Authors: André Aciman
Out of Egypt (24 page)
“To a girl
who is all gold to us.
What does that mean?”
who is all gold to us.
What does that mean?”
“A girl who is very, very dearâI suppose.”
“You suppose. And does one give birth to a babyâis a baby born, or does one
receive
a baby, as it says here?” asked the shrewd officer.
receive
a baby, as it says here?” asked the shrewd officer.
“If one believes in God, then one receives what God sends,” interrupted my grandmother, who until the officers' visit had been reading Alberto Moravia's
Gli indifferenti
, a volume she continued to hold in her hand, a finger tucked between the pages to mark the spot where she had stopped reading.
Gli indifferenti
, a volume she continued to hold in her hand, a finger tucked between the pages to mark the spot where she had stopped reading.
“It is true in your religion and it is true in ours,” she continued. “Where is all this leading, anyway?”
“It is leading to the fact that we have proof you have been sending currency and jewelry abroad, and that you, and your brother Aaron before you, have been doing so for many years.”
Uncle Isaac denied the charge. He rubbed a finger hastily
past his upper lip and, a second later, pinched that same lip between his index finger and his thumb. When I looked at his forehead, it was glistening.
past his upper lip and, a second later, pinched that same lip between his index finger and his thumb. When I looked at his forehead, it was glistening.
“I am afraid you will have to come with us,” said the officer.
“How do you mean, âwith you'?”
“You are under arrest.”
The second officer gripped my uncle's arm.
“Please get dressed.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Then we're taking you as you are.”
“Never. What is the charge?”
“Treason.”
“Egyptian claptrap! I am eighty years old.”
My uncle tried to free his arm, and, it seemed, would have fallen to the ground in the struggle had the other officer not held him in place.
“You can't arrest people like this,” my grandmother protested.
The men did not answer.
“And where are you taking him?” asked Cousin Arnaut with a breathless pant in his voice as if to suggest he had put up a good fight before abandoning his uncle to his fate.
They were taking him to the police station.
It was then I began to smell a terrible odor. I looked around me, looked at my grandmother, who seemed equally perturbed, and then saw something on Uncle Isaac's slipper and down his ankle. He had turned white. He leaned against the mantelpiece as though about to look at his face in the mirror and, turning around to the group of us assembled in the living room, he whispered, almost without breathing,
“Mamá querida.”
“Mamá querida.”
He asked for a few minutes to change.
Aunt Elsa insisted that as a foreign national he should refuse
to leave the house. That would only exacerbate matters, he said.
to leave the house. That would only exacerbate matters, he said.
Ten minutes later he came into the sitting room wearing his dark astrakhan-collared coat, with his walking stick in one hand and his monocle slung about his neck. He opened his cigarette case and proceeded to fill it with as many cigarettes as he could from a small inlaid box on one of the end tables in the sitting room. Then he went to say goodbye to Latifa, who had sensed trouble and was already weeping. On hearing her sudden wailing, everyone in the room burst out crying as well. As they flocked to follow him onto the landing, he turned around and said, “Please, everyone! Can't I leave in peace without all of you milling at the door like vultures?”
My great-grandmother, who had just embraced him, stood impassively in the hallway, more dazed than saddened, leaning on her elder daughter, who began waving the handkerchief she had been using on her nose. Aunt Elsa and Aunt Marta did the same. “Ladies, sisters, ladies, please!” said Isaac as he turned around, pushed his youngest sister inside the apartment, and slammed the door behind him.
“He won't last a day if they put him in jail,” wept Aunt Elsa. “He's finished,” said Uncle Nessim.
After a moment of silence outside, I heard a thud of people stepping into the elevator, heard the metallic gate rattle shut, followed by the snap of the wooden inner door, its loose glass panel shaking in place. Then I heard the grinding wheeze of the motor and the whine of the counterweight cables in the inner courtyard.
Morning gradually began to fill the house. Everyone sat in the living room wearing their bathrobes, their hair down, their breath still filled with sleep, stunned as never before, except at news of death. It had never occurred to anyone in the family that Isaac was as vulnerable as everyone else in the world, that
there were miracles even he could not work, that he too could be as scared as Latifa.
there were miracles even he could not work, that he too could be as scared as Latifa.
A week after Uncle Isaac's arrest, we received a telegram announcing he was safe in
sweet
France. “Lucky Isaac,” everyone said.
sweet
France. “Lucky Isaac,” everyone said.
Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the air raids stopped, as did the sirens, and the blackout. The war had ended.
There was no rejoicing at the news, though a general air of relief had to be affected for the benefit of neighbors and servants. But everyone worried. We worried more without the sirens and the blackout than when we banded together in the dark, fearing the worst every evening. My parents decided not to leave my great-grandmother's apartment. Better to stay together, everyone said.
Then came rumors of the expulsion of some French and British nationals, and other rumors followed of the summary nationalization of factories, businesses, homes, bank accounts. It was said the fate of the Jews would be no different. We worried. Even my great-grandmother began to talk of moving to France. But she would have to take Latifa, she said.
Anticipating the worst, everyone in the family spent the ensuing weeks shopping for things we could afford in Egypt but might find expensive in Europe. Since the period in question coincided with Christmas, the frantic, heady rhythm of shopping cast a holiday spell on our days.
I remember the joy of those December mornings when my mother and I stepped out into the crisp, clean, foggy air of Rue Thèbes as we rushed to catch the tram at Sporting, meeting Aunt Flora a few stations up and spending the rest of the morning going from one shop to the next.
Store windows were heavily decorated with gift-wrapped boxes, tinsel, and fake snow, with
Merry Christmas
and
Joyeux Noël
written in thick cotton letters glued to the back of display windows. The smell of pine hung over every floor of Hannaux and Chalon. At Hannaux, a bearded Santa sat me on his lap and asked whether I had been a good boy. I told him yes, except for the time when I played with the lights during an air raid. He said I need not worry, the war was over. “
Ne mens jamais,
never lie,” he urged, waving a finger. He let me down, and an Arab boy took my place. Santa spoke Arabic too.
Merry Christmas
and
Joyeux Noël
written in thick cotton letters glued to the back of display windows. The smell of pine hung over every floor of Hannaux and Chalon. At Hannaux, a bearded Santa sat me on his lap and asked whether I had been a good boy. I told him yes, except for the time when I played with the lights during an air raid. He said I need not worry, the war was over. “
Ne mens jamais,
never lie,” he urged, waving a finger. He let me down, and an Arab boy took my place. Santa spoke Arabic too.
Both my mother and Flora bought woolen clothing. Winters were fierce in Europe, and they both agreed it was wise to stock up. We bought three very large thick wool blankets, one for each of us. When they were delivered at Sporting early that afternoon, my father screamed, saying that each blanket was so huge it would take up an entire suitcase all to itself. My grandmother agreed with my father. But then she touched the wool and said it would last a lifetime, a good purchase, she would buy one herself. These blankets were impossible to come by in France.
Meanwhile, Latifa was on morphine all the time. Moments after the injection, she would lie down and, eyes wide open, stare at the ceiling, drooling a bit from the corner of her mouth, a dreamy sigh wheezing out of her half-pursed lips each time she breathed. She would bring her right palm to her chest, slowly pick up some imaginary object there with her fingers, and then, raising the same arm as though pointing to the ceiling, offer to the lamp the clump of air she had just picked from her chest. This went on for hours every afternoon. No one knew why she persisted in this silent mummery, or whether it had any meaning whatsoever. My grandmother
eventually brought my mother into the maid's room and asked her about Latifa's gestures. My mother understood them immediately. She is offering her soul to God. She is asking God to take her. She wants to die.
eventually brought my mother into the maid's room and asked her about Latifa's gestures. My mother understood them immediately. She is offering her soul to God. She is asking God to take her. She wants to die.
Latifa's son finally came one afternoon. He was let into his mother's room by Abdou, who stood watch outside in case the young man decided to wander about and pilfer things in the apartment. He was sixteen but looked no older than twelve, and wore Western clothes. I saw him come in from where I was sitting in the family room.
“Who is it?” whispered my great-grandmother.
“Latifa's son.”
“And what does he want?”
Overhearing this exchange, my grandmother put aside her needlepoint and went to meet him. She knocked at the
karakib
door, walked in, and said she was
enchantée
to meet him. The young man simply stared at my grandmother and, at his mother's prompting, finally stood up to offer her the only chair in the room, which she refused. He nevertheless remained standing, shifting about nervously, finally locking his hands over his groin.
karakib
door, walked in, and said she was
enchantée
to meet him. The young man simply stared at my grandmother and, at his mother's prompting, finally stood up to offer her the only chair in the room, which she refused. He nevertheless remained standing, shifting about nervously, finally locking his hands over his groin.
“You will talk to your mother now. Then you will come and see me,” she said leaving the room.
A few minutes later, the maid's door squeaked open and the irresolute boy came out, his hands still locked over his groin. I looked at his face to see if he had cried. He looked calm, almost bored. He had not cried.
“I have talked to my mother,” he said, remembering my grandmother's exact words.
“Come, then,” she said, as the boy reluctantly approached the family room. He had probably never been in a living room before in his life and was intimidated by the apartment, the faces, the prying eyes.
“Your mother tells me you steal,” said my grandmother. “Is that true?”
The boy did not answer.
“Answer me!” she said.
The boy shook his head, then bit his lip and said, “Yes.”
“Do you want to go to jail?”
He did not answer.
“Don't you know it is wrong to steal? Do you know what they do to people who steal? They bind your feet together, pull them up, and beat them till you can't even stand when you go to the bathroom. My brother Isaac was very angry when he heard that Latifa's son is a thief, and next time we hear it, he will tell the king, and they will come and put you in jail.”
She had almost believed it herself.
The boy stood expressionless and said nothing.
“Now, go home. Then, I want you to go to my son's factory tomorrow. He will give you a job.”
Latifa must have heard my grandmother's diatribe, for as soon as her son opened the door to her room to say goodbye again, I heard her bless my grandmother. He stepped into her room again and before shutting the door made an obscene gesture.
Two days later, Latifa died. My mother and I had left the house to go shopping that morning. Before leaving she had asked me to wait outside the
karakib
door while she gave Latifa her daily injection. But I felt something was different. There was a flurry about the servants' quarters, and Abdou's eyes were bloodshot. When I asked him, he shook his head and made a gesture to signify that only Allah knew.
karakib
door while she gave Latifa her daily injection. But I felt something was different. There was a flurry about the servants' quarters, and Abdou's eyes were bloodshot. When I asked him, he shook his head and made a gesture to signify that only Allah knew.
We returned from shopping earlier than planned. As soon as we arrived at our building and took the elevator, I heard screams such as I had never heard in my life. When we opened
the door, everyone at home was in tears, including my great-grandmother, who had finally realized what had happened. The screaming was coming from the service entrance. My grandmother told me in Ladino not to go into the kitchen, but I immediately disobeyed her. When I opened the pantry door, the screaming suddenly grew louder. I stepped into the kitchen and saw Latifa's body laid out on the table. Abdou and Ibrahim were wrapping it up from head to foot in what looked like gray sackcloth, while neighboring servants stood about the service door to see her for the last time. They looked at me but said nothing, though I sensed they disapproved. I did not move from the doorway. Then Hisham, who despite his missing arm was the strongest of the three, hoisted her up on his shoulder and proceeded to carry her down the service stairway.
the door, everyone at home was in tears, including my great-grandmother, who had finally realized what had happened. The screaming was coming from the service entrance. My grandmother told me in Ladino not to go into the kitchen, but I immediately disobeyed her. When I opened the pantry door, the screaming suddenly grew louder. I stepped into the kitchen and saw Latifa's body laid out on the table. Abdou and Ibrahim were wrapping it up from head to foot in what looked like gray sackcloth, while neighboring servants stood about the service door to see her for the last time. They looked at me but said nothing, though I sensed they disapproved. I did not move from the doorway. Then Hisham, who despite his missing arm was the strongest of the three, hoisted her up on his shoulder and proceeded to carry her down the service stairway.
As he started down the stairs with the body, I heard the screams soar into an almost predatory chorus of piercing shrieks echoing in the inner courtyard. All the maids in the building were leaning out of windows, waving handkerchiefs, sometimes two or three women crammed in one window, howling after Latifa, begging her to come back, imploring Hisham, as was the custom, not to take her away from them, not to take her away, some even tearing the clothes they were wearing, slapping their faces, banging their heads against the wall, screaming, “
Ya Latifa! Ya Latifa!
”
Ya Latifa! Ya Latifa!
”
The next day, my grandmother asked to take me for a walk. We went to Petit Sporting, bought a penny's worth of roasted peanuts coated with salt, and ended up in Ibrahimieh. From there we headed to Rue Memphis, where we met a lame beggar sitting on the curb of a sidewalk. “Here, give him these,” said my grandmother, handing me a few coins. “For Latifa's soul,” she added. We paid a short visit to her old house, which she
had recently rented to a Copt family. I waited outside while she went in to pick up an envelope. A boy immediately came out and stood without saying a word, eyeing me suspiciously.
had recently rented to a Copt family. I waited outside while she went in to pick up an envelope. A boy immediately came out and stood without saying a word, eyeing me suspiciously.
Other books
Dossier K: A Memoir by Imre Kertesz
Dune Messiah by Frank Herbert
Alpha's Strength (Fallen Alpha) by Royce, Rebecca
Futanari Legends: The Frozen Queen (Book 1: Brenna) by Angel Black
The Good Sister by Leanne Davis
Nightside [Diana Tregarde series] by Mercedes Lackey
Curse of the Dream Witch by Allan Stratton
04 Dark Space by Jasper T Scott
The Wrong Mother by Sophie Hannah