In Their Father's Country Page 4

  I was on my way to a lecture on Proust earlier today when the phone rang. I ran to pick it up and Nadia gave me the news. She felt awkward and did not know what tone to adopt, knowing, no doubt like everybody else in town, the ins and outs of my story with Guy. I said little, but my voice must have betrayed my anguish. After I hung up, I fled the apartment. Not knowing what to do with myself, I ended up going to the lecture. I was late and had to sit in the back, which suited me fine. I wanted to see no one – be seen by no one. All through the lecture, ‘what if’ scenarios in which Guy was still alive ran through my mind.

  When I returned home, I found a note from Alexandre telling me that he would be tied up for the evening and would not be home until much later. He was going out with your father. A business dinner at the Muhammad Ali Club with some Wafdists. Osta Osman, whom I had not seen in years, was waiting for me. He used to work for us – I mean for Mother and Father. You were too young at the time to remember him. He now lives in Nubia and has come to Cairo for the birth of a great-grandchild. I like him a lot but my mind was not on making conversation, so I took him across the street to visit Mother and Gabrielle, wondering whether I should tell them about Guy. The atmosphere there was execrable. Gabrielle is beside herself since Nicolas has been sent to the detention camp for Italians out in the desert. They were on the verge of announcing their engagement. She is also terribly angry with Alexandre for not doing enough, in her eyes, to try to get his brother out of the camp. She is basically angry that it’s business as usual for Alexandre but not for Nicolas. She does not believe that Alexandre was spared only because of his years of government service. As usual, Mother ends up being the primary recipient of her anger.

  Given the atmosphere at Mother’s place, to tell them about Guy was out of the question. I escaped, leaving Osta Osman there. He immediately sensed that tensions were high and was already trying to defuse them before I reached the door.

  As I walked out of the building, Constance walked in, looking very drawn. She was on her way to see Gabrielle. Nicolas’s incarceration has been very hard on her. Since her sister’s death, she lives for her two brothers. It is difficult to tell which of the two – Alexandre or Nicolas – she is more attached to.

  She knew Guy died. I assume Alexandre must know too since they tell each other just about everything. She greeted me by saying that ‘she was sorry’. Alluding to last year’s events, she said that she wanted me to know that she never judged me. Her well-intentioned words filled me with sorrow. I loved him. I did.

  Instead of going back home, I walked around the midan twice, passing by the museum and, each time, I could hear Guy saying that we Egyptians spend far too little time in it, that our attraction to everything French blinds us to our own treasures. When I decided to sit for the Cambridge certificate of English, he gave me a book to read, Letters from Egypt by Lucie Duff Gordon, an Englishwoman who had tuberculosis and chose to live in Luxor because of its warm, dry climate. She died there surrounded by her Egyptian servants and local people; her family was back in England. She felt very connected to the country. Her letters, written in the 1860s, certainly give that impression. Guy was totally taken by her descriptions of Egypt. Also by the woman herself, her courage, her independence of spirit and her ability to observe and assimilate a culture alien to her. I felt envious after reading her correspondence. Envious and culpable. As a foreigner, this woman had managed to get to know an Egypt we hardly know, in large part because of our indifference to it. We are very remiss. But would we be embraced by the locals the way she was? I suspect not. Guy could not fully appreciate the distinction I am trying to draw. Although he spent much of his life in Egypt – as you know his father started working for the Canal Company when Guy was eight – he was French, a Frenchman in Egypt. Lucie Duff Gordon was an Englishwoman in Egypt. And what are we? Viewed with suspicion on all sides. Without anchor. We cannot say ‘we’re this’ or ‘we’re that’. We have a piece of paper declaring us Egyptians but that’s all. We lack legitimacy in quite a fundamental sense. Guy believed that I make far too much out of all this.

  You know what I liked best about being around him? The freedom to say anything that entered my mind. He combined two qualities rarely found in the same person: he knew how to listen and he could make virtually any subject interesting.

  After my second round of the midan, I crossed the Kasr al-Nil Bridge. Except for the city lights, it was pitch dark by then. Did you know that, in Morocco, Guy came to like the ‘ud? The instrument put him in a sweet melancholy mood, he told me in a letter in which he also extolled the virtues of his simple yet arduous army life in the mountains. He rode, swam in icy waters, and hiked. Flying remained his dream though.

  As that letter of his ran through my mind, I wept. For Guy and for what might have been, had I been other than who I am.

  Write to me about him, please do, anything and everything that goes through your mind! Tell me if you were yourself perhaps a tad bit in love with him; I won’t be jealous. Don’t embellish though. Just talk to me about the Guy we knew.

  I am supposed to meet Anastase tomorrow afternoon at the Shepheard’s Hotel but will likely cancel. He is still talking about joining the Greek army. You would like him if you got to know him better. There is a dance tomorrow evening – at Roger S. I won’t be going. I intend to spend the day swimming laps. Remember the weekend Guy taught us both to float on our backs?

  I hear Alexandre. I must appear calm. I shall not talk to him about Guy. It would not be fair. To either one of them.

  Your Claire

  My darling Claire,

  I have made up my mind: I’m coming home. I want to be with you. To hell with the mountains and the treatment. They don’t seem to be doing me much good anyway! I don’t give a damn about what my father might have to say about my premature return.

  Why Guy? Why so vibrant a man with so much purpose and joie de vivre and not one of those who drag their lives like millstones round their neck?

  I will talk to you about Guy, my sweet Claire, but in person. Right now, I would find it hard. I have been thinking of you as much as of him. Stay the way you are, Claire, never change. Please? My father is an imbecile. He is one of those who mistakes displays of feelings for actual feelings, and reserve for lack of them.

  Did I love Guy? Perhaps a bit, because I love you. Most of all, I had enormous respect for his intensity and intelligence.

  Claire, my Claire, I am young but feel ancient. Why not me instead of Guy?

  I cannot wait to see you.

  Most tenderly,

  Iris

  P.S. Go out, Guy would have wanted you to. Go swimming, riding, dancing. Spend time with Anastase, Roger, Lily, Myriam, Selim and the whole gang. Your friends need you.

  1946: Letitia

  That September morning, her knees sore and legs swollen, Om Batta, who used to work for Selim and Letitia Sahli and whose daughter Batta was now Claire’s maid, moved slowly in her two-room dwelling in Sayidah Zeinab, the district in which she had lived all her life. She was getting ready to catch the tram to go to Midan Ismailiya and visit Claire. Having heard, through Batta, that Madame Letitia was not well, she wanted to drop in on her. The previous night, she had dreamt that Selim Sahli was still alive and insisting that his wife travel with him abroad and that Madame Letitia ended up giving way. Om Batta took that dream to signal that Letitia Sahli’s days were numbered so she must not delay her visit. She was also keen to see Claire’s little girl, about to turn three, as well as get Claire’s impression about Batta’s state of mind, now that Batta’s husband was thinking of taking a second wife.

  ‘If I were you, I would not venture downtown today,’ Om Batta’s oldest son muttered. ‘There might be demonstrations. If there’s trouble in the streets, things could get nasty in the midan, as nasty as they did at the English barracks, in February. Mind my words.’

  Om Batta threw an angry look at her twenty-three-year-old son, Mahmud, a lanky workman in a shoe repair shop.
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  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ she asked, her tone clearly censorious. ‘I’m not worried about being caught in demonstrations. I don’t care what happens to me. It’s you I’m worried about. You have friends who will get you into trouble. I know some of them are Ikhwanis. They’re trying to rope you into their activities.’ Raising her voice, Om Batta continued, ‘Listen to me, Mahmud, I cannot afford to have you end up in jail. Your younger brother gives me enough headaches. Since he has been working in that no-good ahwa, he’s spending every piaster he earns, and more, on hashish. In case you don’t know, he owes money to all our neighbors. All of them! Are you blind? Can you not see that he is stoned much of the time? How he manages to carry trays and serve coffee is a mystery to me. It’s not just a casual habit, it’s an addiction that is getting out of control! Instead of roaming the streets, you should be taking care of him.’ Beating her breast, Om Batta wailed, ‘If only your father was alive, none of this would be happening. Your father was an honest man who kept to himself and wanted no troubles for his family.’

  ‘If you don’t want the neighbors to know all of our business, talk, don’t scream,’ said the young man with suppressed rage, then added defiantly, ‘I’m old enough to lead my life as I see fit. The friends you’re putting down are honorable men who are doing something for the country.’ He paused before asking his mother, caustically, ‘Tell me, during the last flu epidemic when you got sick, who arranged for doctors to make rounds in the neighborhood, and for free medicine to be distributed? Do you remember, or do you have a sudden memory lapse?’

  Om Batta retorted, ‘So, do we have to sing their praises night and day for the few good works they do and ignore all the rest?’

  ‘I cannot believe you’re so ungrateful.’ The young man sighed, then stated briskly, ‘As for Hassan, I’ll sort him out. You stay out of it.’

  ‘We’ll see ... we’ll see ...’ Om Batta said, doubtfully. ‘I gather the demonstrations are about the same old question – when will the British leave – but why not give the prime minister some time to sort out the problem with them? He is a strong man.’

  ‘We want them to leave now. Now! As for Sidqi, he’s certainly strong when it comes to cracking down on people like us. Will he be strong with the British? There’s no sign of that.’

  ‘What about the Sudan? I heard you discuss that with your friends last week. What do we care about the Sudan? Why should Egypt be so keen on the Sudan? What good would come out of a union with that country? Let the Sudanese look after their own affairs. We can barely look after ours.’

  ‘Mother, you obviously don’t understand these matters.’

  Smacking her thigh, Om Batta shouted with derision, ‘You, on the other hand, understand everything. Haven’t your Ikhwani friends taught you the most elementary of lessons: respect for your elderly mother should come before all else?’

  ‘Look, the Ikhwanis are not the only ones in the country insisting on immediate British withdrawal and on unity with the Sudan. The Wafdists and the left are asking for the same thing – everyone in the country is,’ he said clearly fired up. Then he said, more calmly, ‘I must go now. How about you? You’re still intending to go out?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? Demonstrations don’t frighten me. If I end up shot by your friends or the police, so be it. It will be God’s will.’

  ‘If that’s the case, let me meet mine and stop worrying about me. And if you’re caught in demonstrations, I will have warned you.’

  ‘If your friends are so admirable, perhaps they can fix your brother,’ Om Batta fired at her son as he rushed out of the door, saying hurriedly, ‘Pay my respects to Madame Letitia and to Madame Claire too.’

  To calm her frayed nerves, Om Batta made herself tea. She boiled it longer than usual; it was almost black by the time she poured it in a glass. ‘That should do,’ she thought as she sat on the one stool in the room; sitting on the floor had become too difficult for her. Although she would not admit it to him, Mahmud had managed to alarm her with his talk about possible demonstrations. She did not think that he had actually joined the Muslim Brotherhood though she suspected that he was on the verge of joining.

  While sipping her tea, in which she had put her usual four spoons of sugar, Om Batta brooded about the recent political events. It had been a rough few months for the country. Even the Sahli family had been affected by the political turmoil. In the summer, the Sidqi government had lashed out against leftist organizations, arresting several Alexandrian Greeks suspected of being communists, including friends of Iris and Bella’s husbands. Claire’s sister-in-law, Constance, had told Batta who had relayed the information to her mother.

  Just as she could see no end to the country’s political agitation, Om Batta could see no end to her personal problems: uncontrollable sons and an unhappy daughter.

  ‘I won’t be able to see you today,’ Claire said over the phone.

  ‘But it’s our last opportunity before I sail to Beirut,’ her lover protested.

  ‘Pierre, my mother is unwell. I was up much of the night. This morning, I sent Simone to Constance’s place, I did not feel up to looking after both Simone and my mother.’

  ‘I don’t mean to pressure you, but could we meet for just half an hour? For a short drive? I hate the thought of leaving without having seen you. I really do.’

  Claire ignored the question. ‘Are you all packed?’ she asked. She hesitated before also asking, ‘How is Marie taking your trip? Is she still upset about your going away for three weeks?’

  ‘Oh!’ her lover said with annoyance, ‘Marie will always find reasons to be upset.’

  ‘Don’t you think that you’re a bit hard on her?’ Claire asked.

  He gave a sharp laugh. ‘I suppose I am. You’re her staunchest defender, you know,’ then, in a vehement tone, he said, ‘Claire, I would really like to see you today.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you at the office if I manage to free myself. But don’t count on it.’

  ‘Call me anyway. I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘Very much. Oh Claire, if only you and I were free!’

  ‘Pierre, it’s pointless to torment yourself.’

  ‘You’re so reasonable; there are times when I ask myself whether it’s self-possession and level-headedness, or sheer coldness.’

  Claire was silent.

  ‘Sorry darling. I did not mean to offend you. But it hurts me when you seem or sound detached.’

  She said lightly, ‘One should never ask oneself too many questions.’ Level-headed? An image flashed through her mind: her banging the dining-room table with her fist so hard as to break the thick sheet of glass on top of it – an outburst occasioned a couple of days earlier by an argument between her husband and her sister over how to deal with her mother. Alexandre had accused Gabrielle of insensitivity, and Gabrielle had painted him as lacking elementary common sense. Torn between the two and tired of her perpetual role as peacekeeper, Claire had ended up banging the table and screaming, ‘Enough, enough!’, which had put an immediate end to the altercation, so taken aback were Alexandre and Gabrielle by her explosion.

  ‘Darling, I hope your mother will be much better by the time I get back,’ her lover said.

  ‘I’m not hopeful,’ she said, her voice dropping.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to find out what the doctor had to say. I’ll definitely call you.’

  Claire sat by the phone, wondering whether to go out; not to meet her lover but to fetch, from the Italian consulate, forms she needed in case she traveled with her daughter in the spring. Simone was Italian by birth, like Alexandre. The planned trip was a cruise to Cyprus on which recently married Iris and Anastase would be going. Bella and her husband, Aristote, might be joining them. Claire had tentatively agreed to go along, and Alexandre had raised no objections. But there was the question of who would look after her mother in her absence. Moreover, she was not certain that she could afford it. She had recently come to the conclusion that she needed a
job – at least part-time. Alexandre was still working for her Uncle Yussef, but for how much longer? Every day brought new tensions between the two men. Before leaving for work that morning, Alexandre had announced, ‘Your uncle is mad, mad, and I’m mad to be working for him.’

  For almost two weeks now, her mother had taken to the couch in Claire’s living room. Two and a half years earlier, a couple of months after Simone’s birth, Letitia had shown up at Claire’s door with her poodle, saying that she could no longer bear to live with Gabrielle and Nicolas.

  There were two bedrooms in Claire’s apartment. Alexandre occupied one, Claire with the baby girl, the other. Claire had offered her mother the bedroom with the baby and to sleep on the couch herself, but her mother had insisted on sleeping in the living room. She needed peace and quiet, she had said. So, the living room had been converted into a quasi-bedroom, becoming, more or less, off-limits for little Simone.

  Spending much of her day in that one room, Letitia would smile affectionately at her granddaughter whenever the little girl appeared, teetering, by the living-room door. Letitia would ask to see her dolls and stuffed animals, or talk about her poodle (the dog always by her side until it died) before sinking into a contemplative silence.

  Over time, it became increasingly hard for Claire to get her mother to step out of her cocoon. At meal times, Letitia had to be coaxed into joining the rest of the family in the dining room. As for the frequent family gatherings organized by one or the other of her brothers-in-law or her sister-in-law – all occasions at which she would have put in an appearance in the past – she virtually stopped attending them. To try to persuade her to go, Yussef Sahli would resort to histrionics (more than his usual fare), but with less and less effect.

  Every now and then, of her own accord, Letitia would go to the movies and, if she liked the movie, she would see it more than once. Constance would sometimes accompany her. They got along well. Letitia was by then in her mid-sixties, Constance in her mid-fifties. To each other, they spoke Italian which Constance, with a good ear for languages, had picked up early on in her life by hearing it spoken in the streets of Cairo.