Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

“ Ya ibni ,” Joseph whispered, holding his son tightly, almost desperately.

“You worried me, ya baba ,” David said and grabbed Esperance’s reins. On his way he took a sugar cube from the table and dropped it into the mare’s mouth. She looked at him with kind and modest eyes.

David shook his head and rode away.

“David, ya ibni ,” his father suddenly called.

“Yes, ya baba ,” David said, turning his profile toward his father.

Joseph searched his son’s face for something to lean on or hold on to, but the face was like smooth marble. There was no hint of understanding in his fair eyes. Joseph’s own eyes were suddenly beholding a vision. David was going to lose the race, and not only this race. His eyes, his posture, his somewhat feminine walk, his young beauty, his simplistic fluttering, all these were taken as signs. Tal’ooni, who knew the desert like the back of his hand, he would be king of the tracks. Tal’ooni would win. Because Allah would stand at his side. Allah would not support the son of a convert. Allah would give His support to the desert rider, the image of Muhammad, His prophet.

Could a mortal change what has been written since the beginning of time? All of our actions were written the moment that Allah created the world in his wisdom, and they are written, so many scrolls, in the library of the heavens, and each day one scroll is opened, and each moment a line is read. And one of those lines says that Ahmed Al-Tal’ooni will defeat David Hamdi-Ali.

Joseph knew he had to submit to fate’s decree. He could do nothing to alter that which was written in indelible ink. Now that he had gained this recognition, he was slightly relieved, but his hands were weak. He turned to leave the tracks.

Soon he heard his son call after him:

“Papa … where to? Papa?”

“Keep training, ya ibni , keep going on your own,” Joseph said. “I’m tired, this heat is giving me a headache.”

David ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and spoke with a soothing smile: “Don’t worry, ya baba , everything will be all right!”

Joseph shook his head as if to say, you are kind for encouraging your father, but I do not believe it. He walked on.

David remained alone on the tracks. He watched his father walking away, bent over, and pitied him for being so old and tired. The sight of his father wilting in the afternoon sun paradoxically encouraged him, and he experienced a wave of energy. The father bequeaths to his son his fame and fortune, his entire being and then climbs up a dry mountain, his head disappearing among the white clouds of old age and decrepitude. He once read about such a custom among primitive tribes. At the time, he thought it was cruel and barbaric. Now watching his father’s decline, it seemed almost natural. With gallant speed he hopped on his mare, hugged her neck and sank his head into her mane. The pungent smell of the beast sent stunning, intoxicating waves through him. He kicked his heels into her stomach and urged her to gallop onto the tracks, to the protests of the Arab groom who stayed behind, saddle and reins in hand.

How much confidence and strength he drew from riding bareback, this sensual clinging to the mare’s hot, sweaty neck, as if something of her strong, flexible muscles seeped into his own body. She galloped fast and wild, but all the while careful not to throw off her master who clung to her with addiction, yet also with a measure of fear. Any moment he could slip and fall. The groom called after him that it was irresponsible madness, taking such a risk two days before the race. He threatened the sidi that he would tell his father, but David didn’t care. He was happy, breathlessly happy, and did not know why. He was free, the wind mussing his blond hair, chasing him and Esperance, unable to catch them.

If only Robby’s sister could see him now.

Robby could not understand, after the fact, how he and Victor could have been so lax as to let his mother catch them in the act.

He was sure his mother would take extraordinary measures and give him an honest beating, and worse yet, run to tell all the tenants what she’d seen. The shame! He stood before her, eyes downcast, his heart filled with that retrospective question — what was this even good for? The pleasure was not worth this humiliation, standing there against his mother’s reproachful eyes. Victor stood there too, his underwear hanging loose over his body, and tauntingly watched Robby’s mother, as if saying, It’s clear you’re even more embarrassed than we are, and you don’t know what to do. You must wish you’d pretended not to see a thing.

“Do you know, Robby, that you can catch diseases like that?” she finally said, ignoring Victor completely. Robby’s stomach turned inside him. She knew, perhaps in wisdom rather than cunning, how to cater to his weakness and his hypochondria. Was this merely a trick meant to scare him off, or did she truly believe that these naive acts of sodomy could cause intestinal or venereal diseases or God knows what? We all knew that homosexual inter-course was against nature, correct? It was unacceptable in a decent society, n’est-ce-pas ? Perhaps the Arabs, among themselves, who knows … She was truly shocked. She must have wondered where they learned such things. It must have been Victor, that miscreant, who taught my little Robbico … She sighed and continued, “Terrible diseases!” She did not elaborate, and Robby preferred not to ask. At best, this was some sort of gut-twisting dysentery. The mere thought scared him so much that he felt lava churning in his stomach, and cold sweat covered his forehead.

“If you promise never to do it again, I’ll promise not to tell your father,” she said, ignoring Victor once more.

Robby quickly promised and swore silently to keep his word. In his imagination, he pictured himself standing before his father’s steel gaze, a combination of contempt and disappointment. The image was too much for him to bear. He was grateful to his mother for saving him from this, for it was easier for her to handle it discreetly. Robby was a responsible child, and he decided to be worthy of this special treatment. He hated Victor Hamdi-Ali for dragging him into this mess in the first place, and left the room with his mother without giving him so much as another look. Victor stayed put, pulling up his loose underwear. His attitude was practical: if the lady told only his mother, he’d be scot-free. If she should choose to tell his father, or worse yet, his brother … but he quickly waved off these possibilities. He knew women were more comfortable settling such delicate matters among themselves. Of course, Emilie Hamdi-Ali could also decide to share this matter with her husband or her eldest son … but Victor viewed this option as highly unlikely. His merciful mother would be so scared of their harsh reactions that she would prefer to handle this matter on her own. And he would work things out with her somehow. When he weighed the matter further he became certain that his mother would be too embarrassed to even acknowledge the problem at all; she would turn a blind eye and pretend to know nothing. Encouraged by this series of conclusions, he grabbed his fishing rod and went out to the hall. Robby was already wearing his pants again. Victor didn’t even invite him to the beach. He only smiled condescendingly. Robby gritted his teeth and said nothing.

When Joseph Hamdi-Ali returned from the tracks that day, he lay on his bed and refused to drink coffee. Exhaustion filled his body, as if some chilly serum had dripped and become absorbed into his marrow. He welcomed the illness, or at least accepted it with a fatalistic greeting. There’s something about being ill that liberates you from all trivial obligations. Suddenly it is the focal point, pushing away other hardships. The sick man becomes familiar with his body and intimate with his soul, knowing that on that final long journey he will not be joined by wife, children or doctors. What would he say when he’d come face-to-face with his maker? Years ago, he turned his back on the religion of his fathers, following his heart, his whims … Is it Allah sitting up there in the heavens, upon a high throne, floating in the Nile of paradise, or is it the God of the Jews? It’s not to be excluded that they’re one and the same God, just as Abraham was the father of both Isaac and Ishmael, one father for us all, one God, each man seeing Him through his own eyes, one with the eyes of a Jew, another with the eyes of a Christian, another yet with the eyes of a Muslim. Then one man would say to another, “You see? I was right, God is Jewish!” And the other would say, “No, I was right! God is Christian, can’t you see His halo?” “That’s a skullcap, you’re blind!” the Jew would call out, laughing. Then the Muslim would stand up and declare, “Neither a halo nor a skullcap. What you see is the headband that holds his kaffiyeh in place.” And the three would go on arguing through eternity. Joseph laughed bitterly— there is no certainty, even up there! Even up there we are deceived by our senses; even up there, those damned wars of faith carry on. Impatiently, he pushed away the bothersome thought and saw that same patriarch, that wondrous father of all peoples, smiling at him and saying pleasantly, Yusef, you are my son, and whether you call me Allah or Jehova, or even le bon Dieu , I am one in Heaven and on earth, and there is no other but Me. I’ve had many prophets. Just like this delta, which is one river splitting into many arms. Each arm says, Only I belong to my father, the river. But the birds in the sky know that the river has many children, and that these tributaries are but one. The truth has many faces, but it is only one truth …