Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

For a moment, he thought he was going to have a heart attack: sudden suffocation, grotesque spasms, his eyes popping out of their holes, panic … doctor! Is there a doctor in the house?

He gritted his teeth and prayed it wasn’t happening to him. Not here, not here, surrounded by his so-called friends, Panayotti, Toto and Sisso, the three men he’d joined countless times in this club so favored by the racing industry. He’d often joked around with them, enjoying their company, and truly thought they were his close friends. But Joseph Hamdi-Ali never had true friends, and therefore had no point of reference.

Toto worked him with his slick tongue, and then Panayotti tried his luck with quick rhetoric, and finally Sisso delivered a short series of threats. But Joseph was firm in his opinion — not for all the money in the world.

The three men saw this as an invitation to raise their offer. They exchanged quick looks of consultation, a crooked smile to signal that every man had his price, and righteous Joseph was no exception. Toto named a higher price than before. Joseph chuckled and said, “No!” They could not believe that modest, bashful Joseph, whom they thought of as a simple, naive lamb, dared demand a higher price than they’d offered, and never imagined that here was a gullible man, honest to the point of boredom, who could not be tempted with money.

Joseph laughed silently. He thought: my son must be a real star if these three vultures, may their names and memories be wiped from eternity, are willing to pay, and in advance, no less, so certain are they that my son is going to win. Thank you for the vote of confidence, gentlemen!

While he pondered this, he heard Panayotti name a new, dizzying price. Joseph pictured hundreds of Egyptian pound notes swirling through the wind in front of his tired eyes. He hoped with all his heart that David heard nothing. He could not guess his son’s reaction to such an offer.

Luckily, David’s eyes were captivated by the charms of the beautiful, snow-white odalisque. The Turks like ivory flesh. Joseph looked at him, then at her, and thought, why not? His son wants her, and he shall get her, no matter the price. David is a prince, and a prince deserves it all. This was also a chance to escape from the three predators and their shameful offer. He waved over to the waiter, his old friend, a Maltese man with a quiet face and a paternal look, gestured toward Shakra and asked, “How much?”

The Maltese shook his head as if to say, You couldn’t afford it, ya ahi , these kind of goods are for the pashas and the beys and the diplomats.

But Joseph insisted, and a price was named. “Does she take checks?”

“From you, ya sidi , certainly.”

“Let’s go, ya ibni ,” said Hamdi-Ali, dragging along his amazed son.

The next day was the day of the race.

The entire household was in attendance, except for Robby and Victor, of course. Even Salem went, wearing his Sunday best, a calm and solemn expression on his face. As did the Murad sisters, in new dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats, laughing ceaselessly. Only Robby’s sister didn’t take part in the excitement. Early in the morning, before the rest of the house woke up, she left for a picnic and a bicycle ride in the Nuzha Gardens with Maître Ramzi.

The teasing began:

“Since when does that cocona wake up so early in the morning?”

“The power of love!”

“Just don’t let her get attached. A Christian!”

“Not Christian, Coptic,” Grandma corrected, but deep inside she knew the difference was insignificant.

“The Copts are Christian.”

“The Greeks are Christian!”

“So what are the Copts?”

“Copts.”

“Christian or Copt, they’re all the same — they do not love the Jews!”

“Shh, watch your tongue, Madame Marika. Madame Murad might hear you …”

They all left the house and flocked to the sidewalk. The sounds of chatter rose to the sky. Robby and Victor were home alone. The slamming of the doors still echoed through the hall, mixing with the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Without a word, the two of them dropped their pants and began rolling around on the carpet.

Doorbell. Claude and the Ephraim brothers joined in, silent and understanding as co-conspirators, wasting no time on meaningless talk. The shutters were closed. Through the dark, sounds of laughter resounded. Victor proposed asking Louis to join in as well. Robby refused vehemently. He recalled his skinny, fragile friend and his sad eyes. He wanted to leave him out of it, to protect him from sin.

After they were satisfied and a bit nauseous, someone suggested going to the beach. A redeeming idea: a purifying dip; a quick one, because Claude had to get going.

“Then go,” said Victor. “Who’s keeping you?”

“My clothes … they’re at your house.” He had borrowed a bathing suit from Robby.

Victor growled unhappily

“What are you getting angry about, like an idiot?” said Robby. “You can stay, I’ll go with Claude. I’m sick of this sea anyway.”

Victor looked at them suspiciously, but did not argue.

At home, while they undressed, dimples appeared in Claude’s cheeks.

Robby understood and answered with a smile: Why not?

It was all done quickly, with haste. Claude was excited, knowing that his mother was already waiting for him, worried. Robby was happy to do this behind Victor’s back. Claude asked Robby to come over sometime. “But without that Victor!” he said in his voice, which was too high for a boy his age.

Then Robby was left alone and sat down to draw. What should he draw? That was always the question. He never thought to draw anything he saw around him. What would he draw? He picked up drawings left behind by his two brothers who went to Israel, and began “correcting” them and giving them titles as his vandal imagination saw fit. The wonders of boredom!

If children in Alexandria were allowed at the horse races, Victor might have never taught Robby a chapter in sodomy, and his brothers’ drawings might have preserved their chaste beauty.

His sister walked in and showered him with loud kisses, which she called ventouses , cupping. She called him mon petit Didi , or worse, ma petite fille —my little girl. Robby was never happy to hear the latter, and in his naivety sometimes even tried protesting, but whenever he did so, he was told the same story:

It was the end of December, and everyone prophesied that the baby wouldn’t be born before the new year. The ninth month had gone by, and still we were waiting for a miracle.

“Why should he hurry to come out into a world of suffering?” asked Madame Marika philosophically, and shoved a piece of Turkish delight into her mouth — heaven for the tongue and hell for the teeth. Her plump face, shifting as she chewed the candy, did not seem to be in a world of suffering. But that year there was a war going on in Egypt and all over the world. The worst was behind us. After El Alamein, it was clear the war would be over in just a few months, possibly even weeks. Maybe the baby would be born into peaceful times? A new year, a year of peace … A baby, born in January, making his first steps through the world, hand in hand with the new year … Then, in the end of December, as Alexandria became a forest of Christmas trees and artificial snow fell in store windows (the only snow to be found in Egypt was that ever-prevalent cotton); as British and Australian soldiers walked the streets, drunk, singing Christmas songs and missing their faraway homes; as the sea hummed and swelled, and drops of its seething foam reached all the way to the balconies on Rue Delta — at that very moment, the contractions began. It had been eleven years since Robby’s mother gave birth to Robby’s sister, and she wasn’t sure these were indeed contractions. Doctor Lachover was called. He whispered with her in the bedroom, and finally determined in his throaty, nasal voice, plagued by moments of falsetto (his French was tinted with an eastern European accent), “Yes, this is it. Would the lady please join me, I shall drive her to the maternity ward in my car.”