Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

He tried to evade them, but they asked again that he wear his costume for them, and his mother also urged him, wanting to show off her work. And so Robby gave in.

Embarrassed and ashamed, but also excited to have all eyes on him, Robby found his way between the folds of the long dress, which grew wide around the ankles. A small beach bucket was atop his head, its narrow base acting as the famous conical crown of the stunning Egyptian queen. For scepters he had his father’s fly swatter, nick-named “Can’t Miss,” as well as — no lie — David Hamdi-Ali’s whip, which he used to spur his horse, Esperance.

“Like a girl … just like a girl!” the women cheered. Robby blushed, but never took his eyes off them, and even tried to afford himself a regal air of condescension. All of them, all of them, other than the venerable Madame Livia, all of them fat with big butts, too big for the narrow seats to accommodate, culos , as his grandmother says when she’s cross with them. He was happy to see them in their wretchedness, laughing and purring and shaking their bellies. Only the beautiful, proud Madame Livia earned his respect and reverence. “Like a girl, like a girl.”

In a shaded corner, Robby noticed the twisting silhouette of the gloating Victor, making lewd gestures with his fingers, the kind he’d only ever seen the Arabs make.

“When he was born,” Grandma said, “did I ever tell you this story? When he was born, little Robby, oh, how his sister cried …”

“You don’t say!” Madame Marika exclaimed in false wonder. She’d heard the story before, but wanted to please Grandma.

“Yes. Because she wanted a sister. When she heard she had a little brother instead, no demandes ! Don’t ask!” Grandma mimicked her granddaughter’s wails, to the pleasure of the coconas : “Send him back! Exchange him at the store!”

“What?” Madame Marika called. “Eleven years old and she still didn’t know kids didn’t come from the store?”

Grandma poked her elbow in Madame Marika’s rib cage, to remind her that the child was listening. With amazing speed, Marika changed the planned ending of her sentence and said, “Didn’t she know the stork brings them?”

Victor couldn’t help himself anymore, and let out an ugly moan, which could be easily confused with something else, and then burst into teasing laughter and escaped. The women were shocked and upset.

“I didn’t know until I turned nineteen,” Grandma said and started laughing again. “We were such fools back then!” All the women laughed again. Robby used the opportunity to get away as well, almost falling flat on his face when his legs got caught in the dress. The bucket on his head slid down to his nose and bruised it a bit. The pain was bearable, but the insult burned, and he cried in his mother’s lap and wished a plague on the houses of all the members of the card club.

Slowly, the sounds of laughter and gaiety died down, and around three o’clock a strange silence fell upon the house. Everyone was at the races, and Robby stayed home alone with Victor. The racetracks were closed to children. The two of them stood on the balcony and watched silently as the festive crowds moved along the sidewalk of Rue Delta toward the Sporting Club racetracks, beyond the tram tracks. The women in white, fluttering summer dresses, wide-brimmed hats and small sun umbrellas. The men in flashy, enviable white faux-silk or dazzling sharkskin suits. A carefree group, yearning for pleasure on this hot, sunny, humid summer’s day. A light, salty, tickling wind rose from the sea, waving the tulle ends of hats, and mischievously raising a dress up over someone’s knees, to Victor’s snorts of satisfaction. Robby placed his cheek against his folded arms upon the cool railing and dozed off, his half-closed eyes watching a white fog of woolly clouds, moving in soporific waves. When he awoke, the sidewalk was empty and the clouds were gone, as if a sorcerer had made them disappear with a flick of his magic wand. Suddenly, he heard Victor’s steady snorts, his heavy breathing. Only then did he feel a strange percolation sending vibrations through his body. His underwear was like a tent, and Victor’s hard penis rubbed against him, back and forth. Though he knew very well that this was crude behavior, he did nothing to stop his friend, and even pretended to still be asleep and gave in to the pleasure, feeling a charge of power flowing and releasing from the tip of his penis. He pushed his body up against the wall of the railing, shoving his burning gut at the rough coolness. A strong, pleasant pain spread through him.

Suddenly he heard Victor whispering, “Now it’s your turn.” At first he didn’t understand, but then he felt Victor slowly separating from his body and taking his hand and leading him into the house. For a while they walked carefully through the dark hall, as if they’d found themselves in a cave. The first thing Robby saw clearly was the pink hook between Victor’s legs, flapping around like a small, quick animal, like some sort of reddish, restless rat. In his hurry, Victor managed to grab a large pillow, and now dropped it to the ground, lay on top of it and spread open his behind to expand his rectum. The sight of the brown hole made Robby feel nauseous, but before he could even tell what was going on, he was ripping into his friend’s body. A heavy, sour smell of sweat. The stench almost choked him, but also awoke a wondrous animal lust within him.

“And that’s nothing,” Victor chirped, clicking his tongue. “Just imagine what it’s like to do this to a girl!”

“To a girl? Just like this? In the ass?”

“No,” Victor whispered, “in the front.” He stretched out his neck and laughed his nervous laugh.

“In, in her front?” Robby didn’t understand. His imagination, shaped by the agreed-upon, petit bourgeois norms of Alex, was incapable of picturing such fantastical things.

“Yes, where she pees from.”

“But … but it’s so small.”

“What’s so small?”

“The hole.”

“How do you know? Have you seen one?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I have.” Victor’s blue eyes shot flames. “Our servant in Cairo has a little girl …”

Robby was appalled. With the remains of his strength, he asked, “And you … you … did you do it?”

“No, her whore of a mother caught us just when I was about to stick it to her, because that little stupid girl was crying. Damn!”

“Stick it to girls?” Robby mumbled. The thought didn’t make him feel any passion, only disgust. He was getting accustomed to the idea that boys could enjoy this, and though their parents would probably be angry if they caught them, the pleasure was worth the risk. But with girls … he was embarrassed by the mere idea of a girl seeing him naked.

“You idiot, what are you so surprised about? That’s how you were born.”

“Me?”

“Not just you, also you. Your parents …”

“No! It can’t be.” Robby didn’t want to hear one more thing. He’d believed Victor so far, but the idea of his parents, his mother and father, naked in bed, and his father … and his mother … Robby was appalled and wanted to hear nothing more. He stopped listening and only heard a muffled version of the rest of the lesson on reproduction: “And the sperm … the semen … like milk … but not like the milk you drink, more like Nestle condensed milk … and there … in the woman’s hole … it gets bigger, and there’s a baby inside.”

“And I thought that … that the wine the parents drink when they get married …”

Victor’s laughter was wild. He turned over and jerked around on the rug, naked. Finally he lay still, helpless and satisfied.