In Their Father's Country Read online

  The catalyst to Letitia moving out of Gabrielle and Nicolas’s place and into Claire and Alexandre’s was Letitia’s new habit of walking out of department stores with trivial items she had no need for, such as a collar trimmed with lace. ‘How could you have forgotten to pay for it?’ Gabrielle kept asking, only to be met with stubborn silence.

  Far from acting as a deterrent, Gabrielle’s rebuke seemed to have entrenched Letitia’s inexplicable behavior. The few times she went to department stores after that, she pilfered an embroidered handkerchief, ribbons, some silk fabric, and a velvety handbag. Fortunately for her daughters, the shop managers were accommodating. They knew the family and liked Letitia so simply took to sending Claire or Gabrielle bills for the items their mother had ‘forgotten to pay for’. They would even allow the items to be returned as long as they were in good condition. Thus, their mother’s ‘forgetfulness’ never became much of an issue for Letitia’s daughters other than being the cause of intense private embarrassment and perplexity, for she did not seem to be confused in other ways.

  The rare times Letitia went out she dressed with as much care and elegance as ever. Very slight all her life, she had become gaunt in her sixties. Food never seemed to be on her mind.

  It was only in the last three months that she had started complaining about her health. All of a sudden, she began mentioning back problems, then some discomfort in the hip area, then more diffuse pain. Two doctors, whom Claire called in quick succession, decided that she had osteoarthritis. Both suggested she was a touch neurasthenic.

  Her rare outings became rarer. She seemed to lose interest in going to the movies. Constance, who lunched every day with Alexandre and Claire, found it harder and harder to engage her in conversation. There would be a flicker of a smile on her face whenever Simone ventured close to her room, but she no longer made an effort to talk to the little girl. In Gabrielle’s presence, she became very tense, as Gabrielle was forever lecturing her. Her sons-in-law avoided her. They did not know how to behave or what to say in the face of her growing taciturnity.

  Every day since Letitia started complaining about her health, Claire made a point of keeping her mother company, sitting in her room for a couple of hours, trying to make conversation. If her mother was particularly uncommunicative, she would read.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to put up with me, Claire. I’m not good company,’ Letitia would say.

  ‘Mother, I enjoy spending time this way,’ Claire always responded. There was some truth in that. She took pleasure in the opportunity for undisturbed reading and in her mother’s – albeit silent – presence. Yet now that Letitia had begun refusing to get out of bed Claire was beginning to find those couple of hours oppressive.

  Earlier in the week, the same two doctors, whom she had called three months earlier, concluded that it was a clear case of neurasthenia. Both told Claire that she should not allow her mother to stay in bed all day and cater to her every need, that it would only aggravate her mother’s psychological condition and soon cause physical problems. When Claire suggested that her mother might be suffering from some insidious disease (she did not dare say cancer, but that was what she had in mind), the doctors reckoned that it was highly unlikely. ‘But what about her weight loss?’ Claire asked. Neither doctor saw this as a cause of real concern. ‘Women either put on weight, or they lose it after a certain age,’ one of the doctors assured her. ‘She just happens to fall in the category of those who lose it, which is not a bad thing.’

  In spite of the doctors’ advice, Claire could not bring herself to force her mother out of bed and into an armchair.

  The ringing phone startled Claire, deep in thought.

  ‘How is she?’ Gabrielle asked in her usual abrupt manner.

  ‘Much the same,’ Claire said.

  ‘Has she gotten up a bit? Have you managed to have her spend some time in the armchair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell her to make an effort. You really must.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s up to it.’

  ‘The doctors think otherwise. It’s not up to us to make a diagnosis. Why bother consulting doctors if you’re not going to heed what they say?’

  ‘I’m not convinced they’re right. Yes, she has depressive tendencies, but she never used to fuss about her health. She never used to complain about being in pain. I don’t get the sense that she’s playing it up.’

  ‘No one is accusing her of pretending she is in pain,’ Gabrielle exclaimed. ‘But to stay in bed, all day long, is madness. She needs to move a bit. I bumped into Bella and Aristote in front of Uncle Yussef’s office yesterday. Both said she should make an effort. Aristote should know. He is a surgeon after all. You must get her to sit up every day, you must,’ Gabrielle declared categorically. Then, without giving her sister a chance to comment, she said, ‘By the way, Cicurel sent us a bill. It seems that, on her last outing, she decided she needed a hat. Didn’t you notice her return home with it?’

  ‘I have had other things to worry about than mother’s shopping habits’.

  ‘You call these shopping habits?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, drop the subject,’ Claire cried out, then, to her own surprise, she whispered into the phone, ‘Gabrielle, I fear she’s dying.’

  ‘What on earth are you saying? The doctors are saying nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Perhaps the doctors are wrong.’

  Gabrielle was silent for a few seconds then said, ‘I’m sure you’re dramatizing but we could ask Aristote to recommend some other doctor, if that will provide you with some peace of mind.’

  ‘We should do that. I’ll talk to Bella later today. I have to go now. I hear noise in her room.’

  ‘I may drop by in the evening. Nicolas advised me against going downtown during the day. He heard that there might be a big demonstration in the early afternoon. Any sign of it?’

  ‘No, none. I really must go now. See you later then.’

  When Claire opened the door to her mother’s room, Letitia was humming in her sleep. Claire was taken aback; never before had she heard her mother hum or sing, even though her Aunt Warda had once hinted that Letitia used to be a singer. The humming was melodic and cheerful.

  Curiously, instead of reassuring her, the humming worried Claire. It somehow reinforced her premonition that her mother did not have much longer to live. Studying her mother’s hollow face – the hollowness made the nose, never her mother’s best feature, protuberant – Claire remembered another one of her Aunt Warda’s tales.

  ‘I’m not for you, Monsieur,’ her mother was supposed to have told her father when he began courting her, after seeing her slip her tiny feet in the water, in Venice; he, who judged a woman’s beauty by the size of her feet and waist, was apparently charmed right away. True, or simply a family tale, reflecting the unspoken feeling in the Sahli family that Selim could have done much, much better than Letitia Graziano, who was sweet, dainty and gentle but had a nebulous background and no standing in Egyptian society?

  ‘I’m not for you, Monsieur’: had Letitia been forced by economic circumstances to trade on her charms as many young Italian women, even of middle class background, had had to do between the 1870s and the 1900s? Might she have been a cabaret singer or, a more humdrum possibility, a governess looking after wealthy children on holidays at the Lido, where Selim Sahli apparently first set eyes on her?

  Claire suddenly felt the need to know more about her mother.

  The humming stopped.

  Claire moved next to her mother and whispered, ‘Mother, are you alright?’

  Letitia opened her eyes, looked bewildered for a moment, then reached for her daughter’s cheek and gave it a light stroke. ‘Claire,’ she said – her voice faint – ‘I worry about you.’

  This baffled Claire. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.’

  Her mother went on, ‘I sided with you, when you insisted on marrying Alexandre, then sided with you again when you wanted to leave him. I have al
ways wanted for you what you seemed to want for yourself. Was I right?’

  It was more than her mother had said in weeks.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Claire asked. Her mother’s mention of the choices she had made was unsettling.

  ‘Not really, but I’ll force myself.’

  ‘I’ll go and get you a drink then.’

  Her mother’s face contracted. ‘Oh! I am sore all over, all over.’

  ‘Where exactly, mother? Where?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘We’ll call another doctor. I’ll ask Aristote to find us a bone specialist,’ Claire said as she held her mother’s hand.

  Letitia shook her head, insisting that she did not want to see a doctor.

  The bell rang.

  ‘It must be Batta back from the market. I’ll let her in and get you some juice,’ Claire told her mother.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit better. Take your time,’ her mother said. She did look slightly more relaxed.

  Om Batta was at the door carrying a big brown bag full of grapes, figs, dates and prickly pears. ‘For Madame Letitia,’ she said, after hugging and kissing Claire. ‘For little Simone, I brought some sweets. But more importantly, tell me how Madame Letitia is doing. When Batta told me that she wouldn’t get out of bed, I decided I had to come and see her.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. Perhaps you can persuade her to have a proper meal. But have some tea or coffee first. You’ll be shocked to see how much weight she has lost.’

  ‘But she was already skinny. She cannot afford to lose weight. And here I am, putting on weight.’

  On their way to the kitchen, Claire noticed that Om Batta was hobbling. ‘Your knee?’ she asked.

  Om Batta laughed, ‘My knee, my ankles, my feet, my whole body. I’m old, Claire. Old!’

  ‘Don’t say so; you’re not old at all,’ Claire said, though she was thinking that Om Batta, probably only in her mid-fifties, did look old.

  ‘And where’s Batta? Shopping?’ Om Batta asked.

  ‘Yes, she should be back anytime.’

  ‘And Ali?’

  ‘Cleaning the windows.’

  ‘Alexandre Bey and Mazmazel Constance are well?’

  ‘Yes, they are. Simone is at Mademoiselle Constance’s place.’

  ‘I must see that little princess of mine, on my way home I’ll drop by Mazmazel Constance. Batta told me that Gabrielle’s little girl is now walking. How time flies!’

  While washing the fruits, Om Batta voiced her concerns about Batta. ‘Her husband is saying that he needs children and it’s Batta’s fault that they have none. He won’t even consider the possibility that he might be the problem. I suggested they see a doctor, but he refuses to see one. He won’t hear of it.’ Her eyes now fixed on Claire, Om Batta said, ‘I don’t need to tell you about the turmoil a woman goes through when she wants children and none comes. You know all about that. But then, as you also know, sometimes, all of a sudden, by the grace of God, a child is on its way. I have given you as an example to Batta; I told her to be patient and not give up hope. I’m sure it’s her husband who cannot have children. I think he senses it, and that’s why he refuses to see a doctor. He even does not want her to see one. So, what am I to do?’

  ‘You ought to have her see a doctor without telling him. He doesn’t need to know. At least she’ll find out whether she can get pregnant. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘And what if the doctor says that she’s fine? What do we do then?’

  ‘You tell her husband. It might persuade him to see a doctor. He may have a small problem that could be fixed.’

  ‘If only he were that reasonable!’

  ‘It’s true, he may never agree to see a doctor,’ Claire conceded, recalling how Alexandre had avoided seeing a doctor all the years she was desperately wanting to get pregnant.

  ‘Well, if he’s the one with the problem, taking a second wife will not get him children! That should be a consolation for Batta. Unless this second wife of his decides to take the matter in her own hands, if you know what I mean. That’s always possible.’ Om Batta chuckled.

  Changing the subject, Claire asked, ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘You mean the men? They’re men but behave like boys. I would rather not talk about Hassan. He breaks my heart. He’s totally irresponsible.’ Lowering her voice, Om Batta said, ‘He takes drugs; I’m at my wit’s end.’

  ‘Have Mahmud talk to him. You must! Before it’s too late,’ Claire urged her, ‘or Batta’s husband could talk to him.’

  ‘No, not Batta’s husband! We’re best to leave him out of that. He would use it against Batta. I don’t trust him. Mahmud, yes; just this morning, I told him to talk to Hassan. But Mahmud has his own drug.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He is all taken by the Ikhwanis. I know I can confide in you. It’s happening under my very eyes. Religion, I am all for! But the Ikhwanis frighten me!’

  ‘What does he say about them?’

  ‘He defends them! Mind you, he has a point when he says that they’re the only ones in the country who do something for people like us. They’re not all bad, though I don’t tell him that. I don’t want him to think that I favor his joining them. It’s too dangerous!’

  ‘You’re absolutely right’, Claire said, ‘he could end up in worse troubles than Hassan.’

  ‘My head spins when I think of all this,’ Om Batta said. ‘Let me go see Madame Letitia. That’s what I came for, not to trouble you with these insoluble problems.’

  It occurred to Claire that she could run to the Italian consulate to do her errand while Om Batta kept her mother company. ‘Would you mind if I went out for half an hour while you keep Mother company?’

  ‘Of course not, but I’m worried about you going out. What if there are demonstrations? Mahmud thinks there might be trouble in the streets today.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll be quick. If I see anything out of the ordinary, I’ll turn around.’

  ‘Go out then. You need some fresh air. You’re as beautiful as ever, but you look tired. And don’t you worry about Madame Letitia. I’ll look after her.’

  When Om Batta walked into Letitia Sahli’s room with a glass of freshly squeezed lemon juice, the ailing lady immediately perked up. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  Driven by the urge to get the forms she needed for that spring cruise, Claire hurried to get to the Italian consulate and back within the hour. The consulate was a mere fifteen-minute walk from her apartment. It occurred to her that Pierre might be calling in her absence and that she would then have to think of some excuse for having gone out without trying to reach him. It also occurred to her that he did not know about the cruise, not yet. ‘Oh well!’ she thought and decided to put him out of her mind, then immediately felt sorry for him. He was, after all, very much in love with her. It was not his fault she couldn’t reciprocate.

  While crossing Midan Ismailiya, she looked in the direction of the British barracks to see if there was any sign of trouble. All seemed normal, although the streets were quieter than usual, the trams and buses not quite as crowded. Some people must have decided to stay home.

  At the corner of Suleiman Pasha Street and the midan, she exchanged greetings with the newspaper vendor. Behind his colorful array of papers and magazines, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, next to his wife, also cross-legged with a baby on her lap and a toddler by her side. A couple of older children were leaning against her back. Claire nodded to the woman. She had known her since childhood. The little girl selling jasmine in front of the building where Claire’s Uncle Yussef had his office was now married to the newspaper vendor and had grown into a large woman with a magnificent smile she flashed at Claire whenever Claire happened to walk by.

  At the consulate, Claire did not have to wait to pick up the forms she needed. There was nobody in the waiting room and no queues in the hallways.

  The employee who gave her the forms – a cordial young man –
was fluent in French and eager to chat. He volunteered that, being married to an Italian, she could apply for Italian citizenship. She had never thought of applying. ‘But would it jeopardize my Egyptian citizenship?’ she asked. ‘It might,’ he said, ‘but you need not use your Italian passport here. You could use it in Europe.’ She said that she would give the matter some thought. While she was gathering her papers, it occurred to her to ask a question that had never entered her mind before. ‘Do you keep records on Italian residents living in Egypt?’

  ‘We have records on some, not all. It depends on whether we had dealings with them.’

  ‘I’m wondering whether you have anything on Letitia Sahli? My mother,’ Claire asked, half-wishing she hadn’t.

  The young man looked at her quizzically. ‘I’ll check. As you can see, I’m not busy this morning.’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ Claire said.

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ he said and winked. ‘Take a seat.’ He pointed to a chair in the hallway. ‘You’re also welcome to sit at my desk.’

  Claire waited in the hallway, going over, in her mind, the few facts she knew about her mother: her birth date; her maiden name; her parents’ names; her time in Venice, if Aunt Warda’s story was true; and that she had gone horse-riding at some point in her life – seriously enough to have owned a riding outfit.

  When the young man returned, she was not surprised to hear that he had found nothing. She even felt a measure of relief, and yet she found herself asking, ‘What about Letitia Graziano? Might you have something under her maiden name?’

  ‘If we have anything, it would probably be under her maiden name,’ he said as he disappeared in the back room.

  When the young man came back, he was carrying a file. ‘I found her,’ he declared in a self-satisfied tone. ‘Letitia Graziano married to Roberto Goldoni.’ He handed the file to Claire, saying, ‘I’m sorry but you must look at it in my presence. We cannot let the files out of our sight so why don’t you sit at my desk and take your time.’