As they filtered back into the living room, Signor Ugo called out to my grandmother in Italian. “Sit next to me, you old witch,” he said, “I want to feel young again.” Everyone started to laugh, including my grandmother, who had been very quiet that evening, because earlier on, while waiting downstairs for Abdou to help her into the elevator, she had run into Madame Sarpi, who had accidentally knocked her onto the marble floor, and then, to make matters worse, fallen on top of her. “Ugo, be quiet, my legs are killing me.”
“Amputate, darling, amputate!” Which inspired him to tell a bawdy joke about a very well-endowed idiot who, in order to sneak his way into a harem disguised as a eunuch, had said, “Amputate, amigo, amputate.”
His wife implored him not to tell the joke, but tell it he did, and with gusto, especially when the moment came for the punchline. “Ugo, you’re disgusting,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I burn for you, darling,” he replied, “Ardo, ardo,” he added, preparing to bite her.
“Ugo, wherever you go you bring joy,” said my grandmother. “Now tell us what to do. We’re so worried about the boy. His Arabic teachers hit him all the time, and now he won’t study for school at all.”
I pretended not to listen and continued speaking with Aunt Flora.
My mother was quiet. Abdel Hamid, Madame Salama’s lover, immediately jumped in, insisting that discipline was all that a child should know. “Everyone exaggerates the feelings of children—but parents, too, have feelings,” he added. “Besides, teachers don’t hit without a reason, you know.”
“He never studies,” chimed in Madame Marie.
“That’s not the point, one must understand why,” interjected Monsieur al-Malek, who till then had remained silent to survey the situation before risking a comment. Monsieur Pharès, the painter, brought a bent index finger right next to his nose and, with repeated curved motions, meant to suggest a parrot’s beak, made fun of my hooked nose. “No, that’s not the reason, either,” added Monsieur al-Malek, passing a platter of cakes to Abdel Hamid. Abdel Hamid, who was diabetic, kept staring at the cakes, and then passed them on to Madame Nicole. “The problem is that we never try to get inside a child’s head,” insisted Monsieur al-Malek. “One needs patience. And plenty of psychology.”
“Patience and psychology are very nice words, but it’s gone too far, to say nothing of what they’ll think”—my father meant government informers—“when they see that in this house we totally disparage everything to do with Arabic culture. They already know everything that goes on in this house,” he went on, “so can’t we try to be a bit more inconspicuous and be like everyone else for a change?”
“They are the last people you should worry about,” said Aunt Flora, turning to my father. “It’s him you should think of. They shouldn’t hit him.”
My mother nodded. She said she found the practice barbaric.
“In your place, Henri,” said Monsieur Pharès, “I wouldn’t let anyone hit my son.”
My father said that if what they did to me was called hitting, then what should we call the treatment he had received from the Jesuits when he was a boy.
“What do they hit you with?” asked Abdel Hamid.
“A ruler,” I said.
“A ruler! Fancy that, a ruler!” chuckled Abdel Hamid. “In my time they used a bamboo cane and a whip. Remember the bamboo cane?” he said, turning to my father with almost nostalgic recollection. “We also had Monsieur de Pontchartrain’s walking stick, and Père Antoun’s khartoum—literally a garden hose. You never forgot that!”
Aunt Flora insisted that children stop learning the moment they are threatened with corporal punishment. My father said he was not sure, but that he liked to defer to the judgment of professional pedagogues. My grandmother said that an Arab pedagogue was a contradiction in terms. Madame Nicole suspected they jouissaient each time they spanked little boys.
Still, Madame Salama, Monsieur Pharès, and Madame Sarpi held on to the belief that I should stay at VC and make a special effort to apply myself. Monsieur al-Malek agreed, but advised that I be taken out of the Christian religion class and put in Islam class. What difference would it make which religion I studied, since I was neither a Christian nor a Moslem. In Islam class, at least, I would have the advantage of hearing five more hours of Arabic each week, and hearing the best-written Arabic might help a great deal.
“Could be a wonderful idea,” mused my father.
I was reluctant. I did not want to study the Koran, nor did I want to be the only European in a class of Moslems; certainly I didn’t want to have to take off my shoes during religion class, which is what devout Arabs did.
Meanwhile, my grandmother and Montefeltro were debating opposing views. Signor Ugo reminded my father that since we were Italians, it only made sense that I go to the Don Bosco Italian School of Alexandria. All Italians would eventually have to leave Egypt and settle in Italy—so why not learn the language of Italy? My grandmother thought differently. Perhaps we should hire an Italian tutor twice a week.
“A capital idea too,” said my father.
At this point Monsieur al-Malek plunged into the fray as though he held the definitive key to the riddle. “How long do you plan to stay in Egypt?” he asked my father.
“For as long as they’ll let me. What a question!” replied my father.
“Then the boy needs to know Arabic. It’s that simple!”
But my mother disagreed. “Sooner or later we’ll have to leave. And when we leave, all these years devoted to Arabic will have been wasted. Can’t you see? Let him fail Arabic—and let him fail it every year—but meanwhile let him learn things that matter instead of devoting so much time to these disgusting poems where all they teach him is to hate Jews.”
Signor Ugo looked grave. He had started to tell my father how he had seen Dr. Katz at the Muhafza—the municipal headquarters—only a few months earlier. Everyone had read about the famed doctor’s imprisonment on spying charges; his name was brought up at least once a day in class. “It’s worse than in ’58. They can arrest anyone now. They throw you in jail on the most trumped-up charges. They picked me up at my tailor, took me to the Muhafza, stripped me naked, and before I knew it, they had brought in this huge Doberman drooling right in front of my thing there and began questioning me. He can tell when you lie, they warned, tugging at the leash. I was terrified. Things are very bad,” he said, his face clouding the more he spoke.
“They tortured Katz,” said his wife. “Ugo was lucky.”
“Didn’t they know you were Jewish too, though?” asked my father.
“But—but don’t you know, then?” asked Signora da Montefeltro.
“Don’t know what?” asked my father.
“They don’t know!” she said, turning to her husband. “You’ve got to tell them, Ugo.”
“It’s nothing. It’s just that last month we got baptized. Supposedly a precautionary measure, which will end up making no difference in the end, but it was my friend Father Papanastasiou’s idea, and he insisted.”
“And what did you convert to?”
“Father Papanastasiou is Greek Orthodox, so we converted to Greek Orthodoxy. What am I going to do, choose between one form of Christianity and another?”
Our jaws must have dropped.
“Come, come, you Sephardi are no strangers to this, so don’t look so shocked.”
“It’s not that I’m shocked, it’s that your Greek is so awful,” said my grandmother. “You could at least have chosen a more plausible religion.”
“Please! I’ve had enough headaches about it already. If you want a word of advice, I’ll arrange for you to speak to Father Papanastasiou yourself. He’ll make Christians of everyone here—you, Monsieur Abdel Hamid, Henri, Abdou the cook.”
Madame Nicole couldn’t help laughing. My father, sitting next to her, leaned over and smiled something under his breath. She tried to suppress her laughter.
Mimi, who had been sitting almost too quietly ne
xt to her mother, wearing her mother’s tight clothes so as to look older and more flashy, suddenly got up, put a handkerchief to her face, and rushed out of the room, breaking into loud sobs in the kitchen. Her mother got up and rushed after her.
“What happened? What’s the matter with her?” asked my grandmother.
“Mimi è una civetta,” sang Signor Ugo—“Mimi is a flirt.”
“She’s crying. That’s what’s the matter,” retorted Madame Sarpi, who was a close friend of Madame Salama.
“But why?” asked Abdel Hamid.
“Because she’s crying,” answered Madame Salama, who had just overheard Abdel Hamid’s question and was returning to the living room. “Mimi’s gone home,” she said indicating the kitchen door. A moment of silence followed. “She calls me at the office, you know,” said my father. “I know,” answered the mother, “just be patient with her, it’s all I ask. It’ll pass.”
My mother turned to Madame Salama. “What’s the matter with Mimi?” she asked.
“The usual,” answered her neighbor.
“Still?”
Madame Salama nodded.
There was another ring and Abdou announced that Kassem and Hassan were at the door.
Kassem and Hassan were mechanics at my father’s factory. They were wearing what looked like gray Sunday suits, not their usual overalls. They were in obvious distress.
Kassem, the younger of the two, was holding a clear plastic box tied with a red ribbon. When he saw my mother step out of the living room, he walked up, greeted her, and gave her the box. “From the two of us.” Hassan, who had stayed back a few steps, was smiling at her. To their thinking, this was a very European gift, and my mother later said they must have spent a lot on it.
She was immediately delighted when she opened the box and produced a silver rose made of gleaming silk. She thanked them and, just to show them, pinned it to her dress right then and there. Abdou brought out two uncapped bottles of Coca-Cola for the visitors. They exchanged news about the barracks. Abdou’s son and Hassan’s brother were in the same regiment.
My father greeted the two mechanics heartily and invited them into the living room. Awkwardly, they entered the room with their bottles in their hands and, not knowing where to sit, proceeded directly to an empty sofa next to the balcony where they sat side by side. Kassem, encouraged by my father, handed Hassan his bottle and began to unroll a very large sheet of tracing paper on which was drawn the model of a strange engine. My father took it to the light, studied it attentively, and declared that this time he liked it.
“You’ll never guess what these gentlemen here have done,” he told everyone in the room. “They’ve taken the boiler of a sunken World War Two German freighter, reinforced it, and installed it at my factory.”
“Why, is your factory sailing away?” joked Signor Ugo, who knew that his joke was a thorny one, for it was common knowledge that the Egyptian government planned to nationalize more businesses and factories that year.
The two Egyptians spoke no French but understood that my father had just complimented them. He then offered them a drink. They were very reluctant and pointed to the Coca-Cola bottles, but yielded in the end. Kassem accepted a cigarette from Madame Salama and held it, Egyptian style, between his pinky and ring finger. They were discussing the famous Egyptian singer Om Kalthum, whom both idolized. Madama Salama offered Hassan a cigarette too, but he declined with the uncomfortable look of people who turn down a dish not because they do not want it, but because they are embarrassed to eat it in front of strangers. “I apologize but I can’t stay,” Kassem then said. No sooner had Kassem spoken than Hassan took his cue and stood up as well. “My wife is expecting me,” explained the older of the mechanics. “Wives!” joked Madame Salama in Arabic. “And yet, without wives where would you men be?” My father walked them to the foyer. “Mark my words, you will be rich one day.” “May God hear you!” replied Kassem.
Only then did I realize who Kassem was. Latifa’s son.
A short while later, Madame Nicole suddenly remembered she had to leave. “Already?” asked my grandmother. “Unfortunately, yes.” “And where to at this hour?” asked Madame Salama. “My seamstress.” “I see. Your seamstress,” echoed her upstairs neighbor. “My seamstress,” smiled Madame Nicole with something of a sigh in her voice, as though to imply that we all had our crosses to bear, and hers was passion. “Ach, Madame Nicole—” said my grandmother. “Bonsoir tous,” said Madame Nicole curtly, picking up her keys and cigarette case from the tea table. “She’s right, the poor woman,” added my grandmother once Madame Nicole had left the room. “Beautiful as she is, and with a husband like hers—”
My grandmother had once heard Madame Nicole trying to escape her husband’s blows, screaming, “Arrête, arrête, salaud,” while he yelled, “Bint al-sharmuta, you whore’s daughter,” both of them going at each other on the metal staircase like a pot banging at a frying pan. “But she hits him too, don’t you worry,” my grandmother went on.
My father walked Madame Nicole to the door. Then, as soon as she was gone, he said he would have to leave to meet a client.
“At this hour of the night?” asked my mother.
“I’ll be back in no time.”
“And leave me alone with all of these people whom I hardly understand? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“It can’t.” Another heavy silence.
“Look, I don’t have the time to argue, but if you want, come with me and see for yourself.”
Defeated, my mother said she would stay home.
“Where is he going?” asked Signor Ugo as soon as he saw my father put on his raincoat.
“I don’t know,” said my mother. I heard Madame Salama say something about patience and fortitude. My mother said she would rather throw herself from the window than go on living like this.
Whenever Mother threatened to throw herself from the window, I always made certain to watch each time she came near one. In bed at night, I would strain an ear and follow her movements around the house. Sometimes I would get out of bed, tiptoe across the corridor, and, from behind the curtain, spy on her as she read a novel on the sofa, or had coffee by herself on the veranda overlooking the smoky fields of Smouha, or sat next to a salesman—a jeweler, or one of the various antiques dealers who came to display their wares in the evening. Sometimes, coming out of bed at night, I would catch her dialing the telephone in secret, alone in the living room, holding the handset in one hand, cupping the mouthpiece with the other, not uttering a sound. I knew she was trying to find my father. But then, sometimes, I heard nothing at all—and I knew then that she had either thrown herself off the living room balcony or gone to visit Madame Salama next door through the service entrance. On this night all the windows in our apartment were neatly closed. Mother had scrupulously placed her leather bookmark in her novel and turned off all the lights except for those in the pantry, for her late-night return from Madame Salama’s. Her bedroom light was on, as always—to let government spies think everyone was at home.
Months later we took Signor Ugo up on his offer and, early one Friday morning, my father and I put on suits and went to pick him up at his pension on Rue Djabarti. He was late, so we got out and waited downstairs on the empty sidewalk. It was one of those translucently quiet early spring mornings in Alexandria when the shops were still closed and the city patiently, almost lazily, awaited morning prayers. A smell of ful, the national bean breakfast, permeated the air. Both of us were hungry. Signor Ugo would probably be outraged if he caught us eating such a poor man’s meal. “And it’s always so messy,” said my father as we decided to give up the thought. Through the pension’s open door came another smell: of coffee and loucoumades, fried dough steeped in honey. “We’ll have to eat something along the way,” said my father.
Signor Ugo was wearing a shimmering silk tie such as he alone seemed to possess; my father later said that only wealthy men of a certain age wore such ties. He also wore a Borsalin
o hat, a scrupulously pressed tweed jacket, and sparkling goldbuckled shoes. “Aha, so you’re here already,” he said by way of greeting us. “Paulette cannot come. This weather always gives her headaches. Typical Alexandrian: loves the sun, but loves it in the shade.”
“It’s off the Corniche, not far behind Mandara,” said Signor Ugo as he sat down in the front seat and pulled out a pack of Elmas. He tapped his cigarette very lightly on the back of the white pack where, as usual, something had already been scribbled in royal-blue ink.
The Corniche at eight o’clock on this cloudless Friday morning was empty of traffic, and we raced past familiar sights on our way to Mandara, a cool wind fanning through Signor Ugo’s rolled-down window. We passed Sidi Bishr, the largest beach before Mandara, where no signs of summer life had sprung up yet. The beaches were deserted, the billboards along the coast road bore last year’s posters, and none of the small summer shops and stalls that cropped up everywhere during the season were anywhere in sight along the shuttered, unpainted rows of cabins lining the beachfront. Restaurants had not removed last year’s hassiras—bamboo thatches that protected patrons and beachgoers when tables were put out on the sidewalk. Some of the hassiras had mildewed and fallen to the ground and lay flat in the middle of the streets; others hung from wooden rafters, with their ends sweeping the sidewalk, flapping against the wind like trapped kites at the end of summer.
As we neared Mandara, the unpaved road lay covered with caked and hardened sand. A recent hamsin had left sweeps of sand everywhere. Even al-Nunu’s Coca-Cola shack lay almost buried, the sand filling the grooves of the corrugated tin sheets that made up the four walls of his summer home. Another shack, not far from his, had caved in under the weight of the sand.