But Grandma denies such luck in her game: “The joker only goes to the young ones,” she whines.
Once the laughter dies down, Madame Marika adds secretively: “When I was in Cairo recently, there was a rumor going around in Heliopolis that Joseph Hamdi-Ali is actually …” she pauses for a moment, her gaze flitting over her friends’ faces, preparing to land and sting: “Turkish! And his real name is Yoossoof!”
A real scoop. General shock. Gaping eyes and mouths. Heads nodding and shaking in agreement, in denial, in disbelief. She must soften her target: “They say he converted to Judaism just for Emilie, because her father, Davidshon, wouldn’t give her to a Muslim!” Madame Marika is certain this discovery will eliminate whatever remained of Emilie Hamdi-Ali’s reputation.
But Grandma spoils it all, saying in her conniving innocence: “How lovely! He gave up his faith and converted for her. Oh, love, love. Nothing in the world can stand in its path. Not religion, not parents … nothing!”
A dire thought passes through Madame Marika’s mind: Vita, her husband, would not have sacrificed so much for her. Love! Ha! With rage and pain she remembers the businesslike efficiency that characterized her marriage. Love? What’s love? Nonsense. She expects support from the other women, someone to speak ill of Emilie, to find fault in her marriage to a proselyte, but her wish slams against a fortified wall of dreamy eyes. They are all giving in to their own reminiscing.
And as if to make matters worse, Grandma sighs, “He calls her ‘la bella donna.’”
Blood pounds against Madame Marika’s temples, and she orders them to carry on with the game. Go on, shuffle … shuffle the cards!
“Her older son, David, is also quite a man,” Grandma starts, but her friend Marika’s angry look paralyzes her tongue and she focuses on her cards with the gravity worthy of a game of rummy among matrons, in the early afternoon of a sunny summer’s day in Alexandria.
6. DAVID
David Hamdi-Ali, Joseph Hamdi-Ali’s eldest son, is one of the stars of the racetrack in Egypt. His rating on the jockey exchange, “the slave market,” as he calls it jokingly, is one of the highest. He maintains a strict regime, stubbornly fighting against the tendency to gain weight that he inherited from his mother, which might put his career in jeopardy. His diet gives him a film star’s figure. He is thin, tall and elegant, adored by all girls. It seems he need do nothing more than stretch out an agile, muscular arm and pluck from the garden: Rose, Marguerite, Hortense, Lilly … But Hamdi-Ali the son looks to Robby’s sister, of all girls, and she is one of an insignificant minority who does not fantasize about the racing cavalier. Here we have a seeming background for a tragedy, or at least for a melodrama of unrequited love. But no. Though we can surely say that his love for her is genuine, we cannot say it is wild beyond all common sense, and certainly not as strong as death. Moreover, though we can certainly say that in her heart of hearts she feels completely indifferent toward him, she hasn’t bothered to shake him off with a clear-cut rejection. And so this lukewarm romance continues to provide fodder for thought and gossip for Grandma’s card club friends.
“You know,” Grandma tells Robby’s mother, “that David Hamdi-Ali doesn’t seem bad at all.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, nothing. Only that maybe we should put some pressure on your daughter … not let her act according to …”
“Mama, please! You know she’s a big girl and she needs to make up her own mind. Her father is very adamant about this matter. He says we mustn’t, under any circumstances, push her into the arms of a groom against her will.”
“The way they did to me, my parents,” Grandma identifies. “Your father, they made me …” But when she sees that her daughter shows no enthusiasm in speaking ill of her father, she returns to the original topic: “All right, then let her choose for herself, but have her choose already, and choose wisely! What does she think, that princess? That boys like David are just rolling around the street? Big and tall like a Turkish guard and blond and beautiful and educated.” The further she enumerates David’s virtues, the worse is her anger at her indifferent granddaughter, and finally she puts aside the pillowcase she is embroidering with demonstrative distaste (the pillowcase being a part of the dowry she and her daughter are preparing for Robby’s sister), as if to say: Who am I working for? She’ll remain an old maid, or marry some Greek Orthodox or Coptic Christian, or worse — an Arab, heaven forbid!
“She’s still young!” says her daughter, who heard even what Grandma did not say, and quickly hands her back the pillowcase. Grandma exhales with contempt, takes the pillowcase, inserts a purl thread and returns to the intricate embroidery. Finally she relinquishes her displeasure with irrelevant questions, such as: “When will we finally get a letter from the boys in Israel?” or “Are the Murads planning on staying with us again this summer?”
She knows there is no clear answer to her first question. Robby’s two older brothers had left for Israel a year before, and since then communication has been scarce. As for the second question, she is well aware of the answer: indeed, the Coptic Murads will spend the scalding summer in Alex. Madame Murad and her two daughters, the black-haired Thérèse and the blonde, braided Juliette, have already rented out the large living room, which will serve as their bedroom for the summer months. Mister Murad will join his family only on the weekends, unable to leave his business in Cairo unattended. Two of the remaining four rooms will be used by the Hamdi-Alis, and so Robby will have to spend nights in his parents’ bedroom, which thrills him to no end.
7. VICTORICO
Happy is the black sheep who has never seen her dark reflection in a puddle — she does not perceive herself to be any different than her pearly white sisters as they step out from the pond. This is the case for eleven-year-old Victor: a sort of contemptible John Lackland, resembling a court jester’s bastard more than a king’s son. No wonder he views his brother’s regal mannerisms with mercifulness mixed with a pinch of ridicule. He silently accepts the crowned prince’s generous beatings, as if saying: beat on, beat on, but only I know what you’re really worth, his pouting lips twisting into a crooked smile. He hardly speaks to his parents and brother, and among adults is considered quiet and almost slow. This misconception is enhanced by the appearance of his elongated head and his face, which resembles a horse’s snout. Grandma’s card club friends are sure there is a connection between Victorico’s horse face and his father’s dealings.
“He was probably thinking of a racing mare when he was …” they giggle. This is an innocent comment in principle, but it paves the way to more bold variations: “Maybe Victorico really is the son of Joseph and … Leila, the purebred that Joseph loved more than his own wife?”
Once laughter dies down some of the ladies express shock at the vulgar joke, but who can tighten the reins on a gossiping matron once her tongue is set loose? Madame Marika finally brings matters to their ultimate climax: “You’re all mistaken. I know for a fact that Emilie is Victor’s mother. It’s Joseph who isn’t his father.” Here she grows silent. Curiosity bubbles. Some of the women suspect that she is pulling their leg, but most of them swallow the bait and cannot help but ask: “Then who is his father?”
Madame Marika puts on a mask of mystery and finally says, “A stallion!”
That’s it. Unbridled excitement. They writhe with laughter, folding in half and balling up and nearly falling off their seats. Almost violently, they slap one another on the back of the arm. Tears run like water, and Madame Marika, finally celebrating victory, feels her underwear filling with sweet warmth, followed immediately by cool moisture. She runs to the bathroom, and the laughter goes on unrestrained.