Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

“The boys are in Israel. Papa said that sooner or later we’ll all join them. David would never go to Israel. There are no horse races there, and his father wouldn’t let him give up horse racing. David isn’t one to disobey his father, and even if he were, what would he do then? This way he has money, he has fame. Without horse racing, what would he be worth? There’s no chance he’ll ever leave Egypt. I don’t want to be away from you. You’re more important to me than all the Hamdi-Alis in the world. I also don’t want all of us to stay here because of me, far away from the boys …”

“As Jews, our only future is in Israel,” her father confirmed. His view on this matter was clear. He’d never been an active, militant Zionist, like his friend and neighbor Maurice Rosenberg, who’d already served several months in an Egyptian prison for underground Zionist activity. Robby’s father did not like politics. He preferred to read a novel, not a newspaper, and hardly listened to the news on the radio. A few months prior, his second son wrote him from his training in France, telling him he had received an offer to stay and become a French citizen, thanks to his excellence on the local basketball team. He asked for his father’s advice. His father did not hesitate and instructed him to turn down the offer and continue to Israel, and his son did, along with his older brother. In spite of their independence, or perhaps because of their independence, the children cherished their father’s opinion, never under-estimating it.

“I don’t want to be away from you,” Robby’s sister said and gave her father a long kiss. Robby jumped up and kissed her. A united family, what a great, rare blessing.

On Wednesday afternoon, David got up and drove to one of the big stores on Rue Cherif Pacha to buy a new scale. He ordered his mother to sell the old one, which was without a doubt the cause of his bad luck, to the roba be-quia —an Arabic distortion of Roppa Vequia , old rags, the old man walking the city and purchasing used goods, who was often the subject of legends about the wealth he’d accumulated through years of buying and selling rags.

The new scale was kind to David. His weight did not diminish, but neither did it rise, and he wholeheartedly believed that a crisis had been averted. Perhaps it was even a good omen, and his weight would drop in the few days that remained before the next race.

He tripled and quadrupled his workout sessions, and spent several hours each day riding on the track, while his old father circled him with satisfaction, wearing a jacket over his bright white shirt, the fez never leaving his head.

“My son is back with me. My son is back with us,” he mumbled to himself, his eyes sparkling.

On the night before the race he told David, “Go get dressed, ya ibni . We’re going out.”

“Going out? Where?”

“Out, I said. Out. Just you and I. Let’s go, go on, get dressed.”

“What about Mama?”

“Just you and I, I said.” He asserted his oriental authority, and David didn’t dream of protesting. He went to his room to carry out orders.

The old man remained in the hall on his own. From the room at the end of the hall he vaguely heard the chattering of the women playing their game of rummy, which they all called cuncan .

Cuncan, cuncan, he thought with distaste and sighed. The women here are too liberated, as are the men. He pulled his prayer beads from his pocket and slowly rolled them around between his fingers. It would be best if Emilie avoided that cuncan — it slowed the brain and corrupted the morals. At first he was going to forbid it, but then he took pity on her and thought, if she likes it so much, let her play. What pleasure does a woman have in her life, and in her old age, no less? As was the case whenever he thought of his Emilie, a wave of love swept up his old body, which yearned for rest at the end of the road more than it craved the excitement of the moment.

Secret passions evolved with time and congealed into memories. The silhouette of Leila, the mare, rose against his tired eyes. Noble, black, agile, sleek Leila; perfect Leila, who would never grow old. Emilie is so different, the very opposite. Leila was black and Emilie is white, Leila was skinny and Emilie — round, Leila was all muscle, taut as a string, while Emilie’s flesh is soft, soft and delicate to the touch. Nevertheless, at times the two become fused in his mind. His love makes them one. And maybe it also had to do with that wild look in their eyes, Leila’s and Emilie’s. But Leila was truly wild, while Emilie’s sole wildness is in her eyes, the rest of her soft and gentle as a ewe. What would he ever do without her? When Leila died, in that strange, faraway city, he was like one of the old man’s rags. Another woman might have said, she was only a mare ( only a mare!); but Emilie said nothing. Did she understand him in his tragedy? Or was she simply sensible enough and loving enough to do the right thing and leave him be, letting his grief ripen until it fell away by itself, like fruit from a tree? Or maybe she was just crudely indifferent to his fate? No, not at all. Perhaps she was lazy? Perhaps. Perhaps she was embarrassed or at a loss? Perhaps. The important thing is what she did. The important thing is, she did not force herself on him, did not make any cheap attempts to fill the void left by Leila. Emilie was one thing, and Leila was another. Each had her own special place. When one left, her absence was never filled. The old man closed his eyes and saw this black void, this emptiness, this eternity.

The beads slipped between his fingers, the touch of the cold amber making him feel peaceful. A light nap. Was this death? An old man, falling asleep in the afternoon sun, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his fingers spreading by themselves and the beads slowly falling to the carpet.

David stood before him in a sharkskin suit, white as the angel Gabriel when he showed himself to Muhammad, white as the fresh morning, blessed by Allah with a rejuvenating breeze from the sea.

Joseph shook off the sleep and bits of dream. He stood up, encouraged, and linked his arm with his son’s, whispering in his ear: “ Yalla, ya ibni .”

Victor and Robby stood on the balcony, their chins pressed against their arms on the cool stone and the rough, peeling plaster. They watched the two men moving away up the street: a tall young man, blinding white, his blond hair reflecting the rays of the sun as they lingered on the brilliantine; a firm but slightly hunched older man, wearing black, a red fez burning atop his head in the afternoon sun.

“Do you know where he’s taking him?” Victor whispered in Robby’s ear, his breath hot and sticky. He did not wait for an answer and added, “To une P .” Robby’s eyes told him the hint was insufficient, and so he elaborated: “ Une prostituée .”

Robby had never heard that word, but his heart told him that it’s meaning lay in those moldy, mysterious corners, in the appealing, frightening world of sex. Plug your ears, hear no more. But every cell in his body thirsted for more knowledge. In a strange voice he asked, “What’s that?”

Victor’s laugh resounded like a pile of empty cans tumbling down from the balcony.

Robby regretted asking. Once more he was dragged in spite of himself into a dangerous zone. He wanted to take it back. In his mind’s eye, he once more saw his parents walking around naked, cheerfully playing games that were not suitable for adults. He hated Victor Hamdi-Ali so. Hated him and waited, waited impatiently for his words.