success. Suddenly a Citroën pulled up nearby, and a cheerful group disembarked and proceeded tumultuously right in their direction. Robby’s sister detached from him. Damn it, now he’d have to start everything from the beginning. But now she no longer excused his fumbling advances towards her treasures.

  He tried being romantic. Sweet nothings, whispers, declarations. He proposed a walk on the deserted beach. There, alone, he’d be victorious. He’d undo her bra if it killed h
im. Maybe even more than that. The mere thought made him tremble. They strolled on the beach. The moon was shining. She took off her shoes and was suddenly plagued by a deep sadness. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just give myself up to the magic of the moment? Why does everything make me feel contempt? If I didn’t think he would get scared, I’d take all my clothes off right now and lie down on the sand for him. This whole thing is so silly.

  She couldn’t help but compare them, all of them, to her father. Deep down, she felt sorry for David, never thinking to feel sorry for herself.

  Suddenly she wanted to have a little fun. She whispered, “Do you want me, David?”

  And then, “Do you really want me, David?”

  The direct question stunned him and he had no words.

  She took his hand and put it on her chest, as if saying that this thing he’d been sweating over was the simplest thing in the world. She undid one button of her blouse, to make an easy reach. Her chest moved up and down. She might even have been a bit excited. “Do you want me, David?”

  “I … I’ll make you a queen! A queen.” This is how David expressed his feelings.

  “I’ll be yours, David,” she said. Then she was scared. Was that it? I’ll be yours? So simple? Her breasts were cupped in his hands. The sense of pleasure alarmed her. How did such an explicit promise leave her mouth? Would she keep it, or break it come dawn? She could feel the weight of the threat to her independence, until her lips finally managed to voice that redemptive “if.” That “if” that turns the tables.

  “If?” His bare feet sank into the sand. He’d been sure the path had been paved straight ahead, and suddenly he was at a crossroads. A choice. He didn’t know what to tell her. When she gave her condition, he felt an urge to slap her face. That’s what his father would have done. But he couldn’t make his hand do that. Since he’d done nothing immediately, he’d missed his chance for a violent response, and had only the path of stuttered words and prolonged silence.

  “If you really love me,” she chirped, “there should be no question about it.” And she redid the buttons of her blouse. David saw her breasts disappearing behind the batiste.

  “But why?” he asked. “Why? What does one have to do with the other?”

  “It’s either me or racing,” she repeated, persistent. “Either me or racing either me or racing either me or racing either me or racing …”

  He asked her why again and again, trying to get some answer to put his mind at ease.

  “Either-me-or-racing!”

  Lilly Elhadeff was prepared to accept him just as he was, while this one asked him to give up his passion, his destiny, his pride, his promising career … What would he tell his father? He might have given it all up just to get her. Why not? All those cream puffs he was missing out on, all that fat-dripping bacon he couldn’t eat because of that damn diet … If he were a clerk at an insurance company or a cotton marketing firm, or even at the stock market, as his father used to be, before being bitten by the racing bug, he could eat as much as he wanted. He might have given up horse racing and thanked her for rescuing him from the terrible stress, the draining competition, the paralyzing fear of failure—but he knew his father wouldn’t stand such a blow. How could he do that to his father?

  “It’s either me or …”

  And besides, why? Why?

  Why? She herself didn’t know. Just a momentary impulse. Perhaps a test of his love? Or maybe just an excuse. It was obvious he could not consent to her demands, and this way she could say that he was the one to ruin their chances. And besides, if he did agree to give up this career that set him apart from the anonymous masses just because of the whim of a bored woman who didn’t even love him, her contempt would only grow stronger. Why can’t she stop comparing them to her father? Would she ever find a man like her father? Ultimately, she thought, Lilly Elhadeff will have David and I’ll remain with my yearning for the perfect man, a man who doesn’t exist … But how could she give up this independence, this wonderful, intoxicating, dizzying freedom? She enjoyed this game of femme fatale, or maybe it was merely her fear of being enslaved to a man, having to play the game for keeps, grow up and become the boring, bored other half of a “Madame et Monsieur.” Suddenly she wanted to go home, just to run home and sleep …

  “Why?” he kept asking.

  “Why? Because I don’t want to marry a jockey. A horse is not a stable career, you see? Horses are not a profession, not a future. Horses! Who could live with a man who loves his mare more than his wife? Who could live with a man who weighs himself three times a day? How your mother could have put up with your father, that’s her business …”

  “Leave my mother out of this, you hear? Leave my mother out of this!” He shook her angrily. What he wouldn’t give to break her, she was so fragile, only a woman.

  She said coolly, “You’re hurting me, Mama’s Boy.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

  “That’s just it, mon ami, you didn’t mean to, but you were ready to whip me. If that’s how you’re acting now, just think what I have to look forward to once we’re married! What can I say, my friend, I want things that … you’re a nice boy, but …” Finally she gave up on trying to explain, and summed it up in words he could understand: “I want security, I want money …”

  “Money?” David cried and burst out laughing. “That’s what you’re concerned about? You know how much I made today at the race? You want to know?” and he spat out the amount proudly.

  The jingling of coins made a ruckus in her head. That was as much as an average clerk made in six months, she thought with a hint of bitterness and a measure of admiration. She tried to keep cool, maintaining the expression of ridicule.

  He added with excitement, “My value on the jockey’s stock market, my rating, is rising daily. And my mare, Esperance, also has a high rating. People put their money on us, their savings, their lives. They trust us. They’re willing to bet on us. Their paychecks, their children’s food. They’re willing to put it all on me, and you’re still hesitating?”

  He waited silently. She didn’t say a word either. She didn’t know what to say. She’d never been this close to surrendering. Had he stopped talking that moment, had he grabbed her and kissed her, taking her breath away, crushing her bones and ignoring her stuttering protests, she might have been won over by him. But he was drunk on words, on the bright future filled with money and on the woman he would marry. “If I keep winning like this, I’ll be a millionaire!”

  “If you keep winning!” That was the best response she could muster to his arrogance. All this talk of legendary wealth, of the excitement of betting—win all or lose all— worked its magic. Her eyes glowed a bit, and she looked at him, expecting him to crush her doubt with his strong arms.

  Had David not been so self-involved at that moment, he might have noticed that look that said, “Take it all, but do it quickly!” and swept her away. Instead, he continued to glide on the wings of the dream of his own grandeur. “I’m only just beginning, really. They say I have a great future ahead of me. It’s all ours. Yours and mine. I’ll share it all with you, you get it? We’ll go to Europe, to America, to the Far East. The high life! Next summer, when we come back for the racing season, we’ll be able to spend the season at the Windsor or the Cecile Hotel – such luxury! We won’t have to make do with a meager room at —”

  “Like the one you have this summer?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. The rooms we rented at your place are anything but meager. I like it there. Your place is in an ideal location, walking distance from the track … but you’ve got to admit, it isn’t exactly the Cecile.” He laughed arrogantly. His confidence grew as he kept talking, “And there are ways for me to make even more money. I can gamble myself. I know which horse and which jockey to put my money on. Ha! True, the rules prohibit it, but between you and me, everybody does it, using a third party. And then, my dear, the sky’s the limit!” He took a deep breath and fixed
his shimmering eyes on her, as if saying, Now, my fair lady, let’s see you say no to this!

  “You think I can be bought?” she said coolly, but her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted it to be, which annoyed her.

  “Any woman can be bought, baby!” David Hamdi-Ali quoted Humphrey Bogart or Clark Gable.

  She burst out laughing, but even her laughter was more hesitant than she’d wanted. Her laughter slowly died down, and she wanted to speak, but didn’t know where her words would lead. She’d already decided to gamble, to go with the flow. Wherever it may take her. Her nostrils filled with the smell of the salty breeze, and the moon was low, heavy and ripe. A heaviness also filled her breasts and stomach. She wanted to speak, but was thinking about other things. Her entire body was aware of her feminine blossoming, that wondrous summer bloom that took over young girls, until their lips parted with sweet moisture, and every muscle in their bodies was alert for something … for … “for a wedding, come on!” Grandma would have said impatiently. But this feeling meant freedom, she protested, while a wedding … she was scared of a wedding, of that constant friction with a stranger, who may see himself entitled to make all sorts of demands, view her as responsible for all sorts of duties, and worst of all—would never change. He’d always be the same man, morning, noon and night. Dancing with the same man, going out with the same man. The same hands caressing her body, maybe even beating it … She trembled when she recalled her cousin Adele, the eldest daughter of her aunt Tovula, who took a beating from her husband once in a while, and with a belt … What did she need this for? And why so soon? Especially considering how her parents gave her complete freedom, trusting her judgment, trusting her not to get into trouble. She wouldn’t get into trouble, but how about some pleasure? She had to remember, and look out, not let any of them cross that thin, fragile line that separated fun from enslaving devotion. Besides, and maybe this is the main thing, she didn’t want to part with her parents, and she missed her brothers in Israel. It might be odd to add this after all this talk of freedom and independence, but she knew she’d never feel better than at her mother’s side, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. But not to David Hamdi-Ali, of course. To him she said only, “What you’re saying is very exciting, David, really wonderful, engaging stuff, this horse racing of yours. I can see how important it is to you —”