Nori al-Alfi,
c/o Daleswick College,
Greystoke, England
Mona al-Alfi, 21
Fairouz Street,
Zamalek,
Cairo, Egypt
29 October 1978
Beautiful Mona,
Yesterday was my birthday. Today is the first day of my new fourteenth year. Strange to think I will only be thirteen once, as I was only twelve, eleven, ten, once and will never be again. I cannot say I feel any different, but I suspect I have grown even taller since the summer. You will be amazed now how fast I am growing. Soon I will be taller than you.
It has been six weeks since we were last together, 43 days exactly. I can still remember how my throat tightened as we approached Cairo airport early in the morning, trying to keep my promise of not crying. Why must all horrible things take place early in the morning? My feet are still browner around the strap marks of my summer sandals. Now it is so cold I must wear one pair of socks over another, and still my toes freeze. You are right; England is turning my skin the colour of garlic.
Alexei, the German boy I share my room with, is one year older than me and tells me he became a man midway through his thirteenth year. He told me about something called wet dreams. He says they are wonderful. When I asked him if girls have wet dreams he said he did not know but suspects they do not; so I have no idea if you know what wet dreams are and if you, too, think they are wonderful.
It was fantastic to see Father yesterday. He flew from Geneva just to spend the day with me. He managed to convince stubborn old Mr Galbraith, my housemaster, to let me skip school on account that I was ‘Mr Birthday Boy’. That was how Father put it. You are right; he can convince anyone of anything. He is a fantastic talker. What a great surprise it was: in the middle of morning class Mr Galbraith walks in and who is behind him, wrapped in a coat and scarf, but Father. I almost cried. I know you keep telling me to stop being sad, that I must be careful of my sadness, but I do not know why such surprises make me sad, as sad as they make me happy. I could see the other boys squirm with envy as my father took me away. I was even permitted to skip the evening study hour, and so was exempt from handing in my prep the following day. I only had to be back by lights-out. What a treat it was to be driven away in Father’s car. It was wonderful to sit in the soft warm leather upholstery all the way to London, particularly when I knew I should have still been sitting at that hard wooden desk facing the blackboard. When we drove away, I hoped that by some miracle I would never have to return to this cold place ever again. Father let me choose the music on the radio. It was wonderful, but it would have been paradise if you were there.
I hope you like your new coat. Did Father tell you that it was I who had spotted it first? I hope he did. But he might not have because when people buy someone a gift they like them to think it was all their idea. But, believe me, I saw it first in the window of Annabell’s, the shop you like on South Molton Street, and it was also I who convinced him to buy it even though it was ‘horrendously’ expensive. I do not know how much, but Father’s eyes bulged when he inspected the price tag and he said, ‘It is horrendously expensive.’ When I asked him what that word meant exactly, he said horrendously was similar to extremely. So I told him, ‘You must buy it then because Mama Mona is extremely and horrendously beautiful.’ (I called you Mama Mona because, as you know, he insists I do.) This made him laugh and he took the coat to the cashier. Anyway, I hope you like it. I cannot wait to see you in it, your hair rolled up in the usual way, like an actress in one of the old films.
It is almost 10.30 now, time for lights-out. I can hear Mr Galbraith’s heavy footsteps coming up the long corridor, making sure that the two boys in every room are in their pyjamas and under the covers. It is so cold here. Which brings me to your beautiful gift. The pyjamas are perfect. Abu Muftah is the best tailor in Cairo, do you not agree? At least in pyjamas he is. Please tell him that they fit perfectly. The fabric is so soft and warm and comfortable that wearing it is almost like being in your arms. They are my favourite birthday gift ever. I am so thankful that God gave me such a beautiful stepmother. I have not looked at Mama’s picture for at least a year now. Before you married Father, I used to keep her in my pocket. I was so happy when you finally married Father, not only because it meant you moving in with us, but also because now you and I share the same last name.
I have to stop. Mr Galbraith is about to open the door and switch off the light, say what he always says every night and morning: ‘Good night, girls. Good morning, girls.’ He thinks he is being funny. He is here, bye.
After Mr Galbraith left, Alexei and I lay in the dark talking, as sometimes we do. I asked him to tell me what I will see in a wet dream and he said I would see the woman of my dreams, the woman I will some day marry. I could not sleep after that. And long after we had stopped talking I had to wake him up to borrow his pen-size flashlight, which he and I call the James Bond pen, so as I could continue writing to you from beneath the covers. I must be careful because at this time Mr Galbraith takes his dog, Jackson, walking in the fields behind the house. He must not see a light.
Sometimes, like now, I miss you so much something in my chest hurts. When I cannot sleep, or if I am woken up in the dark by a bad dream, I say your name over and over in my head. I shut my eyes and try to see your eyes, hear your voice, smell your neck.
Let me return to my birthday with Father. He and I ate at your favourite restaurant, Clarisse’s. I chose it because I knew you would have. You are right; they make the best cheese fondue in London. And you are also right that it is nowhere as good as the Cafe du Soleil in Geneva. I cannot wait for us to be there together in December. I am counting the days, 48 from today. But I was devastated when Father told me that I would only have one week with you. One week! He is taking you after that to visit his friends in Rome and I will have to return to Cairo alone and spend the holidays all on my own in that big flat in Zamalek with only Naima the maid to keep me company. I know Father loves me, but I think he hates it when you and I are together. This is why he sent me here after you got married. This is why he is taking you to Rome. This is why he asks me to call you Mama Mona. He is jealous. I wish we were Christians so as I could spend the entire Christmas holidays with you. God should have made us the same age.
He waited until we finished our meal at Clarisse’s to tell me. I of course ordered the cheese fondue. He ordered a large steak that bled every time he pressed it with his knife. Afterwards I ordered strawberry ice crème and he asked for a black coffee. When it arrived he lit a cigarette that kept smoking in my direction. As usual, we did not talk about much. He always seems bored when he and I are alone. His eyes looked beyond me and every time the waitress came, he seemed to come alive; whenever he has to speak to anyone else he comes alive. Sometimes I wish I can come to him as a stranger, to ask him things like if he ever misses Mama. She has been dead for over six years now and he never mentions her name. When someone would ask him about a plate or a piece of furniture she had bought, like you used to do, he would say, ‘Nori’s mother bought that.’ Do not worry; I am not upset at him. Please, please, please do not mention any of this to him. I love him and I love him more for bringing you into my life. You know how some films switch from black-and-white to colour when the director wants us to know that time has moved on, or that things have become happier? The last year, since you married Father, has been like that. Anyway, just when I started eating the ice crème, he told me that you two would be spending Christmas and New Year in Rome without me. At that moment I wished he never came or took me to London; I wished it were not my birthday.
I have to stop now. I will try to wake up early to finish.
It is 6.40 in the morning. I am under the covers, but already dressed in my uniform. It seems even colder now. The sun might as well not be here. The clouds are as thick as blankets and their edges look bruised. The trees are leafless and dark. The whole thing looks like an ugly black drawing from a horror book. I remember, when you came here a year ago with Father, how you said that you love the English countryside, how romantic you find winter, how much you miss England. And when I said it was gloomy, you said it was exactly that gloominess that made it romantic and asked me to read Wuthering Heights. Well, I have read that book now and I still do not understand what you mean. I hate the cold and I hate Daleswick. There are boys here as old as eighteen; is that how long Father intends on keeping me here?
Summer is too far off to imagine. For a while all I could think of was December with you in Geneva, sitting beside you in the Cafe du Soleil, but ever since Father told me of his plan to take you to Rome I have been trying to imagine the summer months with you instead. Let’s go to Alexandria again. Father will have no excuse then; we will spend the entire time together, swimming and getting as brown as we can.
I do not think it was a wet dream, but last night I dreamt I was kissing your shoulder. When I woke up I touched my underpants and they were dry. Alexei says that is the proof. But maybe they dried by the time I woke up. Anyway, it was a beautiful dream. You started laughing and snorting like you do when I tickle you.
I am keeping to my promise: praying all the five prayers and saying my dua every day. And I have already memorised the five suras you asked me to memorise. I cannot wait to recite them to you.
I have to go now or else I will miss breakfast. Today there will be no chance of Father turning up, and even less of you.
God protect you. I kiss your neck, the spot we agreed was mine and only mine. 48 days. No, I forgot, 47 now.
Forever yours,
Nori