Alexandrian Summer

by Yitzhak Gormezano Goren

  Robby fished a new marble from the depths of his pocket, looked at it in a heartbreaking goodbye, and placed it down instead of the one that had been taken from him. The game went on.

  Suddenly, they began shouting:

  “Cheater! I saw you!”

  “You saw me? And what exactly did I do to deserve being called a cheater?”

  “You didn’t toss it from your spot. You took a whole step forward, and then you scored a point. That doesn’t count!”

  “You don’t know how to lose with dignity. You should learn from the English!”

  “You and the English can kiss my ass!”

  “Just say it, did I score that point or not?”

  “You did, but you cheated!”

  “I either scored or I didn’t, that’s all that matters. This marble is mine!”

  “You won’t get it, even if you stand on your head all the way to tomorrow!”

  And the two wrestled on the rug, pounding each other with their fists.

  They’d never fought with such rage and hatred before, and all over a silly game of marbles.

  26. A CHANGE

  Two days later, the heat wave dissipated. It left as suddenly as it came, and while Alexandria savored the cool breeze, its short-term memory quickly forgot the five horrid days of heat. Once more, city-folk would argue that heat waves never hit Alexandria, that eastern winds only blow through boiling, dusty Cairo …

  Peace also overtook Joseph’s face. He sat on the balcony, eyes almost closed, the wind rising from the sea caressing his square, gray mustache. He sipped his black coffee, his lips smacking with pleasure in a manner uncommon around these parts. It was clear that some sudden change had occurred in Joseph, as if all entanglements had been undone at once, and all crises evaporated as in a bad dream. At first he remained silent, but even the few sentences he spoke sounded a newfound, rather odd optimism. In all honesty, the majority of those dwelling in the apartment did not notice this change at first, and those who had did not imbue it with much significance. If it hadn’t been for the events that began that day, it might have gone unnoticed. Only afterward did various wise parties begin boasting about how they foretold it all, stating, “Indeed, I could tell there was something strange about him.”

  Even Emilie did not see a reason to worry. Perhaps, she in particular did not. She was a natural-born optimist unable to view a positive change as an ominous sign. She was relieved and thanked God for His benevolence.

  That night, in bed, she even dared snuggle up against him, feeling his body cast confidence and serenity over her, and smelling his tobacco. He caressed her softly and whispered words of love in Turkish, the language of their youth, of their intimacy, the language he spoke to Leila.

  She told him how much she wanted a grandchild, and he laughed slowly.

  “Why are you laughing at me, Yusef?” she asked indulgingly, choosing the eastern Turkish version of his name. It was that voice and that “Yusef” that stole his heart thirty years ago, when she was seventeen and he was thirty. That voice hadn’t changed. Close your eyes and you can hear that “Yusef” being spoken by that seventeen-year-old girl, light in her eyes and music in her voice. And suddenly that girl, whose breasts had only just emerged with the force of adolescence, is talking about a grandchild, a grandchild. “Why are you laughing at me, Yusef!” she insisted, resting her head on his chest.

  “I’m not laughing at you,” he said quietly, almost inaudibly. They used to say about Joseph Hamdi-Ali that even when he spoke he was actually silent. Then he raised his voice and said, “I respect you and I love you. You are my bella donna. I left my family and my tradition and my homeland for you. You are my family, you are my tradition, you are my homeland.”

  Emilie accepted these words with simple joy. Pathos is at home in the East, never sparking ridicule or embarrassment in anyone but the fastidious. She accepted his words with neither pride nor guilt, as self-evident. She did not hold herself responsible for being a man’s entire world and foundation. Another woman would have been filled with purpose and begun playing a role beyond her means. Emilie never thought her husband’s words were intended to place some special mission upon her shoulders. Even during this crisis, her support and help came through her silence and calm, her generous expressions of love, without a word of guidance or advice. Emilie did not sense that her husband was calling to her from the depths. She did not perceive this seeming calm that had descended upon him as even more dangerous than the storms that preceded it. She didn’t understand that when he said, “You are my family, you are my tradition, you are my homeland,” he was merely repeating his words from the past, which were now empty, devoid of truth. Perhaps even Joseph did not know he was deceiving himself, with the fantasies he projected on the pure, white body of a seventeen-year-old. Her voice was soft and cheerful, her skin sweeter than Turkish delight. But a bird on your win-dowsill will sing softly and cheerfully, and yet you would not hang all of your hopes and dreams upon her … A slight tremble ran through his bones and he asked her whether the window was open.

  That night, he dreamed of Leila, his horse black as night. Leila danced through the air, her open wings casting shadows on the earth, and he looked up at her and laughed and laughed— Leila was returning to him. He was still laughing when she kicked him. Even when she thrust her hooves into his stomach, he kept laughing. When she landed on his ribs, he chuckled with a moan, and when she flew back into the sky, he remained on the ground, beaten and broken. Only then did he see him, the cavalier on her back, Ahmed Kader Rahim Al-Tal’ooni.

  27. I WILL

  “I will,” read the telegram from Cairo.

  Joseph smiled. He cloaked himself in silence and smiled. This was just another piece in the conspiracy forming against him, just another thread in the web that some massive spider was persistently spinning around him. Patience, he told himself with acceptance. Patience. All will be well. Like a generous host, he stood at the tent’s doorway and welcomed Lilly Elhadeff with a smile.

  David was embarrassed. A week and a half had passed since he sent his letter, and he’d almost forgotten the entire thing. Suddenly, not a letter in return, but a telegram! Waiting ten days to finally send a two-word telegram, no explanations included? He’d gone to the effort of writing stylized and well thought out pages. David Hamdi-Ali felt cheated. Not because she didn’t respond to his letter with a simple, heartfelt one; and not because, while he piled up thousands of words, she made do with only two, two that expressed more than all of his poetics; but because at that time, he realized more clearly than ever that he did not, in fact, love Lilly Elhadeff, that her skeletal body and wooly hair left him entirely indifferent. Especially after that exciting experience in the erotic chamber of Shakra Roomy, that wizard of physical and sensual pleasures. The fact is, he did not miss her at all, though he hadn’t seen her since summer started. He might not have written to her had Robby’s sister not pushed him toward her with her trickery. And the most vexing thing, and perhaps the scariest, was that his heart told him that ultimately, whether he willed it or not, he would wed Lilly Elhadeff. He remembered what she said once as they strolled on the boardwalk along the Nile in Cairo. They were almost alone, the moon was full and blue, just like in a Perrault fairy tale. A gentle wind blew among the palm trees, rustling their fronds. For a while, David sank into a pleasant nostalgia, recalling faraway legendary European medieval worlds. Castles surrounded by jagged walls, fat kings foolish and kind-hearted, queens—mostly evil, envious stepmothers—beautiful princesses donning conical hats with waving tulle, and of course Le Prince Charmant, who always appeared at the right moment to save his beauty from fairies or witches or dragons … The rippling of the river and the light wind delicately caressing his face carried him to other worlds, far from the tumult of Cairo, which troubled the senses. Her delicate, cool hand was in his, calming and pleasant. He didn’t look at her. In his reveries, he gave her the role of Cinderella, waiting for a miracle …

&nbs
p; “You see that branch?” said Lilly. Her slightly hoarse voice, often pleasant to the ear as it whispered warmly into it, now gave him chills, like chalk scratching on a blackboard. All the legends and fairies and castles evaporated into thin air.

  “I see lots of branches,” he answered impatiently.

  “No, I mean that branch,” she insisted and pointed. “You see that one?”

  “Yes,” he said, just to get her to shut up. If she did, he might be able to recover some of the magic. But the clock chimed midnight, the carriage stopped in its tracks and became a pumpkin once more, and not even a slipper remained on the steps. He kicked a pebble.

  “Look! The palm tree is writing something in the sky,” said Lilly.

  “Writing?” What was she yammering about? She was always setting little traps for him, and as careful as he tried to be, he always got caught in her web. “What is it writing?” he asked with an ironic smile.

  “It’s writing … hold on … ‘Da-vid … David and …’ what? ‘David and Lilly,’ yes, ‘David and Lilly …’ hold on, there’s more: ‘Ma … David and Lilly, married!’”

  “That palm tree is practically a prophet,” David said, trying to sound sarcastic. “It knows things about me that even I don’t know.”

  “It’s written, David. It’s written in the sky that you and I are meant to be. I didn’t make it up. It says so in le petit Livre du bon Dieu. It also includes a date.”

  “Oh, yeah? And when is this blessed day?”

  “We don’t know. But He knows. Nothing we do will make any difference – you and I will be married and have children.” She fixed her eyes on him, small like coffee beans. She certainly annoyed him even then, but now he was even more annoyed with himself, realizing that he, with his own hands, brought about what she called “inevitable.”

  Ten days of silence, and then, as if the wavering palm branch was the one writing the letter over the paper in the sky: I W I L L.

  Emilie was delighted—a wedding was always a happy ending. Somebody up there heard her yearning for a grandchild. Lilly Elhadeff was a good girl, and todo es por lo bueno. She sighed. Why did she sigh? Who knows?

  Victor hated Lilly Elhadeff the moment he first laid eyes on her. She tried to befriend him, even buying him gifts from time to time, but he only showed her his claws. She couldn’t understand his animosity. Perhaps it was because she was skinny like him, and barely taller? Perhaps because she seemed like easy prey, with her frizzy hair and her small eyes? Or maybe he hated her because he thought his brother loved her? Once, she tried to caress his face, and he bit her hand. She almost passed out from the pain. David, who would normally respond to lighter offenses with a tirade of blows, burst out laughing, which added to her chagrin and humiliation.

  Nevertheless, there was something seductive about Lilly. She had the same elusive magic sometimes found in puppies, or even in sick babies. Not a real, clear charm, bright and captivating, but momentary sparks of grace, and sometimes refined expressions of yet-unripe femininity, a sort of constant promise that a day will come when even Lilly Elhadeff will blossom into a woman.

  28. DON’T WORRY, YA BABA

  The telegram threw David off-kilter only briefly. In the commotion of the eve of a race everything dims, even such life-altering news, especially a piece of news so bothersome that it is desirable to shove it aside. David quickly returned to his training schedule, free of unnecessary thoughts. His body was bent and coiled, the mane of his mare caressing his face, her hooves spraying gravel all over the tracks, sparks disappearing into the dust.

  Joseph stood at the starting point, his pocket watch in hand. He wore only a striped shirt and a jacket. The heat was heavy and the sweat collected under his fez until it could no longer hold back, then it dripped down his face, pooling in the cracks of wrinkles. The handkerchief in his hand was soaked and smelled of something spicy and manly, somewhat intoxicating. That same sweet and familiar blurring of the senses overtook him, and within the thick ether swarming around him, he saw Leila striding in her noble loneliness, without bridle or reins, as a black fog, twisting among the vapors of dream.

  “Well then, how long?”

  “Well then, how long?” David repeated.

  “How much time, Papa?”

  David was standing next to him, breathing heavily and sweating, a thin film of dust powdering his face. “Papa!” David shook his father’s shoulder gently.

  “Ya ibni,” Joseph whispered, holding his son tightly, almost desperately.

  “You worried me, ya baba,” David said and grabbed Esperance’s reins. On his way he took a sugar cube from the table and dropped it into the mare’s mouth. She looked at him with kind and modest eyes.

  David shook his head and rode away.

  “David, ya ibni,” his father suddenly called.

  “Yes, ya baba,” David said, turning his profile toward his father.

  Joseph searched his son’s face for something to lean on or hold on to, but the face was like smooth marble. There was no hint of understanding in his fair eyes. Joseph’s own eyes were suddenly beholding a vision. David was going to lose the race, and not only this race. His eyes, his posture, his somewhat feminine walk, his young beauty, his simplistic fluttering, all these were taken as signs. Tal’ooni, who knew the desert like the back of his hand, he would be king of the tracks. Tal’ooni would win. Because Allah would stand at his side. Allah would not support the son of a convert. Allah would give His support to the desert rider, the image of Muhammad, His prophet.

  Could a mortal change what has been written since the beginning of time? All of our actions were written the moment that Allah created the world in his wisdom, and they are written, so many scrolls, in the library of the heavens, and each day one scroll is opened, and each moment a line is read. And one of those lines says that Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni will defeat David Hamdi-Ali.

  Joseph knew he had to submit to fate’s decree. He could do nothing to alter that which was written in indelible ink. Now that he had gained this recognition, he was slightly relieved, but his hands were weak. He turned to leave the tracks.

  Soon he heard his son call after him:

  “Papa … where to? Papa?”

  “Keep training, ya ibni, keep going on your own,” Joseph said. “I’m tired, this heat is giving me a headache.”

  David ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and spoke with a soothing smile: “Don’t worry, ya baba, everything will be all right!”

  Joseph shook his head as if to say, you are kind for encouraging your father, but I do not believe it. He walked on.

  David remained alone on the tracks. He watched his father walking away, bent over, and pitied him for being so old and tired. The sight of his father wilting in the afternoon sun paradoxically encouraged him, and he experienced a wave of energy. The father bequeaths to his son his fame and fortune, his entire being and then climbs up a dry mountain, his head disappearing among the white clouds of old age and decrepitude. He once read about such a custom among primitive tribes. At the time, he thought it was cruel and barbaric. Now watching his father’s decline, it seemed almost natural. With gallant speed he hopped on his mare, hugged her neck and sank his head into her mane. The pungent smell of the beast sent stunning, intoxicating waves through him. He kicked his heels into her stomach and urged her to gallop onto the tracks, to the protests of the Arab groom who stayed behind, saddle and reins in hand.

  How much confidence and strength he drew from riding bareback, this sensual clinging to the mare’s hot, sweaty neck, as if something of her strong, flexible muscles seeped into his own body. She galloped fast and wild, but all the while careful not to throw off her master who clung to her with addiction, yet also with a measure of fear. Any moment he could slip and fall. The groom called after him that it was irresponsible madness, taking such a risk two days before the race. He threatened the sidi that he would tell his father, but David didn’t care. He was happy, breathlessly happy, and did not know why. He was free,
the wind mussing his blond hair, chasing him and Esperance, unable to catch them.

  If only Robby’s sister could see him now.

  29. IN THE ACT

  Robby could not understand, after the fact, how he and Victor could have been so lax as to let his mother catch them in the act.

  He was sure his mother would take extraordinary measures and give him an honest beating, and worse yet, run to tell all the tenants what she’d seen. The shame! He stood before her, eyes downcast, his heart filled with that retrospective question—what was this even good for? The pleasure was not worth this humiliation, standing there against his mother’s reproachful eyes. Victor stood there too, his underwear hanging loose over his body, and tauntingly watched Robby’s mother, as if saying, It’s clear you’re even more embarrassed than we are, and you don’t know what to do. You must wish you’d pretended not to see a thing.

  “Do you know, Robby, that you can catch diseases like that?” she finally said, ignoring Victor completely. Robby’s stomach turned inside him. She knew, perhaps in wisdom rather than cunning, how to cater to his weakness and his hypochondria. Was this merely a trick meant to scare him off, or did she truly believe that these naive acts of sodomy could cause intestinal or venereal diseases or God knows what? We all knew that homosexual inter-course was against nature, correct? It was unacceptable in a decent society, n’est-ce-pas? Perhaps the Arabs, among themselves, who knows … She was truly shocked. She must have wondered where they learned such things. It must have been Victor, that miscreant, who taught my little Robbico … She sighed and continued, “Terrible diseases!” She did not elaborate, and Robby preferred not to ask. At best, this was some sort of gut-twisting dysentery. The mere thought scared him so much that he felt lava churning in his stomach, and cold sweat covered his forehead.