Out of Egypt (32 page)
Authors: André Aciman
Months later we took Signor Ugo up on his offer and, early one Friday morning, my father and I put on suits and went to pick him up at his pension on Rue Djabarti. He was late, so we got out and waited downstairs on the empty sidewalk. It was one of those translucently quiet early spring mornings in Alexandria when the shops were still closed and the city patiently, almost lazily, awaited morning prayers. A smell of
ful,
the national bean breakfast, permeated the air. Both of us were hungry. Signor Ugo would probably be outraged if he caught us eating such a poor man's meal. “And it's always so messy,” said my father as we decided to give up the thought. Through
the pension's open door came another smell: of coffee and
loucoumades,
fried dough steeped in honey. “We'll have to eat something along the way,” said my father.
ful,
the national bean breakfast, permeated the air. Both of us were hungry. Signor Ugo would probably be outraged if he caught us eating such a poor man's meal. “And it's always so messy,” said my father as we decided to give up the thought. Through
the pension's open door came another smell: of coffee and
loucoumades,
fried dough steeped in honey. “We'll have to eat something along the way,” said my father.
Signor Ugo was wearing a shimmering silk tie such as he alone seemed to possess; my father later said that only wealthy men of a certain age wore such ties. He also wore a Borsalino hat, a scrupulously pressed tweed jacket, and sparkling goldbuckled shoes. “Aha, so you're here already,” he said by way of greeting us. “Paulette cannot come. This weather always gives her headaches. Typical Alexandrian: loves the sun, but loves it in the shade.”
“It's off the Corniche, not far behind Mandara,” said Signor Ugo as he sat down in the front seat and pulled out a pack of Elmas. He tapped his cigarette very lightly on the back of the white pack where, as usual, something had already been scribbled in royal-blue ink.
The Corniche at eight o'clock on this cloudless Friday morning was empty of traffic, and we raced past familiar sights on our way to Mandara, a cool wind fanning through Signor Ugo's rolled-down window. We passed Sidi Bishr, the largest beach before Mandara, where no signs of summer life had sprung up yet. The beaches were deserted, the billboards along the coast road bore last year's posters, and none of the small summer shops and stalls that cropped up everywhere during the season were anywhere in sight along the shuttered, unpainted rows of cabins lining the beachfront. Restaurants had not removed last year's
hassiras
âbamboo thatches that protected patrons and beachgoers when tables were put out on the sidewalk. Some of the
hassiras
had mildewed and fallen to the ground and lay flat in the middle of the streets; others hung from wooden rafters, with their ends sweeping the sidewalk, flapping against the wind like trapped kites at the end of summer.
hassiras
âbamboo thatches that protected patrons and beachgoers when tables were put out on the sidewalk. Some of the
hassiras
had mildewed and fallen to the ground and lay flat in the middle of the streets; others hung from wooden rafters, with their ends sweeping the sidewalk, flapping against the wind like trapped kites at the end of summer.
As we neared Mandara, the unpaved road lay covered with
caked and hardened sand. A recent
hamsin
had left sweeps of sand everywhere. Even al-Nunu's Coca-Cola shack lay almost buried, the sand filling the grooves of the corrugated tin sheets that made up the four walls of his summer home. Another shack, not far from his, had caved in under the weight of the sand.
caked and hardened sand. A recent
hamsin
had left sweeps of sand everywhere. Even al-Nunu's Coca-Cola shack lay almost buried, the sand filling the grooves of the corrugated tin sheets that made up the four walls of his summer home. Another shack, not far from his, had caved in under the weight of the sand.
Signor Ugo told my father to make a right turn, and then another that led up a very steep hill. A turbaned Bedouin with two daughters wearing nose rings emerged from a small hut to watch our car spin its way up the sandy path. “You can see the monastery across the tracks.” In front of us was a rather large and dilapidated villa whose surrounding walls were lined with spikes and barbed wire. As we pulled up, another Bedouin opened a large gate and my father continued uphill until we reached a level pebbled roadway leading through a meticulously well-kept arbor flanked by manicured fields and flower beds. We finally stopped before what looked like an old, run-down chapel. As soon as we got out, the smell was unmistakable: we were in the middle of the desert, and yet, from this cold promontory, we could see the familiar beaches of Mandara and Montaza extending for dark-blue miles toward the deep, with short white lines streaking the immediate shoreline.
“Vré pezevenk!”
shouted a tall, bearded man as soon as he saw Signor Ugo getting out of the carâ“You pimp!” He had been supervising a gardener working a plot of flowers. He began to walk toward us with a pair of hedge shears and a broad smile, rubbing the dirt from his fingers with a rag.
“Pezevenk kai essi!”
Signor Ugo retorted in half-Turkish, half-Greekâ“Pederast yourself!” They shook hands heartily, as the tall, bearded Greek brought the shears close to Signor Ugo's groin and pretended to make small cutting motions. Then, turning to my father and me, “What, more
conversos
?” he said jokingly, greeting us with his broad smile well before
Signor Ugo introduced us. “
Conversos
of my stamp, if you understand,” he added. “I understand, I understand,” said Father Papanastasiou. “Communion on Sundays, but Fridays the
Shema.
In other words, an
alborayco,
a halfbreed. A
pezevenk
,” said the Greek priest. “Precisely!” snickered Signor Ugo. “With you Jews nothing is ever clear,” the Greek continued. “Come, have some lemonade.” Then, turning to my father, he explained that their friendship went a long way back, “since before the war.” I didn't ask which one. He explained that
alborayco
came from al-Burak, Mohammed's steed, which was neither horse, nor mule, male nor female. “Poor Jews, you're citizens nowhere and traitors everywhere, even to yourselves. And don't make that face, Ugo, your own prophets said it, not me.”
shouted a tall, bearded man as soon as he saw Signor Ugo getting out of the carâ“You pimp!” He had been supervising a gardener working a plot of flowers. He began to walk toward us with a pair of hedge shears and a broad smile, rubbing the dirt from his fingers with a rag.
“Pezevenk kai essi!”
Signor Ugo retorted in half-Turkish, half-Greekâ“Pederast yourself!” They shook hands heartily, as the tall, bearded Greek brought the shears close to Signor Ugo's groin and pretended to make small cutting motions. Then, turning to my father and me, “What, more
conversos
?” he said jokingly, greeting us with his broad smile well before
Signor Ugo introduced us. “
Conversos
of my stamp, if you understand,” he added. “I understand, I understand,” said Father Papanastasiou. “Communion on Sundays, but Fridays the
Shema.
In other words, an
alborayco,
a halfbreed. A
pezevenk
,” said the Greek priest. “Precisely!” snickered Signor Ugo. “With you Jews nothing is ever clear,” the Greek continued. “Come, have some lemonade.” Then, turning to my father, he explained that their friendship went a long way back, “since before the war.” I didn't ask which one. He explained that
alborayco
came from al-Burak, Mohammed's steed, which was neither horse, nor mule, male nor female. “Poor Jews, you're citizens nowhere and traitors everywhere, even to yourselves. And don't make that face, Ugo, your own prophets said it, not me.”
The first thing Father Papanastasiou said once we moved into his study was, “I am not like the others.” My father nodded as though to confirm that this had been obvious from the very start. “And do you know why?” A long pause followed, almost as if he expected an answer from us. “I will tell you why. They are priests first, and men last. But do you know what I am?” Again a long pause. Should one say yes or no? I looked at the room, cluttered with what must have been hundreds of icons and old books. A rancid odor of incense filled the air. It was even on my hands and in the glass of lemonade he had offered me. “I will tell you what I am: I am a man first,” he said, raising his thumb, which he jiggled a bit, “then I'm a soldier,” raising his index finger as well, “and then a priest,” raising his middle finger. “Ask anyone. Him too. These hands,” he said, producing a pair of colossal fists that would have intimidated Peter the Great, Rasputin, and Ivan the Terrible, and could easily have crushed the keyboard of the old Royal typewriter sitting on his desk, “these hands have touched everything and they have done everythingâdo you know what I mean?” he
said, turning to me and staring with such intensity that I whispered, “Yes, I do.” “No, you don't,” he snapped, “and, God willing, you never shall or you'll have me to answer to. And frankly I don't know which is worse, God or me.”
said, turning to me and staring with such intensity that I whispered, “Yes, I do.” “No, you don't,” he snapped, “and, God willing, you never shall or you'll have me to answer to. And frankly I don't know which is worse, God or me.”
“Vassily, stop your confounded nonsense, and let's get on with it,” interrupted Signor Ugo.
“But I was just chatting,” he protested.
“You've got the boy trembling all over as if he saw Satan himselfâyou call that chatting?”
“Chatting. What else?”
“Vassily, sometimes you speak and act no better than a Greek shepherd from Anatolia. And do you know what?” said Signor Ugo, turning to my father and pointing to the typewriter. “This fellow here is a world authority on Fayum.”
My father immediately concluded that the burly priest must be a specialist in disease control, especially since Fayum was known for its contaminated waters. He started to say he had heard that many peasants were dying of something uncannily reminiscent of cholera. Did Father Papanastasiou think cholera might soon strike in Egypt then?
“And if it did, would I care?” growled the latter.
“Not the Fayum of today,” Signor Ugo broke in. “He's a specialist in the early Christian portraiture from Fayum. He looks at these portraits and in a second can tell you whether they're authentic or not. He teaches the poor orphans here how to paint nothing else.”
“Speaking of orphans,” said my father, “I have brought something in my car for the boys. Can someone give me a hand unloading it?”
“A hand? And what do you call these?” said the priest raising his voice, displaying two outstretched palms, each as big as the Peloponnese.
We stepped out of the study and my father held open the
trunk while Father Papanastasiou unloaded three cardboard boxes. Two young Greeks wearing blue jeans came to get more boxes from the backseat. “What are they?” asked Father Papanastasiou. “Knitted summer shirts for the boys. Mercerized cottonâhere, feel,” said Signor Ugo, handing over one of the shirts to the priest. The priest unfolded and examined it. “But this costs a fortune,” he said, almost protesting as he crinkled part of the shirt in his fist, the better to appreciate its velvety sheen. “Vassily, say thank you,” said Signor Ugo. “Thank you.” My father said it was nothing. “When the boys come back this afternoon, we will give them the new shirts. They need Easter presents, the poor bastards.” As they heaped the cardboard boxes in the entrance, I thought it strange that my father had never given me a shirt like that. “I can get you hundreds of them,” he said later in the car, after we had dropped off Signor Ugo at his pension.
trunk while Father Papanastasiou unloaded three cardboard boxes. Two young Greeks wearing blue jeans came to get more boxes from the backseat. “What are they?” asked Father Papanastasiou. “Knitted summer shirts for the boys. Mercerized cottonâhere, feel,” said Signor Ugo, handing over one of the shirts to the priest. The priest unfolded and examined it. “But this costs a fortune,” he said, almost protesting as he crinkled part of the shirt in his fist, the better to appreciate its velvety sheen. “Vassily, say thank you,” said Signor Ugo. “Thank you.” My father said it was nothing. “When the boys come back this afternoon, we will give them the new shirts. They need Easter presents, the poor bastards.” As they heaped the cardboard boxes in the entrance, I thought it strange that my father had never given me a shirt like that. “I can get you hundreds of them,” he said later in the car, after we had dropped off Signor Ugo at his pension.
“We need to discuss a few things,” my father said to me while staring at the priest. “Do you want to wait in the car?”
I said I would stay in the garden. The three men walked back into the study.
I stood by myself, realizing I was the only one present on the church grounds. The two young men who had helped unload the boxes could be seen making their hasty way downhill, sliding and skipping in the sand, their shoes almost sinking with each step, finally disappearing behind a stretch of palm trees. Then, not a sound, not even the wind, nor the ravens. It was as quiet as it gets in the desertâthe silence of the ancient Greek necropolis in Alexandria, or the clear, beach-day silence of early Sunday mornings in the city.
I looked around and couldn't understand why anyone would bother maintaining such a beautiful garden when the buildings were so utterly run-down. The monastery had probably been a private estate donated to the poor by a wealthy Greek family.
I walked to the edge of the grounds, where a broken-down pergola overlooking the sea created what might once have been a snug little corner for reading or contemplating the water that stretched out to the farthest reaches of Sidi Bishr. To the left, a shanty, mud-hut Arab hamlet hid quietly behind rows of drying laundry. Large birds, hawks probably, descended to feed on a rock nearby.
I looked through one of the windows into the chapel and thought I saw a classroom. There were maps against the wall, children's drawings, icons, and a picture of Pericles. I walked through a narrow corridor leading into what must have been a very old stable that had long ago been converted into a workshop. Beyond the workshop was another plot of land, this one totally fenced in by giant sunflowers which turned their ghoulish eyes on me and watched my every step as I moved about cautiously. All of a sudden I was seized by the uncomfortable feeling that someone was gazing at me from behind. I instantly turned around.
And then I saw them. Leaning against the stable wall, like two giant overturned umbrellas, with their ribbing exposed and their supple bamboo keels glistening yellow, twice my height and taller still than I could ever have imagined them âbecause no matter how close I got to them in the past I had always watched them from afarâwere the
Paralus
and the
Salaminia,
each with its giant tail coiled many times over on the workshop floor like a huge intestine crammed into a tiny abdomen. The kites looked totally stripped, like unfinished rowboats, vulnerable to my searching gaze. The builders had discarded last year's cellophane cover sheets and were about to glue new ones. I moved closer to feel the ribs, but with caution, remembering that bamboo cuts worse than glass. Only then did I discover the ramming spikes that could tear other kites to pieces. Unlike ours, these were not discarded razor blades attached to the body of the kite; instead they were
sharpened bamboo extensions of the kite's very skeletonâthe difference, as Momo explained to me later, between an old lady wearing dentures and the bite of a strong male wolf.
Paralus
and the
Salaminia,
each with its giant tail coiled many times over on the workshop floor like a huge intestine crammed into a tiny abdomen. The kites looked totally stripped, like unfinished rowboats, vulnerable to my searching gaze. The builders had discarded last year's cellophane cover sheets and were about to glue new ones. I moved closer to feel the ribs, but with caution, remembering that bamboo cuts worse than glass. Only then did I discover the ramming spikes that could tear other kites to pieces. Unlike ours, these were not discarded razor blades attached to the body of the kite; instead they were
sharpened bamboo extensions of the kite's very skeletonâthe difference, as Momo explained to me later, between an old lady wearing dentures and the bite of a strong male wolf.
Momo would never forgive me. All I would have had to do was take out my penknife and cut the bamboo. We would rule the skies that summer. For a moment, I felt like a Phoenician spy sneaking into an empty Greek shipyard, determined to wreak as much damage to the enemy as possible, only to lose his nerve upon beholding the
Paralus
and the
Salaminia
, the pride of the Athenian fleet, sitting majestically on opposite docks awaiting minor repairs.
Paralus
and the
Salaminia
, the pride of the Athenian fleet, sitting majestically on opposite docks awaiting minor repairs.
I walked out of the building and heard my father calling me.
Throughout the silent ride back home, one thought kept galling me: Madame Marie would become so unbearably vain when she found out that we were planning to convert to her religion. Signor Ugo said he had to go to church almost every Sunday. Madame Marie would love nothing more.
But that evening, after depositing Signor Ugo, my father stopped the car in front of our building at Cleopatra, looked at me awhile before letting me out, and said, “Don't worry, I don't think we'll be doing anything with our Greek priest. I couldn't stand facing him every week. Still, I want to think about all this some more,” he added, as though he planned to do so as soon as we had said goodbye. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said it might be easier to convert to Protestantism. “At any rate, there's no real rush,” he added, as I shut the door and watched him drive away, knowing I wouldn't see him before breakfast.
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