In the late afternoon of November 19, 1924, while Cairo nervously awaited the British response to the downtown shooting of Sir Lee Stack, Sirdar of the Egyptian army and Governor General of the Sudan, bedridden Selim Sahli was thinking of another shooting.
In 1921, during the Alexandria street riots over the British presence in Egypt, a policeman had killed a man watching the melee from a balcony. The victim’s family – Greek working class – had launched a lawsuit. The case had worked its way up to the mixed court of appeal, and was scheduled to be heard at the end of the month. An experienced lawyer, Selim accepted the case pro bono. He had already prepared his argument that the court’s reach extended to the policeman’s action for no arm of government should be above the rule of law. It would be a hard case to win, which made him all the keener to have a go at it. His head propped up by pillows of assorted sizes, he wondered whether he would have the strength, come the end of the month, to address the court.
Until the previous evening, he had assumed that he would. Now, after an especially difficult night and a heavy dose of painkillers, he felt almost as weak as he had in Paris after his last kidney operation. Reluctant to pass the file to his partner Mahmud Bey, who had two difficult cases of his own to argue, he decided to give himself another forty-eight hours before calling him. In the meantime, Selim would polish his submissions. The sight of the files stacked high on his bedside table invigorated him. Yet a shooting pain in his back stopped him from reaching for them. Losing heart, he remembered with exasperation Nietzsche portraying illness as a state conducive to fruitful contemplation. ‘Rubbish,’ he thought.
The curtains of his bedroom window were drawn back and the shutters pulled up. The windows themselves were opened just an inch, as he liked to hear the sounds of the city and feel connected to the hustle and bustle of the outside world. It kept his spirits up.
With its thick Persian rugs, Venetian lamps, canopy bed and walnut furniture, his bedroom bore all the signs of affluence. Yet, compared to other bourgeois Cairene bedrooms at that time, it was almost austere, lacking the usual profusion of ornamental objects. Though decorative, alabaster bookends on a small writing desk, and silver jewelry boxes on a dressing table served a utilitarian purpose. The fine white gauze curtains were not shiny satin; the one mirror in the room had a reddish oak frame with a matt finish, rather than a gilded frame. Black and white lithographs – mostly street scenes – covered half of one wall, while three large overfilled bookcases took up the entirety of another.
The apartment was within walking distance of Groppi’s, the Café Riche, Lemonia’s, the Muhammad Ali Club and Au Bouquiniste Oriental, all places Selim frequented but had not set foot in since the worsening of his kidney condition over two weeks ago.
A couple of minutes passed before the pain in his back diminished. Small as it was, this improvement made him euphoric and he thought again about his case until his two daughters, fifteen-year-old Gabrielle and fourteen-year-old Claire, came rushing into his room.
Gabrielle burst out loudly in French, the language she spoke with her parents: ‘Papa, Sir Lee Stack has been shot.’
‘Really?’ Selim asked, sitting up in his bed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, yes. At lunchtime. In his car. On his way home from the war office, I think. Apparently, a group of young men standing on a kerb shot at his car as it slowed in traffic. His driver and aide-de-camp were hurt too. The three of them have been taken to the Anglo-American hospital,’ Gabrielle said, her voice rising in excitement.
‘Well, well ... ’ Selim said. ‘I must call Mahmud Bey. He might tell us more about it.’
‘What do you think this will mean for Egypt’s independence?’ Claire asked.
‘Not much in the long run. Trust me, Britain’s so-called special relationship with Egypt won’t last long. Egypt will sooner or later achieve total independence. Whether democracy takes root is another question though. Will Saad Zaghlul manage to steer the country in the right direction? Does he have the personality for it? One wonders. There seems to be a bit too much of the autocrat in him.’ After a brief pause, Selim went on, ‘Did I ever tell you that, years ago, I spent a couple of evenings discussing Rousseau with his brother Fathi who was in the midst of translating The Social Contract? Now Fathi Zaghlul had strong liberal instincts, even if he had some lapses – but then no one is free from contradictions. May he rest in peace.’
The two girls exchanged quick glances, taking it as a good sign that their father should be so talkative. He had been unusually subdued the previous evening. Their father’s precarious health had been a source of worry for them all their lives. He had sought treatment in Europe summer after summer. By now, they should have been inured to his bouts of illness. But since he rarely took to his bed, they were upset when he did. Their mother, herself very anxious, was incapable of providing the sort of reassurance that would have made the girls worry less about their father’s plight.
‘Papa,’ Claire asked, ‘why didn’t you ever become involved in politics?’ She recalled him supporting the 1919 lawyers’ strike and her mother’s concern when he took part in demonstrations. But why hadn’t he joined a party and become really involved? ‘After all,’ she said, ‘you’re for much of what the nationalists are for.’
Plump and balding, Selim had lively hazel eyes with a witty, attentive and kind expression. He put people at ease when he talked to them and made them feel that what they said mattered a great deal; because of this many found him handsome when he was actually quite plain. Even in his debilitated state he managed to look attentive. He took his time before answering.
‘The Syrians of Egypt are in an awkward position,’ Selim said, ‘so are the Greeks, the Lebanese, the Armenians, though we, the Syrians, are probably in the most awkward position. Is it our fault, for wanting to be all things to all people, or the fault of those among the nationalists who blow our distinctness out of proportion? A bit of both, I suppose.’
‘Papa, don’t tire yourself,’ Gabrielle said and looked at her sister disapprovingly.
‘Don’t worry. I’m feeling fine. It just occurred to me that you two might want to read Rousseau at some stage. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.’
‘And should we be reading Marx too?’ Claire asked. As a student, her father had returned from Paris with the first two volumes of Das Kapital in his trunk. His father would not have it in his household and had ordered his son to get rid of the books or not bother unpacking. Selim complied, leaving a note which read: ‘No to censorship!’ He was taken in by an accommodating aunt who suggested a compromise. Selim could go back home with his Das Kapital as long as he kept it out of his father’s sight, hidden somewhere in his room, and the father, pressured by his wife, had relented. This was what one of Claire’s uncles had told her.
‘Marx?’ their father said, ‘Marx too if you have the inclination. Read everything and anything, despite what the nuns tell you at school.’ Without a pause, he added cheerfully, ‘I suggest you now do something more useful with your time than keep me company, and I should try to do some work.’ Upon seeing his cook walk into the room carrying a tray, he said, ‘Ah! Here’s Osta Osman bringing me a camomile infusion. But where’s my mehalabeyah?’
‘Drinks first, food second,’ Osta Osman said beaming. ‘But more importantly, how does our Bey feel this afternoon? Much better it seems, thank God. Certainly better than last night.’ A big and bulky Nubian, who guessed he was fifty but was not sure, Osta Osman wore ample galabeyahs – always white and impeccably ironed – that made him look majestic. He had worked for Selim’s parents for many years and was considered part of the household. Though Middle Eastern dishes were his specialty, he could also cook French, Italian and even some German cuisine. The two other servants in the household – Om Batta, the washerwoman, and young Ali, the cleaner – were in awe of him and marched to his tune.
‘I’m upset with you,’ Selim said as he took the cup off the tray.
‘But why?’ Osta Osman asked, not seeming alarmed.
‘Because you didn’t tell me that the British Sirdar was shot. You must have heard about it soon after it happened.’
‘I didn’t want to interrupt your afternoon rest, my Bey. I was planning to tell you though. I gather that the young ladies have done that already.’
‘Yes, they have. So, what do you think?’
‘What can one say ... since the Dinshawai affair, things have gone from bad to worse for the British. It’s been almost twenty years but people have long memories. That several villagers were hanged, flogged, sentenced to hard labor for the death of one – only one – British officer after a fight which they, the British officers, caused, will never be forgotten or forgiven. I don’t need to tell you, my Bey, about the injustice of this sad story! What about the village women wounded by the British? And the young man beaten to death by them? All Egyptians were furious at the outcome of that trial – Muslims and Copts alike.’
In her heavily accented Arabic – unlike their father, both girls spoke it poorly – Gabrielle turned towards Osta Osman and said, ‘You’re right. I have a Coptic friend at school who gets very upset at the mention of Dinshawai.’
‘So she should,’ Osta Osman said. Looking at Selim, he asked, ‘What do you think Saad Zaghlul will do now?’
‘Well, the British will demand the usual. They’ll insist that Egypt forget about the Sudan, abandon any claim on it and withdraw its troops. That’s for sure. These demands will obviously be unacceptable to Zaghlul and the Wafd, so he’ll resign. Then the king will do his best to get one of his henchmen to be the next prime minister. He might succeed but it won’t last. As for those the police will arrest, one can only hope that these poor men will get fair trials.’ Selim winced and briefly closed his eyes.
Osta Osman promptly took the cup from him, saying, ‘What do we care about politics? It’s your health we care about. You have exhausted yourself with all this talk about politics. The doctor told us you needed plenty of rest. You look better today than you did yesterday, but I can tell you’re tired. You didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘Neither did you,’ Selim said, in an appreciative tone. ‘There was no need for you to spend the night here. Madame Letitia overreacted. She shouldn’t have asked you to stay but you know how wives are.’
‘I would have stayed anyway. I intend to spend the night here until you feel absolutely fine.’
‘I had better get well soon then, before your wife and children start complaining.’
‘They’re quite all right without me. All they want is your good health.’
‘Your wife is very considerate,’ Selim said. He then reached for his files, though he did not open them.
Before leaving the room, Osta Osman said he would return with some mehalabeyah.
When Letitia Sahli, black rings around her eyes, woke her daughters the next day, it was dawn. She told them to come and see their father, saying tersely, ‘He’s not well. I’ll call the doctor although I’m not sure he’ll answer. I know he wakes up early but not this early.’
Shivering in their dressing gowns the girls hurried down the hallway, their mother behind them.
Sitting on a stool outside their father’s room with a heavy woolen scarf wrapped around his head, Osta Osman looked somber.
The girls tiptoed in.
Ashen-faced, his breathing labored, Selim saw his daughters nearing his bed and protested. ‘Mother shouldn’t have woken you up. It’s not an emergency. I’ll be feeling much better as soon as the medicine kicks in.’
He reached first for Gabrielle’s hand, then for Claire’s. ‘My darlings, your mother was right; seeing you I already feel better. It has been a bit rough but I’ll soon turn the corner.’ He pressed their hands and did look somewhat better. His breathing was easier, and his face had more color. The painkillers were finally having some effect. After a short pause he continued, ‘You ought to know though that, while children are indispensable to their parents, it is not the other way around. It’s one of those few situations in life where asymmetry makes sense, and is even desirable.’
Not knowing how to respond, the girls kept silent.
‘You’re much loved and cherished by your uncles and aunt. They’ll all be there for you, should – God forbid – something happen to me. As for you, my darlings, I know I can count on you to be good to your mother.’
‘Oh Papa, don’t say those sorts of things,’ Gabrielle cried out, holding back tears.
He pressed her hand. ‘Come, come, sweetie. I would be a negligent father if I did not tell you that, whatever happens to me, you have your own lives to live. I’m certain you’ll live them fully. Just make sure you don’t leave mother entirely to her own devices. You know her tendency is to isolate herself and withdraw.’
When Claire spoke, it was to say, ‘Papa, which one of Rousseau’s writings should we begin with?’
Her father looked delighted. ‘Rêveries du Promeneur Solitaire,’ he suggested.
‘Also, should I really try to sit for the bac? I’m tempted. Very tempted. I have been wondering whether to tell the nuns at school that I would like to give it a try. I’ll need you to talk to them, if they’re unwilling to help.’
‘But really Claire, now is not the time to saddle Father with this,’ Gabrielle said crossly.
‘Go for it,’ Selim told Claire, ‘so you’ll be the first girl in Cairo to graduate from a nuns’ school with the French baccalaureate.’ Then he turned towards Gabrielle and said, ‘It’s too bad we didn’t think of it earlier. It’s too late for you to get the ball rolling, but I have no doubts whatsoever that you would have done very well in the bac.’
He released their hands and closed his eyes. Every now and then, he would twitch, and one of the girls – by now both were sitting on his bed – would ask, ‘Papa, do you need anything?’ Each time, he assured them, ‘No, no, I’m all right.’ For a brief while, he seemed to be dozing; the girls, however, did not dare leave the room. It was he who, with his eyes still closed, urged them to get ready for school. He even encouraged Claire to talk to the head nun about her intention to sit for the bac. ‘The sooner, the better,’ he said.
As the girls got up, they saw their mother, holding a cup and saucer with shaking hands glide, phantom-like, through the room. She looked even more drawn than earlier. With a quick tilt of the head, she motioned for them to go.
The girls hurried out of the room. Osta Osman offered to boil eggs for breakfast.
When the girls returned from school, it was Osta Osman who met them at the door. From the look on his face, they understood.
Their father had died while they were on their way home, just before the doctor was scheduled to pay his second visit of the day. Selim was only fifty-three years old, two years younger than Sir Lee Stack who would die from his wounds a few hours later.
Selim Sahli’s funeral was strictly a family affair, as he had requested. It was held at the Greek Catholic Cathedral of Darb al-Geneina, the first regular Greek Catholic church built in Egypt. Besides Letitia, Gabrielle and Claire, attending the service were his brothers Yussef, Naum and Zaki accompanied by their wives and children and his sister Warda with her daughters. His youngest brother Naguib was in Paris. Osta Osman also attended the service.
The residential center of the Greek Catholics of Cairo for much of the nineteenth century, Darb al-Geneina was the neighborhood in which Selim’s forefathers had set up house upon entering Muhammad Ali’s service as high-ranking administrative officials soon after their arrival from Syria in 1810. There, they had established themselves in grand quarters. The cathedral was built on land they had ceded.
On their way to the Greek Catholic cemetery in old Cairo, Warda – a buxom forty-year-old with a fickle husband whose frequent overseas travel she only nominally deplored – dissolved into tears. Sitting opposite her in his big Buick, her brother Yussef noted that it was the first time in a long time he had seen her shed genuine tears. Of her five brothers, Selim, the oldest, had been the one most willing to listen to Warda talk endlessly about her real and imaginary troubles.
Selim’s death had stunned his brothers and sister. They had grown accustomed to seeing him recover after each illness. When he was told over the telephone by his brother Zaki that Selim had died, Yussef’s immediate reaction was to shout, ‘But how? I was just about to call him to ask for some legal advice.’
Yussef was shaken by his older brother’s death. Even though they had had their disagreements, Yussef was deeply attached to him. Selim curbed his money-grabbing impulses. In his early forties, already rich beyond his expectations, Yussef realized that he would miss his older brother’s sobering influence. His own instinct was to grab opportunities without worrying too much about their legal or moral aspects. It was over ten years now since Yussef had concluded a deal – knowing full well that Selim would take a dim view of it – that backfired and threatened to land him in jail. The court case had been long, complicated and nerve-wracking. He had been very frightened, though he had admitted this to nobody, not even to Selim who, at the expense of his law practice, devoted most of a year to the case, and managed, in the end, to get him out of a very tight corner. Yussef felt enormously indebted to him.
While patting Warda’s hand – she was still crying – he thought of their mother. She had died before judgement in the case had been rendered. Some relatives had said at the time that the trial had killed her, which had filled him with guilt. Selim’s death revived those guilt feelings. Selim had been their mother’s favorite. Yussef had no doubts that his death would have destroyed her.
‘If Selim were still with us, he would tell us what to expect now that the British have issued their ultimatum to parliament,’ Warda managed. Removing his hand from hers, Yussef exclaimed heatedly, ‘Really Warda, what a thing to be thinking of. Think instead of how Letitia, Gabrielle and Claire must be feeling. Besides, since when are you so interested in politics?’
The morning after the funeral, dwarfed by the huge armchair in which she took refuge – Selim Sahli’s armchair – Letitia Sahli announced to her daughters, with a quavering voice but dry eyes, that she could not endure the thought of receiving condolence visits. Their uncles and aunts would have to receive the visits in their own homes. Small and dainty, she had just turned forty. With a vacant stare – her abundant auburn hair pulled in a severe bun and her face free from any trace of make-up – she explained to the two bewildered girls that she could not imagine herself hearing platitudes about the death of their father. Without him, she said, her life threatened to become as barren and desolate as the Egyptian desert; a country in which she still felt, even after all these years, so terribly alone.
Of their mother’s background and family, the girls knew nothing other than that she was Italian and that she had been, in her youth, an accomplished rider. They had discovered this by chance, after coming upon an old riding outfit of hers at the bottom of a trunk, whip and boots included. The outfit had to be hers for the boots were unusually small and the trousers’ waist almost a child’s size. She had unusually small feet and a waist that could be encircled, almost in its entirety, with two hands. Teased about their discovery, she had conceded, without divulging more, that she had ridden on a regular basis when she was younger. Her silence about her past was so all-encompassing and her reluctance to break it so palpable that they had never dared probe. Claire had asked her father just once why she had no family on her mother’s side. He had answered that it was a private and painful subject for her mother, that people were entitled to keep silent about hurtful subjects, and that she would be better off thinking of all the relatives she had, on his side, as opposed to those she did not have, on her mother’s side.
‘I only have you two now,’ Letitia said to her daughters.
‘Mother, this country is our country. Father’s country. You cannot refuse to receive condolence visits. You cannot,’ Gabrielle cried out.
‘Gabrielle, I’m suffering enough as it is. You want to make things even harder for me?’ The mother looked in her daughter’s direction without seeming to see her.
Gabrielle’s voice acquired a frenzied tone, ‘But the presidents of both bar associations will be coming to pay their respects. Uncle Yussef said so. Even the president of the Chamber of Deputies might come, despite his busy schedule. Father was much loved, both in the mixed courts and in the native courts. Think of him! You cannot close the door in people’s faces.’
Letitia looked down and said nothing.
‘Mother, say something,’ Gabrielle insisted, moving closer.
‘I told you that those visits would be unbearable for me.
Unbearable,’ Letitia said.
‘But why? Why?’ Gabrielle repeated, towering above her mother with all her height. Turning towards her sister, she demanded, ‘Claire, talk to Mother, talk to her,’ after which she ran out of the room shouting, ‘What will people say? What will people think?’
Her heart racing – Gabrielle’s explosive temper still dismayed her, though she should have grown used to it – Claire stood still. Standing in one corner of the room, all she could think of was, ‘But what’s to become of us now?’ while telling herself that it was her father’s death and not her future that she should be thinking of. Yet the more she tried to focus on the death of her father, the more it was her life that seemed to matter.
Her mother too was still, with that faraway look that tended to invite belligerence on Gabrielle’s part and solicitude on Claire’s.
Banging noises came from Gabrielle’s room, at the other end of the apartment.
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ Claire said, rushing towards her. ‘Don’t worry, you know how Gabrielle is,’ and she put her hand on her mother’s shoulder.
‘Only you understand me,’ her mother said.
‘Gabrielle loves you. She does,’ Claire said.
‘Go talk to her, console her,’ said Letitia. ‘You remember her tantrum over the birthday dress? You were barely six years old. She was terribly upset, and Papa told you to go cheer her up? Remember?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Claire said. How could she not? It had all started at lunchtime with Gabrielle, a seven-year-old girl already conscious of her looks, declaring, ‘I will not go to Lola’s birthday party wearing the dress I wore at Mona’s party. I need another dress!’ When told by both her father and her mother that she would have to resign herself to wearing the same dress, she had chanted, ‘I don’t want to, I don’t want to.’ Her father had then said, with utmost calm, ‘All right, you’ll get your new dress; tomorrow we’ll walk past Uncle Yussef’s office, and you’ll trade your dress for the dress worn by the little girl who sits by the building selling jasmine with her mother. You can wear that dress to Lola’s birthday party.’
Screaming, ‘No, no, no,’ Gabrielle had got up, without asking to be excused, and had dashed out of the room, followed by Osta Osman begging her to finish her lunch.
‘But poor Gabrielle,’ Claire had tried to intercede on her sister’s behalf, terrified at the prospect of her sister being actually forced to wear the tattered dress worn by the little jasmine-seller. Never having heard her father issue any threats, she feared he meant business.
‘Poor?’ her father asked. ‘Hardly. You must learn to use words more judiciously, Claire. The little girl who sells jasmine is poor, but Gabrielle is not. Though I suppose your sister is in need of consolation. So you go to her, and do your best to cheer her up. Tell her I love her, that she’s still my darling, that you both are.’
Thanks to a small lie, Claire had succeeded in comforting her sister, telling her that, at Mona’s birthday party, she had heard two girls say that they found her dress so pretty they wanted one just like it. Getting the dress out of her wardrobe, Gabrielle had judged it to be special enough to warrant being worn to another birthday party.
‘Please, go talk to Gabrielle now,’ Letitia urged Claire.
About to knock on Gabrielle’s door, Claire recoiled upon hearing her lament, ‘Why did it have to be him? Why him?’ She quickly looked behind her to ensure that her mother was nowhere near, retreated to the end of the hallway, and closed the door to the living room. Then she took refuge in her bedroom, where she sat at her desk and rested her head on its cold surface. The emotion she had – perhaps wrongly – attributed to her sister was lurking in her own heart too. ‘Forgive me, Mother,’ she whispered and tried to suppress her sobs.
While Claire and Gabrielle were giving vent to their anguish – grieving alone in their bedrooms – their mother wept in the privacy of hers.
It was the thought that her father would deplore their being divided in mourning that eventually drove Claire to get up, compose herself and go see her sister. She found Gabrielle sitting at her desk, with a collection of postcards – from Paris, Vittel, Ostend, Lyons, Venice, all places her father had gone to for his cures – spread out on top.
Gabrielle quickly gathered the postcards and stuffed them in a big envelope. ‘So, has Mother come around?’ she asked Claire with a sullen air, as if she expected the answer to be negative. ‘If she sticks to her decision, I intend to talk to Uncle Yussef.’
‘But let her be. She’s free to do as she pleases,’ Claire said and immediately regretted her confrontational tone.
‘But it’s a matter that concerns us too! Besides, you know her. Left to do as she pleases, she would never go out, never socialize. Have you already forgotten how much Father used to have to prod her?’
‘He knew how to handle her.’
‘We cannot let her isolate herself. He said so himself.’
‘It seems to me that this is a different issue,’ Claire began, then pleaded with her sister, ‘Gabrielle, I beg you not to harass her about it. Please.’
‘Will we always have to walk on thin ice with her? Make special allowances?’ asked Gabrielle. ‘Respect wishes that have no rhyme or reason?’ She was now pacing up and down her bedroom.
‘Black suits her,’ Claire observed, but fearing that her sister would find the compliment ill-timed, she kept that thought to herself. ‘I have been meaning to tell you that Father believed you would make a great lawyer,’ she said instead.
‘He never said so to me,’ Gabrielle said, coming to a stop, then she asked, with incredulity in her voice, ‘When did he say that? When?’
‘Last week. He told me that you had all the aptitudes needed to study law, and you could easily get accepted into the law faculty on the strength of your school record, without the bac.’
Gabrielle’s face lit up and she sat on her bed, saying, ‘It pleases me to hear that. It really does. Why don’t you sit down, Claire?’
Shoulder against shoulder, the two sisters – for that brief moment full of love for one another – let their thoughts about their future take an optimistic turn.
Later that day, Claire would raise with her mother the subject of the duel her father had apparently fought some ten years earlier. She had overheard, at the funeral, her Aunt Warda make mention of it and being rebuked by her brother Yussef for it. ‘Selim had his unpredictable side. Who would have thought that he would fight a duel? He of all people,’ Warda had said.
The image of her mild-mannered, rational father fighting a duel naturally grabbed Claire’s imagination, its chivalrous side appealing to her. Yet at the same time, it seemed unthinkable to her that he should actually have done so. And like most children faced with unexpected revelations about their parents, she was troubled.
Alone with her mother in her father’s study, Claire adopted a light tone to ask, ‘Well, Mother, tell me about Papa’s duel.’
Her mother glanced in her direction. ‘Papa’s duel?’
‘Yes, Mother. Papa’s duel,’ Claire said gently.
‘Who told you about it?’
‘A little bird,’ Claire said. Then she revealed, ‘I heard Aunt Warda mention it.’
‘You know that I like your aunt a great deal, but she talks too much. She would have been in her element in the theater; your father was right.’
‘Mother, what about the duel? When did it take place, and why?’
‘Oh! It would have been in 1912 or 1913 ... I’m not quite sure anymore. Why? Because men easily take umbrage. That’s why.’
‘But he was not a hot-headed sort.’
‘He had his moments.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘Claire, it’s all in the past. One of his colleagues made a remark which your father found unacceptable. They were in the chambers of the mixed tribunals. One thing led to another. The duel took place a couple of days later – a duel by sword. After a few rounds, your father was wounded in his forearm and the attending doctors declared that the injury put him at such a disadvantage that further rounds were out of the question. He and his colleague made up on the spot.’
‘If doctors were present, there must have been witnesses too.’
‘Yes, there were.’
‘It must have been a real duel then?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘I’m amazed. Are there any documents concerning it?’
‘I’m not sure and, in any case, I have no idea where they would be. It was not such an important thing, Claire. Really.’
‘But how did it all start?’
‘I already told you. One of Father’s colleagues made an objectionable remark. Papa asked him to withdraw it, he didn’t, so Papa slapped him. That’s what led to the duel.’
‘At the time the duel was fought, Gabrielle and I were very little. Didn’t he think he was taking some risks?’
‘You don’t think things through in the heat of the moment.’
‘I would love to see any documents about it,’ Claire told her mother in a pressing though still gentle way.
‘If I find any, I’ll show them to you, but, please, don’t tell Gabrielle. It might needlessly agitate her.’
‘I won’t. Where was the duel fought?’
Suddenly more relaxed, her mother flashed a smile and said, ‘Not far from the Mena House Hotel. In the shadow of the Pyramids.’
That same night Claire had a nightmare in which her father lay bleeding on a dune, sword in hand, surrounded by his whole family looking on helplessly. Claire woke up with a start, hearing herself scream, ‘Papa’.
Jumping out of bed, she threw her dressing gown loosely over her shoulders and, barefoot, ran to her father’s study, where she began hunting for any document that might tell her more about the duel.
She found none, though she rummaged through each one of the desk drawers.
It was past one o’clock in the morning. To keep warm, she slipped on her dressing gown and tied its belt tightly around her waist. Still sitting at her father’s desk, she tried to picture him at the time he fought the duel. In his early forties, he would have been more athletic-looking, though on second thoughts perhaps not. In her earliest childhood memories, he was already rotund. A skilled swordsman? It hardly seemed possible. Probably a bad swordsman, even if willing to fight. What did she know about him and what didn’t she know? Loving of her mother but not always faithful to her. She knew that. He had had at least one affair – with a Swiss milliner who lived in Alexandria. Again, it was her Aunt Warda who had let that slip in front of her. Her mother, however, had never manifested any knowledge of that affair, or of any other. Had his extended stays in Europe been really only health-related? Had he, at times, too easily accepted her mother’s withdrawn character, using it as an excuse to go out on his own? And why hadn’t he – a man so sympathetic to Egyptian nationalist aspirations – insisted that she and Gabrielle learn Arabic properly? And what had been his true feelings about his brother Yussef? Why had her father gone so much out of his way to extricate her Uncle Yussef from the big legal morass he was in that one time? Simple brotherly loyalty? To shield the family from disgrace? Because it had made him feel good to be so much needed by his successful young brother? Now that her father was gone she would never have answers.
Exhausted, though reluctant to go to bed, Claire heard a faint noise, like soft steps gliding over tiles. She held her breath and thought she saw a silhouette hurrying past the door to the study, which she had left open. Her head buried in her lap, she whispered, ‘Papa, wherever you are, protect me. Protect us. You must.’ Then, all was quiet again. But Claire remained glued to her chair until she heard the hallway clock strike twice.
Forcing herself to be brave, she quietly rose from her chair and hurried out of the study. In the hallway, she noticed a ray of light coming from under the closed kitchen door and heard her mother cough. The fleeting silhouette had been neither a burglar nor her imagination.
‘Mother,’ Claire said, opening the kitchen door.
‘I could not sleep so I decided to have a cup of coffee. You know how coffee helps me go to sleep. It always does. I don’t know why. But darling, why are you up? Thinking of Papa?’
‘Yes, I was,’ Claire said and sat at the kitchen table, next to her mother whose long, thick, wavy hair, hanging loose on her back, gave her a youthful appearance. Letitia was more graceful than beautiful. Her looks invited a protective impulse in those around her. Gabrielle seemed to be the exception.
Claire looked tenderly at her mother.
‘Claire, there’s something I need to tell you. I was going to talk to you about it tomorrow ... to you and to Gabrielle. I might as well tell you now. Uncle Yussef is putting an apartment in one of his buildings at our disposal – the building where he has his office. It’s a very nice building with spacious apartments. We’ll still be in the heart of town, and we’ll be close to him, if we need anything.’ Letitia spoke without looking at Claire, her face resting on her slender fingers, her eyes pensive.
Claire had not expected this at all. She objected, ‘But we’re close to his office anyway. We don’t need to move, Mother. Walking to his office takes less than ten minutes.’
Frowning, her mother explained, ‘We lived very comfortably on Papa’s earnings. More than comfortably. But the situation has changed, darling. We must be careful with money now.’ Then she hurried to add, ‘But your lives – yours and Gabrielle’s – will not really be affected. Besides, Uncle Yussef thinks we ought to move, that it’s not such a good idea to live surrounded by memories.’
‘Uncle Yussef, Uncle Yussef, Uncle Yussef ... but what about you, Mother? What do you want? What do you think?’
‘Claire, it’s not like you to be difficult. Don’t you think we can trust your Uncle Yussef?’
‘But that’s not the point,’ Claire argued. ‘We can trust him, but do we want to become dependent on him? I certainly don’t.’
‘Claire, it was Papa’s wish that Uncle Yussef should step into his shoes. After all, he did give a year of his life to get Uncle Yussef out of his legal troubles.’
‘Papa’s wish?’ Claire blurted out, reddening, which was a sign she was getting upset. ‘Papa’s wish? You’re sure? You’re not just saying so to appease me?’
‘Claire, believe me. He left very specific instructions.’
Claire’s heart sank. For the first time in her life she was flooded with negative thoughts about her father. It seemed so obvious to her that Uncle Yussef was the last man to whom her father should have entrusted them. He had not raised them to end up under the thumb of an autocrat, which she knew her uncle to be. In silence, she promised herself that she would chart her own course in life, no matter the Uncle Yussefs of the world.
‘How do you think Gabrielle will react to the idea of a move?’ her mother asked Claire, giving her a look that begged for reassurance.
‘I don’t think she’ll mind that much,’ Claire said curtly. ‘I suspect that she’ll find the proximity to Uncle Yussef agreeable.’ The one good thing about the move, Claire decided, was that her Uncle Yussef might act as a buffer between her mother and Gabrielle, relieving her of that responsibility.
‘I can tell that you’re angry, Claire. Please, don’t be. I need your support.’
‘Let’s go to bed, Mother,’ Claire said. ‘Let me put you to bed. Did I tell you that when you got up tonight and went to the kitchen, I mistook you for a burglar or a mouse?’
‘Frankly, I’m more afraid of mice than of burglars,’ her mother said, then asked, ‘You’re sure that Gabrielle will not get upset when she hears about the move?’
‘I’m positive,’ Claire asserted more confidently than she actually felt. ‘But you should probably have Uncle Yussef broach the subject with her.’
Seeming relieved, her mother agreed, ‘Yes, it’s probably a good idea to have Uncle Yussef speak to her.’
By the time she reached her bedroom, Claire had made up her mind to sit for the bac.
As though in need of examining the person she was becoming, the first thing Claire did on entering her room was to open her wardrobe and look at herself in the mirror. She knew that her schoolmates considered her the most beautiful girl in her class. She disagreed. She found her type of beauty a touch insipid. Her classmate Sophie epitomized her ideal of feminine beauty with her dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes, dimpled round cheeks, lively eyes, full lips, an upturned nose, straight jet-black hair and willowy build. Claire’s own eyebrows were finely arched, her green-speckled, honey-colored eyes dreamy, her chestnut hair wavy, her face perfectly oval and her nose – the feature she liked best about her face – small and straight. Her shoulders she did not like at all; she found them insufficiently defined. Yet clothes hung well on her. She was a good height – tall but not too tall – and slim. While examining herself in the mirror, she wondered whether her father, whose predilection for petite women was well known, considered her pretty. Her anger at him lingered. That he had given Uncle Yussef such an important role to play in their lives was still incomprehensible.
In bed, it took a while for Claire to find sleep. She speculated on how her uncle would react to her decision to sit for the bac. She feared he would object. He was not the kind of man who set a high value on studies for girls, nor boys for that matter. Business and money seemed to be his only interests. Osta Osman was on her mind too. What would happen to him, if they were going to have to live on a tight budget? They could probably still afford Om Batta and young Ali, but Osta Osman? Her Uncle Yussef might want to retain his services – he and his wife entertained a lot. Osta Osman was no fan of her Uncle Yussef, a bossy employer. When her grandmother, no longer in need of his services, had asked Osta Osman whether he would work for either Selim or Yussef, he apparently had answered, ‘Selim Bey anytime, but Yussef Bey, if you don’t mind my saying so, never.’ Claire caught herself relishing the prospect of her uncle making an offer to Osta Osman only to be told by the proud cook, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ But would Osta Osman actually say no to her uncle, whose offer would undoubtedly be lucrative? Probably not, she concluded and yet, until she finally fell asleep, she fantasized about Osta Osman rebuffing her uncle.
Her face glowing with pride, papers in hand, Gabrielle was standing by the apartment’s entrance door. She was waiting for Claire, held up at school with a drawing project.
It was December first, Saad Zaghlul had resigned and Ahmad Ziwar, generally perceived to be the king’s man, was called upon to form the new government. How Ziwar Pasha would govern with Zaghlul’s Wafd still being the leading party in the Chamber of Deputies was unclear. Would he ask the king to dissolve the Chamber and hold new elections? The king would be eager to oblige since he was counting on a newly formed royalist party to win seats.
Gabrielle’s interest in politics blossomed immediately after her father’s death. She began reading the papers assiduously. That habit of hers, to a large extent born out of a desire to identify with her father, soon became pleasurable in its own right.
The reason she was so pleased that afternoon had little to do with current political events and the fact that her father had predicted Zaghlul’s resignation. It had to do with a eulogy about her father and an obituary.
The eulogy, pronounced before the mixed courts, was by a prominent Cairene lawyer, and the rather long obituary, published in La Bourse Egyptienne, by a prominent journalist.
As soon as Claire stepped into the apartment, Gabrielle – eyes shining – said loudly, while brandishing the papers in her hand, ‘Claire, you must read this. It’s about Papa.’
‘Give me a minute. I’m very thirsty,’ Claire said, though she quickly glanced at the two texts.
Gabrielle followed her sister into the kitchen, where, after Claire had poured herself some lemonade, the two girls sat on a wooden bench.
Claire looked at the eulogy first. It referred to her father’s sober eloquence, his photographic memory, his passion for the law, his ability to get to the core of complex issues as well as to reveal the complexities behind seemingly straightforward questions, his professional probity and his willingness to advance costs out of his own pocket.
‘So what do you think?’ Gabrielle asked, eager to hear her sister’s reaction. ‘If only Papa could read this!’
Claire nodded. ‘Yes, it’s nicely written,’ she said and handed the paper back to Gabrielle.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ Gabrielle asked, surprised and reproachful.
‘Well, it’s a eulogy and so meant to be full of praise. No?’
‘Are you suggesting that it’s overstated?’
‘I would like it better if it had a more personal touch. That’s all.’
Gabrielle scowled. ‘Sometimes, I don’t understand your reactions,’ she told Claire. ‘There’s no denying that Papa had admirable qualities.’
‘I am not denying it at all. Now let me look at the obituary,’ Claire said in a conciliatory tone.
Looking displeased, Gabrielle gave her the obituary.
It dwelt on Selim’s ongoing health problems, his numerous operations (seven), his stoicism, his equanimity in the face of pain, and the restraint with which he would allude to his health problems the rare times he did. It depicted him as generous to a fault, as a man who had used his powerful intellect to defend not only important causes but also individuals in need.
The last paragraph in the obituary caught Claire’s attention. Mention was made of the pleasure Selim Sahli would get from spending time at home with his beloved children and his books after his long, arduous workdays. Yet no mention was made of his wife, their mother. None.
‘What’s the matter? You seem surprised,’ Gabrielle said.
Another rapid glance at the obituary confirmed to Claire that their mother had been left out of it.
‘So, what’s the matter?’ Gabrielle asked again.
‘Nothing, nothing!’ Claire replied, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. Should she or should she not point out the omission to her sister? Surely, Gabrielle must have noticed. How could she have failed to? She must think it was of no consequence or perhaps did not want to talk about it. ‘I was thinking of Papa,’ Claire said.
‘Ah!’
‘That’s all. Did Mother read the obituary?’
‘Well of course! Both the obituary and the eulogy.’
‘What did she have to say?’
‘She got misty-eyed. She almost cried.’
‘But she said nothing?’
‘She said, “He actually was pretty much the way they describe him.”’
While Gabrielle was re-reading the eulogy, Claire was trying to put her mind at rest. The absence of any reference to her mother in the obituary might be an error, nothing else. But that did not seem an altogether satisfactory explanation. She could not help but ask herself whether there had been more to her mother’s refusal to receive condolence visits than the reasons she had given. On that score, Letitia had not budged, and condolence visits had been received at Uncle Yussef’s.
It was almost five o’clock, when Osta Osman walked into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
The first thing he told the two girls was that he had heard about the eulogy and the obituary. Earlier in the day, their Uncle Zaki had dropped by to see their mother and had translated the two pieces for him, almost word for word. ‘I miss Selim Bey so much,’ he said to Gabrielle and Claire. ‘Not a day goes by without my thinking of him.’
The doorbell rang. Gabrielle raced out of the kitchen. Claire stayed behind.
‘How about some mehalabeyah tonight?’ Osta Osman suggested. ‘With orange water and cinnamon just the way Selim Bey used to like it.’
‘That would be nice,’ Claire said.
‘Don’t let sad thoughts weigh on you, you’re too young for that. Sad thoughts are for old people like myself. Selim Bey wouldn’t want you to be sad.’
Claire smiled and looked at Osta Osman, whose presence was enormously comforting to her. If only she could bury her head deep in his wide chest and forget about the obituary and all her crazy notions.
She could hear Uncle Yussef’s booming voice. Combined with Gabrielle’s, the two voices jarred on her. Yussef had come to break the news of their impending move to Gabrielle. Her mother had told Claire, first thing in the morning, that he would be coming for that purpose. ‘Osta Osman, do you know about the move?’ she asked hesitantly.
Osta Osman nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said while watching the milk come to the boil. ‘I heard about it.’
‘I wish we could stay here,’ she said.
‘The apartments in Uncle Yussef’s building are very nice,’ Osta Osman said and poured the milk into a glass bowl.
Claire could hear Uncle Yussef and Gabrielle talking right outside the kitchen but she did not move.
Osta Osman now stood with his back to the kitchen door. He began peeling potatoes.
‘So that’s where you are.’ With Gabrielle behind him, Uncle Yussef walked into the kitchen, saying at the top of his voice, ‘Why in the kitchen, pretty girl?’
Claire got up to give her uncle a hug, then waited for him to acknowledge Osta Osman. When he finally did, it was with a gruff, ‘How are things, Osta Osman?’ Then, with his usual imperiousness, he told her, ‘Come, I need to talk to you and Gabrielle,’ and affectionately patted her cheek.
Without thinking, she said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Osta Osman was about to show me how to prepare the dressing for the potato salad. We’ll be quick.’
Not hiding her astonishment, Gabrielle asked, with raised eyebrows, ‘Since when are you interested in cooking?’
Uncle Yussef laughed weakly and said, ‘Let her learn. It might come in handy.’ To Claire he said sternly, ‘Don’t be long. By the way, you and Gabrielle ought to spend more time with your cousins. Bella now reads and, believe it or not, Iris does too, even though she’s not yet three. She’s quite a phenomenon, this little girl.’
As her uncle was leaving the kitchen, two thoughts crossed Claire’s mind: that life without her father was now beginning in earnest, and that she and her uncle no longer quite belonged to the same world.
‘Don’t worry,’ she heard Osta Osman tell her. ‘Everything will work out. Things always have a way of sorting themselves out.’
‘I must go,’ she told him apologetically, without asking him how he thought things might work out for him.