“You’re sick, I’ll call a doctor.”
“Don’t call a doctor, Mama. Do me a favor, Mama, and don’t call a doctor. All I need is to be left alone for a while!” He tried to tame his anger, raising his voice only a bit, but it was enough to break her dam of tears.
“Do you have a hand … hand … handkerchief?”
Why is she doing this to me? His handsome face, under the delicate makeup of suffering, wandered the room and caught its own reflection in the mirror over the vanity table. A close-up sprinkled with the sun’s golden powder. Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he handed his mother his spotless white handkerchief and muttered some weak words of solace, watching his lips move as if on their own, detached from the words they were uttering. Deep in his heart he resented having to comfort his mother while he was himself sunk in desperation. Suddenly he saw her face in the mirror, the face of an old lady. David was shocked. It was the first time his mother had become diminished to him, as if thrown off her throne as her chosen son stood to the side, never lending a hand. The throne appeared empty and he almost felt desolate, but then he saw Robby’s sister, dressed in the see-through chiffon of stardust, rising to sit upon the throne. His selfpity grew, and with it his rage and helplessness. Distress suffocated him and he didn’t know where to turn. Luckily, his younger brother, Victor, walked into the room, playing a harmonica: it felt like a saw slicing into his flesh.
“Cut out that noise!!!” David screamed, grabbing his brother and pummeling him.
The storm helped clear his soul, and brought a sort of relief to David, who could breathe again. Victor gagged and wept like a wounded animal.
“David, David, what’s wrong with you?” his mother asked, scared.
“Mama,” he said, elated, “I’ll eat your fried eggs!”
Emilie raised her eyes to the sky and thanked the good Lord. As long as people are eating … “Come, Victorico, I’ll make you two fried eggs as well.”
After eating and praising his mother, David snuck into the bathroom, shoved two fingers up his throat and returned the meal to the sewers. Now he was pleased: he’d appeased his mother without damaging his diet. Knowingly and maliciously he’d betrayed his mother’s trust, but his heart was light and he was relieved, happy and proud. His asceticism made his limbs feel lighter, as if he was stepping out of his body. His head floated among the clouds, and he was assured his body was as weightless as a cloud in a summer sky.
Esperance will even be surprised at how light I am, he thought, and hopped onto the scale.
One-hundred-and-seventy grams more than the previous weigh-in! It was maddening! Maddening! What was causing this?
The main thing was to keep his secret. Things would work out in the end. David was a natural optimist and believed that God loved him. Robby’s sister might not love him, but who was she compared to God?
The sun invaded the house, sweeping up its dark corners and almost reaching the depths of the hall with its frantic, curious rummaging. The rattle of copper sounded from the street. An old Arab man, wearing a skullcap, dragging loose britches between his legs like a sort of forgotten placenta, carried a plump sack on his shoulder that rang like the bells of ten churches. He called at the top of his lungs, “Nahàss! Nahàss!”
All the housewives sent down their servants with pots and pans, and the old man put them in his sack. For a small fee, this patina-stricken crockery would be returned to its owners glowing a bright gold. From the balcony, Robby could see all the cauldrons flowing into the sack, and yet the sack was never full, and the old man did not collapse under the burden.
“Nahàss! Nahàss!”
A piece of copper flashed through a hole in the sack, winking at the sun. The sack was full of cheerful suns.
“God loves me,” said David, indulging himself once more in his reflection in the hall mirror. In it, he saw the reflection of a painting that hung on the opposite wall. A cloudy, pastoral landscape. Green-brown trees, a herd of sheep grazing in the meadow, a pointy-eared dog, alert and prepared to give his life for any of the sheep, never imagining that the bone he receives as his reward at the end of each day came from the body of one of these woolly beasts, living for a moment in the dewy green, knowing nothing of slaughterhouses. A strange, nostalgic European landscape that David had only ever seen in movies or in textbooks in French class. The paravent also reflected in the mirror, a screen not intended to hide anything— a decoration meant merely to please the eye. Across the black fabric, an embroidered peacock spread its gorgeous feathers. Until that moment, David had never given any thought to this peacock. Now it seemed to have been born from darkness just for him, to expand his mind, a sign of grace, a sign of good things to come. They say Robby’s grandmother embroidered that peacock when she was a young girl, perhaps even back in Turkey. Strange to think that the old lady was able to produce such a masterpiece. She can barely read or write, but she has a sense of humor, that old bag, and she … she wants me so badly to marry her granddaughter. Perhaps I should just explain to her … frankly, without excuses, why I finally decided not to marry her …
Now David believed that he’d been in control of the entire matter from the start, and if he was engaged to Lilly Elhadeff rather than to Robby’s sister, that meant this was his desire and his choosing. The face in the mirror, the delicate, fair features, spread light over the glass. He could sit like this for hours, stroking his eyes over his reflection, studying each feature, trying to crack his own puzzle, as if the sphinx itself were smiling from the mirror. Suddenly he truly pitied Robby’s sister. If she could only open her eyes and see what she was missing! That Lilly Elhadeff, that smiling skeleton, she’ll win the jackpot, it’s practically being forfeited to her. He sighed, still believing deep in his heart that a loving hand was guiding the world, and his life especially.
His mother’s reflection appeared in the mirror. David looked at fat Emilie and was appalled. His confidence in himself had been shaken: he could see his career sinking into a pit of fat, drowning in it with a gurgle. He’d inherited the curse of weight from her. A trickle of hate toward her suddenly dripped inside his heart, as if by her mere existence she’d sentenced the jockey David Hamdi-Ali to failure.
“Emilie isn’t fat.”
“She isn’t thin either, is she?”
“Chubby. As they say en français, potelée,” Robby’s grandmother said.
“Potelée or not, it certainly doesn’t become her.”
“I think it looks nice. The Turks have always preferred their women with a little cushion, not like those skeletons walking around today with a boy’s haircut!”
Who can argue with Grandma when she gets her evidence from the Turks?
Madame Marika, whose own size was way beyond what was fashionable, could not comprehend why everyone was so understanding of Emilie’s figure, even going so far as to point out her loveliness, while her own figure inspired nothing but ridicule and wrinkled noses. She’d always carried her extra weight as a sort of protest, but this wasn’t to say that she didn’t feel wronged and persecuted. The cascades of fat had been part of her life ever since she was a little girl in Izmir. True, Turkish men do like chubby women, Madame Marika thought, but nobody liked fat women. Tears of rage rose in her throat, but then she remembered her husband, Vita, her skinny, modest Vita, whose weight she could barely feel the first time he climbed, like a long-limbed cricket, atop her voluptuous belly. She felt a sort of tickle back then, and almost laughed, but resisted, knowing that was no way to treat a man as he, breathing heavily, mounted the woman he’d married that very day. Vita was prepared to accept her just as she was, along with the considerable dowry her widower father had paid. But that was long ago. Since then they’ve had Eliyo, Becky, Julia, Rose and Nissimiko, whom they sometimes called Nisimachi, as was the Turkish manner, and counting. Renée Marika felt a little better and was ready to go to battle.
“What’s for sure is that David’s wife won’t be fat. Not even potelée.”
Madame Marika giggled. “She’ll be skinny como un palo!”
“You’re saying my granddaughter is skinny as a stick?” Grandma asked innocently.
“Who’s talking about your granddaughter?” Madame Marika laughed maliciously. “You know Fortunée Elhadeff?”
“Of the Cairo Elhadeffs?” Grandma pretended not to know what this was about.
“Of the Cairo Elhadeffs,” Marika confirmed. “From Heliopolis.”
“Of course I know her,” Grandma said and could not contain a heavy sigh.
“Fortunée has a daughter.” Meaningful pause. “Did I say skinny como un palo? No, skinnier than that. Skinny como un fideio, a noodle.”
“What’s that got to do with David?”
“Here’s Emilie Hamdi-Ali in the flesh. Why don’t you ask her if what I’m saying isn’t true?”
“What isn’t true?” said Emilie with her familiar innocence.
“It isn’t true? Who says it isn’t true?” Marika cried. “I keep saying it is true, that your little David is going to marry la cocona d’Elhadeff.”
Silence. The buzzing of afternoon flies filled the summer air, along with the heavy breathing of the women, shocked by the words that had been spoken. Fateful words, an irreversible verdict. Alexandria could not handle such explicitness. What you don’t talk about doesn’t hurt so much, you can turn a blind eye, pretend it never happened. But an explicit word sends waves through the peaceful standing water …
Grandma could not focus on rummy at all that day. Even the joker, with his cheeky smile, could not cheer her up.
20. A GREAT, RARE BLESSING
During the next Kudjoocome, Grandma cornered Robby’s sister and demanded an explanation.
Robby’s father told her off, “No té mesklés, don’t intervene!”
“Ma porqué?” Grandma protested. “Why not? Aren’t we human beings? Don’t we deserve answers? Shouldn’t she explain herself to her mother?”
“She’s almost twenty years old. She knows what she’s doing.” Then he added, hiding a smile, “I hope.”
“What do you think, Papa? Should I marry David?”
This direct question upset him. She was asking for a clear answer, real advice. Robby’s father didn’t put much stake in advice. One never asks for someone else’s advice before having already made up his mind, wanting nothing more than support for his decision, a confirmation that contributes nothing. He sighed. What should he tell her? Did he even know David Hamdi-Ali? He’d barely spoken to him since his family moved in. Just a few nods. Nevertheless, Robby’s father knew for certain that Hamdi-Ali junior was a superficial boy, not too bright. Robby’s father never had much patience for fools. As it turned out, he did have an opinion in the matter. The girl acted wisely, turning David down. Still, he was comfortable not voicing his opinion, not having the matter discussed in a family forum. If this forum began discussing all the romantic involvements of his children, what would be the end of that?
Everyone waited for him to speak. No one dared urge him, not even Grandma.
Finally he sighed and said, “I wouldn’t marry David Hamdi-Ali.”
The oracle had spoken. The matter was settled. A short, clear-cut answer. Robby’s sister looked at her father gratefully. Their eyes met. A hint of a smile drained into the corners of his eyes, and she returned the favor with a wide smile of her own. They understood each other. How great the distance was between David’s loud arrogance and her father’s confident quiet, which contained endless fountains of wisdom. She adored him and vowed to only ever marry a man who would measure up to him. Her eyes wandered over to her mother’s good, slightly plump face. She was so attached to these people! They were both still in the prime of their lives, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before their hair turned silver. Wrinkles would appear on her mother’s smooth face, the skin of which was taut and rosy, especially after the siesta. The thought was too sad and she wanted to cry, but was afraid that her grandmother might interpret her tears as a lament for the end of her affair with David Hamdi-Ali. Grandma’s skin had already yellowed slightly, and age spots had spread over her concave forehead. Her green eyes, quick and stubborn, stuck out of deepening sockets. She loved Grandma. They’d always had a secret bond, in spite of their constant bickering. She must know that this wasn’t merely a whim. This was too serious a matter. Robby’s sister decided at once to break her vow of silence, and spoke.
Grandma was shocked. She was under the impression that her granddaughter had rejected David due to frivolity. Now this cocona was giving her a list of thought-out reasons she could barely stand to deny. This one most of all:
“The boys are in Israel. Papa said that sooner or later we’ll all join them. David would never go to Israel. There are no horse races there, and his father wouldn’t let him give up horse racing. David isn’t one to disobey his father, and even if he were, what would he do then? This way he has money, he has fame. Without horse racing, what would he be worth? There’s no chance he’ll ever leave Egypt. I don’t want to be away from you. You’re more important to me than all the Hamdi-Alis in the world. I also don’t want all of us to stay here because of me, far away from the boys …”
“As Jews, our only future is in Israel,” her father confirmed. His view on this matter was clear. He’d never been an active, militant Zionist, like his friend and neighbor Maurice Rosenberg, who’d already served several months in an Egyptian prison for underground Zionist activity. Robby’s father did not like politics. He preferred to read a novel, not a newspaper, and hardly listened to the news on the radio. A few months prior, his second son wrote him from his training in France, telling him he had received an offer to stay and become a French citizen, thanks to his excellence on the local basketball team. He asked for his father’s advice. His father did not hesitate and instructed him to turn down the offer and continue to Israel, and his son did, along with his older brother. In spite of their independence, or perhaps because of their independence, the children cherished their father’s opinion, never under-estimating it.
“I don’t want to be away from you,” Robby’s sister said and gave her father a long kiss. Robby jumped up and kissed her. A united family, what a great, rare blessing.
21. YALLA, YA IBNI, LET’S GO, MY SON!
On Wednesday afternoon, David got up and drove to one of the big stores on Rue Cherif Pacha to buy a new scale. He ordered his mother to sell the old one, which was without a doubt the cause of his bad luck, to the roba be-quia—an Arabic distortion of Roppa Vequia, old rags, the old man walking the city and purchasing used goods, who was often the subject of legends about the wealth he’d accumulated through years of buying and selling rags.
The new scale was kind to David. His weight did not diminish, but neither did it rise, and he wholeheartedly believed that a crisis had been averted. Perhaps it was even a good omen, and his weight would drop in the few days that remained before the next race.
He tripled and quadrupled his workout sessions, and spent several hours each day riding on the track, while his old father circled him with satisfaction, wearing a jacket over his bright white shirt, the fez never leaving his head.
“My son is back with me. My son is back with us,” he mumbled to himself, his eyes sparkling.
On the night before the race he told David, “Go get dressed, ya ibni. We’re going out.”
“Going out? Where?”
“Out, I said. Out. Just you and I. Let’s go, go on, get dressed.”
“What about Mama?”
“Just you and I, I said.” He asserted his oriental authority, and David didn’t dream of protesting. He went to his room to carry out orders.
The old man remained in the hall on his own. From the room at the end of the hall he vaguely heard the chattering of the women playing their game of rummy, which they all called cuncan.
Cuncan, cuncan, he thought with distaste and sighed. The women here are too liberated, as are the men. He pulled his prayer beads from his pocket and
slowly rolled them around between his fingers. It would be best if Emilie avoided that cuncan—it slowed the brain and corrupted the morals. At first he was going to forbid it, but then he took pity on her and thought, if she likes it so much, let her play. What pleasure does a woman have in her life, and in her old age, no less? As was the case whenever he thought of his Emilie, a wave of love swept up his old body, which yearned for rest at the end of the road more than it craved the excitement of the moment.
Secret passions evolved with time and congealed into memories. The silhouette of Leila, the mare, rose against his tired eyes. Noble, black, agile, sleek Leila; perfect Leila, who would never grow old. Emilie is so different, the very opposite. Leila was black and Emilie is white, Leila was skinny and Emilie—round, Leila was all muscle, taut as a string, while Emilie’s flesh is soft, soft and delicate to the touch. Nevertheless, at times the two become fused in his mind. His love makes them one. And maybe it also had to do with that wild look in their eyes, Leila’s and Emilie’s. But Leila was truly wild, while Emilie’s sole wildness is in her eyes, the rest of her soft and gentle as a ewe. What would he ever do without her? When Leila died, in that strange, faraway city, he was like one of the old man’s rags. Another woman might have said, she was only a mare (only a mare!); but Emilie said nothing. Did she understand him in his tragedy? Or was she simply sensible enough and loving enough to do the right thing and leave him be, letting his grief ripen until it fell away by itself, like fruit from a tree? Or maybe she was just crudely indifferent to his fate? No, not at all. Perhaps she was lazy? Perhaps. Perhaps she was embarrassed or at a loss? Perhaps. The important thing is what she did. The important thing is, she did not force herself on him, did not make any cheap attempts to fill the void left by Leila. Emilie was one thing, and Leila was another. Each had her own special place. When one left, her absence was never filled. The old man closed his eyes and saw this black void, this emptiness, this eternity.
Alexandrian Summer Page 9