39. I’LL PRAY FOR YOU

Joseph was acquitted in the court of law, but not on the racetrack. Al-Tal’ooni was now the hero of the track, a national symbol. His wind-swept face, his deep, throaty voice, his unrestrained existence awoke deep yearning in a mob oppressed by an indifferent king who was surrounded by corrupt advisers, leaning on a crumbling empire, yearning for days of power and heroism in the free air of the scorching desert. Ishmael shall live on his sword! No more of Farouk’s stockpiling, his paunch, his European suits, his fez and beads, his impotency. Al-Tal’ooni reminded the public of the days when Muhammad rode from Mecca to Medina and initiated a new calendar, of the days when Omar and Abu Bakr excited the imaginations of believers with the cry, “Din Muhammad bi’l seif— the law of Muhammad will be enforced with the sword!”

Al-Tal’ooni ruled the track, and his name resounded beyond the white fences and green grass of the Sporting Club.

Joseph didn’t return to the track, despite his wife’s and son’s pleas. He knew he did not belong there anymore. You go, he told David. You go and take hold of your career, without your father’s help, liberated from that dark shadow I cast around myself. Joseph snickered. Go, ya ibni, go… but he never believed his cowardly boy would go on his own.

David went. He trained alone, his Arab groom at his side. He slowly regained his previous form after a three-week break. He registered for the Sunday race, the final one that marked the end of the season in Alexandria.

“I’ll participate in the final race,” David said.

“The final race,” Joseph repeated, his eyes glowing.

“I’ll break that Arab,” David said, enraged. “The whole world will know that the Hamdi-Ali name is the greatest of all!”

Joseph was happy. The zeal in his son’s eyes—this is the boy he’d hoped for, this ambition, this determination. He could finally pass the torch in this inter-generational relay. He closed his eyes and said gravely, “I’ll pray for you.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll pray to our God that you win,” said Joseph. “At the synagogue. I’ll say … I can’t remember the words from the last time that …” He went quiet. His conversion was an untouchable subject in the Hamdi-Ali family. They were all to pretend that Joseph had been born Jewish. He’d never come so close, dangerously close to stepping out of bounds, but he held his tongue just in time. Especially since little Victor knew nothing of the matter. That’s what they thought, anyway, in fact, there was nothing Victor didn’t know. “Still, I’ll pray,” he said, squeezed David’s shoulder, sighed and stood up.