Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

David nodded and nodded, and his silent father sipped his Turkish coffee and talked and talked. They were alone on the balcony, in the light breeze. Joseph was not one for conversation. He was shy and uncomfortable around people. The scents of dainty women’s perfumes and of the tobacco of cleanly-shaven men filled his heart with yearning for the smell of horses in their stable. He loved the noble silence of the horse, its serious eyes, the respect it awoke in anyone who watched. Nothing like a donkey or a mule. He raised his eyes toward his son: handsome, tall, thin (but for that tendency to put on weight — an endless battle!) and a shadow passed over his face. Why was his heart not content with the glittering joy in David’s eyes? Why did he have a bad hunch? He was worried about Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni’s cold, penetrating stare. After the match, he came over to shake David’s hand. His shake was friendly, sportsmanlike, a hand that had learned from the Brits how to lose gracefully and not hold a grudge, but his eyes, oh, his eyes were of the desert. Blood vengeance, they cried. And who knows if it wasn’t by order of the lady, the consul’s wife, that he came over with his gesture of camaraderie? Ahmed would not rest. He’d do anything to win back his glory. The Muslim isn’t one to give up his honor lightly. Who knew better than Joseph? But it had to be stopped, at all costs. His dream was about to come true. Not through him, but through his son. What’s the difference? What he couldn’t achieve, his son would, with his assistance. A flame ignited in Joseph’s green-hued eyes. A look of clear determination shot a flash of steel through them. He searched for the same sternness in his son’s eyes, the one that provides heroes with the glow of glory, but couldn’t find it. A dull worry gnawed at his heart. Something of Emilie’s refined softness had transferred to their son. He lacked the desire for perfection, and perhaps a masculine pride, without which, how are men better than women? Joseph loved Emilie more than life itself. He always had. Nevertheless, in their early years of marriage, he occasionally tied her to the bed frame and whipped her bare back with his belt, not because of something she’d done, but just to maintain balance, or rather, to maintain the superiority Allah had given man over his wife. Emilie accepted her sentence, because that was the oossool , the law of man and nature, and that was how it should be! The Turk is all man. Not like the Egyptian men here. The Turk knows about respect, and loyalty, and love … A deep yearning for Emilie’s soft, white skin dulled the daggers of his eyes for a moment. He reached for his son, and as he caressed his face he imagined for a moment that the face was actually his young wife’s. He wanted to tie the boy to the bed frame and lash his bare back, but knew that these were new times, and he had to accept them. A foul taste filled his mouth, almost making him sick. Tender ululations sounded from the Arab café on the corner, the divine voice of Umm Kulthum, legendary mother of song, emerging like a ray of light through red clouds … oh, the hookah … the beads … and Umm Kulthum.

Suddenly the clear voice of the godly singer was disrupted by an off-tune screech. An old man in britches and a turban was turning the lever on an organ down in the street, playing some cheap Western tune. A young man in a ratty sailor’s uniform broke into a monkey dance to the sounds, and joked nonstop about the monkey’s red but-tocks. A boy walked among the crowd with a hat in his hand, and once the show was over, solicited tips from the onlookers. Some paid and others refrained. The old man pulled the hat off the sailor’s head and raised it toward the balconies. David laughed and threw a few coins down, and the three of them dispersed to collect the ringing treasure, simultaneously bowing.

Joseph wanted to ask his son, “Did you screw her?” but how dare he ask his son such a thing? Let him sleep with her and be done with it! A man should not walk around with pain in his testicles. Especially not a jockey. A jockey mustn’t be in love. Love gives you an appetite, and appetite makes you eat — oh, that tendency to put on weight!

Joseph shook his head, and the jolly fringe of his fez moved along with him.

She let him touch her breasts! They snuck out of the party, squeezed into the Topolino, and even before they went on their way he made a first attempt. She hit his mischievous hand, hard. A nightclub in Bulkeley. Dancing cheek to cheek, so close, eyes almost shut. At the table, in a dark corner, he tried his luck between her thighs. His hand was returned to its place shamefully. Leaving the club, their eyes were on the sea. The full moon brushed silver twinkles along the waves. A languid tango filtered out from the club. He put his arm around her neck, heavy, as if by accident, on her left breast, over the blouse, of course. This first feel went by without a hitch. He squeezed a little, to show her this was no accident, so that she couldn’t pretend not to know. She didn’t react, only hummed the tango and stared at the moon. He was proud of his achievement. He advanced slowly, already reaching the neckline. From there he could take a sharp turn down toward her skin. His hand continued in its expedition. His excitement grew. His fingertips were already wandering the no-man’s-land between the tight brassiere and her soft, supple skin. That smoothness intoxicated him. Suddenly he felt the brash coarseness of the nipple. He was about to shout with joy. The bra wasn’t so tight around the nipple, and his fingers had some leeway as they played with the hardening breast.

She was bored, but still expectant. Perhaps a miracle would happen? Someone to take her out of this abysmal boredom, which made her simultaneously indolent and dissatisfied. She would even let him kiss her. Why not? He doesn’t smell bad, not even of cigarettes. To him each step was an accomplishment. To her each step was an experiment, an almost desperate attempt at breaking the magic circle. Neither of them was simply enjoying the moment.

Lips touched lips. Tongue touched tongue. His hand still inside her bra. He tried to push the other hand around her back to undo the clasp, but the twisted position they were in hindered his success. Suddenly a Citroën pulled up nearby, and a cheerful group disembarked and proceeded tumultuously right in their direction. Robby’s sister detached from him. Damn it, now he’d have to start everything from the beginning. But now she no longer excused his fumbling advances towards her treasures.

He tried being romantic. Sweet nothings, whispers, declarations. He proposed a walk on the deserted beach. There, alone, he’d be victorious. He’d undo her bra if it killed him. Maybe even more than that. The mere thought made him tremble. They strolled on the beach. The moon was shining. She took off her shoes and was suddenly plagued by a deep sadness. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just give myself up to the magic of the moment? Why does everything make me feel contempt? If I didn’t think he would get scared, I’d take all my clothes off right now and lie down on the sand for him. This whole thing is so silly.

She couldn’t help but compare them, all of them, to her father. Deep down, she felt sorry for David, never thinking to feel sorry for herself.

Suddenly she wanted to have a little fun. She whispered, “Do you want me, David?”

And then, “Do you really want me, David?”

The direct question stunned him and he had no words.

She took his hand and put it on her chest, as if saying that this thing he’d been sweating over was the simplest thing in the world. She undid one button of her blouse, to make an easy reach. Her chest moved up and down. She might even have been a bit excited. “Do you want me, David?”