“Of course I know her,” Grandma said and could not contain a heavy sigh.
“Fortunée has a daughter.” Meaningful pause. “Did I say skinny como un palo? No, skinnier than that. Skinny como un fideio, a noodle.”
“What’s that got to do with David?”
“Here’s Emilie Hamdi-Ali in the flesh. Why don’t you ask her if what I’m saying isn’t true?”
“What isn’t true?” said Emilie with her familiar innocence.
“It isn’t true? Who says it isn’t true?” Marika cried. “I keep saying it is true, that your little David is going to marry la cocona d’Elhadeff.”
Silence. The buzzing of afternoon flies filled the summer air, along with the heavy breathing of the women, shocked by the words that had been spoken. Fateful words, an irreversible verdict. Alexandria could not handle such explicitness. What you don’t talk about doesn’t hurt so much, you can turn a blind eye, pretend it never happened. But an explicit word sends waves through the peaceful standing water …
Grandma could not focus on rummy at all that day. Even the joker, with his cheeky smile, could not cheer her up.
20. A GREAT, RARE BLESSING
During the next Kudjoocome, Grandma cornered Robby’s sister and demanded an explanation.
Robby’s father told her off, “No té mesklés, don’t intervene!”
“Ma porqué?” Grandma protested. “Why not? Aren’t we human beings? Don’t we deserve answers? Shouldn’t she explain herself to her mother?”
“She’s almost twenty years old. She knows what she’s doing.” Then he added, hiding a smile, “I hope.”
“What do you think, Papa? Should I marry David?”
This direct question upset him. She was asking for a clear answer, real advice. Robby’s father didn’t put much stake in advice. One never asks for someone else’s advice before having already made up his mind, wanting nothing more than support for his decision, a confirmation that contributes nothing. He sighed. What should he tell her? Did he even know David Hamdi-Ali? He’d barely spoken to him since his family moved in. Just a few nods. Nevertheless, Robby’s father knew for certain that Hamdi-Ali junior was a superficial boy, not too bright. Robby’s father never had much patience for fools. As it turned out, he did have an opinion in the matter. The girl acted wisely, turning David down. Still, he was comfortable not voicing his opinion, not having the matter discussed in a family forum. If this forum began discussing all the romantic involvements of his children, what would be the end of that?
Everyone waited for him to speak. No one dared urge him, not even Grandma.
Finally he sighed and said, “I wouldn’t marry David Hamdi-Ali.”
The oracle had spoken. The matter was settled. A short, clear-cut answer. Robby’s sister looked at her father gratefully. Their eyes met. A hint of a smile drained into the corners of his eyes, and she returned the favor with a wide smile of her own. They understood each other. How great the distance was between David’s loud arrogance and her father’s confident quiet, which contained endless fountains of wisdom. She adored him and vowed to only ever marry a man who would measure up to him. Her eyes wandered over to her mother’s good, slightly plump face. She was so attached to these people! They were both still in the prime of their lives, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before their hair turned silver. Wrinkles would appear on her mother’s smooth face, the skin of which was taut and rosy, especially after the siesta. The thought was too sad and she wanted to cry, but was afraid that her grandmother might interpret her tears as a lament for the end of her affair with David Hamdi-Ali. Grandma’s skin had already yellowed slightly, and age spots had spread over her concave forehead. Her green eyes, quick and stubborn, stuck out of deepening sockets. She loved Grandma. They’d always had a secret bond, in spite of their constant bickering. She must know that this wasn’t merely a whim. This was too serious a matter. Robby’s sister decided at once to break her vow of silence, and spoke.
Grandma was shocked. She was under the impression that her granddaughter had rejected David due to frivolity. Now this cocona was giving her a list of thought-out reasons she could barely stand to deny. This one most of alclass="underline"
“The boys are in Israel. Papa said that sooner or later we’ll all join them. David would never go to Israel. There are no horse races there, and his father wouldn’t let him give up horse racing. David isn’t one to disobey his father, and even if he were, what would he do then? This way he has money, he has fame. Without horse racing, what would he be worth? There’s no chance he’ll ever leave Egypt. I don’t want to be away from you. You’re more important to me than all the Hamdi-Alis in the world. I also don’t want all of us to stay here because of me, far away from the boys …”
“As Jews, our only future is in Israel,” her father confirmed. His view on this matter was clear. He’d never been an active, militant Zionist, like his friend and neighbor Maurice Rosenberg, who’d already served several months in an Egyptian prison for underground Zionist activity. Robby’s father did not like politics. He preferred to read a novel, not a newspaper, and hardly listened to the news on the radio. A few months prior, his second son wrote him from his training in France, telling him he had received an offer to stay and become a French citizen, thanks to his excellence on the local basketball team. He asked for his father’s advice. His father did not hesitate and instructed him to turn down the offer and continue to Israel, and his son did, along with his older brother. In spite of their independence, or perhaps because of their independence, the children cherished their father’s opinion, never under-estimating it.
“I don’t want to be away from you,” Robby’s sister said and gave her father a long kiss. Robby jumped up and kissed her. A united family, what a great, rare blessing.
21. YALLA, YA IBNI, LET’S GO, MY SON!
On Wednesday afternoon, David got up and drove to one of the big stores on Rue Cherif Pacha to buy a new scale. He ordered his mother to sell the old one, which was without a doubt the cause of his bad luck, to the roba be-quia—an Arabic distortion of Roppa Vequia, old rags, the old man walking the city and purchasing used goods, who was often the subject of legends about the wealth he’d accumulated through years of buying and selling rags.
The new scale was kind to David. His weight did not diminish, but neither did it rise, and he wholeheartedly believed that a crisis had been averted. Perhaps it was even a good omen, and his weight would drop in the few days that remained before the next race.
He tripled and quadrupled his workout sessions, and spent several hours each day riding on the track, while his old father circled him with satisfaction, wearing a jacket over his bright white shirt, the fez never leaving his head.
“My son is back with me. My son is back with us,” he mumbled to himself, his eyes sparkling.
On the night before the race he told David, “Go get dressed, ya ibni. We’re going out.”
“Going out? Where?”
“Out, I said. Out. Just you and I. Let’s go, go on, get dressed.”
“What about Mama?”
“Just you and I, I said.” He asserted his oriental authority, and David didn’t dream of protesting. He went to his room to carry out orders.
The old man remained in the hall on his own. From the room at the end of the hall he vaguely heard the chattering of the women playing their game of rummy, which they all called cuncan.