Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

That night, he dreamed of Leila, his horse black as night. Leila danced through the air, her open wings casting shadows on the earth, and he looked up at her and laughed and laughed— Leila was returning to him. He was still laughing when she kicked him. Even when she thrust her hooves into his stomach, he kept laughing. When she landed on his ribs, he chuckled with a moan, and when she flew back into the sky, he remained on the ground, beaten and broken. Only then did he see him, the cavalier on her back, Ahmed Kader Rahim Al-Tal’ooni.

“I will,” read the telegram from Cairo.

Joseph smiled. He cloaked himself in silence and smiled. This was just another piece in the conspiracy forming against him, just another thread in the web that some massive spider was persistently spinning around him. Patience, he told himself with acceptance. Patience. All will be well. Like a generous host, he stood at the tent’s doorway and welcomed Lilly Elhadeff with a smile.

David was embarrassed. A week and a half had passed since he sent his letter, and he’d almost forgotten the entire thing. Suddenly, not a letter in return, but a telegram! Waiting ten days to finally send a two-word telegram, no explanations included? He’d gone to the effort of writing stylized and well thought out pages. David Hamdi-Ali felt cheated. Not because she didn’t respond to his letter with a simple, heartfelt one; and not because, while he piled up thousands of words, she made do with only two, two that expressed more than all of his poetics; but because at that time, he realized more clearly than ever that he did not, in fact, love Lilly Elhadeff, that her skeletal body and wooly hair left him entirely indifferent. Especially after that exciting experience in the erotic chamber of Shakra Roomy, that wizard of physical and sensual pleasures. The fact is, he did not miss her at all, though he hadn’t seen her since summer started. He might not have written to her had Robby’s sister not pushed him toward her with her trickery. And the most vexing thing, and perhaps the scariest, was that his heart told him that ultimately, whether he willed it or not, he would wed Lilly Elhadeff. He remembered what she said once as they strolled on the boardwalk along the Nile in Cairo. They were almost alone, the moon was full and blue, just like in a Perrault fairy tale. A gentle wind blew among the palm trees, rustling their fronds. For a while, David sank into a pleasant nostalgia, recalling faraway legendary European medieval worlds. Castles surrounded by jagged walls, fat kings foolish and kind-hearted, queens — mostly evil, envious stepmothers — beautiful princesses donning conical hats with waving tulle, and of course Le Prince Charmant , who always appeared at the right moment to save his beauty from fairies or witches or dragons … The rippling of the river and the light wind delicately caressing his face carried him to other worlds, far from the tumult of Cairo, which troubled the senses. Her delicate, cool hand was in his, calming and pleasant. He didn’t look at her. In his reveries, he gave her the role of Cinderella, waiting for a miracle …

“You see that branch?” said Lilly. Her slightly hoarse voice, often pleasant to the ear as it whispered warmly into it, now gave him chills, like chalk scratching on a blackboard. All the legends and fairies and castles evaporated into thin air.

“I see lots of branches,” he answered impatiently.

“No, I mean that branch,” she insisted and pointed. “You see that one?”

“Yes,” he said, just to get her to shut up. If she did, he might be able to recover some of the magic. But the clock chimed midnight, the carriage stopped in its tracks and became a pumpkin once more, and not even a slipper remained on the steps. He kicked a pebble.

“Look! The palm tree is writing something in the sky,” said Lilly.

“Writing?” What was she yammering about? She was always setting little traps for him, and as careful as he tried to be, he always got caught in her web. “What is it writing?” he asked with an ironic smile.

“It’s writing … hold on … ‘Da-vid … David and …’ what? ‘David and Lilly,’ yes, ‘David and Lilly …’ hold on, there’s more: ‘Ma … David and Lilly, married!’”

“That palm tree is practically a prophet,” David said, trying to sound sarcastic. “It knows things about me that even I don’t know.”

“It’s written, David. It’s written in the sky that you and I are meant to be. I didn’t make it up. It says so in le petit Livre du bon Dieu . It also includes a date.”

“Oh, yeah? And when is this blessed day?”

“We don’t know. But He knows. Nothing we do will make any difference — you and I will be married and have children.” She fixed her eyes on him, small like coffee beans. She certainly annoyed him even then, but now he was even more annoyed with himself, realizing that he, with his own hands, brought about what she called “inevitable.”

Ten days of silence, and then, as if the wavering palm branch was the one writing the letter over the paper in the sky: I W I L L.

Emilie was delighted — a wedding was always a happy ending. Somebody up there heard her yearning for a grandchild. Lilly Elhadeff was a good girl, and todo es por lo bueno . She sighed. Why did she sigh? Who knows?

Victor hated Lilly Elhadeff the moment he first laid eyes on her. She tried to befriend him, even buying him gifts from time to time, but he only showed her his claws. She couldn’t understand his animosity. Perhaps it was because she was skinny like him, and barely taller? Perhaps because she seemed like easy prey, with her frizzy hair and her small eyes? Or maybe he hated her because he thought his brother loved her? Once, she tried to caress his face, and he bit her hand. She almost passed out from the pain. David, who would normally respond to lighter offenses with a tirade of blows, burst out laughing, which added to her chagrin and humiliation.

Nevertheless, there was something seductive about Lilly. She had the same elusive magic sometimes found in puppies, or even in sick babies. Not a real, clear charm, bright and captivating, but momentary sparks of grace, and sometimes refined expressions of yet-unripe femininity, a sort of constant promise that a day will come when even Lilly Elhadeff will blossom into a woman.

The telegram threw David off-kilter only briefly. In the commotion of the eve of a race everything dims, even such life-altering news, especially a piece of news so bothersome that it is desirable to shove it aside. David quickly returned to his training schedule, free of unnecessary thoughts. His body was bent and coiled, the mane of his mare caressing his face, her hooves spraying gravel all over the tracks, sparks disappearing into the dust.

Joseph stood at the starting point, his pocket watch in hand. He wore only a striped shirt and a jacket. The heat was heavy and the sweat collected under his fez until it could no longer hold back, then it dripped down his face, pooling in the cracks of wrinkles. The handkerchief in his hand was soaked and smelled of something spicy and manly, somewhat intoxicating. That same sweet and familiar blurring of the senses overtook him, and within the thick ether swarming around him, he saw Leila striding in her noble loneliness, without bridle or reins, as a black fog, twisting among the vapors of dream.

“Well then, how long?”

“Well then, how long?” David repeated.

“How much time, Papa?”

David was standing next to him, breathing heavily and sweating, a thin film of dust powdering his face. “Papa!” David shook his father’s shoulder gently.