Cairo Stories Read online

  At the age of eighteen and, thus, still in Alexandria, I convinced myself that I was meant to be a writer. A few compliments by a couple of teachers about the ease with which I seemed able to write in several languages had gone to my head. I decided to have a try at writing a piece of historical fiction – a novella. I had a specific idea which I won’t bother you with. I researched the idea, took extensive notes in Arabic, French, English and Greek – the subject matter had been written about in all of these languages – got all geared up to write, till I confronted the question of which language to use. After much hesitation, I started writing it in French, then, considered switching to Arabic since I was living in Egypt, then, seriously, contemplated trying something really innovative and writing it in several languages. Then, I gave up writing it at all. I’m probably lacking any talent for writing. Still, I think that my inability to relate to one language and one language only – a language that would strike me as the natural vehicle for me to be expressing myself – did not help. It was after that failed attempt – my sole attempt at writing – that I began thinking of translation, for which, it turns out, I had a knack.

  Have I managed to explain to you why I went into a state of hibernation, and why the idea of silent communication through sign language has some appeal to me? Or have I thoroughly confused you? I fear I may have done the latter for, to some extent, I myself am confused. I know enough about myself to know that I’m not the sort of person who wants ‘to belong’ – quite the contrary – and yet here I am claiming that I found it increasingly hard to socialise in the face of evidence that I don’t belong! And I’ve always professed not to believe in dwelling on the past, and yet, am I not telling you, in a way, that I am the product of my past? I’ll tell you something else that will probably confuse you: assuming I feel up to it at some point, would you care to accompany me to Alexandria? Not for too long a visit; still, long enough for me to try to catch a whiff of what may be left of my old Alexandria.

  Tony

  Other Worlds; Other Times (Racy Subjects)

  On the third anniversary of my aunt’s death, I found myself thinking of her in conversation with her seamstress, Heba, with whom she rarely saw eye to eye but with whom she talked frequently. Their conversations usually concerned some member of Heba’s family, and often involved an element of human drama heightened, in my eyes, by virtue of Heba’s timid nature. My aunt was the very opposite of timid. She prided herself on being a decisive, ‘no nonsense’ kind of woman.

  I was in my early teens at the time and couldn’t understand why it was that my aunt could not put herself in Heba’s shoes and view the world a bit more through Heba’s eyes – at least for the duration of the conversations. Nor could I understand why Heba continued to solicit my aunt’s views, even though she was aware of my aunt’s inflexibility and would even complain about it to other members of the family.

  In hindsight, I admire the fact that, while harbouring little hope of agreeing on any subject, they talked as much as they did. They talked just to talk which, in the worlds in which I have lived since, people do much less of. That sort of talking can establish a personal relationship that has value beyond the actual exchange of ideas. It seems to me that, despite my aunt’s peremptory tone, her conversations with Heba managed to achieve that.

  For a few months, one of their ever-recurring conversations involved a most unusual occurrence. Heba’s youngest sister, a young woman in her late teens, had been married for a couple of years. Sort of half-married really. Muslim marriages in Egypt involve two separate steps. First, there is the signing of the marriage contract which makes the man and the woman husband and wife on paper. Then, a party is thrown in celebration of the marriage. Right after the wedding party, the couple moves into their lodgings, and the marriage is consummated. The interval between the signing of the contract and the party can be days, weeks or months. And, when the two steps are kept separate, as is often the case, the expectation is that the husband on paper remains a husband on paper till after the wedding party. He can visit his wife at her parents’ place, take her shopping, for a stroll, to the cinema or to a restaurant, but that is more or less it.

  The young woman had been married on paper only. The actual wedding was a long way away. It was scheduled to take place once the apartment, which the couple was moving into, was fixed up and fully furnished.

  One evening, the young woman complained of severe stomachache. Fearing appendicitis, her older brother took her to the nearest hospital. Two sisters went along. That very same evening, the girl gave birth to a full-term, healthy baby boy. When contacted, the dazed husband said, again and again, ‘How can that be? How can that be?’ He repeated it again in the hospital, while pacing up and down the hallway. Apparently, the young mother also said to the doctors, ‘How can that be? How can that be?’ The brother and the sisters were equally shocked. The doctors informed them that, notwithstanding the pregnancy, the mother had been a virgin prior to the delivery. They said that it must have been one of those freak accidents that can unfortunately happen when young people get too carried away before getting married. Really married that is! Meanwhile, the husband, still pacing up and down the hall, was bitterly bemoaning the fact that he had been deprived of his first night and honeymoon. As for the young woman’s father, when told about the turn of events, he made it clear that the girl could not return to live at home under any circumstance. For any period of time. From the hospital, she would have to go straight to the couple’s apartment, whatever its condition. The young woman heeded her father’s words and, once released from hospital, together with the baby and her bitterly disappointed husband, she moved into an almost bare apartment. And began living her married life, under those inauspicious circumstances. Gradually, the husband resigned himself to his overnight transformation into a family man. It took a while before the young woman’s father could get himself to pay a visit to the young couple. When he eventually did, he made a point of saying that it was only to see his grandson. It took an even longer while before he allowed the couple to visit him and her siblings at home. For months after that dramatic evening her family turned the story over in their minds and still couldn’t fathom how it came to be.

  When the subject came up, my aunt would often begin by saying, ‘There are two things I don’t understand. Simple things. I don’t understand how you all failed to notice the pregnancy; how even your married sisters didn’t notice it. The other thing I don’t understand is why you are all still so upset. The girl is married. She has moved into her apartment. The baby is healthy. The husband has a job and is providing for his family. Where is the problem?’

  Heba would burst out, ‘Believe me! I beg you to! Nobody had the slightest suspicion, although we had noticed that she was putting on weight, but the weight seemed to be evenly distributed. Besides, she always wears loose dresses. It is not as if we chose to ignore it. Why are we upset? Isn’t it obvious why? Isn’t it terrible to begin one’s married life that way? It is neither good for her, nor for her husband, who still begrudges her what happened.’

  Far from satisfying my aunt, that answer would have her exclaim, ‘Are you siding with the husband? Turning him into a victim? How can he, of all people, complain?’

  From that point onwards, the conversation would heat up.

  ‘Of course I’m not siding with him. But this is how men are.

  They want their first night.’

  ‘Well, he had it! Prematurely, but he did.’

  ‘But he didn’t have it!’

  ‘Are you so sure of that?’

  ‘The doctors said so! They were categorical about it. Are we not to believe them?’

  ‘You never know. They might have said so just to pacify the family, knowing how you would react, had you been told otherwise. Maybe they thought that you would find that version of the story more acceptable.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! Surely, the doctors wouldn’t do that! They wouldn’t make up such a story! Besides, it was
clear from her husband’s reaction that he hadn’t had his first night.’

  ‘What makes you think that he wasn’t putting on a show?’

  ‘Come now, are we then to doubt everybody? The doctors, the husband, my sister? Are we to doubt ourselves for not having noticed the pregnancy? Were we lying to ourselves? No, no, you are taking it too far! Why don’t you believe the story as I am telling it?’

  ‘Because I’m not a gullible sort. But let me go back to what really matters. The mother is healthy. The baby is healthy. The father is assuming his responsibilities. You should be happy. Treat them like a normal married couple, which they are. There is no point in making yourself sick over what cannot be undone.’ ‘You’re right; they are married and, I admit, that, in the eyes of God, they were married when all this happened, but it is not so simple. Her married life has been marred.’

  ‘You’re complicating matters. Keep them simple.’

  ‘Some things are right and proper; others are wrong. You, of all people, should understand that, since you yourself often speak of right and wrong. You’re a woman of principles.’

  ‘But I also know what is important and what is not. I do not waste my time on matters that have no practical consequences, and about which I can do nothing. If she had not been married, I would have understood your concern. But she is married and was married at the time the baby was born.’

  ‘She was, but the expectation is for young people in their situation to wait. That is the way things are normally done.’

  ‘To be frank, if anybody is to be blamed in that affair, the family is to be blamed.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! We are to be blamed?’

  ‘You are, in a certain way. First, for not noticing the pregnancy, and then for giving her the freedom that resulted in the pregnancy. If it was such a big thing, you ought to have been more vigilant.’

  ‘But we trusted them.’

  ‘That is what blind trust gets you.’

  ‘What should we have done? Policed them every minute they spent together? They were, after all, legally married.’

  ‘Precisely! The idea of a two-step marriage is not a good one.’

  ‘But is it good to hurry things the way they have? Not even a honeymoon has the poor thing had.’

  ‘That can be fixed. They could have their honeymoon now. One of you could look after the child for a few days.’

  ‘But she’s breastfeeding.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have it all. If breastfeeding is so important, then let them delay the honeymoon until after she has finished breastfeeding.’

  ‘By that stage, what sort of honeymoon would it be anyway?’

  At this point in the exchange, my aunt would typically give up and sometimes even leave the room, making her growing irritation obvious.

  * * *

  The other conversation is self-explanatory. No background need be given other than to say that it concerned a different sister, who was also married. Fully married and apparently unhappy.

  ‘Still the same issue?’ my aunt would ask with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, still the same issue,’ Heba would reply in a downcast tone.

  ‘She’s still fussing about that, after all these years?’

  ‘Well, that’s precisely the problem. After all these years. You’d think it would have gone away with time, but no, it hasn’t; not in the least. Poor thing!’

  ‘Well, try to put things in perspective. There are worse problems than that!’

  ‘But it’s not a life. She can’t go on living like this. It’s too much to expect.’

  ‘Would she rather her husband divorced her? Would she rather he took another wife, or had a woman on the side?’

  ‘Actually, yes! She says that she wouldn’t mind him having someone else. She even suggested it to him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t for a minute believe it! Mark my words, if ever another woman were to come into the picture, I’d immediately hear about how upset she was! So she’s talked to him about this?’

  ‘She has! Many, many times.’

  ‘Did she really, or did she just hint at what is bothering her?’

  ‘She was as clear as clear can be. But he won’t listen.’

  ‘Isn’t he, all in all, a good husband? She should keep that in mind.’

  ‘What do you mean, all in all a good husband? In that one most important aspect, he is terrible. A brute, really!’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘But he is! How else would you describe that sort of unreasonableness on his part?’

  ‘To each his own!’

  ‘But to want to do it three times a day! Three times! And that is how it has been from the very first day of their marriage, and how it continues to be, after six years of marriage, when she has hosts of other things to do, including looking after her four children.’

  ‘If I may say so, that is the problem. They’ve too many children.’

  ‘It is God’s will.’

  ‘Well then, it’s also God’s will that she should have such a husband.’

  ‘But God wants us to behave in accordance with reason – not like animals. My father knows about the problem but refuses to interfere. He says that it’s a matter between husband and wife.’

  ‘He’s absolutely right.’

  ‘But then what?’

  Once my mother happened to be present at the end of this exchange so she suggested that husband and wife ought to discuss the matter with a doctor, to which my aunt retorted that people usually consult the doctor for the opposite problem, which made Heba raise her two hands, as though appealing to God, and she said with a smile, ‘Let us hope he ends up with that problem.’

  Meant for Each Other

  He had arranged to be picked up at Heathrow. The cab driver was late. He was getting more and more tense. Should he forget about the cab and take the tube? The Tavistock Hotel, where he had booked himself a room, was close to Russell Square Station. The one and only time he had stayed at that hotel before was when he had booked thinking, mistakenly, that Stendhal had spent time there. It turned out to be a bland, functional, 1950s building without a whiff of Stendhal. The hotel’s phone number happened to be in his address book so that was the number he had dialled on hearing of Nadia’s accident.

  Paris–London–Paris: a round trip he had done many, many times, over the course of a good thirty years. Always for the same reason: to see Nadia. Now Nadia was in hospital, hovering between life and death after an absurd car accident. He had heard about it the previous evening. His wife, Eva, had told him. A friend of a friend of hers had heard the news earlier that day. The accident had happened at night. And the friend had, of course, rushed to inform Eva who, to her credit, had related what she had been told matter-of-factly, without making any comment except for saying, ‘I suppose you’ll be flying to London.’

  He was about to give up on the driver, when he saw a heavy-set man with a limp, waving a sign bearing his name.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the driver – an English Englishman – said, without sounding overly apologetic. ‘It’s taken me forever to get here because of all the detours I had to take.’

  ‘A lot of roadworks?’

  ‘No, but Bush is in town, so you can imagine the problems. Police everywhere. They’ve closed a lot of streets. It’ll take us a long while to get to your hotel. But what’s to be done? What Bush wants, Blair gives him.’

  As was often the case when he was in London, the sky was clear, belying the city’s reputation for bad weather. Sunny and breezy; that was his image of London.

  In the cab, the driver, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of opinions, talked about politics; about Iraq, the war, Blair, Bush, the French, the Russians, Bin Laden. ‘And what about the veil issue in France?’ the driver asked him. ‘What do people there think about it? I’m not sure we’re getting the full picture here. The papers tell you only so much.’

  ‘They’re divided,’ he said in a tone that showed he had no desi
re to discuss the issue.

  The driver took the hint, and was quiet.

  Feeling he ought to explain why he was not keen on talking politics, he said, ‘I’m here to see a friend who’s in hospital; she was in a car accident.’

  ‘You risk your life any time you’re on the roads these days. It didn’t use to be that way.’ The driver relapsed into silence.

  What would his life be like without Nadia? Around dawn that morning – after a restless night, and with his wife still sleeping by his side – he had asked himself that question but then quickly brushed it aside, out of superstition (thought might make it happen) and also because he could not begin to imagine life without Nadia.

  * * *

  Cairo, 1954: the year they first met. They were both five years old, he was two months older than her. At this age two months matter a great deal. She was just a bit shorter than him. Pictures taken by his parents around the time of that first meeting show the two of them holding hands, she slightly bewildered, he ultra-confident. They were both only children. Their fathers were Egyptian. His mother was French, hers English.

  He could never tell whether he actually remembered that first meeting, or whether he simply remembered what their mothers had recounted many times, over the years, since that meeting was to become part of the two families’ lore.