Alexandrian Summer

by Yitzhak Gormezano Goren

  At any rate, Joseph denied the allegations fervently. He calmly described his years of working at the track and his irreproachable past. When asked whether he in fact tried to murder Al-Tal’ooni, he said, “I’m sorry they pulled us apart!”

  His attorney complained to Joseph’s wife and son that Monsieur Hamdi-Ali wasn’t cooperating and wasn’t helping himself. “Il est excessivement honnête!” he said, shaking his head. He’s being too honest!

  “No es a la moda hoy de ser tanto honesto.” Meaning, it isn’t fashionable to be too honest these days. That was grandmother’s opinion on the matter, expressed to her card-playing friends. Renée Marika agreed wholeheartedly, “Only fools are too honest. Take my Vita for example …” She began ranting about her husband Vita’s legendary integrity, her voice full of both admiration and ridicule, the way we discuss prophets or heroes. Then Aunt Tovula called out, “So is my Moïse,” and began describing the lofty character of her late husband, her words saturated with yearning and pain. But she didn’t get a chance to finish either. Robby’s grandmother chimed in, praising the vaunted sincerity of her husband, may he rest in peace, until she finally returned to her thesis on how it is unfashionable to be too honest these days.

  36. TEARS

  Panayotti was shocked and agitated, pacing the room. “How could I, Joseph, mon ami, ya habibi, how? Have you thought about what you’re asking me?”

  “I didn’t have much faith in you anyway,” Joseph said drily and got up to leave. He paused for a moment to look at the large photo on Panayotti’s office wall—Al-Tal’ooni atop Al Buraq, the horse rearing high on his haunches.

  “No, Joseph, hold on. That’s no way to behave. You come to see your friend Panayotti Helikos, because I’m sure you see me as your friend in spite of everything, so you’ve come to ask me for a favor, and what do I do? I say no! Why? You must think I’m saying no because I am working for your rival, right?”

  “Isn’t that the case?”

  “Look, ya habibi. Business is business, that’s true, all well and good, but a friend is not a thing you find just every day!” Helikos grabbed Hamdi-Ali’s shoulders.

  “You’re telling me?” Joseph said and turned to leave. The sun was about to set on the horizon, and he blinked his tired eyes and asked himself what he was doing there. Panayotti caught up with him by the stables and grabbed his arm, pulling him inside.

  “You don’t understand me. You’re my brother, Joseph. The fact that I work for that bloody Bedouin has nothing to do with it.”

  “Very nice.” Joseph shook his head and tried once more, in spite of his growing exhaustion. “In that case, why won’t you testify on my behalf in court?”

  “I will, all right? I’ll testify and say that, to the best of my knowledge, you’re an honest man, and that I myself find it hard to believe that —”

  “Hard to believe!”

  “You want me to present him as a liar? Don’t forget, old boy, he’s my boss. Kirio Hamdi-Ali, you sure are putting me in an uncomfortable position. He’ll destroy me, that Arab. I have a wife, Joseph, and children!”

  “I’m not asking you to say Ahmed lied,” Joseph said with a gloomy face. Shadows stretched along the empty track, climbing the white fences, falling down somewhere at the bottom of the stable wall. “I only asked that you tell them what happened at the club, when you and Toto and Sisso —”

  “What?” Panayotti jumped up. This was too much. “You want me to tell the court that I was prepared to bribe you to help your son’s horse lose the race?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “But … but it’s illegal! Do you really expect me to tell a thing like that to the entire world, and in a court of law, no less?” Panayotti burst out laughing, picked up a handful of straw and deposited it in Al Buraq’s mouth. It was strange to see this horse, the animal at the root of all this commotion, eating so peacefully, oblivious to the goings-on of humans.

  “You’re taking your revenge on me,” Joseph answered darkly. “You’re getting back at me for not giving into you then. My integrity unnerved you. Now you won’t testify on my behalf in court because you resent my integrity, my decency. You’re all jealous of me, all of you.” A smile began lighting Joseph’s face, making him appear like a martyr confident that justice and God are on his side, taking pleasure in being burned at the stake.

  Panayotti’s face changed. “What integrity are you talking about?” he asked coolly.

  “I’m an honest man, and that’s what’s upsetting you. That’s why you won’t testify that I’m innocent.”

  “How can I testify that you’re innocent, how can I testify that you’re not innocent? I don’t know if you are innocent, and I don’t know if you aren’t. That’s all there is to it!”

  “You know I’d never do a thing like that!”

  “How could I know that?”

  “Because even when you made your ugly proposal, offering me sums of money that would corrupt the pope, I refused to cheat the spectators. Is that not proof enough?”

  “Cheat the spectators? That’s why you wouldn’t take our bribe? That’s news to me.”

  “Why else would I say no?” Joseph felt his face filling with blood. He barely held back from unleashing his anger on the small Greek man with the mongoose face.

  Panayotti gave him a quick, ridiculing look, and began a merciless verbal assault: “You can’t stand to see your son lose. That’s the truth. On that blessed day when my Arab devil won, you were devastated. You can’t watch your David come in second. That’s your illness, that’s your obsession, damn it. Is it any wonder that you drugged Al Buraq, too? If he could only talk, he would have told everyone. How you came to him at night, syringe in hand! All so that your son could win, all so that your Jewish papa’s boy could win!”

  Panayotti stopped for a moment to catch his breath. To Joseph, everything sounded abstract and unreal. “You want me to testify in court? You want me to tell them you’re a raving fanatic, you have no true sportsmanship? That you’re a sore loser? That you’d do anything for your son to win, even provide him with prostitutes? You think people don’t know about that?”

  These words pierced Hamdi-Ali’s heart like a poisoned arrow and he cursed the thought of that Maltese waiter. One more so-called friend who sold me out for greed!

  “Maybe you’ve been drugging the boy, too? To give him extra stamina? What wouldn’t you do to win … always to win! Always! Always! Always!”

  Joseph stood before him, unmoving, each word a sledgehammer. It wasn’t very long ago that he’d almost strangled Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni. Why not do the same to this man here? But he stood there paralyzed. He, Yusef Hamdi-Ali, the king, doesn’t dare! Panayotti wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking to him like this a few weeks ago. Had things really changed that much? How low has he sunk, for a nobody like Panayotti to feel he no longer needs to fear Joseph Hamdi-Ali?

  Tears ran down Joseph’s face. Real tears, warm and salty, like a woman’s—oh, the shame! Joseph hadn’t cried since he was a child. He didn’t even cry when Leila died, and now he was crying. He almost wanted to laugh at himself.

  Panayotti was filled with pity but also with glee. He was seeing before him the downfall of the king of the racetrack. Not knowing what else to do, he walked away.

  Joseph did not approach Toto and Sisso to persuade them to testify on his behalf. Suddenly it was all so unimportant, silly and sad, and he, he was the saddest of them all. There he was, naked to the world, and laughing. Laughing. He’d accepted the worst. He would be found guilty! Prison? A fine? A conviction would mean the end of his career. Then he realized. The end of his career meant …

  This might have been when the idea first occurred to him.

  At home, the heat and the suffocation were unbearable. The night was heavy and dead. He went out into the street, wearing only an undershirt, no fez, just like that, as if fleeing, but walking very slowly. His feet led him to the track. There was no one there but the guard, who knew him
and let him in.

  He walked into the fenced off area, like a veteran fighter returning to the battlefield.

  He knew he’d lost the race, but he didn’t care. He tried to conjure a memory of Leila, but she seemed to have foresaken him as well. He despised himself, hated his old body, his weakness, this burden on his shoulders—the family. He hated himself for having cried that day, and the more he hated himself, the more he pitied himself and the more he cried, without restraint, like the frightening symptom of some malignant disease. At first you don’t take it too seriously, brushing it aside, thinking everything will be all right. But when the symptom appears a second time … and Joseph cried and cried. Along with his tears, the great distress that had been building up in him also came pouring out, and he felt relief. He was ready to live again. He regretted only that his body was so old.

  Walking slowly, he stepped out of the gate and paced the sidewalk along Rue Delta, toward the sea.

  37. BLANCHE

  Joseph Hamdi-Ali was acquitted.

  “Innocent for lack of evidence,” said the honorable judge. Joseph’s attorney shook his hand with satisfaction and said, “We’ve sweated a lot, but you see, we got results, al-hamdul-Illah!”

  His wife and eldest son were among the cheering crowd. They hugged him lovingly, and David said he felt like he’d just woken up from a bad dream, and that a celebration was in order.

  Joseph was embarrassed. His mind was bothered by the lack of clarity in the term “innocent for lack of evidence.” Well, is he innocent or not? Innocent, but … does that mean he’s guilty, God forbid? It was neither here nor there. Joseph raised his eyes to the heavens and smiled—up there, can one also be innocent for lack of evidence? And he, who’d been prepared for the worst, even for imprisonment, he who’d hoped and prayed for a full acquittal, for the clearing of his name, was suddenly finding himself drowning in a swamp of legal jargon. Only a full clearing of his name would have lessened the suspicion gnawing at his heart: that he’d been made a pawn of God and men.

  David made a reservation at the Auberge Bleue, a pleasant club with a homey feel, where the performances featured both professionals and amateurs. Victor was ecstatic when he heard the entire family was going out together. When Joseph saw the happiness in his young son’s eyes, he felt pity for the child, as if he’d finally been able to see the little outcast, who lived his life barely regarded. No one had meant to reject him, and yet it was as if he had been born an outsider, separate and pushed away, perhaps … perhaps just like himself! He noted the sharp features, the long, slim neck, that twisted smile that seemed to be marking his own lips now, and he felt his insides yearning for this little man, his heart souring with compassion. Maybe this was his son, his kind of son, and he never knew it? Was it too late? At first Joseph thought of canceling the outing to the club, but Victor’s joy changed his mind. Was he wrong about his fate? Maybe what he’d lost on the racetrack he would now find in the human race, in the family he’d neglected for so many years …

  An intimate band played a quiet tango, drawing several couples onto the dance floor. David danced with his mother. Joseph remained alone at the table. Not alone, exactly—with Victor. As ever, fate leaves him alone with this strange boy who calls him Papa, and each time he wonders if he really means it. What he wouldn’t give to start a conversation with this creature, his own flesh, growing wild, wandering free and lonely through the maze of adolescence. But what would he tell him? Would they talk about horses? Does the boy even care about horses? Maybe he should tell him about himself, about his childhood and youth in Turkey? But one cannot just open with these things with no apparent reason, and he craved so badly a conversation with his son. He began: “You … you want some gelata?”

  The boy nodded. In the end, he’s nothing but a child, Joseph thought with pleasure and relief. He signaled to the waiter. “Garçon!”

  A waiter appeared immediately, as if sprouting from the parquet floor.

  “Ice cream!” Joseph ordered jubilantly.

  “Ice cream,” the waiter confirmed.

  “A mountain of gelata,” Joseph added, laughing wholeheartedly. His son laughed, too. How easy, really; how easy it is to be a father.

  Colorful heaps of ice cream arrived in a goblet. Victor stared at the mound, emitting sounds of glee and garnering glances from the nearby tables, though neither he nor his father paid any mind. Joseph wouldn’t miss this moment because of a few dirty looks from people who might never have known and never would know true happiness. He rested his chin in his hand and watched his son dig in.

  “You’re spoiling him!” Emilie said reproachfully. A bit breathless from the dance, she walked over to the table, a virginal blush adorning her cheeks.

  “I’m spoiling him?” Joseph asked cheerfully. “You bet I am! I certainly am spoiling him! You want another?” he asked Victor.

  “Yes, I do!”

  “No, you don’t!” David intervened.

  “It’s bad for him,” Emilie interjected meekly.

  “Nonsense!” Joseph determined. “Garçon! Another dish, a heap of gelata. And whipped cream … Whipped cream, Victor?”

  Victor nodded excitedly.

  “And whipped cream! Lots and lots of whipped cream!”

  Emilie tried to dissuade him once more, but to no avail.

  “Let them talk,” he told his son, winking at him.

  “Madame Hamdi-Ali. Monsieur Hamdi-Ali. David. Le petit Victor! Bonjour,” a voice said behind them as Victor ravenously polished off his second helping of ice cream. They turned to the voice and saw Raphael, Aunt Tovula’s son, and on his arm a young, smiling woman, her eyes projecting modesty.

  “Raphael!” David called happily. “Come, join us!” He dragged a chair from a nearby table and signaled to the waiter to bring over one more.

  “Please meet Blanche … my fiancée.”

  “Congratulations! When’s the happy day?”

  “September. And then … we’re going away.”

  “Away? Where to?”

  Raphael looked around him, then whispered, “Palestine.”

  “God be with you,” Emilie wished them and sighed lightly.

  “Thank you, thank you. We’ll definitely need His help over there,” Blanche said, laughing nervously.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll join you soon,” David said with a giggle. It was obvious he had no intention of acting on this promise.

  “Don’t do any such nonsense, don’t be foolish,” Blanche said, and added hoarsely, “like us.”

  Then she fixed her green eyes on Raphael, who lowered his gaze and cleared his throat, leaned in and whispered, “We don’t have a choice. I might be blacklisted because of my father, may he rest in peace, who lived in Palestine.”

  “He might be, and Raphael won’t take any chances.”

  Slight embarrassment. The Hamdi-Alis had been entirely immersed in their own hardships, and here they were exposed to the most private world of others, without asking for it.

  Suddenly Joseph called out, “We must drink in honor of this happy occasion. You’re young! Palestine needs young people. God bless you, à la vôtre!”

  They all looked at him, shocked, and Raphael turned around, afraid that someone might have heard the patriotic Zionism that had overcome the old man.

  “We’d better drink to something else, something more important,” Blanche said.

  Raphael looked at her with worry. Who knew what this woman might say. He’d already noticed her tendency to humiliate him in public, when he couldn’t properly defend himself. Robby’s grandmother had warned against this daughter of Corfu. She would say, as if announcing a verdict, “There’s nothing to be done. C’est l’amour!” Then she’d sigh for her nephew’s fate and tell anyone who was willing to listen, “He’s going to have some bitter times with her.”

  “More important?” Joseph wondered. “What could be more important than marriage? What could be more fateful than a journey?” He tried his best to be soci
able. He even seemed to to have overcome some of his natural shyness, looking at Raphael’s bride with brazen eyes.

  “We heard you were acquitted. It was even in the newspaper,” Blanche whispered hoarsely. Her words stung, and Joseph’s smile faded away.

  “In the newspaper?” Emilie asked.

  “In the newspaper.”

  “Acquitted, ma chère Blanche, acquitted, but not innocent.” Joseph winked with a bizarre mischievousness and leaned closer to the young woman. An intoxicating whiff of youth and cosmetics rose from her décolletage, making the old man feel slightly awkward. He watched her as if she were his real judge. Blanche shot him her enchanting smile, a wondrous blend: arrogance and control mixed with modesty and submissiveness. She fixed her mysterious smile on him and said nothing. The old man was left hanging, wanting to hear more, but she stayed silent. When her silence persisted he leaned closer and whispered in a plaintive, tired tone, as if asking to rest his head on her bosom: “Acquitted, but not innocent.”

  “Innocent?” Raphael rumbled. “You want someone else to decide for you whether or not you’re innocent? You know what you are, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

  “Maybe that’s the only thing that matters,” Joseph muttered at the interruption and stared back at the pretty fiancée. “But what matters doesn’t matter here. Sometimes, what doesn’t matter, matters!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Raphael said, as if Joseph had been talking to him.