19. LILLY MON AMOUR
“Lilly Mon Amour,
You must be surprised to receive this letter after such a long silence. First I must apologize for not answering your four letters. The truth is, I wanted to write you, but I was very busy preparing for the race. Yesterday was the big day. You probably read in Le Progrès Egyptien that our wonderful Esperance did not let us down and brought me in at first place. My old man was pleased and proud, as was I. Only one thing clouded my joy — that you, ma chère Lilly, were not there. Oh, how complete my joy would have been if it were accompanied by a kiss from your lips, my dear. You’ll probably say: if you wanted me so badly, you would have bothered to write or call! To this (if you do say it) I have only one answer: the fear, ma chère Lilly, that I might lose the race and let you down, the shame that would have gnawed at me had that been the case, they made it comfortable for me not to have you there. Had I known for certain that I’d win, would I ever give up the company of my fiancée?
“No, chérie, that is no mistake. I’ve made up my mind: I am hereby asking for your hand in marriage. Try to imagine David Hamdi-Ali getting down on his knees and reciting a poem. If you say yes, we’ll get married in the fall, at the end of the season, immediately upon our return from Alexandria. You’ll probably ask what motivated me to decide and act all of a sudden. First, I would have to correct you: it isn’t all of a sudden. Not at all. I’ve always loved you. The decision to ask you to marry me became more firm in my heart during these days when I missed you so much. Maybe it’s the air here, the sea air, which makes me yearn. Alexandria is intoxicating, but I think it brings out the best in me, and the best in me is my love for you. I miss you, Lilly, my little Lilly, I miss your smile and your eyes, your hair and other parts that I don’t want to mention in writing, should your mother find this letter …
“Had I not been so busy all week long with preparations and training, and on weekends with the races themselves, I would fly straight to Cairo and take you in my arms. But there’s no chance I can leave in the next few weeks. Maybe you can come this weekend? There’s nothing in the world that would make me happier or prouder. You’d be my lucky charm for the next race. I’ll make you a queen …”
And so on and so forth, a long letter full of tired repetitions. David was proud of the web of small lies he’d patiently and carefully woven. He’d come up with a vicious idea and had executed it in a cold and calculated way. It was clear he had no intention of keeping his promise. He was merely getting back at Lilly for what Robby’s sister had done. And maybe he was getting back at Robby’s sister as well. Could he make her jealous? Would he be that successful?
David got carried away with these thoughts for a few moments longer, until suddenly, with a kind of determination, he shook both women off and sent them to hell. Women! We mustn’t let them drain us of our power and take over our thoughts. This is a man’s world. Men, two men, face-to-face on the track. While the horses gallop as fast as the wind and your head spins with effort, all the women in the world fade away. Only the two of them remain. Two men: he, David, the Jew, against the dark desert man. The other jockeys exist only on paper, but their presence is eliminated on the track, and only they remain — he and Al-Tal’ooni.
I can’t let him win even once, David thought. I can’t let that Arab beat me. Besides, I have to win so I can prove to everybody, and especially to her, that this has no effect on me whatsoever. He looked at her closed door with hatred. Sleeping soundly, as if nothing happened. I couldn’t sleep at all last night.
Suddenly he had a strong urge for a baba au rhum. That sweet, spongy cake, nauseatingly covered with thick whipped cream, and over that a glassy coat of caramel that shatters between your teeth.
She wolfed down two of those at the Nautical Club, with that charming nonchalance. He sat there, mad with envy, but he resisted. Yes, he resisted! But now the urge to gorge was desperately strong. Had someone served him that lethal pastry right this moment, he doubted he could hold back.
Luckily, no devil came bearing baked goods, and his desire waned, and only a vague and indescribable yearning remained.
Nevertheless, when he weighed himself an hour later, the scales showed he’d gained half a kilo.
“Half a kilo!” David couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been so careful with that damn diet.
His father approached and David quickly jumped off the scales before he could catch him in this moment of weakness.
“How much?” Joseph asked routinely.
David lied, cutting a few grams off from the previous weigh-in. Joseph was pleased and David felt guilty. He was afraid his father would ask him to get back on the scale again, but he needn’t have worried. Not a shadow of a doubt clouded Joseph’s sunny face, and he patted his son on the shoulder and said in English, “Good boy, good boy!”
David felt even more ashamed. He swore not to eat a thing until the next weigh-in.
The fast was hard and nerve-wracking, especially following a sleepless night. He counted the hours and the minutes before his next weigh-in. His body rebelled: Why did he set the next weigh-in for so late? Who said he couldn’t do it half an hour, or even an hour earlier? Perhaps he should wait only until the first star appears or until the shofar is blown, like on Yom Kippur? But David didn’t give in to these delusions, and bravely maintained the fast he’d punished himself with. He wouldn’t cheat, even by one minute. He’d even wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure. He tried to sleep, but the hunger wouldn’t leave him alone. He lay in bed, in a state of tortured serenity, and saw himself as a sort of fakir or dervish. Or perhaps a prophet or a monk.
His mother came in and wanted to know if he was ill, God forbid. She wasn’t used to seeing him lying in bed in the middle of the day, a strange smile on his face.
“No! I’m not ill. I feel great!” And to prove it, he jumped out of bed. For a moment he felt like his head would fall off, as if his dizziness created such a strong centrifugal force that it would spin off his neck, but he grabbed the round brass ornament on the bed frame and the coolness of the metal felt good, and before his mother became truly alarmed, he managed a smile.
“You haven’t eaten a thing all day.” Her tone was concerned and accusatory at once. Not eating was a sin as far as she was concerned.
“Yes I have.”
“No you haven’t. Come, I’ll make you two eggs, just the way you like them, fried in butter. Salem just brought fresh baguettes.”
“No!” he said, alarmed. The two eggs appeared in his mind, two gaping sickly-yellow eyes. “No!” That half a kilo weighed down like a burden on his heart.
“You’re sick, I’ll call a doctor.”
“Don’t call a doctor, Mama. Do me a favor, Mama, and don’t call a doctor. All I need is to be left alone for a while!” He tried to tame his anger, raising his voice only a bit, but it was enough to break her dam of tears.
“Do you have a hand … hand … handkerchief?”
Why is she doing this to me? His handsome face, under the delicate makeup of suffering, wandered the room and caught its own reflection in the mirror over the vanity table. A close-up sprinkled with the sun’s golden powder. Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he handed his mother his spotless white handkerchief and muttered some weak words of solace, watching his lips move as if on their own, detached from the words they were uttering. Deep in his heart he resented having to comfort his mother while he was himself sunk in desperation. Suddenly he saw her face in the mirror, the face of an old lady. David was shocked. It was the first time his mother had become diminished to him, as if thrown off her throne as her chosen son stood to the side, never lending a hand. The throne appeared empty and he almost felt desolate, but then he saw Robby’s sister, dressed in the see-through chiffon of stardust, rising to sit upon the throne. His selfpity grew, and with it his rage and helplessness. Distress suffocated him and he didn’t know where to turn. Luckily, his younger brother, Victor, walked into the room, playing a harmonica: it felt like a saw slicing into his flesh.