“Frankly,” he started, looking out the window, “I am here because you knew my father and I know he used to speak to you about my son, so I thought maybe you might want to see my son.”
“
I
knew your father? I don't think so,” she said with an almost haughty ring in her voice as she arched her eyebrows. And then, before I quite knew what had happened, I saw her face redden, and a misty dampness swell in her eyes.
“Of course,” she said, finally laying down the black velvet pad she had been holding all the while since seeing us walk into the store. “Of course,” she repeated, nearly slumping on an antique chair, the backs of both hands flat against her thighs. “So this is the small boy. Let me see,” she said, kneeling down to my level. “But he looks just like him.” And turning to my father, “How nice to meet you too,” she said. “You've no idea how happy this visit makes me.”
“I thought perhaps it might. He would often say you wished to meet his grandson, so this morning, seeing we were free, I thought why not, and, well, here he is.”
“What a coincidence, though. I was speaking about your father only yesterday,” she continued as baffled as ever, touching my hand with her finger. “Wait, I must tell my brother Diego. Diego,” she called out, “come and see who's here.”
A man a touch younger than his sister appeared from a back room.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Take a good look before saying yes like that,” urged his sister.
The man screwed his eyes on both of us.
“I'm sorry, but I don't understand.”
“But this is the grandson.”
“What grandson?” he exclaimed as though losing his temper.
“You sent him the ivory balls and you don't recognize him.”
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, bringing a palm to his mouth. “He mentioned the boy several times, but who would have thoughtâ”
He asked me whether I played billiards. I shook my head. He asked if I still had the balls he had given my grandfather for me. Yes, they were in my room, I said. What color were they? I told him.
“What a man, your father! I'm sure you know.” Then, upon silent reflection, he added, “No, I suppose you can't know. One never knows when it's one's father,” he said. Then, as though spurred by a sudden whim, he asked, “May we give him something?”
My father, still unable to believe there were people who venerated his father without being related to him, was growing more strained and uncomfortable, as though he suspected the brother and sister of bad faith, or simply of having been so easily duped by his father into loving him so much that they could only have been dolts.
“I'd prefer not,” he said.
“Oh, a little something hurts no one.”
“Please don't.”
“But, monsieur,” said Diego, “I am making this present not only to your son but to your father. Please allow me.”
He pulled out an old brown drawer bearing a lion's mane on each knob and opened a small jeweler's box in which lay a gold tie clip studded with a rounded turquoise.
“It's for you,” said the sister.
She handed me the small box.
“May I kiss him?”
“Of course,” replied my father.
“He was a very special friend, you know.”
My father did not reply. He began to show an interest in an old clock. But the young lady interrupted his inquiry, saying he should not feel obliged to purchase anything simply because we had received a gift.
“But the next time you happen to be here and have a free moment, please bring the boy.”
Brother and sister saw us to the door and we exchanged goodbyes. On our way to the coffeehouse on the Corniche, I clutched the little box tight, refusing to hold my father's hand when we crossed the street for fear he might ask me to let him take it. Which is exactly what he did.
“Here, I'll keep it in my pocket for you,” said my father, gently taking it from my hand. “It might be better not to tell anyone about it.”
Then, trying to sound casual, he looked up at the clear sky, thought a moment, and, looking straight ahead, said, “I hope they'll give us the same table.”
T
affi
A
l
-N
ur!
M
y mother noticed something strange about the city as soon as we stepped out of the wool shop that evening. An unusual darkness hung over the crowded bus terminal in the main square; people fretted about the streets, cluttering the sidewalks as they waited for buses that arrived more overloaded than usual, tilted under the weight of passengers who were hanging onto doorways, some holding on to fellow passengers. Suddenly, the lights of Hannaux, the city's largest department store, went out, followed immediately by those of the Hannaux Annex to the right. The crowd gave a start as someone remarked that even Hannaux had put out its lights. Then St. Katherine's lights went out.
Everything was dark now, and we guided our footsteps by the unsteady, sporadic illumination of car headlights. Other people seemed to be doing the same. Suddenly, men wearing
galabiyas
came rushing, almost bumping into us. They were chanting slogans.
My mother held my hand and began to hurry toward Rue
Chérif, walking faster and faster along the sidewalk until we caught sight of a grocery store on an adjoining street. Its Greek owner was standing outside the doorway holding a long metal crank in both hands, as though about to fend off looters with his improvised weapon. When I looked through the open door, I saw that the shop was packed with customers, most, like us, having wandered in seeking shelter.
From outside, the Greek lowered the rolling shutter till it reached knee level. Then, bending under the shutter, he crept back into his store, rested the long crank against the doorjamb, tugged at his apron, smoothed its crinkles and, rubbing his hands together as though all this were just another rainstorm that might as well be weathered in good cheer, proceeded to take the next order.
The grocer had no intention of closing early on this autumn evening. Shoppers normally filled the streets after work, when the sidewalks throbbed with a chaos of lights spilling out of busy coffee shops and stores, especially now that the days were shorter and shops stayed open long after it got dark. Through the store windows you could watch women trying on gloves, and salesgirls forever folding and stacking sweaters in rainbow assortments of colors. I felt the nap of my sweater rub against my chin, there was something warm, wholesome, and kind in this soft, autumnal smell of new wool that presaged long, tearoom evenings, holiday shopping, and Christmas presents. I let the wool rub my chin again, thinking of tarts and hot chocolate at Délices, Alexandria's largest pastry shop, where Aunt Flora was to meet us that evening, and my father a while later, and where we would huddle together under the muted orange spill of evening lights at our usual table overlooking the old harbor while waiters delivered family orders on very large platters.
We had gone to buy my first winter uniform. That afternoon,
my mother had come to pick me up at school. She had waited in a taxicab parked on Rue des Pharaons, outside the school grounds, and as soon as she saw me had asked the cabdriver to honk a few times to draw my attention. I got in the cab as everyone else was lining up for the school bus. Mother let me sit on the jump seat in front of her. She kissed me from behind once the driver had closed the door.
We ordered the uniform in less than an hour. Most everyone at school purchased their uniforms from the school concession. Mother wanted to have mine made by her mother's tailor. The Princess suggested a compromise. Hannaux, apparently, sold school uniforms, less ostentatious than tailored clothes, but not those lopsided things others wore. We also had to buy a winter coat. I wanted the kind everyone else in class had, a coarsely woven cavalry twill trench coat whose belt came with a large leather buckle with two prongs and two rows of holes. My mother examined some of the coats and decided our tailor made better winter coats. We were not poor, she said.
Then, as the sun was setting, we had gone to an Armenian store to buy hanks of wool for sweaters that Aziza would knit for us in the weeks to come. I was told to choose my own colors. I hesitated awhile. Then I chose salmon. My mother said the color was not right for me, she wanted me to choose navy. But the owner of the store congratulated me on my choice of color. “Like father, like son,” he said to my mother. “My husband never wears salmon,” she protested. “That may be, madame, but it's his factory that dyed this wool, and look,” he said, taking another spool from one of the lower bins, “no one but your husband can get these colors out of wool, no one,” he said as though my father were a Michelangelo, able to free the most resplendent hues from an ordinary Egyptian fleece. Pleased by the praise, my mother decided I should have a salmon-colored sweater as well. Compliments were paid back
and forth. Then we said goodbye, left the store, and had barely taken a few steps toward Place Mohammed Ali when suddenly the lights went out.
Ten minutes later we were packed inside the crowded Greek grocery store. At some point, the owner was forced to turn off all the lights in his shop; an Egyptian running the length of the side alley, banged on the rolling shutter, screaming “
Taffi al-nurâ
put out your lightsâ
taffi al-nur!
” Everyone had to obey. “I don't want trouble,” said the Greek as he implored his customers to forgive him.
In the dark, I held my mother's hand. She did not know about the wail that had cut through the evening clamor of the city and hovered overhead, a loud persistent blare that had come from around the Attarin district, one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city, and which someone said was a siren.
“But what's all this,” complained a woman in Italian, “one can't see a thing in the dark.”
“Wait,” said the grocer. We heard the rattle of the shutters and the sound of the metal lip finally striking the ground. Seconds later, someone turned on a weak light in the rear of the shop.
“E bravo!”
shouted one of the customers. Everyone else joined in the clapping, and business resumed as usual.
“Soon it'll be over and we'll all go home,” said someone.
“At any rate, how long do you think it could possibly last with them,” said someone else in French, mocking the Egyptian forces.
“A day or two at the most?” guessed another.
“If that,” said a fourth voice. “The British will clean this whole mess up for us, give the Egyptians the well-deserved hiding they've been begging for ever since nationalizing the Suez Canal. And in a matter of weeks things will be back to what they always were.”
“
Inshallah
,” said a European in Arabicâ“If it please God.”
We made our way to the cashier, where my mother asked if we could use the telephone. The cashier said others were waiting in line for it. “We'll wait too,” she replied. She gestured to the man in line ahead of usâcould she possibly call first, seeing as she had a child with her and so many packages. The man shrugged his shoulders, saying the situation was urgent for everyone, not just her. “Imbecile!” muttered my mother under her breath.
After the present caller paid for using the telephone, the “imbecile” took hold of the handset and began dialing. He listened intently and looked extremely worried. Suddenly, relief and a flustered smile lit up his features. “Hello, Mammaaaaaa?” he shouted in the middle of the crowded grocery store.
She obviously couldn't hear very well because he had to shout. He made jerky movements with his head each time he warned her to stay put till he got home. “Go downstairs to the shelter. Nowhere else, understand?” I could hear her yammering in the earpiece. “Understand?” he repeated louder. Still she kept jabbering away. “Understand? Yes or no?” he yelled. At which she must have remembered to say yes, because he blurted out an exasperated “Finally,” ending his conversation by whispering, “Me too.”
He paid the cashier and our turn came. My mother, as was her habit, waited a moment as she held the handset before dialing. As soon as she dialed a number, she handed me the telephone. It was busy, I said. “On your word?” she asked with menace. “On my word.” She tried another number. This time it rang. I never knew whom we were calling until they answered the telephone. But no one answered. “No one's at the office then,” she said. She tried a third number. “But where are you?” the Princess exclaimed. “We've been looking everywhere for you. We even called Hannaux.”
“We're in a grocery store,” I said.
“In a grocery store! What are you doing in a grocery store at a time like this?” she yelled.
“Why are we in a grocery store?” I asked my mother.
“Because there's a
blenkaw
. Tell her it's because of the
blenkaw
,” insisted my mother.
“She says it's because of the
blenkaw
.”
“Because of the what?”
“The
blenkaw
,” I explained.
“What in God's name is a
blenkaw
?”
“What's a
blenkaw
?” I asked my mother.
“It's when they shut off the lights and you're in the middle of a war.”
“Blackout,”
corrected my grandmother, bursting with anger. “Will she ever learn to speak correctly before the boy ends up talking like a deaf-mute?” she commented to herself. When were we coming home, she asked.
“There are no taxis,” answered my mother.
“And what is the name of the grocery store?”
“Miltiades,” said my mother.
“But that's at the other end of the world. Why did she have to go to Miltiades of all places? I'm coming.”
“She's coming,” I said.
“She's not! Tell her not to come. Tell her we'll go to her house.”
My grandmother began to argue when, in the course of the debate, the all clear rang over the city. My grandmother heard it too at her end of the line. “Come immediately,” she ordered. The Greek and his wife turned on the main lights and almost simultaneously raised the rolling shutter. Blackout rituals from the Second World War were still very fresh in everyone's mind. “You may leave now, ladies and gentlemenâcourtesy of Miltiades,” he said as he stood at the doorway, wishing all of his customers good evening like a doorman expecting a tip. I had
grown to like the warm, stand-up fellowship inside the store and was almost sorry to leave so soon, for there was something reassuring in being herded with so many people who smelled of cigarettes, perfume, and damp wool coats.
It occurred to my mother that we still had no way of getting home from where we were. By the time we reached Rue Chérif, all the shops had closed and the streets were emptying fast. There were no taxis available and the carriages normally parked along the sidewalks of Hannaux had disappeared.
The only choice was to reach Ramleh station by foot. From there we hoped to catch a tram to Grand Sporting, where my grandmother lived. But Ramleh was not close. “Can you walk?” she asked. “Because we'll have to walk to the station, and we have to walk fast.” She gave me two of the smaller parcels and began to march forward, as I held on to her hand. She cursed herself for buying tea and pickled scallions at Miltiades.
The city was very dark. We turned the corner at Rue Toussoum, hugging the walls of the Ottoman bank as we tried to stay clear of the traffic. Mother stopped to judge whether, without knowing it, we might have missed Rue Phalaki in the dark. But no, Rue Phalaki was up ahead, she said. When we finally found ourselves walking along the dark and narrow sidewalk of the street on the way to the Boulevard, the wail of a siren once again tore through the city. People behind us began to run and the few lights inside the adjoining buildings immediately went out. Men were shouting in fear, invoking Allah. We too began to hasten our pace toward the Boulevard. Once we reached the intersection, we made out a large crowd massing around the tramway station. “This is worse than I thought,” Mother said, as she stopped to catch her breath. The underground shelter would be crammed with people by now.
I had seen the Boulevard Saad Zaghloul late in the evening
before, with its shops closed for the night, but this was different. All the lights were gone now. People in
galabiyas
were racing around us, running toward the station as, a woman shrieked a boy's name. In between the dark outline of the buildings along the Boulevard, starlit, silver-flecked patches flashed in the distance, the old harbor.
Not two yards from Délices, we ran into Kyrio Yanni, the chief pastry cook, who immediately recognized us and offered us shelter in the Délices annex that housed the kitchen facilities. In the dark kitchen where we stood, Kyrio Yanni warned my mother that we should not go back to Smouha. “The guns of Smouha are sure to draw enemy fire.” Mother explained that we were not planning to go to Smouha that evening.
Meanwhile, one of the Egyptian pastry chefs who had been smoking a cigarette in front of what looked like a large oven brought us two freshly baked pastries, which we devoured on the spot.
“Two more,” insisted Kyrio Yanni. “Two more.” And before Mother had a chance to refuse, he produced two of the creamiest
mille-feuilles
I had ever seen. He went back into another room, where I heard him fiddling around with paper. Then he reappeared with a small package. “For the family,” he said. “And now we must go. Come.”