The year 1947 saw no reduction in Egypt’s political agitation. Bombs exploded in Cairo and Alexandria. Committees of all sorts – of Muslim youth, of young Egyptians, of liberation, of women’s groups, of united workers – popped up. In a manifesto published by the press, the Muslim Brotherhood told the Egyptian people that, if they wanted the British to leave and real independence, they had no option but to fight, cautioning them though against rash action and snap uprisings. The message was thus ambiguous.
In certain circles, rumors began circulating that the government was about to order the dissolution of the Muslim Brotherhood and ban its activities. On May 6, 1947, the anniversary of King Faruq’s accession to the throne, a bomb exploded in the Metro cinema in downtown Cairo, killing a spectator and injuring several others. A historian lamented that, rather than being its manifestation, the violence attested to the failure of the nationalist movement. He and others recalled with a nostalgia that was bound to color their judgement – as nostalgia always does – the spirit that had suffused the nationalist fervor of 1919, deeming it to have been infinitely more constructive than the prevailing mood. These were the days when the ideal of parliamentary democracy meant something, they now believed.
For Claire, the year began on a radiant note. She was pregnant. Her desire to have as many children as possible – an almost all-consuming desire after Guy’s death – had been granted a second time at not such a young age. She was thirty-seven years old.
She had already picked a name: ‘Yves’ – a name she thought would suit a vivacious and quick little boy, as she hoped hers would be. Alexandre would likely want to name him Constantin, after his father. So, on paper, the baby – if a boy – would be either ‘Constantin Yves’ or ‘Yves Constantin,’ but she was sure that the family, Alexandre included, would call him ‘Yves.’
The political situation concerned Claire. It both concerned her and confused her. She remembered the twenties as a time when just about everyone around her was touched by nationalist fervor. Now, in her circles, many of her friends and acquaintances were saying that the new generation of nationalists was becoming rudderless and uncontrollable. Was the current political agitation perceived in those circles as posing a fundamental threat to their existence? If so, it was not an issue that was put right on the table, not even by Anastase whose contention was not so much that privilege was about to come under attack, nor that Egypt’s partly Egyptianized minorities were suddenly vulnerable, but that these minorities were in a false situation in the country and had always been so. His was an existential malaise shared by Claire and heightened, in her case, by the feeling that the life that she had managed to stitch for herself was based on a precarious equilibrium and lacked legitimacy on several fronts. Besides feeling like an interloper in her country, she felt like one in her social set. With some of the trappings of privilege, her life lacked its basis, namely wealth, of which neither she nor Alexandre possessed the slightest amount. That this was no secret in the moneyed society she frequented and did not seem to be held against her did ease her sense of not quite belonging to it. Her singular grace, engaging manners and good looks always guaranteed her a warm reception in that set. Alexandre’s gradual withdrawal from it for lack of enough means made it, however, more and more difficult for her to hold on to her social life. Yet she did, finessing her marital situation with the dexterity of a tight-rope walker only to be gripped every now and then by the feeling that her life had a pretend quality that threatened to become its defining character. Knowledge of the mysterious nature of her parents’ union – even if it had not shaken her to the core – could not but contribute to that feeling.
For all these reasons, Claire sometimes found herself actually cheering for the men and women in the street. On some level, she identified with them, even though she realized that, should things go wrong for the world in which she lived – albeit on such an uncertain footing – she stood to lose more than her cousins and friends. They had assets and husbands young enough to move to some other country and start afresh, whereas she would likely be locked in Egypt.
In her imagination, her son – she had nearly convinced herself it would be a boy – would make himself a life in France. She was determined to do everything in her power to that end. She hoped that Simone too would settle abroad, but, for the boy yet to be born, her wish was yet firmer: he must escape her world – a world in which she did not feel true to herself.
Half-way through August of that year, in time for the birth of Claire’s baby, Iris returned to Cairo from Switzerland, where she had spent a month for her asthma. In addition to the several baby outfits she had knitted, Iris gave Claire a leather-bound diary to keep a record of the small and big events in the baby’s first year, something Claire had not done after Simone’s birth and wished she had.
There was a chance the baby’s birth would coincide with the anniversary of Letitia’s death. Claire was hoping not. Her wish was granted: Yves Constantin Conti was born on September first, ten days before the first anniversary of the death of his maternal grandmother. It was an easy and quick birth. Long-legged, wiry and very alert, the boy was a good weight: 7 pounds 10 ounces. He was born with a crop of bushy, black hair that had the same texture as that of his Aunt Gabrielle, who immediately called attention to the similarity.
‘So it’s a boy! Well done!’ Claire’s Uncle Yussef wrote on the congratulatory card he sent to the hospital with a huge bouquet of flowers – one of many bouquets, including twenty-four roses from Alexandre’s first cousin George Conti, a wealthy man, married but with neither children nor nephews. Did it occur to Claire or Alexandre that, under Egyptian law, a son of theirs would stand to inherit from George Conti? If it did, they never discussed the subject. They knew that, for many years, George Conti had wanted offspring – above all, a son – and had only recently resigned himself to the prospect of remaining childless. So when his roses were delivered to Claire’s room, she remarked to Alexandre and Constance who was quite fond of her cousin George, ‘It must be hard for him.’
September 4
The delivery was so incredibly easy and the baby in such good health that they sent me back home earlier than planned. Little Yves is a delightful baby. He is not a big eater though. But neither was Simone. Curiously, he seemed to have more appetite right after the birth. When I mentioned this to the nurses, they joked about my being overprotective. He is awake for much of the day and watches attentively all that is going on around him. When he sleeps, he sleeps soundly. Better than Simone used to. She is very interested in him and has yet to manifest any jealousy. She is keen on showing him her picture books and giving him some of her toys. Did Dr. Spock exaggerate the extent of sibling rivalry?
It’s too soon to say whom he looks like. His hair feels like Gabrielle’s. I hope it stays that way.
Alexandre is being ultra-attentive and Constance is in seventh heaven. It’s obvious that she would have loved to have children. That she takes such pleasure in her brothers’ children, showing no envy whatsoever, speaks incredibly well of her. She would have been a good mother – certainly nurturing. Iris too loves children and would love to have a child, although it seems doubtful she ever will. She is on so much medication. I worry about her. Thank God for Anastase. He is good to her and for her.
I’m happy. Very, very happy.
September 5
I’m feeling tired. Little Yves does not eat much so I have decided to breastfeed him whenever he is hungry. He has extraordinarily long lashes – long and curly. And bushy eyebrows as black as his hair, which he has yet to lose. He has a delicious dimple on his chin. His ears though are quite a sight: they’re huge and stick out. Simone’s were so tiny. When I look at him, he gazes back, as if he is studying my every feature. He rarely cries, but when he does, he is extremely loud. The nurses in the hospital remarked on that. They told me, ‘Your son will be a man of extremes, quiet and self-contained, yet with an explosive side. You’ll see.’
‘Your son’ – how I like the sound of those two words!
Iris spent the whole afternoon here – mostly admiring the baby, though she did make a point of doing a puzzle with Simone, who is remarkably good with puzzles. Iris was very impressed.
September 6
I have been having difficulties feeding Yves so I called the hospital to ask for advice. I talked to the head nurse. She offered to send me a nurse to watch me feed him. She thinks I’m out of practice. She has a brusque manner of speaking that is off-putting. I reminded her that it has not been that long since I breastfed Simone. She must have realized she had been offhand because her tone then changed and she tried to reassure me about Yves, saying he is a very healthy baby.
September 7
The nurse came early this morning. Her name is Alba – an uncommon but beautiful name. She is pretty and outgoing. I told her that the baby had lost a few ounces. She said that this was not unusual. She watched me breastfeed and could see for herself that the baby was not overly interested. She suggested we try the bottle. He did drink a bit though not much and regurgitated a lot. We agreed that we should try a combination of breastfeeding and the bottle. Earlier in the day, Gabrielle had suggested I switch entirely to the bottle. She may be right. I’ll see how it goes over the next few days.
I’m still tired. Simone has been out of sorts for much of the day. No doubt, she has picked up on my concern about the baby’s feeding. Constance took her out for an ice cream in the evening and that seemed to settle her down.
Alexandre came back home today with two absolutely magnificent dolls – one for Simone and one for Aida. As usual, he goes all out when he buys presents. He never buys something for Simone without buying the same thing for Aida. I’m sure that Nicolas and Gabrielle will disapprove, as they did when he bought each of the two girls a train set for no special occasion. I can hear Gabrielle objecting that he can do as he pleases with Simone, but she does not want him to spoil Aida.
September 8
The baby is eating less and less – no matter how I feed him. He’s also sleeping more than usual and when he cries, he doesn’t cry as loudly. I’m beginning to panic. Simone’s paediatrician is out of town. So is Aristote. There’s a small chance that he’ll be back tomorrow. Iris thinks he might. Alexandre has offered to call Dr. Thilos, an acquaintance of his. I have no idea how good a doctor he is. All I know is that he’s a good bridge player. I suppose it won’t hurt to have him drop by.
Dr. Thilos came while we were having dinner half an hour ago. He was on his way to the Greek Club and in a hurry. He arrived at 8:30 p.m. and left twenty minutes later. He spoke of a possible milk intolerance and said that he would drop by early in the week. He left it vague when exactly that might be. I was not impressed. He is casual and condescending. When the time came to pay him for the consultation, he charged us a regular doctor’s fee yet managed somehow to make us feel that he was doing us a big favor. Well, I suppose it is Sunday!
After he was gone, I spent a good hour trying to feed Yves. Later, Simone woke up, all upset. She had had a nightmare. She went back to sleep only after I read to her her favorite Babar story. I also promised her to have Aida come over tomorrow.
I woke up several times at night to check on little Yves. I tried to feed him a bit without much success. He’s sleeping now. It’s four o’clock in the morning. I’ll take a quick peek at him, then try to rest for a couple of hours.
How quickly one becomes attached to a human being. It’s frightening.
September 9
Another nurse from the hospital came by this morning. I had not expected her but was pleased to see her. She seemed surprised to hear that I was still having difficulties feeding the baby. ‘He does not look unwell,’ she said. I did not like her tone. She sounded flippant. I told her that he was definitely less alert than he had been. She suggested we try to feed him. I gave her the bottle. She had as little success as I. She ventured the opinion that he probably prefers to be breastfed. I told her that, breast or bottle, it made no difference. To avoid getting into an argument with her, I cut the conversation short. By that stage, I wanted her to leave.
Iris is supposed to come for lunch. I think I’ll cancel. I’m too preoccupied.
It is ten o’clock at night. It feels like I spent the whole day trying to feed the baby. I cannot do it anymore. I want him examined at the hospital.
September 10
In the middle of the night, I noticed that the baby’s stools had changed color. The baby is now in the hospital, I’m so upset, so upset.
September 11
What is it that they missed seeing in the hospital, after he was born, that this odious Dr. Thilos overlooked when I sensed, almost right from the outset, that something was not quite right? I should have taken the baby to the hospital as soon as I noticed that he wasn’t feeding properly. I should have!
Yesterday was a terrible day and today is no better. It started with my calling that horrible Dr. Thilos, at seven o’clock in the morning. After I had described to him the baby’s stools, he barked over the phone, ‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ I almost hung up on him and told Alexandre, who was standing in the hallway, to take the baby to the Italian hospital right away. It was not until I had bundled up the baby in a blanket that I decided to stay at home with Simone.
I have been calling the hospital every hour or so. The baby is still in intensive care. The head nurse said they’re doing all they can. The doctor in charge can be reached in a couple of hours. I keep on changing my mind about going to the hospital. One minute I am all set to go, then I am frightened. I cannot bear the thought of losing him and of being there when it happens.
Even Iris, my unconditional supporter, seems disconcerted by my reaction – my not being by his side. Chain-smoking and looking at me with enormous concern, she spent the evening here yesterday. I would have preferred to be alone.
Constance is at the hospital right now. Gabrielle will be going this afternoon.
Today is the anniversary of Mother’s death.
September 13
It’s all over. I never got to see him. I never went to the hospital.
The thought that I did not deserve him does not leave me.
September 14
Gabrielle and Alexandre are sorting out the funeral arrangements. He was baptized in the hospital. With Alexandre’s approval, Gabrielle had arranged for a priest to come. He’ll be buried in the Conti crypt. I’m letting them make all the decisions, none of which seems of any consequence to me. They’re putting an obituary notice in the papers.
Everyone is silent about my desertion of the baby, deeming it, I am sure, too terrible a subject to raise. Too much of a heart or too little? I don’t know. I don’t understand myself. I have nothing to say in my defense.
Om Batta came in the morning and said the usual words of condolence, ‘It was God’s will.’ She went on to say that children are not always a source of joy, that one never knows how things will turn out with them, that some can even end up destroying their parents. I think that she was referring to her own situation, but I did not feel up to asking her. Gabrielle was present when Om Batta said these things. I could tell, from Gabrielle’s expression, that she was about to usher her out of the room so I asked Om Batta to have a cup of coffee with me. Om Batta’s presence was soothing to me. Perhaps because she’s also unhappy.
September 16
The baby was buried in the Conti crypt. On the way to the church, I said unforgivable words to Alexandre. I sobbed out, ‘But for me, nobody wanted this baby.’ He looked crestfallen but said nothing.
Uncle Yussef cried during the service. I don’t remember ever seeing him cry before – not even when my father died. He said to me, ‘It’s like losing Selim again.’
George Conti and his wife came to the service. I would rather they hadn’t for, when I saw them, I couldn’t help thinking that they may be pleased. I’m becoming cruel.
At the cemetery, it seemed for a moment that the baby would have to be buried in the Sahli crypt, in the neighboring cemetery. The Greek Orthodox priests took exception to the fact that the baby, baptized a Roman Catholic, was being buried in a Greek Orthodox cemetery! Alexandre succeeded in mollifying them. Now I wish he had not, then the baby would have been buried with my mother and father, in the Greek Catholic cemetery. I doubt that the Greek Catholic priests would have raised a fuss.
I asked Alexandre and Gabrielle to let it be known I would be receiving condolence visits only as of next week. Not now. I want to see nobody now, talk to nobody.
September 18
Batta arrived this morning in tears. Om Batta is in Kasr al-Aini hospital with extensive burns to her chest, neck and right arm. Her face was spared. Her primus exploded last night while she was cooking. How awful! Could it have been self-inflicted? According to Batta, Hassan had been pestering his poor mother with incessant demands for money and had even stolen one of her gold bangles. No wonder she said that some children can destroy their parents. I told Batta to go ahead, that I would go to the hospital to see her mother, shortly. Alexandre put Batta in a cab. He offered to go to Kasr al-Aini in my stead. I got the feeling that he was uncomfortable at the thought that I would go for Om Batta when I did not go see little Yves.
My little Yves, who would have been about three weeks old by now. Simone does not know yet. She thinks he’s still in the hospital.
September 19
Yesterday, Alexandre and Constance went to Kasr al-Aini – he in the morning, she in the evening – but they never managed to see Om Batta. They were apparently told that she is too unwell to be receiving visitors, and only her children may see her. I have a feeling that they saw her but don’t want to tell me the terrible state she’s in. They both said that the hospital is in a lamentable condition. I’ll talk to Aristote as soon as he gets back. Perhaps we can have her transferred to the Greek hospital. I’ll be going to Kasr al-Aini this afternoon. By myself. Then, if I have the courage, I’ll go to the cemetery. To both cemeteries.
September 20
I arrived at Kasr al-Aini too late. Mahmud was at the hospital. He was beside himself. When I asked where Hassan was, he said, his voice trembling, ‘If Hassan shows his face, I’ll kill him.’ He repeated that several times with such violence that I feared he might act on his threat. Batta tried to calm him. I told him that his mother would not want to hear him say such words. Batta’s husband was nowhere to be seen, but many of Om Batta’s neighbors were there.
If it was not an accident, how desperate Om Batta must have been. I wonder whether giving her some money the day she came to pay her condolences would have made a difference. I didn’t think of it then. Mother was very fond of her.
Would the baby have been alive if Simone’s paediatrician or Aristote had been around? I ask myself that question all the time. The hospital has yet to explain what exactly happened. I am afraid to ask but I must find out.
I have been thinking of a story my father used to tell us when we were little girls: the story of King Solomon’s ring. It was meant to make the king happy when he was sad, and sad when he was happy. Inside the jeweler had inscribed the words: ‘This too will pass.’ It seems to me that this makes it all the worse. That such grief should pass.
Claire made no further journal entries.
On September 24, the newspapers reported a cholera outbreak in villages close to Cairo. Fears of a repeat of the decimating 1883 cholera epidemic spread throughout the country. For a moment, Egypt’s fresh defeat at the United Nations over the Sudan question receded into the background. All the parties, factions and sects stood united in the face of the cholera, though there were the occasional whispers that, for the government, all this fuss about the disease, as well as the talk about the impending partition of Palestine, were providential diversions from its failure to secure for Egypt an honorable agreement with the British.
Bella Sahli joined a group of women on a tour of cholera-stricken villages. Iris and Gabrielle volunteered their services in hospitals in Cairo. Claire did not. She told Iris, ‘I have had enough with death!’ She would, however, join a team of women that sewed blankets for quick distribution to the hospitals.
The cholera outbreak was contained.
In November, Palestine was partitioned and there was more violence in the streets.
In December, Claire went to the cemetery for the first time since little Yves was buried. After that visit, she gave his crib and clothes to Batta, who was still hoping to get pregnant. She did ask Batta first, ‘Are you sure you want these things?’ meaning: ‘Don’t you fear that they might be an ill omen?’ Batta insisted that she wanted the crib and the clothes.