Yitzhak Goren - Alexandrian Summer

George walked in to announce the arrival of the litigants with their attorneys. The investigating judge finished the remains of his coffee, put the shisha aside, grabbed his prayer beads and sat down ceremoniously behind his heavy black desk.

The litigants and their representatives walked in and seated themselves on the benches across from one another. The fly landed on Al-Tal’ooni’s nose. He smashed it with a single blow. The investigating judge was put off by such cruelty and impatience, but deep inside he was impressed. That fly had been pestering him since morning and he’d done nothing about it, and now this young man comes in from the desert like a bolt of lightning.

It wasn’t easy to persuade the stubborn Bedouin to change the indictment. He insisted on “attempted murder” and claimed he’d barely escaped the old man’s claws. Al-Tal’ooni’s attorney agreed with the investigating judge that the accusation was exaggerated, and added that it hurt their chances of conviction.

Joseph sat low on the bench, separate and solitary. He’d heard the words spoken around him only dimly: What difference did it make, he thought, if it was assault or attempted murder? He didn’t care about the legal implications. He was much more upset about the other accusation, the allegedly lesser one, that he’d tried to drug the horse. Any dignified man might lose his mind once and try to strangle his opponent. It’s natural, it’s human, there’s no disgrace in that. But drugging a horse — that is a pathetic act of fraud which tarnishes the name of the perpetrator. Whenever anyone mentioned the matter in passing, Joseph felt a pang in his heart.

Should we infer from this that Joseph was innocent? That he was not the one to inject the horse with an anesthetizing, paralyzing drug? A blood test performed on the horse found a considerable amount of some such substance. That’s why Al Buraq had not performed according to his natural abilities, and since he lost only by a head, people were sure he would have won if not for this fact. But can we conclude from this that Joseph Hamdi-Ali was the one to do the deed? And if not him — who? Maybe his son David? But that would be almost the same. And if we begin guessing, we might even argue that Tal’ooni himself, or better yet, his trainer, that conniving Greek, fearing they might lose the race, and in order to sabotage their opponent, were the ones doing the drugging. True, this conjecture was overreaching, but no more absurd than some of the others voiced.

At any rate, Joseph denied the allegations fervently. He calmly described his years of working at the track and his irreproachable past. When asked whether he in fact tried to murder Al-Tal’ooni, he said, “I’m sorry they pulled us apart!”

His attorney complained to Joseph’s wife and son that Monsieur Hamdi-Ali wasn’t cooperating and wasn’t helping himself. “ Il est excessivement honnête! ” he said, shaking his head. He’s being too honest!

“No es a la moda hoy de ser tanto honesto.” Meaning, it isn’t fashionable to be too honest these days. That was grandmother’s opinion on the matter, expressed to her card-playing friends. Renée Marika agreed wholeheartedly, “Only fools are too honest. Take my Vita for example …” She began ranting about her husband Vita’s legendary integrity, her voice full of both admiration and ridicule, the way we discuss prophets or heroes. Then Aunt Tovula called out, “So is my Moïse,” and began describing the lofty character of her late husband, her words saturated with yearning and pain. But she didn’t get a chance to finish either. Robby’s grandmother chimed in, praising the vaunted sincerity of her husband, may he rest in peace, until she finally returned to her thesis on how it is unfashionable to be too honest these days.

Panayotti was shocked and agitated, pacing the room. “How could I, Joseph, mon ami, ya habibi , how? Have you thought about what you’re asking me?”

“I didn’t have much faith in you anyway,” Joseph said drily and got up to leave. He paused for a moment to look at the large photo on Panayotti’s office wall — Al-Tal’ooni atop Al Buraq, the horse rearing high on his haunches.

“No, Joseph, hold on. That’s no way to behave. You come to see your friend Panayotti Helikos, because I’m sure you see me as your friend in spite of everything, so you’ve come to ask me for a favor, and what do I do? I say no! Why? You must think I’m saying no because I am working for your rival, right?”

“Isn’t that the case?”

“Look, ya habibi . Business is business, that’s true, all well and good, but a friend is not a thing you find just every day!” Helikos grabbed Hamdi-Ali’s shoulders.

“You’re telling me?” Joseph said and turned to leave. The sun was about to set on the horizon, and he blinked his tired eyes and asked himself what he was doing there. Panayotti caught up with him by the stables and grabbed his arm, pulling him inside.

“You don’t understand me. You’re my brother, Joseph. The fact that I work for that bloody Bedouin has nothing to do with it.”

“Very nice.” Joseph shook his head and tried once more, in spite of his growing exhaustion. “In that case, why won’t you testify on my behalf in court?”

“I will, all right? I’ll testify and say that, to the best of my knowledge, you’re an honest man, and that I myself find it hard to believe that —”

“Hard to believe!”

“You want me to present him as a liar? Don’t forget, old boy, he’s my boss. Kirio Hamdi-Ali, you sure are putting me in an uncomfortable position. He’ll destroy me, that Arab. I have a wife, Joseph, and children!”

“I’m not asking you to say Ahmed lied,” Joseph said with a gloomy face. Shadows stretched along the empty track, climbing the white fences, falling down somewhere at the bottom of the stable wall. “I only asked that you tell them what happened at the club, when you and Toto and Sisso —”

“What?” Panayotti jumped up. This was too much. “You want me to tell the court that I was prepared to bribe you to help your son’s horse lose the race?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“But … but it’s illegal! Do you really expect me to tell a thing like that to the entire world, and in a court of law, no less?” Panayotti burst out laughing, picked up a handful of straw and deposited it in Al Buraq’s mouth. It was strange to see this horse, the animal at the root of all this commotion, eating so peacefully, oblivious to the goings-on of humans.

“You’re taking your revenge on me,” Joseph answered darkly. “You’re getting back at me for not giving into you then. My integrity unnerved you. Now you won’t testify on my behalf in court because you resent my integrity, my decency. You’re all jealous of me, all of you.” A smile began lighting Joseph’s face, making him appear like a martyr confident that justice and God are on his side, taking pleasure in being burned at the stake.

Panayotti’s face changed. “What integrity are you talking about?” he asked coolly.

“I’m an honest man, and that’s what’s upsetting you. That’s why you won’t testify that I’m innocent.”

“How can I testify that you’re innocent, how can I testify that you’re not innocent? I don’t know if you are innocent, and I don’t know if you aren’t. That’s all there is to it!”

“You know I’d never do a thing like that!”

“How could I know that?”

“Because even when you made your ugly proposal, offering me sums of money that would corrupt the pope, I refused to cheat the spectators. Is that not proof enough?”