Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

“To you as well!”

“Much more important to you than I am, and right-fully so!”

“That’s not true! You’re more important to me than anything in this world!”

“But still you won’t give up racing for me.”

“You want money, don’t you?”

“Money really isn’t everything,” she said, trying to sound sincere.

“Oh. I’m just so ugly and repulsive that even for my money you wouldn’t —”

“Don’t be silly. I just can’t. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Who, then?”

“Me, myself,” she said, and couldn’t decide if she should tell him the true reason, satisfy his curiosity and show him this was no whim. Yes, it was actually her duty to show him she wasn’t simply being spoiled and arbitrary, but that she was facing grave considerations. She had to explain to him that … Suddenly she felt tired. Who said she had to? She didn’t owe him a thing! He wanted something, she set a price. The ball was in his court, and she didn’t have to reason. He had a decision to make. Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t give up racing. No man would humiliate himself that much. Especially seeing how she insisted on not giving him any acceptable reason for her demand, thus making his choice even clearer. “It’s either me or racing,” she said monotonously, as if nothing he said or did would change that.

David wouldn’t give up, but he also seemed tired. They were like two boxers, looking at each other with beaten eyes, going on with the match with an almost mechanical inertia. “But why? Why?”

She walked toward the sea, her feet spraying sand behind her. Her dress clung to her, sending unpleasant chills through her body. She felt the moist sand spraying her. She wanted to take everything off and go into the lukewarm water, but she didn’t dare. Not that she was embarrassed to show her body; on the contrary, a mischievous urge to get undressed and tease him pulsed through her. But she was afraid he’d interpret this as an act of love, or surrender.

“Fine, I’ll give up racing. I’ll give it up, damn it!”

She stopped in her tracks. It couldn’t be. This was completely unexpected. She never thought for a moment he might agree. Now the ball was in her court. What would she say? Maybe he was lying. How could she know he would keep his promise? And actually, what did his promise have to do with her? She didn’t want him to stop racing. He could keep doing it till the end of time, as far as she was concerned. What now? Plain and simple, set another condition. Would he be willing to leave his country and his family for her, the way his father did for his mother, and follow her wherever she went? This was the pivotal question. But before she even asked it, she made up her mind: she didn’t want him to agree to go away with her. She wanted to be free. Even there . There, she might explore her future, leaving the past behind. She was young, a little girl, really. She wanted her mommy. What did this stranger want from her? She wanted to say, “Too late!” but knew this was a poor excuse. He’d continue to argue and press her. She didn’t want to say anything. She wanted to spread her wings and fly. The dress kept clinging, making her tremble with discomfort. Still, she had to say something, and wasn’t sure what.

Luckily, before she could speak, he said, “I’ll give it up … after I finish this season.”

The fool.

“No,” her legs started moving again, leading her into the water. “Starting now, this moment.”

“We’ll make some money, and then —”

“No!”

“I can’t! I can’t!” His face was tormented, he was paralyzed and helpless. “I can’t do this to him. I can’t do it to my father. I just can’t.” He reached for her hand and said the two words that sealed his fate. “Have mercy.”

She took off her clothes, slowly and calmly, as if she were alone in her room, not hiding anything. She wasn’t trying to seduce him; he was simply insignificant. That’s how Egyptian princesses must have undressed in front of their eunuchs. The wind touched her curves, the sea sprayed white foam in her lap. Light, fast waves swirled around her, caressing her with sounds of explosion, purrs of delight. She closed her eyes and knew that her body was silver and that she was young. Young and free.

He stood on the beach, mouth wide open, not daring to come closer or touch her. “No!” he called out. “I won’t give up racing. Who are you to ask me to give anything up? I’ll keep going, and I’ll be a champion. I’ll be rich, and you … you’ll come begging … yes, on your knees you’ll beg me. But I’ll tell you to go to hell. I’ll tell you, Too late! Too late!” And he walked quickly back to his faithful Topolino.

She barely heard what he’d said, or the sound of the car starting. She was immersed in her delicious surrender to the warm surf.

All the residents saw David the next day as he gave a sealed letter to Salem. The ringing of coins, a gesture of impatience, “Go on, go!” The servant’s persistent smile. A master’s sigh, accompanied by a hand stuffed into the pocket, another coin for the bakshish, a wide smile, and a slammed door. The echoes of the slamming dispersed like messengers to all corners of the house. Everyone held their breath. Only the ancient grandfather clock ignored the excitement and continued to tick indifferently.

“Did he ask for her hand last night?”

“And if he did, did she say yes?”

“This letter, who is it for and what does it say?”

Grandma was the one to form these three fateful questions. First silently, in her own mind, then later to her daughter, and finally to Emilie Hamdi-Ali. No one had answers.

All morning long, the two protagonists of this drama locked themselves in their respective rooms. She slept soundly, dreaming about money, more money, and even more money. He sat down to write a letter, with concentration, determination and persistence.

The letter, bearing the portrait of young King Farouk on its top right-hand corner, was on its way. No one could stop it or call it back. Grandma knew that matters had been settled, and there was nothing more for her to do. But she did not know what the verdict had been. She wanted to influence Emilie to get information from her son, but Emilie was taken aback. David could now go back to his room. Silence took over, the echoes of tumult fading. Only curiosity kept creating disquiet, leading to hasty, embarrassed whispering.

“My brother must be screwing your sister,” Victor told Robby. Robby kicked his friend in the shin. The kick was retaliated with a slap, the slap led to a scuffle on the carpet, and from the carpet to the tiled floor of the hall, and from there to the hardwood floor of the living room, and back to the balcony.

“What’s he doing in there?” Grandma asked Emilie Hamdi-Ali, pointing impatiently toward the door of David’s room.

“What’s she doing in there ?” Emilie returned the question, pointing to Robby’s sister’s room.

“She’s sleeping. She’s always sleeping.”

“What does that mean? Is that a sign?”

“It’s no sign, I’m telling you, when is she ever awake? The whole world can burn down, but she— papeyando !”

They both sighed. The coffee arrived and they shook their heads, taking loud sips. Suddenly they paused. While the porcelain rattled and some drops flew out, they sat frozen. David’s door opened and he appeared in his white tennis clothes, handsome as a Hollywood dream. The old ladies were shaken and couldn’t take their eyes off him as he walked measuredly and proud, scaring off the darkness of the hall. Emilie looked at her son with gratitude for how handsome and tall he was, as if this were how he repaid her for all she’d done for him. “God save him, amen.”