She took off her clothes, slowly and calmly, as if she were alone in her room, not hiding anything. She wasn’t trying to seduce him; he was simply insignificant. That’s how Egyptian princesses must have undressed in front of their eunuchs. The wind touched her curves, the sea sprayed white foam in her lap. Light, fast waves swirled around her, caressing her with sounds of explosion, purrs of delight. She closed her eyes and knew that her body was silver and that she was young. Young and free.
He stood on the beach, mouth wide open, not daring to come closer or touch her. “No!” he called out. “I won’t give up racing. Who are you to ask me to give anything up? I’ll keep going, and I’ll be a champion. I’ll be rich, and you … you’ll come begging … yes, on your knees you’ll beg me. But I’ll tell you to go to hell. I’ll tell you, Too late! Too late!” And he walked quickly back to his faithful Topolino.
She barely heard what he’d said, or the sound of the car starting. She was immersed in her delicious surrender to the warm surf.
18. A LETTER TO CAIRO
All the residents saw David the next day as he gave a sealed letter to Salem. The ringing of coins, a gesture of impatience, “Go on, go!” The servant’s persistent smile. A master’s sigh, accompanied by a hand stuffed into the pocket, another coin for the bakshish, a wide smile, and a slammed door. The echoes of the slamming dispersed like messengers to all corners of the house. Everyone held their breath. Only the ancient grandfather clock ignored the excitement and continued to tick indifferently.
“Did he ask for her hand last night?”
“And if he did, did she say yes?”
“This letter, who is it for and what does it say?”
Grandma was the one to form these three fateful questions. First silently, in her own mind, then later to her daughter, and finally to Emilie Hamdi-Ali. No one had answers.
All morning long, the two protagonists of this drama locked themselves in their respective rooms. She slept soundly, dreaming about money, more money, and even more money. He sat down to write a letter, with concentration, determination and persistence.
The letter, bearing the portrait of young King Farouk on its top right-hand corner, was on its way. No one could stop it or call it back. Grandma knew that matters had been settled, and there was nothing more for her to do. But she did not know what the verdict had been. She wanted to influence Emilie to get information from her son, but Emilie was taken aback. David could now go back to his room. Silence took over, the echoes of tumult fading. Only curiosity kept creating disquiet, leading to hasty, embarrassed whispering.
“My brother must be screwing your sister,” Victor told Robby. Robby kicked his friend in the shin. The kick was retaliated with a slap, the slap led to a scuffle on the carpet, and from the carpet to the tiled floor of the hall, and from there to the hardwood floor of the living room, and back to the balcony.
“What’s he doing in there?” Grandma asked Emilie Hamdi-Ali, pointing impatiently toward the door of David’s room.
“What’s she doing in there?” Emilie returned the question, pointing to Robby’s sister’s room.
“She’s sleeping. She’s always sleeping.”
“What does that mean? Is that a sign?”
“It’s no sign, I’m telling you, when is she ever awake? The whole world can burn down, but she—papeyando!”
They both sighed. The coffee arrived and they shook their heads, taking loud sips. Suddenly they paused. While the porcelain rattled and some drops flew out, they sat frozen. David’s door opened and he appeared in his white tennis clothes, handsome as a Hollywood dream. The old ladies were shaken and couldn’t take their eyes off him as he walked measuredly and proud, scaring off the darkness of the hall. Emilie looked at her son with gratitude for how handsome and tall he was, as if this were how he repaid her for all she’d done for him. “God save him, amen.”
Grandma could not ignore this generous, glowing beauty either, and could not hold back a mumble of excitement: “Como un Americano.”
A smile of satisfaction spread over Emilie’s lips, sending waves of happiness through her body. With her natural sensuality, which had not faded with the years, this wave translated into passion for her husband, whose impressive masculine ugliness was so different than her son’s bright, somewhat feminine attractiveness.
Grandma felt certain that David’s ceremonial appearance would be accompanied by a formal announcement, “I’m glad to tell you, good women …”
Or: “I’ve been silent so far, because I wasn’t able to express my joy in words …”
Or: “Why should I keep you in suspense? Well …”
But not a word left his mouth. With measured steps he walked to the middle of the hall and began his workout ritual. That same introverted look. Only David Hamdi-Ali existed in the world in those moments. Only him— his body, his soul, his eyes, his ears, his nose, his chest, his arms, his legs and … oh, that too … that too … a dull ache sent waves down to his testicles. He bit his lips, pulled himself together and continued — one, two, three, right! One, two, three, left!
It was clear the sphinx wasn’t going to deliver.
Suddenly Salem appeared, sprouting all of a sudden from the shadows, as was his manner. David gave him an inquisitive look which Salem returned: mission accomplished, ya sidi! A vague smile graced David’s face. A bit of vengeance, a bit of pride, a bit of depression. A sleepless night afforded his cheeks a sickly pallor that only added a soft transparency to his beauty. An ecstatic satisfaction reflected in his motions.
The letter was on its way. Now no one could stop it or call it back. Not even him. The matter had been settled. Finally.
Grandma cornered Salem in the kitchen and asked, “Where is the letter going?”
“The post office,” said Salem sneakily.
“Don’t be an ass. I know you took it to the post office, but to whom is it addressed?”
“Oh, to whom is it addressed, you should say that’s what you mean, Madame.”
“Fine, I said it. Well?”
“How should I know, Madame? Mister Hamdi-Ali didn’t tell me.”
“And you didn’t look at the envelope, huh? Don’t play games!”
“Since when can I read Françaoui?” Salem said innocently, a sweet smile on his face.
Grandma realized that only bakshish would make him talk. She did what she had to do and the answer soon arrived.
“Al-Cahira.”
“To whom exactly in Cairo?”
Another bit of bakshish and all the information was revealed, just like in those American machines all over town: you put in a piaster and it gives you your weight. They say there are even machines that tell you your future. Grandma shelled out some cash and the prophecy was sounded: “To a certain Lilly Elhadeff.”
It seemed that it was all over. All was lost. But Grandma’s mind never stopped working. New questions were posed with amazing speed, matching the changing circumstances:
Did he write to ask for her hand?
If so, will she say yes?
Or perhaps he wrote to break it off?
Everything was still open. Grandma was exhausted and enraged. The audacity of youth, never considering their benefactors’ right to know!
Robby’s mother claimed that had the news been good, David would have already shared it.