Yasmine Rashidi - Chronicle of a Last Summer

Dido takes the peel. He tells me that his life is politics and he hopes mine will be too. I look at him. We start walking. He takes a deep breath and says no one will ever compare to Nasser. He was a real man and one of the people. Baba also likes Nasser even though he made mistakes. Mama doesn’t. She and Baba would sometimes fight. They would only ever fight about Nasser and money. Mama would scream about all the things that Nasser took from Grandpa. Baba shouted back that he gave his father his whole life. Mama would say Uncle’s name and that it was all about wasta . Connections. When I asked Mama why she was upset she took me to the window and told me to look out. Our street is long and filled with flame trees. Only one tree has purple flowers but only a few. The jacaranda. At school we learn that the British brought it to Egypt to make the country more beautiful. At night people paint bad words on the walls of buildings. In the afternoon men come and paint over them with black. Mama pointed to the red villa and asked me if I saw it. Yes . The white villa on the corner. Yes. The villa across the street that’s a school. Yes. Her friends used to live in those villas, then Nasser took them and they had to leave. Where did they go? They left the country. They packed their bags and left at dawn. They didn’t even say goodbye. Was she sad? Very. Mama lost many friends because of Nasser. Her best friend was the daughter of the king and had to leave. Her other best friend was Jewish and also had to leave. Why did Nasser make them leave? Because life is unfair and it was something I would have to learn. I looked at her. Mama had green eyes that changed color sometimes. I always looked to see what color they were. Baba told me once that if they were brown I should keep away. I asked her who would teach me about life being unfair. She said time.

—

We stop at the ful shop on the corner. The walls are tiled white like our bathroom. Dido lifts me onto a stool. There is a thin wooden counter to eat on. I put my hand on it. It sticks. I ask for a tissue. The man gives me a piece of newspaper. I wipe the paper on the counter. The sticky part turns black. Dido shakes his head. He turns back and asks the man for three sandwiches. And two bottles of Sinalco. Mama never lets me drink Sinalco. It is bad for my insides. It will turn them orange. Dido says Mama is too strict. But without discipline I would become listless like the others . He gives me a sandwich and sits next to me. Discipline can go either way, he says. It’s the country that makes us listless. I ask him what listless means. It means to wake up every day and not know what to do. It means to feel there is nothing to look forward to in life. He laughs. Except football. I watch him. He takes a bite of his sandwich and stuffs a pickled carrot in his mouth after it. He looks at the street. There is a small blue pickup truck with policemen on it. They are dressed in white. In winter they wear black. They jump off the truck outside the ful shop. A woman is sitting on the pavement with two baskets in front of her. One basket has tomatoes. The other cucumbers and lettuce. She tries to get up quickly but trips. She is wearing a colored galabia and has a large scarf around her head. One policeman takes her elbow. He pulls. The other takes her two baskets. He throws them onto the truck. She screams. What is she saying? Dido is staring at them and doesn’t answer. People in the street stop and watch. Two cars stop. Four. Five. The traffic stops and cars behind start honking. There is shouting. One policeman pushes her into the truck. She screams, Yalahwee. He gets in after her and slams the door. The other policeman puts one hand on the back of the truck and jumps onto it. There is more shouting. More. They drive away. Dido shakes his head. The people who were watching walk away. The stopped cars go. Dido says a bad word. I ask him why they took her. He says the system is wrecked. And she doesn’t have a permit. They don’t give people a chance at an honest living. Why didn’t he help her? He doesn’t say anything for a long time then shakes his head. He takes another bite of his sandwich. I watch him. He chews slowly, still shaking his head. After a while he asks if I remember what he taught me about the waves. I nod. If it’s going to hit me in the face I have to dive under it. He raises one eyebrow and tells me to remember that in life too. He takes our sandwich wrappers and scrunches them into a ball. He puts the empty bottles on the counter. He gives the man five piastres. The man puts his hand to his head and salutes him. He calls him Basha.

I ask if we can get mango ice cream from El-Abd. Baba used to take me every Friday after school. He pats my head and takes the purple backpack from my shoulder. We walk to the curb. Three cucumbers are squashed on the pavement. I press on one with the tip of my shoe. Cucumber seeds squirt from one side. Dido raises his hand. A black-and-white taxi stops. Downtown . He opens the back door. I slide across the leather chair. It’s boiling and I sit on my hands. Dido gets in the front next to the driver. He puts my bag between his legs and rests his elbow on the window. His arm hangs out. The driver has his arm the same way. Their arms might get cut off by a speeding car, but I don’t say anything. The driver has a long nail on his little finger. Our driver also has a long nail on his little finger. So does the man who sells fruits. Their nails are even longer than Mama’s. I imagine taking scissors and cutting them off. Dido talks to the driver. I move closer to the window and stick my head out. The taxi goes towards the bridge where the billboards are. Two men on ladders are carrying buckets of paint. Two other men are dipping their paintbrushes into the buckets. One of them is painting the head of a woman. Her dress is blue with white dots and the tops of her breasts show in the way Mama says is not for my age. He paints yellow streaks onto her brown hair. The other man is painting a word. The taxi driver slows down. He shakes his head. When are they ever going to finish? They have been painting the billboard for three weeks now . Dido tells him it’s an art. The poster will be up for years. The driver flicks his head. They talk about time moving at a pace of its own.

I listen to them with my head out of the window. Two women in short dresses come out of Simonds. They are wearing high heels and have bags on their arms. Their hair is up like Mama’s. They have dresses like Mama’s. They have necklaces like Mama’s. They look different. They are laughing and throwing their heads back. I remember when Mama looked like them. They walk to the edge of the street and stand talking. I look back at them. We pass a new building. There used to be only two buildings on the island. Then people started building everywhere. It’s not what it used to be. Everyone is always saying that. That’s why our house is special. Now they are even building a bridge. There are piles of sand and bricks and big trucks every night and Mama complains about the noise. On TV they tell us the president will build five new bridges. Mama calls it a catastrophe. I try to imagine the island still just fields and houses. The taxi is the car like Grandpa had, white with an open top. He would take Mama to Simonds, but the one downtown, and they would have bombe glacée . It was a famous ice cream that they don’t make anymore. Mama said it was something of the past. Everything is of the past.

—

At home Dido sits on the sofa where Mama usually sits. It’s Baba’s place. I sit on the armchair next to him. He picks up the blue address book from the table. He turns it over. It’s Baba’s. He looks at me and puts it down. It’s hot. I get up and turn on Granny’s fan. Dido asks about Mama’s plant mister on the table. I hand it to him. He sprays himself and says he loves the house. It makes him sad now. He misses Granny’s lunches. I ask him where Mama went. He puts his elbows on his knees and leans close to me. He mists me. I squint. We laugh. Mama had some business to do. Does he miss Baba? Of course, just like me. Let’s watch TV, he says. I get up and switch it on. There is a documentary about Egypt on Channel One. Dido tells me to leave it on. I frown. But it’s always documentaries . He stares at the screen. First there are pictures of the king. He is standing on a boat holding a baby. The queen is next to him. She is dressed like Mama and doesn’t look like a queen. They are leaving from Montazah Palace where we used to go in the summer. All of Montazah Gardens used to belong to the king, Dido says. That’s why ’52 was good. It gave the gardens to the people. If there had been no revolution our summers would be different. Alexandria would be different. I ask again. Revolution . What does it mean? You could say it means change. Do Mama and Baba think it was good? It’s complicated. Mama told me the story once but I forgot. He tells me the story. The revolution happened in the summer. Granny and Grandpa would move from Cairo to Alexandria. The whole government would move to the coast during the summer months. It was too hot to be in the city. Mama, Granny, Nesma, and all the family would be there. They would go to the beach while Grandpa was at work. Grandpa was a judge in the royal court. It was very early in the morning when the revolution happened. Mama was on the balcony having breakfast. They heard a rumble from far away. Minutes later they saw army tanks. They went by right under their balcony, right along the corniche and towards Montazah Palace. Granny and Grandpa both said a prayer. I remember that part. Mama told me that she could tell from their faces that something bad was happening. She doesn’t remember anything else except that the summer ended suddenly. Dido says the revolution was bad for people like Grandpa because it took things away from them. But how come they didn’t take our house when they took all of Mama’s friends’ houses? It’s just one of those things. Mama says the house is the only thing we have left. Dido doesn’t say anything. I love the house but I liked it better before, I say. Before what? Before it became so empty. Before everyone died and Baba left. Before people stopped coming and everything changed. He looks at me. Is that a revolution too? I ask.