Authors: André Aciman
Out of Egypt (37 page)
Now, it so happened that Aunt Elsa had had strange forebodings the week before the Egyptian government nationalized all of my father's assets.
Une étrange angoisse,
a strange anxiety, right here, she kept repeating, pointing to her chest. “Here, and here, sometimes even here,” she would say, hesitantly,
as though her inability to locate the peculiar sensation in her chest made it more credible. “Something always happens when I have these feelings.” She had had them on the eve of President Kennedy's assassination. And back in 19914. And of course in 1939. Madame Ephrikian, warned by Aunt Elsa to leave Smyrna in 1922, still called her
une voyante
, a seer. “Seer my eye!” exclaimed my grandmother behind her back.
Une étrange angoisse,
a strange anxiety, right here, she kept repeating, pointing to her chest. “Here, and here, sometimes even here,” she would say, hesitantly,
as though her inability to locate the peculiar sensation in her chest made it more credible. “Something always happens when I have these feelings.” She had had them on the eve of President Kennedy's assassination. And back in 19914. And of course in 1939. Madame Ephrikian, warned by Aunt Elsa to leave Smyrna in 1922, still called her
une voyante
, a seer. “Seer my eye!” exclaimed my grandmother behind her back.
“She's swallowed a cheap barometer, and it rattles inside her old rib cage. Whatever is itching her there, you can be sure it's just her conscience.”
My grandmother was alluding to a quarrel the sisters had had over who would get Uncle Vili's prized nineteenth-century barometer following his sudden escape from Egypt. Uncle Vili liked to hunt duck, so, naturally, the sisters quarreled over who would inherit his rifles as well. One day, the rifles, the barometer, and his golf clubs disappeared.
“Les domestiques,”
alleged Aunt Elsa.
“Les domestiques
my eye!” replied my grandmother. “She swallowed them, just as she'll swallow everything we own one day.” “We don't have to worry about that now,” interjected my father, “the Egyptian government has already thought of it.”
“Les domestiques,”
alleged Aunt Elsa.
“Les domestiques
my eye!” replied my grandmother. “She swallowed them, just as she'll swallow everything we own one day.” “We don't have to worry about that now,” interjected my father, “the Egyptian government has already thought of it.”
The news that my father had lost everything arrived at dawn one Saturday in early spring 1965. The bearer was Kassem, now the factory's night foreman. He rang our bell, and it was my father who opened the door. Seeing his boss look so crushed on guessing the reason for his untimely visit, the young foreman immediately burst into a fit of hysterical crying. “Did they take her, then?” asked my father, meaning the factory. “They took her.” “When?” “Last night. They wouldn't let me call you, so I had to come.” Both men stood quietly in the vestibule and then moved into the kitchen while my father tried to improvise something by way of tea. They sat at the kitchen table, urging one another not to lose heart, until both men
broke down and began sobbing in each other's arms. “I found them crying like little children,” was Aunt Elsa's refrain that day. “Like little children.”
broke down and began sobbing in each other's arms. “I found them crying like little children,” was Aunt Elsa's refrain that day. “Like little children.”
The crying had also awakened my grandmother, who, despite protestations that she never slept at night on account of the “troubles,” was a very sound sleeper. She shuffled all the way into the kitchen to find that Abdou, who had just come in through the service entrance, had also joined in the tears. “This is no good,” she snapped, “you'll wake Nessim. What's happened now?” “They took her.” “Took whom?” “But the factory, signora, what else?” he said using the pidgin word for factory,
al-fabbrica.
al-fabbrica.
My grandmother never sobbed. She got angry, stamped, kicked, and grew flushed. Aunt Elsa was right when she claimed that her sister cried out of rageâlike Bismarck, the Iron Chancellorâand not out of sorrow. Her eyelids would swell and grow red, and with the corner of her handkerchief she would blot away her tears with flustered and persistent poking motions, as though, in her fury, she was determined to inflict more pain on herself. This was the ninth time she had seen the men in her life lose everything; first her grandfather, then her father, her husband, five brothers, and now her son.
A moment of silence elapsed. “Here,” she said, mixing sugar in a glass of water and handing it to my father. It was reputed to calm one's nerves. “I'm having tea, thank you,” he said. But Abdou, who was still sobbing, said he could use it. Meanwhile, Aunt Elsa kept repeating, “See? I knew it, I knew it. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I?” “Do you want to shut up!” shouted her sister, suddenly shoving a large bowl containing last night's homemade yogurt along the kitchen countertop with such force that it exploded against the wall. “Who cares?” she shouted, anticipating her sister's reproach. “Who cares at a
time like this, who?” She began to pick up the shards while Abdou, still sobbing, begged her not to bother, he would pick them up himself.
time like this, who?” She began to pick up the shards while Abdou, still sobbing, begged her not to bother, he would pick them up himself.
It was the noise of this quarrel that finally woke me that Saturday morning. I could tell something was amiss. As happened each time someone died, everyone's instinct was always to keep the bad news from me. Either the names of the deceased were scrupulously withheld from everyday conversation, or, when the names were mentioned, those present would heave a sigh signifying something nebulous and clearly beyond my scope, adding the adjectival
pauvre,
poor, to the name of the afflicted like a ceremonial epithet conferred on the occasion of one's death.
Pauvre
was used for the departed, the defeated, and the betrayed. “
Pauvre
Albert,” my deceased grandfather; “
pauvre
Lotte,” my deceased aunt; “
pauvre
Angleterre,” who had lost all of her colonies; “
pauvres nous
,” said everyone! “
Pauvre moi
,” said my mother about my father. “
Pauvre fabrique
” was on everyone's lips that day. The last time they had used that expression was when the factory's main boiler exploded, severely damaging the building and almost ruining my father.
pauvre,
poor, to the name of the afflicted like a ceremonial epithet conferred on the occasion of one's death.
Pauvre
was used for the departed, the defeated, and the betrayed. “
Pauvre
Albert,” my deceased grandfather; “
pauvre
Lotte,” my deceased aunt; “
pauvre
Angleterre,” who had lost all of her colonies; “
pauvres nous
,” said everyone! “
Pauvre moi
,” said my mother about my father. “
Pauvre fabrique
” was on everyone's lips that day. The last time they had used that expression was when the factory's main boiler exploded, severely damaging the building and almost ruining my father.
I found my father sitting in the living room with Kassem and Hassan, whispering instructions to them. When he saw me, he nodded somewhat absentmindedly, a sign that he did not want to be disturbed. I picked up the newspaperâa a grown-up habit I was trying to acquireâand sat by myself in the dining room. I had heard at the American School that all young men in America read the newspaper first thing in the morning with their coffee. Coffee too was on my list. One sipped and thought of things to do that day and then remembered to go on reading one's newspaper. No yogurt this morning. Instead, the smell of eggs and bacon and of butter melting on toast wafted from the kitchen. I had seen American breakfasts
in movies and at school and had instructed Abdou I wanted eggs with bacon every Saturday.
in movies and at school and had instructed Abdou I wanted eggs with bacon every Saturday.
The early-spring sun beamed on the brown table in the dining room, spilling sweeps of light down the backs of the chairs and onto the faded red rug. My grandmother was like me; we liked bright rooms whose shutters were kept open all night and day, liked the clean, wholesome smell of sun-dried sheets or of sun-washed rooms and balconies on windy summer days; liked the insidious, stubborn eloquence of sunlight flooding under the door of a shuttered room on unbearable summer days; even the slight migraines that came from too much sun we liked. Through the window, as always on clear Saturday mornings, sat patches of unstirring turquoise in the distance, rousing the thirst for seawater which all schoolboys in Alexandria knew, and which seduced you into thinking of long hot hours on the summer beaches. Two more months, I thought.
When my grandmother walked into the dining room, she tried to hide that she had been crying. “Nothing,” she replied to my unasked question. “Nothing at all. Here is your orange juice.” She shuffled toward me on her ever-grieving bunions, kissing me on the back of the head, and then pinching my nape.
“Mon pauvre,”
she said, passing her fingers through my hair. “Couldn't this have waited a while longer, couldn't it?” she kept muttering, nodding to herself. Then, sensing I was about to renew my question, she said, “Nothing, nothing,” and drifted out of the dining room. I ate my eggs in silence. Then my mother walked in and sat across from me. She, too, looked upset. Nobody was eating. So they had quarreled. But I hadn't heard her shouting.
“Mon pauvre,”
she said, passing her fingers through my hair. “Couldn't this have waited a while longer, couldn't it?” she kept muttering, nodding to herself. Then, sensing I was about to renew my question, she said, “Nothing, nothing,” and drifted out of the dining room. I ate my eggs in silence. Then my mother walked in and sat across from me. She, too, looked upset. Nobody was eating. So they had quarreled. But I hadn't heard her shouting.
“Look,” she said, “they took everything.”
It was like hearing that someone had died, a sinking feeling in my diaphragm and a tickling at the back of my ears. I pushed my plate away. My mother, whom I had not seen get up, was
stirring sugar into a glass of water, saying, “Drink it all up now.” It meant I had had my nerves shaken. I was a man, then.
stirring sugar into a glass of water, saying, “Drink it all up now.” It meant I had had my nerves shaken. I was a man, then.
Even so, I did not fully understand what was so frightful about losing one's fortune. A few of those we knew who had lost theirs went about living normal, everyday lives, with the same number of houses, cars, and servants. Their sons and daughters went to the same restaurants, saw the same number of movies, and spent as much money as they always had. On them, however, loomed the stigmaâeven the shameâof the fallen, the ousted, and it came with a strange odor that infallibly gave them away: it was the smell of leather. “Did you smell the abattoir,” was my father's word for it, whispered maliciously after visiting friends about to leave the country. Every family that had lost everything knew it was destined to leave Egypt sooner or later, and, in one room, usually locked and hidden from guests, sat thirty to forty leather suitcases in which mothers and aunts kept packing their family's belongings at a slow, meticulous pace, always hoping that things might right themselves in the end. Until the very end, they hopedâand each of their husbands always swore he knew someone in high places who could be bribed when the time came. My father began to boast of the same contacts.
And then it dawned on me. When people came to visit us, they too would sniff out that funny leather smell and whisper
abattoir
behind our backs as they nosed about our home, wondering where on earth we had tucked all of our suitcases. The
abattoir
phase was bound to start soon, and with it an accelerated dose of family squabbles. Which store sold which suitcases cheaper? The question would tear our family apart. What articles should we buy for Europe? Gloves, socks, blankets,
shoes? No, raincoats. No, hats. More fights. What would we leave behind? Aunt Elsa wanted to take everything. It figures, said my grandmother, who wanted to leave it all behind. Should we tell anyone? No. Yes. Why? More screaming. And finally, the one question bound to send everyone flying into a rage: Where would we settle? “But we don't even know the language they speak over there.” “Why, did you know Arabic before coming here?” “No.” “So?” “But it's so cold there.” “And here it was too hot. You've said so yourself.”
abattoir
behind our backs as they nosed about our home, wondering where on earth we had tucked all of our suitcases. The
abattoir
phase was bound to start soon, and with it an accelerated dose of family squabbles. Which store sold which suitcases cheaper? The question would tear our family apart. What articles should we buy for Europe? Gloves, socks, blankets,
shoes? No, raincoats. No, hats. More fights. What would we leave behind? Aunt Elsa wanted to take everything. It figures, said my grandmother, who wanted to leave it all behind. Should we tell anyone? No. Yes. Why? More screaming. And finally, the one question bound to send everyone flying into a rage: Where would we settle? “But we don't even know the language they speak over there.” “Why, did you know Arabic before coming here?” “No.” “So?” “But it's so cold there.” “And here it was too hot. You've said so yourself.”
Meanwhile, we were given a reprieve, and like a baffled prisoner whose sentence has been temporarily commuted, or a stranded traveler whose return trip is inexplicably delayed, we were allowed to move about freely and do as we pleased, our lives suspended, taken over by unreal pursuits. It was well known that the fallen spent more and worried less. Some even started to enjoy Egypt, especially now that they could splurge, knowing they couldn't take abroad what the government was determined to seize from them. Others took advantage of the respite and did nothing all day save roam about aimlessly and hang around cafés, affecting, they thought, the unruffled dignity of condemned aristocrats.
When finally I spoke with my father that morning, he said it had come as no surprise. He had gone to bed knowing what awaited him in the morning and had told no one, not even Mother. Then I mustered the courage and asked what would happen now. They still needed him at the factory, he said. But that would pass, and then the inevitable would arrive. What? They would ask us to leave. Everything would have to be left behind. Meanwhile, there were some savings tucked away here and there, though technically we owned nothing. They might let us sell the furniture. But the cars were no longer ours. My father would recall old debts. Bound to be ugly, that. I wanted to know who owed him money. He told me their names. I was surprised. Their son was always having new shoes made. “How
long, do you think?” I finally asked, like a patient imploring his doctor to say things aren't so hopeless after all. He shrugged his shoulders. “A few weeks, maybe a month.” Then, pausing, he added, “At any rate, for us it's finished.”
long, do you think?” I finally asked, like a patient imploring his doctor to say things aren't so hopeless after all. He shrugged his shoulders. “A few weeks, maybe a month.” Then, pausing, he added, “At any rate, for us it's finished.”
It meant our everyday lives, an era, the first uncertain visit to Egypt in 1905 by a young man named Isaac, our friends, the beaches, everything I had known, Om Ramadan, Roxane, Abdou, guavas, the loud tap of backgammon chips slapped vindictively upon the bar, fried eggplants on late-summer mornings, the voice of Radio Israel on rainy weekday evenings, and the languor of Alexandrian Sundays when all you did was go from movie to movie, picking up more and more friends along the way until a gang was formed and, from wandering the streets, someone would always suggest hopping on the tram and riding upstairs in second class all the way past San Stefano to Victoria and back. Now
it
all seemed unreal and transitory, as if we had lived a lie and suddenly had been found out.
it
all seemed unreal and transitory, as if we had lived a lie and suddenly had been found out.
“What should I do in the meantime?” I asked, emphasizing distress in my voice, because I could not see pretending that life would go on as usual. “Do? Do whatever you wantâ” my father started to say, letting me already savor the thought of dropping out of school and spending every day that spring going to the museum in the morning and then wandering through the bustling streets of downtown Alexandria, stalking my every whim. But my grandmother interrupted: “Never, no,” she said with growing agitation. “He has to go to school. I won't accept it.” “We'll see,” said my father, “we'll see.” She was about to go on, when he said, “Don't raise your voice, now of all times, not now.” As she walked out of the room, I heard the tail end of her sentence, “âtelling his son to become a degenerate, of all things. Who's ever seen such a thing? Who? Who? Who?”
At that point a click was heard at the front door and Uncle
Nessim walked in. He had recently abandoned his habit of leaving the house at the crack of dawn and taking long walks along the Corniche, and seeing him now, everyone was dumbstruck. All morning we had been whispering because we were sure he was sleeping in his room. We had never even discussed whether to keep the bad news from him.
Nessim walked in. He had recently abandoned his habit of leaving the house at the crack of dawn and taking long walks along the Corniche, and seeing him now, everyone was dumbstruck. All morning we had been whispering because we were sure he was sleeping in his room. We had never even discussed whether to keep the bad news from him.
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