As I mentioned in a previous posting, I was fortunate to participate this last July in a gathering of writers in Sutton in the Eastern Townships.
Around twenty amateur writers from the area were offered the opportunity to read some of their work in public. For many of them – including myself – this was the first time we shared our secret with the public. It was a most exhilarating experience for me and I finally decided to broaden my audience by posting on my blog the story I read that night.
So here it is with the short introduction which preceded the reading.
Good evening.
I am an amateur writer. I take great pleasure in aligning words and telling stories – stories mostly based on real experiences.
I am currently working on two sets of short stories – currently meaning, for the past five years, and probably the next fifteen.
The first set is a sort of travel diary which, at least for the time being, is titled: “The trouble with travel” and the second set, “The Daher Chronicles” recounts some of my childhood memories.
Tonight, I will read to you a short story from those “Daher Chronicles”.
It is titled “Memories of my favourite war”.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was past ten o’clock in the evening. Perched next to the hackney
carriage driver, my parents and sister on the back bench, I was the
happiest fellow in the world.
Like every Saturday when my father was in town, we had dinner at the “Parisiana”. When we finished eating, my sister and I chased the Greek owner’s children through the restaurant’s cellar, until Manoli the head waiter, fearing for his wine, asked us to play elsewhere. On the sidewalk, as our parents were looking in despair, we hastily spent our weekly pocket money. First, we bought pistachios from a peddler and then tipped the old barrel organ player, because he let us turn the antique instrument’s crank a few times. And finally, we bought a necklace of fresh jasmine which we offered to our mother, knowing that this generous gesture would be immediately rewarded by a full repayment of our weekly allowance.
Now, from my promontory in the carriage, I could feel the fresh breeze of October on my face as the street lights slowly filed off. Soon the horse would take a sharp right, leaving Malika Nazli Avenue to enter our alley. I closed my eyes to enjoy the turning movement of the cart and the rhythm of the horse’s trot.
Despite my closed eyes, the sudden faint glow of the alley’s lighting contrasting with the bright street lights of the avenue confirmed that we were entering “Ben El Kanayes” – Among the Churches Alley – our street. I opened my eyes: on the left, stood the long wall of the Jesuits school and in front, I could recognize the massive contour of our cathedral.
Ten minutes later, I was in bed with my “Tintin en Amérique” which I had read a dozen times. Half way through page three, I was sound asleep.
On Sunday morning, I woke up to the churches’ bells. There were five chapels and cathedrals of different rites in the vicinity of our home. The day went by, but I couldn’t help notice my
father’s sombre expression as he was reading his newspapers.
I was not allowed to leave home until I showed my finished homework to my mother. And this Sunday was not any different: I was late again. By the time I was finally allowed to meet my friends on the Jesuits’ school grounds, I heard slamming car doors and voices on the street.
I ran to the balcony and was surprised to see Aunt Laura, my mother’s sister, with her family, off-loading suitcases from the black Austin.
I was perplexed: suitcases…in October! Though I was ecstatic to see my cousins, I could not understand the purpose of this unannounced visit and most of all, why so much luggage!
Half an hour later, the two families were gathered in our sitting room
and we were informed of what was happening.
The war was imminent. Suez had already been hit and the government had warned that the Almaza airport near Heliopolis was the next likely target. Heliopolis was home to my aunt’s family and clearly, they felt safer here. My father had added that, according to the latest news on the radio, the schools would be closed until further notice. I tried to look sad upon hearing this, but was quick to gather my cousins and sister and we all rushed to my room screaming, unable to contain our joy.
In the middle of the night, a strident siren woke us up, while loud voices on the street were ordering everybody to switch off the lights.
When the sirens stopped, my father and uncle put on the radio, which they quickly covered with a table cloth to hide the light of the dial. After a few minutes of military marches, a solemn voice announced that the war had spread across the Eastern border and warned that the next target could be Cairo’s central station. We were all livid. The large, buzzing railroad complex was within a stone’s throw from our house. My father and uncle were quick to decide: we were all going to the family farm in the Delta, away from the city and its new threats.
By six in the morning, a taxi was hired and loaded with suitcases. The driver was asked to follow the Austin in which we all managed to squeeze in.
The streets were quiet and soon we were driving on the country road leading to the Qanater Gardens. The first half hour of the trip had been
punctuated by several “quiet kids!”, until our excitement faded and my cousins and sister fell asleep.
The Qanater Gardens were about half-way from the farm. The lush vegetation by the river had served as a frequent backdrop to family photographs.
There was one I remembered vividly: sepia tinted, it featured my mother and her four sisters surrounding my grandfather, all dressed in white and wearing straw hats.
As I watched the peasants in the fields, I couldn’t help but think that I should have been in school today, repeating multiplication tables after Frère Victor. But war or no war, I decided that I was better off in the Austin, cruising through the Delta with my cousins, than being bored by Frère Victor and his multiplication tables.
By nine o’clock, the cars stopped at the quay of Achmoon where we were greeted by the farmers. While my father and uncle explained the reason for our unplanned stopover, arrangements were made and
three boats were ready to take us and our luggage to the opposite bank of the river.
I could see the farm from here: the white house, its veranda and open shed, the green window shutters, the palm trees behind the house and the orchard to the right.
When we reached the landing stage, I knew that my aunt would make the same remark about the rotten wood boards which had to be changed. She never failed to; and today was no exception.
While our parents opened the house and started organising the rooms and the kitchen, my cousins and I were already running through the corn fields with an old pierced kite.
Around mid-day, our mothers summoned us to the kitchen and ordered us to wear hats. Five minutes later, we were racing our new boats on the stream behind the house. My hat won.
In the afternoon, our parents took us for a stroll in the orchard. My uncle showed us some of his latest citrus grafting results and we all walked around peeling an orange, a tangerine or a grape fruit, going hmm..hmm..and giving expert’s comments.
In the evening, at the light of an oil globe, we sat around the table in the roofless living area.
We had stuffed pigeons and baked eggplant.
After dinner, we followed our parents on the veranda. While they were having coffee and smoked cigarettes, we sat on the stairs, staring at the moon and at its reflection in the river.
If there was a war, it was far away. And though I knew it was not right, secretly I was hoping that it would not stop too soon, fearing that its end would break this intense happiness.
Epilogue
The Suez war of 1956 lasted one week and resulted in Egypt’s adoption of an austere form of government, leading many people to emigrate. My family left Egypt a few years later.
Two months ago, while in Egypt on business, I went back to Achmoon for the first time since 1956. I could not find the farm, the house or the quay.
The river of the gleaming moon has been filled up. A multitude of ugly three-story buildings have replaced the orchard and smoking trucks speed up where corn used to grow.
Civilisation has taken its toll and shattered a young boy’s perpetual dream.
It often does.
The death of the young girl is absolutely heart-breaking. The state of the wounded students is extremely worrisome and their parents must be living traumatic moments. The hundreds of young people who witnessed the drama are still in shock and many of them will require psychological follow up and support. As for the population, it is still traumatized and wonders what needs to be done to avoid such tragedies in the future. My thoughts also go to the parents of the poor killer. Yes – I did write “poor killer” because I feel that the man responsible for the tragedy must have been a poor soul after all. His parents in today’s papers stated that they never suspected that their son was capable of such behaviour and dramatic acts. Whether this is true or not, they have lost their dear one and must feel responsible for his tragic acts. Living with this recurrent nightmare will require tremendous courage.
Hundreds of persons could not believe their eyes when they saw the plane land and make its way unscathed between the cars. The emergency landing was the pilot’s only option when he realized that his engine died while he was flying over the downtown area. There was simply no way he could glide to any airport...
