He puts on the trousers that go with his white suit. He fastens his suspenders. “Bring me my shoes.” I bring him the brown shoes with the white tips. I clean them with a piece of cloth. He sits down on the edge of the bed and presses his feet into the shoes, then he ties their laces. He sits there for a second, staring at the floor. I hurry him up: “Come on now.” He stands up and puts on the suit jacket. He takes his fez off the hat rack and puts it on. He twists each end of his moustache, turning them upward with his fingers.
He closes the two glass panes of the window, and looks around for the key in the stack of scattered clothes and covers on top of the bed. He grabs the white parasol hanging on the rack. He presses on its handle to open it. A long tear appears on one side and he throws it to the side in disgust. He reminds me not to forget my English textbook and my homework notebook.
We leave the room and lock the door. Fatima is there at the door to the storage room. “Happy holidays, Sidi. Come back safe.” He gives her money for the Eid and she kisses his hand: “God preserve you, Sidi.” The late night crier faces us at the end of the alley. For the first time, I see his face in the daylight. It is tanned and covered in wrinkles. He says to father: “Happy holidays, Bey,” and Father gives him half a franc.
The grocery shop is closed. We make it to the square. Swings have been set up in front of the entrance to Husseiniya Street. We get on the tram at the front door next to the driver. I twist my neck to see the signs pasted overhead: “No Spitting.” “Do not talk to the driver.” We get off in Abbasiya Square, and get on the white tram. We get off at Ismailiya Square. Father takes a handkerchief and wipes the sweat off his face. He moves it around to the back of his neck and under his collar. He takes off the fez. He wipes off his bald spot then runs the handkerchief along the lining inside his fez. Puts the handkerchief on top of his head so its edges hang down on his forehead. He presses the fez down over it.
We go into the street and look up towards the house facing us at its end. He asks: “Do you think they’re home.” The sun is scorching and he has a watermelon under each arm. He takes off his fez and wipes away the sweat on his bald head with a handkerchief. The windows of the balcony are closed. We go back without a sound; his face looks sad.
I look hard at the wooden blinds that let you see through their narrow slats. One of them is raised just a little. I say: “If they’d gone out, they would’ve closed them.”
We stop in front of the only grocer that is open. Boxes of dried cod for Eid are stacked up in front of it. They are wide and painted snow white. Stacks of watermelon and cantaloupe melons. Some crates of grapes and figs. Father buys one oka of binati grapes and another of faiyyumi figs. He chooses the figs that have just opened up and leaves the ones that are still closed. He carries them in two bags that he clutches to his chest, one in each arm. We go back to the house. There are two cars in front of it, a Skoda and a Chrysler with a bubble shaped bonnet. The front entrance is paved with colored tiles. We go up the stairs.
The noise of the Eid festival comes from the first floor. A big family is living in two connected apartments. We keep going up to the second floor. The door overlooking the balcony is closed, but the one facing the stairwell is open. We go inside. Father plops down on the couch panting. I stand next to him. He breathes in and relaxes, removing his fez and putting it on top of a pillow in the middle of the couch. A strong breeze runs from the door that opens on to the stairwell to the guest room that connects to the veranda. Shawqi comes running out. He is about my age. He is good looking with light skin and smooth black hair. He is wearing a complete new suit. It’s a brownish color with white stripes that run lengthwise. His crepe-soled shoes are also brown. His sister Shareen runs out after him in a bright colored dress with short sleeves. Her hair is brushed back, parted in the middle, and tied with a bow behind her head. Her forehead has a deep mark from some sort of fall. They grab on to father. He hugs them and kisses them. He gives them their Eid money.
My sister Nabila walks in coming from the direction of the kitchen. She wears a dark red sleeveless dress. Her face is made up with powders and rouge. She kisses father on the cheek. “Happy holidays, papa.” He tries to kiss her back, but she moves away. “No, papa, you’ll ruin my make-up. Come on out to the veranda. There’s a nice breeze there.” Father waves at her to wait just a second. He says: “Seems like I have a touch of sunstroke or something.”
She says: “I’ll bring you some water with a drop of vinegar.”
“Give me a glass of water first.”
She calls out: “Khadra!” The new maid comes running. She is dark and taller than my sister. She has a big chest. Moves around quickly in her colored gallabiya. Her hair is tied back with a colored handkerchief that matches the gallabiya. Her feet look clean in her nice plastic flip-flops. She goes for the jugs on top of the tray sitting on the sideboard next to the radio. She takes the brass cover off one of them and pours water from it into a glass. She puts it on a small silver tray and offers it to father. She turns to me: “Would you like a drink, sir?” She hands me another glass. I gulp down the cold water with a touch of rosewater. Nabila tells her to bring a cup of water with a drop of vinegar.
Father takes off his suit coat. He throws it to the side. Nabila picks up the fez and coat. She hands them to me: “Hang them up inside.” I’m still carrying the English textbook and the notebook in my right hand. She says: “Put them on the dining table.”
I fly off to the bedroom with the fez and coat. I have to get on my tiptoes to hang the coat on one of the hooks of the coat rack. I set the fez down over it. I look up and smell something. Nabila has gathered up some mangoes from the garden and left them on the dresser. Mother offers slices of mango on a round tray made of china with colored drawings on it. It has a metal border ringing it. I like to set it on top of the rug sometimes and use it as a square with my cars, made of match boxes, moving around it. She gives Tante Dawlet a small plate with a fork and knife. She takes a slice and puts it in front of her on the plate. I wait for my turn.
I go back to the living room. Father is stretched out on his left side over the couch with his head resting on a white towel under his arm. The maid brings the water and vinegar. I take it from her and say that I know how to pour the drops from it. I lean over him. I press a finger into the vinegar water. I put it on his ear. I keep doing it until I hear a sizzling noise. Father turns over to the other side, switching the towel with him. I put drops in his other ear. He sits back up, keeping the towel against his ear. He says: “There, I’ve snapped out of it.”
Uncle Fahmi joins us in his quick step with his big belly. He leans a little to the right to check how he looks in the mirror over the sideboard. A light breeze catches the folds of his white, flowing gallabiya. “Happy holidays, Khalil Bey! The backgammon table’s ready. It’s Eid today. The winner gets a riyal.” Father smiles: “Just let me catch my breath.” Uncle Fahmi drags one of the dining table chairs over and turns it around to face the couch. He lights a cigarette and gives me my Eid money. It’s a new bill worth five piastres with a picture of King Farouk inside an oval border.