“To you as well!”
“Much more important to you than I am, and right-fully so!”
“That’s not true! You’re more important to me than anything in this world!”
“But still you won’t give up racing for me.”
“You want money, don’t you?”
“Money really isn’t everything,” she said, trying to sound sincere.
“Oh. I’m just so ugly and repulsive that even for my money you wouldn’t —”
“Don’t be silly. I just can’t. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Who, then?”
“Me, myself,” she said, and couldn’t decide if she should tell him the true reason, satisfy his curiosity and show him this was no whim. Yes, it was actually her duty to show him she wasn’t simply being spoiled and arbitrary, but that she was facing grave considerations. She had to explain to him that … Suddenly she felt tired. Who said she had to? She didn’t owe him a thing! He wanted something, she set a price. The ball was in his court, and she didn’t have to reason. He had a decision to make. Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t give up racing. No man would humiliate himself that much. Especially seeing how she insisted on not giving him any acceptable reason for her demand, thus making his choice even clearer. “It’s either me or racing,” she said monotonously, as if nothing he said or did would change that.
David wouldn’t give up, but he also seemed tired. They were like two boxers, looking at each other with beaten eyes, going on with the match with an almost mechanical inertia. “But why? Why?”
She walked toward the sea, her feet spraying sand behind her. Her dress clung to her, sending unpleasant chills through her body. She felt the moist sand spraying her. She wanted to take everything off and go into the lukewarm water, but she didn’t dare. Not that she was embarrassed to show her body; on the contrary, a mischievous urge to get undressed and tease him pulsed through her. But she was afraid he’d interpret this as an act of love, or surrender.
“Fine, I’ll give up racing. I’ll give it up, damn it!”
She stopped in her tracks. It couldn’t be. This was completely unexpected. She never thought for a moment he might agree. Now the ball was in her court. What would she say? Maybe he was lying. How could she know he would keep his promise? And actually, what did his promise have to do with her? She didn’t want him to stop racing. He could keep doing it till the end of time, as far as she was concerned. What now? Plain and simple, set another condition. Would he be willing to leave his country and his family for her, the way his father did for his mother, and follow her wherever she went? This was the pivotal question. But before she even asked it, she made up her mind: she didn’t want him to agree to go away with her. She wanted to be free. Even there. There, she might explore her future, leaving the past behind. She was young, a little girl, really. She wanted her mommy. What did this stranger want from her? She wanted to say, “Too late!” but knew this was a poor excuse. He’d continue to argue and press her. She didn’t want to say anything. She wanted to spread her wings and fly. The dress kept clinging, making her tremble with discomfort. Still, she had to say something, and wasn’t sure what.
Luckily, before she could speak, he said, “I’ll give it up … after I finish this season.”
The fool.
“No,” her legs started moving again, leading her into the water. “Starting now, this moment.”
“We’ll make some money, and then —”
“No!”
“I can’t! I can’t!” His face was tormented, he was paralyzed and helpless. “I can’t do this to him. I can’t do it to my father. I just can’t.” He reached for her hand and said the two words that sealed his fate. “Have mercy.”
She took off her clothes, slowly and calmly, as if she were alone in her room, not hiding anything. She wasn’t trying to seduce him; he was simply insignificant. That’s how Egyptian princesses must have undressed in front of their eunuchs. The wind touched her curves, the sea sprayed white foam in her lap. Light, fast waves swirled around her, caressing her with sounds of explosion, purrs of delight. She closed her eyes and knew that her body was silver and that she was young. Young and free.
He stood on the beach, mouth wide open, not daring to come closer or touch her. “No!” he called out. “I won’t give up racing. Who are you to ask me to give anything up? I’ll keep going, and I’ll be a champion. I’ll be rich, and you … you’ll come begging … yes, on your knees you’ll beg me. But I’ll tell you to go to hell. I’ll tell you, Too late! Too late!” And he walked quickly back to his faithful Topolino.
She barely heard what he’d said, or the sound of the car starting. She was immersed in her delicious surrender to the warm surf.
18. A LETTER TO CAIRO
All the residents saw David the next day as he gave a sealed letter to Salem. The ringing of coins, a gesture of impatience, “Go on, go!” The servant’s persistent smile. A master’s sigh, accompanied by a hand stuffed into the pocket, another coin for the bakshish, a wide smile, and a slammed door. The echoes of the slamming dispersed like messengers to all corners of the house. Everyone held their breath. Only the ancient grandfather clock ignored the excitement and continued to tick indifferently.
“Did he ask for her hand last night?”
“And if he did, did she say yes?”
“This letter, who is it for and what does it say?”
Grandma was the one to form these three fateful questions. First silently, in her own mind, then later to her daughter, and finally to Emilie Hamdi-Ali. No one had answers.
All morning long, the two protagonists of this drama locked themselves in their respective rooms. She slept soundly, dreaming about money, more money, and even more money. He sat down to write a letter, with concentration, determination and persistence.
The letter, bearing the portrait of young King Farouk on its top right-hand corner, was on its way. No one could stop it or call it back. Grandma knew that matters had been settled, and there was nothing more for her to do. But she did not know what the verdict had been. She wanted to influence Emilie to get information from her son, but Emilie was taken aback. David could now go back to his room. Silence took over, the echoes of tumult fading. Only curiosity kept creating disquiet, leading to hasty, embarrassed whispering.
“My brother must be screwing your sister,” Victor told Robby. Robby kicked his friend in the shin. The kick was retaliated with a slap, the slap led to a scuffle on the carpet, and from the carpet to the tiled floor of the hall, and from there to the hardwood floor of the living room, and back to the balcony.
“What’s he doing in there?” Grandma asked Emilie Hamdi-Ali, pointing impatiently toward the door of David’s room.
“What’s she doing in there?” Emilie returned the question, pointing to Robby’s sister’s room.
“She’s sleeping. She’s always sleeping.”
“What does that mean? Is that a sign?”
“It’s no sign, I’m telling you, when is she ever awake? The whole world can burn down, but she—papeyando!”
They both sighed. The coffee arrived and they shook their heads, taking loud sips. Suddenly they paused. While the porcelain rattled and some drops flew out, they sat frozen. David’s door opened and he appeared in his white tennis clothes, handsome as a Hollywood dream. The old ladies were shaken and couldn’t take their eyes off him as he walked measuredly and proud, scaring off the darkness of the hall. Emilie looked at her son with gratitude for how handsome and tall he was, as if this were how he repaid her for all she’d done for him. “God save him, amen.”
Grandma could not ignore this generous, glowing beauty either, and could not hold back a mumble of excitement: “Como un Americano.”
A smile of satisfaction spread over Emilie’s lips, sending waves of happiness through her body. With her natural sensuality, which had not faded with the years, this wave translated into passion for her husband, whose impressive masculine ugliness was so different
than her son’s bright, somewhat feminine attractiveness.
Grandma felt certain that David’s ceremonial appearance would be accompanied by a formal announcement, “I’m glad to tell you, good women …”
Or: “I’ve been silent so far, because I wasn’t able to express my joy in words …”
Or: “Why should I keep you in suspense? Well …”
But not a word left his mouth. With measured steps he walked to the middle of the hall and began his workout ritual. That same introverted look. Only David Hamdi-Ali existed in the world in those moments. Only him— his body, his soul, his eyes, his ears, his nose, his chest, his arms, his legs and … oh, that too … that too … a dull ache sent waves down to his testicles. He bit his lips, pulled himself together and continued—one, two, three, right! One, two, three, left!
It was clear the sphinx wasn’t going to deliver.
Suddenly Salem appeared, sprouting all of a sudden from the shadows, as was his manner. David gave him an inquisitive look which Salem returned: mission accomplished, ya sidi! A vague smile graced David’s face. A bit of vengeance, a bit of pride, a bit of depression. A sleepless night afforded his cheeks a sickly pallor that only added a soft transparency to his beauty. An ecstatic satisfaction reflected in his motions.
The letter was on its way. Now no one could stop it or call it back. Not even him. The matter had been settled. Finally.
Grandma cornered Salem in the kitchen and asked, “Where is the letter going?”
“The post office,” said Salem sneakily.
“Don’t be an ass. I know you took it to the post office, but to whom is it addressed?”
“Oh, to whom is it addressed, you should say that’s what you mean, Madame.”
“Fine, I said it. Well?”
“How should I know, Madame? Mister Hamdi-Ali didn’t tell me.”
“And you didn’t look at the envelope, huh? Don’t play games!”
“Since when can I read Françaoui?” Salem said innocently, a sweet smile on his face.
Grandma realized that only bakshish would make him talk. She did what she had to do and the answer soon arrived.
“Al-Cahira.”
“To whom exactly in Cairo?”
Another bit of bakshish and all the information was revealed, just like in those American machines all over town: you put in a piaster and it gives you your weight. They say there are even machines that tell you your future. Grandma shelled out some cash and the prophecy was sounded: “To a certain Lilly Elhadeff.”
It seemed that it was all over. All was lost. But Grandma’s mind never stopped working. New questions were posed with amazing speed, matching the changing circumstances:
Did he write to ask for her hand?
If so, will she say yes?
Or perhaps he wrote to break it off?
Everything was still open. Grandma was exhausted and enraged. The audacity of youth, never considering their benefactors’ right to know!
Robby’s mother claimed that had the news been good, David would have already shared it.
19. LILLY MON AMOUR
“Lilly Mon Amour,
You must be surprised to receive this letter after such a long silence. First I must apologize for not answering your four letters. The truth is, I wanted to write you, but I was very busy preparing for the race. Yesterday was the big day. You probably read in Le Progrès Egyptien that our wonderful Esperance did not let us down and brought me in at first place. My old man was pleased and proud, as was I. Only one thing clouded my joy—that you, ma chère Lilly, were not there. Oh, how complete my joy would have been if it were accompanied by a kiss from your lips, my dear. You’ll probably say: if you wanted me so badly, you would have bothered to write or call! To this (if you do say it) I have only one answer: the fear, ma chère Lilly, that I might lose the race and let you down, the shame that would have gnawed at me had that been the case, they made it comfortable for me not to have you there. Had I known for certain that I’d win, would I ever give up the company of my fiancée?
“No, chérie, that is no mistake. I’ve made up my mind: I am hereby asking for your hand in marriage. Try to imagine David Hamdi-Ali getting down on his knees and reciting a poem. If you say yes, we’ll get married in the fall, at the end of the season, immediately upon our return from Alexandria. You’ll probably ask what motivated me to decide and act all of a sudden. First, I would have to correct you: it isn’t all of a sudden. Not at all. I’ve always loved you. The decision to ask you to marry me became more firm in my heart during these days when I missed you so much. Maybe it’s the air here, the sea air, which makes me yearn. Alexandria is intoxicating, but I think it brings out the best in me, and the best in me is my love for you. I miss you, Lilly, my little Lilly, I miss your smile and your eyes, your hair and other parts that I don’t want to mention in writing, should your mother find this letter …
“Had I not been so busy all week long with preparations and training, and on weekends with the races themselves, I would fly straight to Cairo and take you in my arms. But there’s no chance I can leave in the next few weeks. Maybe you can come this weekend? There’s nothing in the world that would make me happier or prouder. You’d be my lucky charm for the next race. I’ll make you a queen …”
And so on and so forth, a long letter full of tired repetitions. David was proud of the web of small lies he’d patiently and carefully woven. He’d come up with a vicious idea and had executed it in a cold and calculated way. It was clear he had no intention of keeping his promise. He was merely getting back at Lilly for what Robby’s sister had done. And maybe he was getting back at Robby’s sister as well. Could he make her jealous? Would he be that successful?
David got carried away with these thoughts for a few moments longer, until suddenly, with a kind of determination, he shook both women off and sent them to hell. Women! We mustn’t let them drain us of our power and take over our thoughts. This is a man’s world. Men, two men, face-to-face on the track. While the horses gallop as fast as the wind and your head spins with effort, all the women in the world fade away. Only the two of them remain. Two men: he, David, the Jew, against the dark desert man. The other jockeys exist only on paper, but their presence is eliminated on the track, and only they remain—he and Al-Tal’ooni.
I can’t let him win even once, David thought. I can’t let that Arab beat me. Besides, I have to win so I can prove to everybody, and especially to her, that this has no effect on me whatsoever. He looked at her closed door with hatred. Sleeping soundly, as if nothing happened. I couldn’t sleep at all last night.
Suddenly he had a strong urge for a baba au rhum. That sweet, spongy cake, nauseatingly covered with thick whipped cream, and over that a glassy coat of caramel that shatters between your teeth.
She wolfed down two of those at the Nautical Club, with that charming nonchalance. He sat there, mad with envy, but he resisted. Yes, he resisted! But now the urge to gorge was desperately strong. Had someone served him that lethal pastry right this moment, he doubted he could hold back.
Luckily, no devil came bearing baked goods, and his desire waned, and only a vague and indescribable yearning remained.
Nevertheless, when he weighed himself an hour later, the scales showed he’d gained half a kilo.
“Half a kilo!” David couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been so careful with that damn diet.
His father approached and David quickly jumped off the scales before he could catch him in this moment of weakness.
“How much?” Joseph asked routinely.
David lied, cutting a few grams off from the previous weigh-in. Joseph was pleased and David felt guilty. He was afraid his father would ask him to get back on the scale again, but he needn’t have worried. Not a shadow of a doubt clouded Joseph’s sunny face, and he patted his son on the shoulder and said in English, “Good boy, good boy!”
David felt even more ashamed. He swore not to eat a thing until the next weigh-in.
&nbs
p; The fast was hard and nerve-wracking, especially following a sleepless night. He counted the hours and the minutes before his next weigh-in. His body rebelled: Why did he set the next weigh-in for so late? Who said he couldn’t do it half an hour, or even an hour earlier? Perhaps he should wait only until the first star appears or until the shofar is blown, like on Yom Kippur? But David didn’t give in to these delusions, and bravely maintained the fast he’d punished himself with. He wouldn’t cheat, even by one minute. He’d even wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure. He tried to sleep, but the hunger wouldn’t leave him alone. He lay in bed, in a state of tortured serenity, and saw himself as a sort of fakir or dervish. Or perhaps a prophet or a monk.
His mother came in and wanted to know if he was ill, God forbid. She wasn’t used to seeing him lying in bed in the middle of the day, a strange smile on his face.
“No! I’m not ill. I feel great!” And to prove it, he jumped out of bed. For a moment he felt like his head would fall off, as if his dizziness created such a strong centrifugal force that it would spin off his neck, but he grabbed the round brass ornament on the bed frame and the coolness of the metal felt good, and before his mother became truly alarmed, he managed a smile.
“You haven’t eaten a thing all day.” Her tone was concerned and accusatory at once. Not eating was a sin as far as she was concerned.
“Yes I have.”
“No you haven’t. Come, I’ll make you two eggs, just the way you like them, fried in butter. Salem just brought fresh baguettes.”
“No!” he said, alarmed. The two eggs appeared in his mind, two gaping sickly-yellow eyes. “No!” That half a kilo weighed down like a burden on his heart.
Alexandrian Summer Page 8