Anatomy of a Disappearance (8 page)

“Ça, c’était vraiment rafraîchissant,” Father called out from the deck.

And knowing full well his purpose, I replied, “Ah oui, c’était superbe.”

Father plonked himself down into a deck chair, his chest heaving with effort, and I watched the dark wood beneath him darken further still. The captain stood nearby, looking at him. Father often elicited such admiration in men. The two began talking in that way men do when silence is unbearable.

Mona and I went to our rooms. She walked ahead of me, water pearls clinging to the small of her back, and when we entered the narrow corridor lined with numbered doors, her skin seemed luminous and green, the color of polished jade, until my eyes adjusted to the electric light. This moment is precious, I thought; soon it will pass, and I will be obliged to sit with them as they sip their aperitifs—which they did every day before dinner.

“See you on deck,” she said, unlocking her door, smiling.

What makes those lips glisten, I wondered, and why does her blood rush to them like that?

I entered my room with the intention of showering, but
when I realized I was out of shampoo I went to her. She was already under the shower. I remembered the excitement I had felt when I sneaked into her room that first time at the Magda Marina. How magical it was to find myself in the same situation again. I stood by the dressing table, looking at her bottles and jewelry. I held the necklace and one by one let drop the pearls into the cup of my hand. I brought them to my nose. Her scent made a place in my chest ache. I buried my face into the silk scarf and felt myself grow thirsty. These were the objects that held her. When I heard the water stop, my heart quickened and I thought, I must leave before she sees me. I returned the objects, each to its place. The pearls made the soft sound of dominoes falling.

“Darling,” she said. “I never thought swimming in a river could be so much fun.”

It was peculiar to be mistaken for my father. There was nothing confidential about what she had said, but the tone of it surprised me. How bottomless it seemed.

“I’ll never forget how you looked,” she went on. “Those fantastic dives. Your chest.”

After a short silence in which I did not know whether to speak or escape, she appeared with just a towel wrapped round her waist. The sight of her bare breasts caused me to turn around.

“I need some shampoo.”

“You don’t have to face the wall; I am old enough to be your mother.”

She was sitting on the foot of the bed, holding a hairbrush.
Her breasts were paler than the rest of her and seemed to deepen the pink in her cheeks. She left the brush beside her and gave me her back.

“Brush my hair.”

I stood on my knees on the bed.

When I started brushing, she said, “No, start from the bottom.”

I combed in silence, and whenever the brush met a knot I took my time.

“It’s not true,” I said, and as if knowing what I meant she did not respond. “You are not old enough to be my mother. You were only fourteen when I was born.”

And again she did not speak, but this time it was a protective and knowing silence, a silence like the screen a doctor pulls across before he comes to inspect you.

Then Father entered the room. He quickly shut the door behind him and stood for a moment watching us. I felt an itch burn my skin and dared not meet his eyes. I focused on her hair, brushing diligently, as if it were homework. Without a word he went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. I thought of asking him to pass the shampoo; I thought this would explain why I was there. But I continued brushing. He turned on the shower. I studied her back, down where the towel held her, tightening and loosening with every breath. And although I had chased all the tangles out and the brush was passing smoothly now, she did not ask me to stop. When I heard Father turn off the water I handed her the brush and left.

Back in my room I placed my ear against the wall. I could not make out the words. Father was speaking in that distant, unyielding tone of his, a thick silence separating each sentence.

For the rest of the trip, Father would address me only when Mona was present. Whenever we were alone, he would look into the distance or pick up a book. But a few months after we had returned to Cairo, as spring was setting in, he called me into his study.

“Close the door.”

I sat down opposite him.

“What do you think of studying in England?”

I shrugged.

“You remember London?”

I said nothing.

“You liked London. You will like England. And by now your English is strong enough. Both Mona and I think it a very good idea.”

I could not bear crying in front of him.

“Is that all?” I said, then cleared my throat so as to explain away the cracked voice.

And it was with such merciless efficiency that Father moved me out of the way. The decision had been made: he had already enrolled me in Daleswick, a boarding school in northern England, and there was nothing I could do about it. Apparently, Mona had chosen the school.

“One of the oldest, no? Kings studied there, right?” he said that evening over dinner, looking at Mona.

“It certainly is one of the best,” she confirmed, her face hardening with that self-congratulatory somberness that overtakes the English whenever they hear praise for one of their institutions.

But I would not be fooled; I refused to be impressed.

“Mama,” I said, the word seeming to catch Father unawares. “Mama always told me that you moved us to Cairo so I could grow up in an Arab country.” But then, louder than intended, I added, “What happened to that?” and ran to my room, where I had to wait a long time, until they finished eating and the table was cleared, for Naima.

The suitcase lay open on the floor. Naima sat cross-legged beside it. Every garment I handed her she folded in her lap, then pressed tenderly into place. She, like me, seemed sick with silence. Mona was the only one who spoke.

“Isn’t this exciting? You will make lots of friends, people you will know for the rest of your life.”

Then out of the blue she asked Naima to go and make tea. And when we were alone she held my wrist and asked me to look her in the eyes.

“Believe me, if it were up to me, I would prefer you to stay here. It’s your father; he wants you to grow up quickly. But I know, from how bravely you are taking this, that you are not a boy anymore.”

A week before I was due to start at Daleswick, the three of us flew to London. My throat tightened as we approached Cairo Airport early in the morning. Why must all horrible things take place early in the morning? I wondered. They treated me then with the sort of focused tenderness you show a grieving person. I was not allowed to carry my bag, and if my eyes lingered on an article in a magazine, Father would ask me about it.

We stayed a couple of nights at Claridge’s in London before heading to school. Knowing how much I liked room service, Father telephoned my room just as I was falling asleep the night we arrived and insisted I call and order a hot chocolate. We spent most of the time walking around the West End. Whenever the two of them went into a shop
I waited outside. We wandered around galleries and in and out of museums. We were at the National Gallery, standing in front of Turner’s
Calais Pier
, when, in a rare expression of sympathy, Father mentioned Mother. Not being in the habit of stopping in front of a painting for longer than a few seconds, Mona was already in the next room. I was still taking in the picture—the frothing, unbrushed curls of the waves, the peopled and tilting ships, the pregnant sails, clouds gathering like vultures, the chill of the whole thing—when Father said, softly, almost absentmindedly, “Your mother would have liked this.” Then he moved on to the next picture, another Turner. I was startled by what he said. Anger was sudden. If it were not for its surprising and perplexing speed, I might have been able to express it more nakedly. Where I had repeatedly failed, an old painting succeeded. It was as if my father was not really talking to me at all. It was so rare for him to talk about my mother in this way. I did not know what to say. I wanted to ask so many things about her, particularly about what she was like before I was born. And I felt a window had opened, that Father was unconsciously allowing me to glimpse a part of her, if only for a moment. I made as if I was moving along to the next painting and came beside him.

“Baba, Baba,” I repeated until I heard him hum. “Why that picture?”

“She liked this painter.” He bent toward the text. “Turner. She very much liked this Turner. I don’t know
what it was about him.” Then he put his arm around me, smiling, signaling the start of a private recollection. “One time, when we were on a boat somewhere—”

“Where?”

I realized I had spoken louder than I should have, particularly in an art gallery where people, for reasons I have never understood, are silent as they would be at a funeral.

He looked about us. I wondered if I had upset him, if he would ever finish the story, if my keenness had caused another long silence to begin.

“Ischia,” he finally whispered.

“It sounds like a sneeze,” I said.

“It’s an island. In Italy. The Tyrrhenian Sea was high. Rough waters. She began to shiver. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. She nodded, still looking away from me, out of the window. Waves were crashing against the glass. Then I heard her whisper, ‘How beautiful.’ A strong heart, your mother had.” He gave a small laugh then looked at me. “A strong heart.”

I do not remember now why they did not accompany me all the way to the new school, and many times since I have wondered whether it was because Father could not bear abandoning me there, that his strength stopped at seeing me off at St. Pancras station.

I stood inside the carriage door, the small window pushed down. I gripped tightly the twenty-pound note Father had just handed me for a cab.

“Your housemaster, Mr. Galebraith, will be waiting on the platform,” he said, looking up. “But in case you don’t find him, there will be a taxi rank outside.”

“Don’t worry,” Mona told him. “Nuri is responsible.”