Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

Robby’s cousin Raphael, Aunt Tovula’s son, whose nickname for Robby was Petit Tigre , sang a song he improvised about Esperance, David’s hope. Robby was immensely impressed. A more mature mind might not have been so taken with the song, but Raphael’s voice was a clear tenor, and the applause was loud and enthusiastic. Grandma immediately asked him to sing the two songs that made him the toast of the Auberge Bleue: Triana and Antonio Heredia Gitano . He gladly obliged, and as he sang, Grandma couldn’t help but accompany him and ruin the performance. “ Triana, mi Triana ,” she called excitedly, her green eyes glowing. Occasionally she sang the lyrics before the music, as if announcing their approach, and other times she repeated lines, confirming them: “ ya viene’l dia, ya viene’l mare , here comes the day, here come the waves!”

“ Yassoo! ” the guests cheered in Greek.

Por tu culpa culpita yo tengo

negro negrito, mi corason!

Your accusations make me feel guilty,

and evil thoughts fill my heart!

“ Es verdad! ” she finally said. It’s true! No one knew for sure what she meant, what was so true.

Raphael asked Robby’s grandmother to sing a song for him, and she refused, claiming to have a sore throat. The others began pleading. Finally she agreed to sing one dedicated to Raphaelico himself. When she began, no one could see the connection between this song, half Spanish and half Turkish, and Raphael. But when she reached the final lines, they all burst out laughing:

Antes eran maronchinos,

agora punios al garon;

No te paresca qu’es lo de antes,

agora te commando yo!

Even Blanche, Raphael’s fiancée, laughed when he translated the song for her: I gave you cookies first, then fists straight to the neck. Don’t think it’s like before, now I’m in command. They were about to be married in the fall and move to Israel immediately after. Robby’s grandma wasn’t impressed with the pretty, smiling face of “ esta cocona , Blanche,” who came from Corfu. Grandma always said, “ Corfioto — loco !” meaning, “Corfu natives— crazy!” claiming they should not be trusted. Years later, one scorching hot Israeli day in the desert town of Beer Sheba, when Raphael finally received signed divorce papers from Blanche, who made his life miserable, he sighed and admitted that his old aunt had been right, at least in his case.

David and Robby’s sister used the first opportunity to abscond. The two mothers smiled. Robby’s grandmother made an appropriate remark, and all agreed they were a fine-looking couple.

Suddenly, David’s father spoke: “Today … today a dream came true … my dream.” Then he closed his eyes and said no more. They all looked at him. He’d been so silent all day. Nobody expected to hear such a personal, dramatic statement from the quiet, fez-wearing man. Just like Victor, there was a kind of gloomy estrangement in Joseph Hamdi-Ali. You would never expect those pursed lips to let out such banal words, words that could have been spoken by any of the other guests.

The silence and the questioning looks did not confuse him in the least. He adjusted his fez and added, “It reminds me of my youth, when I myself was a jockey.”

“You were a jockey, Mr. Hamdi-Ali?” someone tried to make friendly conversation.

But Joseph did not answer, only chuckled to himself, deep in his own world.

Emilie took it upon herself to explain. “You should have seen him. It was as if he were born on horseback!” A hidden tremor rushed through her body. Light, hesitant lust swirled through her belly, sending waves to her breasts. She was grateful to Joseph for providing her with a beautiful life, and was proud to have given birth to such a handsome, wonderful boy as David.

“I used to have an Arabian mare, thin and noble. Leila was her name, because she was black zay el-leil , like the night. Her coat was smooth and shiny, you could pet her for hours, with her sounding little snorts of pleasure. One day, during a race, in a faraway country, she jumped over a hurdle and sprained her ankle as she landed. Leila knew one rule: you don’t stop before the finish line. So she kept on galloping, turning the sprain into a fracture. She strode on three legs, the fourth one hanging limp in the air, and she made it fifty yards to the finish line before falling to the ground, writhing in pain. The vet tried to put a cast on her, but she refused any infringement on her freedom, and she kept jumping and twisting and moaning with pain. Poor Leila! Horses are not like men. They don’t know that the cast or the bandage are meant to help, and they cannot make do with only three legs, because they need four to carry their weight. Especially a proud mare like Leila. She wasn’t one to walk around helpless, and she wouldn’t stop acting out, crying and hurting herself. There was no way to control her, and without the cast she had no chance to survive. My heart broke. I was the one who pulled the trigger …”

Tears choked him. In his mind’s eye he saw Leila galloping in the dream tracks of his boyhood, all nobility and grace. He looked around him with cloudy eyes. He had no idea what the others thought of his story, nor did he care. His gaze was introverted. Suddenly he yearned to sit on the ground with his legs crossed and smoke a hookah and roll prayer beads between his fingers. Just like that, simply, endlessly, for a hundred years, two hundred, for eternity. Maybe that is heaven? A hookah and beads, into eternity?

He stood up, excused himself and went to his room, old and bent over, the fringe of his fez dancing happily against a miserable wrinkled face.

Everyone sat silent and gaping. No one had even noticed old Hamdi-Ali until then. It had seemed as if the Hamdi-Ali family story flowed along calmly on the surface, never penetrating the dark caves behind the quiet old man’s eyes. And then, all of a sudden, a monologue. The man spoke, said his part and vanished into the shadows.

Robby looked at Victor and saw that he was close to tears. His pouting lips were trembling, and his appearance was somewhere between touching and pathetic. Robby wanted to make a gesture of sympathy. Victor saw this and twisted his face in ridicule, winked toward his father, chuckled and twisted his finger against his temple, as if saying, “My father’s cuckoo!” Robby kept looking, and Victor could take no more and ran to his room. Robby didn’t laugh at him.

The old clock chimed twelve.

A sigh of relief. The clock had broken the discomfort, giving someone reason to say, “What? It’s midnight already? So late!”

That night, Robby dreamed of Leila, but couldn’t remember his dream in the morning.

Never rest on your laurels.

Never get blinded by fame.

Think about Ahmed’s revenge race.

And most important — maintain a strict diet!

Mount your mare next Sunday without the overconfidence of the gullible rabbit racing against the wise turtle.

Nevertheless, do not forget that your victory last Sunday was a promise of future victories.

A promise for you to keep.

And one more thing — don’t fall in love with your mare.

Remember what happened to your father, when he became attached to Leila with chains of love. Her tragic death killed my career. I became a trainer, but a trainer is but a pale shadow of the jockey, his pleasure and excitement merely shadows of the pleasure and excitement enjoyed by the jockey. The trouble is, other horses are merely the shadow of Leila. I could never get used to other horses. Don’t fall in love with your mare, my son! Horses are more loyal than women, but they don’t live as long.