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Authors: Anne Richardson Roiphe
Tags: Historical
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which to lay his head.
Albert drank many beers that night and fell into a sound sleep on the cushions of the lounge while the houseboat rocked with the slight motion of the harbor waves and the more ferocious rhythms of the human body in natural, if not proper, agitation. As the dawn came up over the Pharos and the light on the water turned silver, Albert struggled to his feet and pressed his hair flat to his head. There were red lines in his eyes. He considered that all the animals went two by two into the Ark. He considered that a banker needed a wife to bring the blanket of civilization up over his injudicious nakedness and present him to society in a flattering light, and that a man was not a man until he had his own household and that it was time for him, never mind the uncertainties, to proceed. The houseboat would always be here. He would not be banned because of a wedding ring.
It was time to get his father to ask Dr. Malina for his daughter’s hand. His step, as he went home that morning, watching the early-morning moisture on the hibiscus in the doorways, watching the terns that had steered into the city looking for garbage on the port streets, watching the windows open and the curtains blowing forward, meaning the wind was from the east. A China wind like this was good luck. His step was not as direct as it might be, but his body was alive with anticipation, satisfaction with his decision.
As he pulled the bell on his door, signaling the sleeping servant to rise, a man in a dark hat, better suited to the cold winters of Germany than to the warm nights of Alexandria, a man with glasses and a small, well-groomed beard, passed behind him. It was Dr. Koch, hurrying to his laboratory. He wanted to see the slide he had prepared the night before, and he could not wait for the sun to rise. He had cut tissue from a cholera victim’s bowel. He had examined it carefully next to the tissue of a woman who had died in childbirth. He had obtained his samples by insistence, by bribery, by sending his assistant, Gaffkey, into the funeral home at the corner. He would compare the two tissue samples. If he found anything of interest in the tissue from the cholera victim, he would draw it in his notebook. He would save it to see if it could be seen again. If something appeared under his lens that was not in the bowel of the dead woman, that might
be
something. On the other hand, it might not. Women in childbirth might have different fluids in their bodies than men do. He would leap to no conclusions. He would simply record what he saw. He had confidence in his eye. He had confidence in his drawing hand. He had confidence in his brain. He also loved the opera. Unfortunately the Alhambra, an open-air theater where opera was performed, was closed for the season. At the opera he would have relaxed, allowing his brain to float with the music. If there had been an opera in this strange city where he must stay for a while, he would have felt more at home. He hummed the melodies he remembered as he walked along. This soothed him. The sand was blowing again in the streets. It caught in his mustache and his sideburns. He brushed it away. Thank God, Berlin had a decent climate, not overheated like this Alexandria. It was planted with evergreens and maples along the avenues, and was only a short distance from mountains and lakes. Berlin did not stink of animals and yesterday’s oranges, the air held no grains of ever-blowing sand, and a person could find an opera company in full performance almost at any time of year.
OF COURSE, ALBERT’S father approved, despite the unpleasant trouble that Jacob Malina had brought down on himself. He met with Dr. Malina that very afternoon. Dr. Malina had to talk to his daughter and his wife. But he shook the architect’s hand cordially and offered him a drink of his best port. Dr. Malina half expected Este to swoon in horror, to shriek that she loved the cook, or that big-eared Arab boy from the corner
Albert drank many beers that night and fell into a sound sleep on the cushions of the lounge while the houseboat rocked with the slight motion of the harbor waves and the more ferocious rhythms of the human body in natural, if not proper, agitation. As the dawn came up over the Pharos and the light on the water turned silver, Albert struggled to his feet and pressed his hair flat to his head. There were red lines in his eyes. He considered that all the animals went two by two into the Ark. He considered that a banker needed a wife to bring the blanket of civilization up over his injudicious nakedness and present him to society in a flattering light, and that a man was not a man until he had his own household and that it was time for him, never mind the uncertainties, to proceed. The houseboat would always be here. He would not be banned because of a wedding ring.
It was time to get his father to ask Dr. Malina for his daughter’s hand. His step, as he went home that morning, watching the early-morning moisture on the hibiscus in the doorways, watching the terns that had steered into the city looking for garbage on the port streets, watching the windows open and the curtains blowing forward, meaning the wind was from the east. A China wind like this was good luck. His step was not as direct as it might be, but his body was alive with anticipation, satisfaction with his decision.
As he pulled the bell on his door, signaling the sleeping servant to rise, a man in a dark hat, better suited to the cold winters of Germany than to the warm nights of Alexandria, a man with glasses and a small, well-groomed beard, passed behind him. It was Dr. Koch, hurrying to his laboratory. He wanted to see the slide he had prepared the night before, and he could not wait for the sun to rise. He had cut tissue from a cholera victim’s bowel. He had examined it carefully next to the tissue of a woman who had died in childbirth. He had obtained his samples by insistence, by bribery, by sending his assistant, Gaffkey, into the funeral home at the corner. He would compare the two tissue samples. If he found anything of interest in the tissue from the cholera victim, he would draw it in his notebook. He would save it to see if it could be seen again. If something appeared under his lens that was not in the bowel of the dead woman, that might
be
something. On the other hand, it might not. Women in childbirth might have different fluids in their bodies than men do. He would leap to no conclusions. He would simply record what he saw. He had confidence in his eye. He had confidence in his drawing hand. He had confidence in his brain. He also loved the opera. Unfortunately the Alhambra, an open-air theater where opera was performed, was closed for the season. At the opera he would have relaxed, allowing his brain to float with the music. If there had been an opera in this strange city where he must stay for a while, he would have felt more at home. He hummed the melodies he remembered as he walked along. This soothed him. The sand was blowing again in the streets. It caught in his mustache and his sideburns. He brushed it away. Thank God, Berlin had a decent climate, not overheated like this Alexandria. It was planted with evergreens and maples along the avenues, and was only a short distance from mountains and lakes. Berlin did not stink of animals and yesterday’s oranges, the air held no grains of ever-blowing sand, and a person could find an opera company in full performance almost at any time of year.
OF COURSE, ALBERT’S father approved, despite the unpleasant trouble that Jacob Malina had brought down on himself. He met with Dr. Malina that very afternoon. Dr. Malina had to talk to his daughter and his wife. But he shook the architect’s hand cordially and offered him a drink of his best port. Dr. Malina half expected Este to swoon in horror, to shriek that she loved the cook, or that big-eared Arab boy from the corner
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