“You can’t seriously expect the captains of these ships to put their men at risk, simply for the sake of the cargo. A human life is worth far more than any bolt of cloth, any piece of timber, anything under the sun that doesn’t imagine its own death.” As Este spoke, her face flushed. Unfortunately, he could not mention the considerable dent in his financial plans that accompanied these ships’ unseemly retreat.
“I don’t fight with women,” he said. “I bring them gifts. Look what I brought you.” And from the pocket of his jacket he pulled the Ganesh, its small painted flowers gleaming in the morning light that drifted in as the curtains blew apart. “Look, it’s an elephant,” he said. “You have heard, I’m sure, that the brown people on the Indian continent believe in an elephant god called Ganesh, and this is him.” The women stared. “Well, not him, but a representation of him.”
“An idol,” said Lydia.
“You don’t worship him,” laughed Eric, smoothing down the edge of his black mustache, “you put him on your desk to look pretty, and he is pretty, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Este. She took the Ganesh and ran her fingers over its smooth glazed back. She held it in the palm of one hand and ran a finger down the slope of its small trunk. “Thank you,” she said, and in fact, for some reason she hardly understood, she was enormously pleased with the gift.
“It will bring you luck, I’m sure,” said Eric.
“Nonsense,” said Este, but she smiled again. “I’ve never had a Ganesh before,” she added.
Lydia felt she had to say, “Jews do not believe in elephant gods.”
“Neither do Christians,” said Eric.
“Tell me about India,” said Este. “I want to go there myself someday.”
“I haven’t actually been to India,” said Eric. “Glen MacAlan Scotch had no business there. I’ve been to Portugal, though.”
“Tell me about Portugal, then,” said Este. “I wish I could go there, too.”
Lydia looked at her daughter. She wanted to shield her from disappointment, Portugal, India, wishes that would never come true. The world might be round and vast, but what any one woman would know of it was limited to the classroom, the library, and the newspapers. “Este, my darling,” she said, “we must go out on our errands. Perhaps Eric will accompany us as far as the Muslim cemetery.” She wasn’t entirely displeased when he explained that he had to return to the docks in case any new ships were arriving.
“I’m sure I would get seasick on a boat,” said Lydia.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” said Este.
“The sea is very boring,” said Lydia.
“Not at all,” said Este. “It has a million colors, a thousand birds, and the wind blows hard and soft and the whitecaps rise and fall. I’m sure I should love it.”
“I doubt that,” said Lydia, and the subject was dropped.
DR. KOCH HAD a far larger laboratory than the Frenchmen’s. He and Gregor Gaffkey had several assistants, and he worked night and day. He had no other distractions. He recorded every attempt they made in a black notebook, the fifth in the series that he had begun when he arrived in Alexandria. He, too, was having trouble. The cholera that was surely in the city, killing more and more each day, evaded his glass, his experiments, melded with his dye, or dissolved on contact with the air or in some way that frustrated the doctor as nothing else ever had, hid in plain sight. Dr. Koch knew that after he discovered its shape, it would seem obvious. Other generations of scientists might wonder why it took him so long. They would admire his hard work, but speak of him and his accomplishments condescendingly. After all, it was right in front of his Germanic nose all the time.
A LETTER WAS waiting on the hall table. It was from Jacob. Lydia read:
Dearest parents, don’t be alarmed, but I have been interviewed by
several British intelligence o ficers in Jerusalem. It seems they are concerned that I am part of a Jewish conspiracy against the Crown. I believe I have convinced them that I am now a simple businessman
dealing in olives and my foolish publication when I was a student is
long behind me. I told them I no longer write or have any ambitions to
write. They let me go but said they will keep watching me. They have
spoken to the pasha here and may ask him to remove my papers. The
political situation is treacherous. The Grand Rabbi, who claims he is a
descendant of Rabbi Hillel (who could prove him wrong?), is anxious
to avoid any incident with the authorities. He, too, suspects that I am
an agent of foreign interests. On what grounds I cannot tell you. He
will not speak up in my favor. I am on my own. The British o ficers
asked me many questions about Father’s medical practice and his position in the community. They implied he was smuggling in hashish.
Needless to say, I have su fered many sleepless nights. Hope this
means nothing, but I did think you ought to know. With a fection always, Jacob.
Don’t be alarmed, don’t be alarmed. Lydia repeated the words over and over. How could she not be alarmed? Why shouldn’t she be alarmed? She waited until Este had gone to feed the birds in the courtyard and her husband had finished his dinner to show him the letter. He put his hand on hers. “Listen to your son, don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s most likely that the interest of the English Crown in the Malinas will fade quickly since in fact we do nothing to harm it.”
“Well, then,” said Lydia, “I won’t be alarmed.”
THE COMMITTEE OF Public Safety held a luncheon meeting. They invited Roux, Nocard, and Thuillier along with Dr. Robert Koch. But Louis did not attend the meeting. He had returned to the hospital to see the young man who had denied him tissue samples some hours before. Dr. Koch reported some progress in his laboratory, some significant leads, some hope that he had perhaps sighted the microbe, but it was too soon to present his work, the proof was not yet there. He would keep the committee informed of his progress. They were all invited to his laboratory to see his experiments if they wished. “But don’t expect to see the microbe,” he said, “not yet.”
Emile reported on the French mission’s work, not admitting that they had not made any progress besides the progress of elimination.
“The water has been boiled?” Nocard asked the servant who was pouring from a pitcher.
“No, sir,” said the servant.
“Well, boil it, then,” said Nocard, who did not touch the fish or greens that had been brought to him.
Emile pushed the food from one side of his plate to the other. “I’ll have some beer,” he said.
The Belgian doctors, the Arab surgeon, the Italian anatomist, the Turkish throat specialist, all members of the Alexandrian academy along with Dr. Malina, ate with full appetite.
AT NOON, NOCARD was sitting in a chair by the cage of a lamb recently injected with some tissue from the brain of their cholera victim, waiting for it to show signs of illness. Este announced she was leaving the laboratory. She was on her way home. Her mother had insisted she return in time for lunch. Her mother was lonely for her company.
“Walk with me,” she said to Louis. Her face was relaxed, as if she expected nothing of importance to occur.
“Let’s take the long way,” Louis said.
Este said, “No, my mother expects me at home.”
“All right,” Louis said, “let’s walk slowly.”
Anippe was trailing them. Marcus was teasing the maid by trying to undo the ribbons of her apron. Este wanted a drink of cream and ice from a vendor at the corner. Louis explained that it was not safe to eat food from the carts. The vendors did not boil their pots, they did not keep their hands clean.
“When will it end?” she asked.
Louis said, “No one knows.”
“I’ve heard from the cook that some in the Arab quarter were setting fires on the banks of the Nile to scare the cholera away,” Este said.
“It won’t work,” said Louis. He became quiet. A shyness fell over him. Este saw it.
“Tell me about your home,” she asked, and the shyness lifted. He told her about his mother and the park in Amiens where he had played as a child, and how here in Alexandria he sometimes dreamed that he was still a boy at home. He told her the name of the priest who had buried his friend Bernard, and he described for her the bank where his father worked, with its high brass rails and a great mahogany clock on the wall. She listened carefully. They walked past the bazaar, but did not stop to look at the wares spread before them. Louis told Este about Pasteur, about his useless arm and about his fierce eyes and the way he sat for hours unmoving in his chair in the corner of the lab. He told her that the world was changing, soon there would be no more unreasonable prattle about miracles and magic, and everyone would understand that things needed to be proved, evidence given, so that human life could be saved, disease defeated.
“But that will take a long time,” said Este.
“It will,” said Louis. “But it will happen. No more fairy tales.”
“I like fairy tales,” said Este.
“Enjoy them,” said Louis, “but don’t believe them.”
Este told Louis about her friend Phoebe’s brother Albert whom she had always thought she would marry but now wasn’t so sure. It was not fair, she said, that her brother took a boat to Palestine and she had to stay here, where day after day everything was just the same. They talked to each other with that whispered frenzy which does not imply clarity, but does reveal a magnetic pull, one sex to the other.
ALBERT’S FATHER CALLED him into his study after dinner. The younger man was ready to go out for the evening. He was playing cards at the club Au Quatre Deuce, placed discreetly off a side street of rue Bab Sidra, with some friends. He was already late because the servant had been slow in bringing the dessert to the table. His father, who had been unusually quiet during the meal, turned his head away from his son: a bad sign.
“I have had a visit,” he said, “from Dr. Malina. It seems, and I can hardly believe this to be true, that the ring you gave his daughter is a fake. The man was embarrassed to bring this to my attention, but thought I ought to know. I ought to know. What happened? Did you buy the girl a cheap ring? What’s the matter with you?”
Albert was stunned into silence. He had not paid the normal price for the ring, but he had been told he was purchasing a fine jewel. He cursed Achmed. He had been cheated. He pulled at the edges of his small, sharp beard and screamed at his father. “The ring was intended to be of the first order. I was promised that it was. I have been robbed.”
Albert’s father had known his son to shade the truth, to evade punishment, to make himself appear better than he was, but now he believed him. His obvious fury seemed entirely genuine.
“It’s about the honor of our family,” he said in a gentler tone.
“And what about them, the Malinas?” said Albert. “What did they do, take the ring for an evaluation, what kind of in-laws will they be, grasping and distrustful. For God’s sake, we have known these people all our lives. How dare they think I would cheat their daughter?”
“But it seems you did,” said the father. He reached into his desk and pulled out the velvet box. “Dr. Malina returned the ring in case you would like to replace it.”
“I will immediately,” Albert assured his father, but then he added, “perhaps you could help me with the purchase.”
The father stared at his son. “You don’t have it?”
“I don’t have it,” Albert answered. “A few gambling debts,” he mumbled.
The father sighed. He did not want the engagement called off, the embarrassing reason running through the lips of gossips, reaching the ears of potential clients, whispered in the balcony of the synagogue. He pulled out a ring of keys and, finding the correct one, pushed aside a beautiful Persian rug that hung on the wall, revealing a metal box set into the wood paneling. There was a harsh scraping noise as the door to the box swung slowly open.
ACHMED WAS HAVING his hair and beard trimmed by his personal barber when Albert announced himself to the servant who opened the front door. “My friend, have a seat,” said Achmed. “This won’t take much longer.” He flashed his very white teeth at the barber and motioned to Albert to come closer. Albert did not take a seat. He stood silently.
“What’s the matter,” said Achmed. “Bad news? Are you hung over and mean, like a camel with a bad tooth?”
Albert didn’t say a word. Achmed finished his haircut in silence, then waved the barber away, and when both young men could hear his steps on the stairs, he turned to Albert. “What, what is it?”
“This is what it is,” said Albert, and thrust out the box with the ring in it. “My fiancée and her mother went to a jeweler. The ring is no good, the ring is not what it should be, and I trusted you. I gave you my good money for this ring.” Albert was shouting.
“But,” said Achmed, “you wanted a bargain. I gave you a bargain. So it was a little less than perfect. Who would have expected the girl to discover that? What kind of people take an engagement ring to be checked? I would break the engagement if I were you.” He turned to the mirror to smooth his hair. “You want some coffee?” He pointed to the small turquoise enamel tray with cups and a long-necked coffeepot, that rested on a nearby table.
“I don’t want your coffee,” said Albert. “I want you to make good on your word. I want a perfect ring, larger even than this one, compensation for my grief.”
Achmed laughed. “Business is business, my friend,” he said. “You bought the ring. Buy her another if you don’t like it. I could sell you another, but the price will be higher, much higher.”
Albert was not a man who found humor in a situation such as this. He grabbed his friend by the back of his shirt and pulled him up. He glared into his eyes.
“Poor boy,” said Achmed, and tried to shake himself free. The way he said “poor boy” was unfortunate. Albert flew for his throat. Achmed, who was the larger if the flabbier of the two, pushed back, and they both fell into the mirror, which had green and yellow geometric tiles embedded at its border. The mirror slipped from the wall, the glass cracked, and shards spread out across the floor. One of them flew into Achmed’s right eye. “You fool,” screamed Achmed in a mixture of pain and anger. Albert saw the blood run down his friend’s face. “Jew, dirty Jew!” screamed Achmed. And there it was.