In Their Father's Country Read online

  ‘Claire, it was Papa’s wish that Uncle Yussef should step into his shoes. After all, he did give a year of his life to get Uncle Yussef out of his legal troubles.’

  ‘Papa’s wish?’ Claire blurted out, reddening, which was a sign she was getting upset. ‘Papa’s wish? You’re sure? You’re not just saying so to appease me?’

  ‘Claire, believe me. He left very specific instructions.’

  Claire’s heart sank. For the first time in her life she was flooded with negative thoughts about her father. It seemed so obvious to her that Uncle Yussef was the last man to whom her father should have entrusted them. He had not raised them to end up under the thumb of an autocrat, which she knew her uncle to be. In silence, she promised herself that she would chart her own course in life, no matter the Uncle Yussefs of the world.

  ‘How do you think Gabrielle will react to the idea of a move?’ her mother asked Claire, giving her a look that begged for reassurance.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll mind that much,’ Claire said curtly. ‘I suspect that she’ll find the proximity to Uncle Yussef agreeable.’ The one good thing about the move, Claire decided, was that her Uncle Yussef might act as a buffer between her mother and Gabrielle, relieving her of that responsibility.

  ‘I can tell that you’re angry, Claire. Please, don’t be. I need your support.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed, Mother,’ Claire said. ‘Let me put you to bed. Did I tell you that when you got up tonight and went to the kitchen, I mistook you for a burglar or a mouse?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m more afraid of mice than of burglars,’ her mother said, then asked, ‘You’re sure that Gabrielle will not get upset when she hears about the move?’

  ‘I’m positive,’ Claire asserted more confidently than she actually felt. ‘But you should probably have Uncle Yussef broach the subject with her.’

  Seeming relieved, her mother agreed, ‘Yes, it’s probably a good idea to have Uncle Yussef speak to her.’

  By the time she reached her bedroom, Claire had made up her mind to sit for the bac.

  As though in need of examining the person she was becoming, the first thing Claire did on entering her room was to open her wardrobe and look at herself in the mirror. She knew that her schoolmates considered her the most beautiful girl in her class. She disagreed. She found her type of beauty a touch insipid. Her classmate Sophie epitomized her ideal of feminine beauty with her dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes, dimpled round cheeks, lively eyes, full lips, an upturned nose, straight jet-black hair and willowy build. Claire’s own eyebrows were finely arched, her green-speckled, honey-colored eyes dreamy, her chestnut hair wavy, her face perfectly oval and her nose – the feature she liked best about her face – small and straight. Her shoulders she did not like at all; she found them insufficiently defined. Yet clothes hung well on her. She was a good height – tall but not too tall – and slim. While examining herself in the mirror, she wondered whether her father, whose predilection for petite women was well known, considered her pretty. Her anger at him lingered. That he had given Uncle Yussef such an important role to play in their lives was still incomprehensible.

  In bed, it took a while for Claire to find sleep. She speculated on how her uncle would react to her decision to sit for the bac. She feared he would object. He was not the kind of man who set a high value on studies for girls, nor boys for that matter. Business and money seemed to be his only interests. Osta Osman was on her mind too. What would happen to him, if they were going to have to live on a tight budget? They could probably still afford Om Batta and young Ali, but Osta Osman? Her Uncle Yussef might want to retain his services – he and his wife entertained a lot. Osta Osman was no fan of her Uncle Yussef, a bossy employer. When her grandmother, no longer in need of his services, had asked Osta Osman whether he would work for either Selim or Yussef, he apparently had answered, ‘Selim Bey anytime, but Yussef Bey, if you don’t mind my saying so, never.’ Claire caught herself relishing the prospect of her uncle making an offer to Osta Osman only to be told by the proud cook, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ But would Osta Osman actually say no to her uncle, whose offer would undoubtedly be lucrative? Probably not, she concluded and yet, until she finally fell asleep, she fantasized about Osta Osman rebuffing her uncle.

  Her face glowing with pride, papers in hand, Gabrielle was standing by the apartment’s entrance door. She was waiting for Claire, held up at school with a drawing project.

  It was December first, Saad Zaghlul had resigned and Ahmad Ziwar, generally perceived to be the king’s man, was called upon to form the new government. How Ziwar Pasha would govern with Zaghlul’s Wafd still being the leading party in the Chamber of Deputies was unclear. Would he ask the king to dissolve the Chamber and hold new elections? The king would be eager to oblige since he was counting on a newly formed royalist party to win seats.

  Gabrielle’s interest in politics blossomed immediately after her father’s death. She began reading the papers assiduously. That habit of hers, to a large extent born out of a desire to identify with her father, soon became pleasurable in its own right.

  The reason she was so pleased that afternoon had little to do with current political events and the fact that her father had predicted Zaghlul’s resignation. It had to do with a eulogy about her father and an obituary.

  The eulogy, pronounced before the mixed courts, was by a prominent Cairene lawyer, and the rather long obituary, published in La Bourse Egyptienne, by a prominent journalist.

  As soon as Claire stepped into the apartment, Gabrielle – eyes shining – said loudly, while brandishing the papers in her hand, ‘Claire, you must read this. It’s about Papa.’

  ‘Give me a minute. I’m very thirsty,’ Claire said, though she quickly glanced at the two texts.

  Gabrielle followed her sister into the kitchen, where, after Claire had poured herself some lemonade, the two girls sat on a wooden bench.

  Claire looked at the eulogy first. It referred to her father’s sober eloquence, his photographic memory, his passion for the law, his ability to get to the core of complex issues as well as to reveal the complexities behind seemingly straightforward questions, his professional probity and his willingness to advance costs out of his own pocket.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Gabrielle asked, eager to hear her sister’s reaction. ‘If only Papa could read this!’

  Claire nodded. ‘Yes, it’s nicely written,’ she said and handed the paper back to Gabrielle.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ Gabrielle asked, surprised and reproachful.

  ‘Well, it’s a eulogy and so meant to be full of praise. No?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that it’s overstated?’

  ‘I would like it better if it had a more personal touch. That’s all.’

  Gabrielle scowled. ‘Sometimes, I don’t understand your reactions,’ she told Claire. ‘There’s no denying that Papa had admirable qualities.’

  ‘I am not denying it at all. Now let me look at the obituary,’ Claire said in a conciliatory tone.

  Looking displeased, Gabrielle gave her the obituary.

  It dwelt on Selim’s ongoing health problems, his numerous operations (seven), his stoicism, his equanimity in the face of pain, and the restraint with which he would allude to his health problems the rare times he did. It depicted him as generous to a fault, as a man who had used his powerful intellect to defend not only important causes but also individuals in need.

  The last paragraph in the obituary caught Claire’s attention. Mention was made of the pleasure Selim Sahli would get from spending time at home with his beloved children and his books after his long, arduous workdays. Yet no mention was made of his wife, their mother. None.

  ‘What’s the matter? You seem surprised,’ Gabrielle said.

  Another rapid glance at the obituary confirmed to Claire that their mother had been left out of it.

  ‘So, what’s the matter?’ Gabrielle asked again.

  ‘Nothing, nothing!’ Claire repl
ied, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. Should she or should she not point out the omission to her sister? Surely, Gabrielle must have noticed. How could she have failed to? She must think it was of no consequence or perhaps did not want to talk about it. ‘I was thinking of Papa,’ Claire said.

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘That’s all. Did Mother read the obituary?’

  ‘Well of course! Both the obituary and the eulogy.’

  ‘What did she have to say?’

  ‘She got misty-eyed. She almost cried.’

  ‘But she said nothing?’

  ‘She said, “He actually was pretty much the way they describe him.”’

  While Gabrielle was re-reading the eulogy, Claire was trying to put her mind at rest. The absence of any reference to her mother in the obituary might be an error, nothing else. But that did not seem an altogether satisfactory explanation. She could not help but ask herself whether there had been more to her mother’s refusal to receive condolence visits than the reasons she had given. On that score, Letitia had not budged, and condolence visits had been received at Uncle Yussef’s.

  It was almost five o’clock, when Osta Osman walked into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

  The first thing he told the two girls was that he had heard about the eulogy and the obituary. Earlier in the day, their Uncle Zaki had dropped by to see their mother and had translated the two pieces for him, almost word for word. ‘I miss Selim Bey so much,’ he said to Gabrielle and Claire. ‘Not a day goes by without my thinking of him.’

  The doorbell rang. Gabrielle raced out of the kitchen. Claire stayed behind.

  ‘How about some mehalabeyah tonight?’ Osta Osman suggested. ‘With orange water and cinnamon just the way Selim Bey used to like it.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Claire said.

  ‘Don’t let sad thoughts weigh on you, you’re too young for that. Sad thoughts are for old people like myself. Selim Bey wouldn’t want you to be sad.’

  Claire smiled and looked at Osta Osman, whose presence was enormously comforting to her. If only she could bury her head deep in his wide chest and forget about the obituary and all her crazy notions.

  She could hear Uncle Yussef’s booming voice. Combined with Gabrielle’s, the two voices jarred on her. Yussef had come to break the news of their impending move to Gabrielle. Her mother had told Claire, first thing in the morning, that he would be coming for that purpose. ‘Osta Osman, do you know about the move?’ she asked hesitantly.

  Osta Osman nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said while watching the milk come to the boil. ‘I heard about it.’

  ‘I wish we could stay here,’ she said.

  ‘The apartments in Uncle Yussef’s building are very nice,’ Osta Osman said and poured the milk into a glass bowl.

  Claire could hear Uncle Yussef and Gabrielle talking right outside the kitchen but she did not move.

  Osta Osman now stood with his back to the kitchen door. He began peeling potatoes.

  ‘So that’s where you are.’ With Gabrielle behind him, Uncle Yussef walked into the kitchen, saying at the top of his voice, ‘Why in the kitchen, pretty girl?’

  Claire got up to give her uncle a hug, then waited for him to acknowledge Osta Osman. When he finally did, it was with a gruff, ‘How are things, Osta Osman?’ Then, with his usual imperiousness, he told her, ‘Come, I need to talk to you and Gabrielle,’ and affectionately patted her cheek.

  Without thinking, she said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Osta Osman was about to show me how to prepare the dressing for the potato salad. We’ll be quick.’

  Not hiding her astonishment, Gabrielle asked, with raised eyebrows, ‘Since when are you interested in cooking?’

  Uncle Yussef laughed weakly and said, ‘Let her learn. It might come in handy.’ To Claire he said sternly, ‘Don’t be long. By the way, you and Gabrielle ought to spend more time with your cousins. Bella now reads and, believe it or not, Iris does too, even though she’s not yet three. She’s quite a phenomenon, this little girl.’

  As her uncle was leaving the kitchen, two thoughts crossed Claire’s mind: that life without her father was now beginning in earnest, and that she and her uncle no longer quite belonged to the same world.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she heard Osta Osman tell her. ‘Everything will work out. Things always have a way of sorting themselves out.’

  ‘I must go,’ she told him apologetically, without asking him how he thought things might work out for him.

  1941: Guy

  Dear Iris,

  Maybe you already know. News from Egypt has a way of traveling fast to Lebanon. Guy died. He died, a week ago, in a motorcycling accident. A senseless accident, on the way from Ismailiya to Port Said, on a Sunday afternoon. He ran into a truck trying to avoid a lone donkey that was right in the middle of the road.

  I have been telling myself over and over again that it might not have happened had we still been seeing each other, had I not forced myself to put an end to a situation that seemed to me untenable, in view of his circumstances and mine. Is it possible, Iris, that, if it were not for this step I took so reluctantly, he would have been spending that Sunday afternoon with me, here in Cairo, as he sometimes did, when the coast was clear? That thought torments me. Did you know that he was about to enlist in the Free French Forces?

  To think that in my last letter to him, in which I was trying to explain why it was best for us to stop seeing each other, I scribbled ‘Nevermore’ at the end. Now I feel that I put a curse on him and invited the accident. How ridiculous of me to have adopted that dramatic tone and used such an expression in that context, when I abhor grandiloquence. Compared to a life, a relationship – any relationship – weighs so little. Life is what matters.

  He was extremely fond of you. He was fond of Bella too, but he told me, more than once, that, with you, he had special intellectual affinities. He used to joke that, apart from Gabrielle and me, he did not know two sisters more different in temperament than you and Bella.

  In that wretched letter I wrote him, I said that I felt as though I was about to be crushed by some heavy object because I knew I would eventually resign myself to the inevitable and go back to my previous life. It suddenly seemed simpler to renounce youth, freedom, the possibility of adventure, the luxury of being in a position to make choices ... to renounce life in short. And why? Out of cowardice. Because the courage to fight and assert myself was ebbing away. Because my previous life, which seemed a kind of death, was still the easiest solution. Because I was caught in an inextricable mesh of obligations and responsibilities and was riddled with stupid scruples. Because I no longer had faith in myself. Because the part of me seeking to break free from conventionality was evaporating. Pride, self-respect, authenticity were giving way to the numbing mindset that appearances must be kept up even though I was under no illusion whatsoever that people would be fooled! I also said that it was a terrible thing to accept defeat with lucidity, that I did not even have the excuse of blindness. It was not an honest letter – not entirely honest. It reflected only in small measure my state of mind. The essential, it left out. The truth was that I had begun to fear that Guy would end up tiring of our relationship and yet assume, out of a misplaced sense of responsibility, a role he did not wish to assume. You can well imagine that this was the last thing I wanted. It was, however, a likely scenario. My decision to leave Alexandre was strictly mine, but given Guy’s nature, he was bound to feel some responsibility. I, on the other hand, wanted him to make the most out of his life and not to be carrying unnecessary baggage. After all, I was thirty and he was twenty-seven. He had his own life to think of – both during and after the war. I had already had my chance at life and messed it up by marrying at eighteen a man I fell for at sixteen, against everybody’s better judgement – well, except for my poor mother’s. You know that I harbor no ill feelings towards Alexandre. I wish him well, and yes, I probably continue to feel some affection for him, but a gulf separates us. And it is not just a ma
tter of the twenty-two years age gap between us. But let me not go on about that now ...

  Your father once described me to Uncle Zaki as an unemotional sort – I don’t remember in what connection. My behavior around the time of my parting with Guy could have been interpreted in that light. I think that you yourself were a bit surprised by my apparent calm. Yet it is not as though I did not feel torn, as though I did not suffer. Sending Guy that farewell letter caused me much pain. After I stopped seeing him, the thought of Guy living his life to the fullest possible extent provided me with some comfort. Perhaps part of my attachment to him was akin to an older sister’s hopes and ambitions for a younger brother. Perhaps I had transferred on to him aspirations that had become unattainable for me.

  You may think that I am minimizing the role your father played in my break-up with Guy and reconciliation with Alexandre. I know how upset you were with him for intervening on Alexandre’s behalf; how you went out of your way to register your condemnation of the pressure he put on me to get back with Alexandre, he who had so fiercely opposed my marriage ten years earlier. Uncle Yussef never does things in half-measures. First and for years, he adamantly opposed the marriage, then he, as adamantly, opposed the separation. These days, not an hour goes by without him consulting Alexandre on all sorts of matters. Their working relationship is at a real high.

  Sure, Uncle Yussef played a role in my break-up with Guy, but I ultimately caved in. He could not have made me do it, unless I had been willing to be swayed.

  When Guy was stationed in Morocco last year, he wrote to me of his desire to join the air force. He desperately wanted to fly and had asked his supervisors for a transfer. I was frightened, fearing he would be more at risk flying than as an artillery sergeant. Still, I found myself hoping that he would get his wish. His enthusiasm made one want what he wanted.

  To think that it was only just over a year ago that he sent me that letter; only ten months ago, that the three of us were at the Casino des Pigeons.