Read Online The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit by Lucette Lagnado - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucette Lagnado
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pounds. Leon instructed his nephew to put on a pair of loose cotton pajamas. He took Salomoneâs arm while the porter ran to summon a taxi.
Salomone looked nervously up and down the street to see if anyone would notice that a grown man was wearing pajamas in broad daylight.
âSeulement les fous sâhabillent comme ça,â he grumbled; Only crazy people dress like this. But my father ignored him, and the taxi raced through the bustling streets.
Upstairs, Dr. Grossi had to contain a laugh. His âcureâ had worked beyond his wildest imaginings. He couldnât find a hint of pleurisy.
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MALAKA NAZLI WAS BEGINNING to feel too small to accommodate Leon, his young bride, the baby on the way, my grandmother, and Salomone. My cousin was twenty-two, no longer the skinny, nervous youth that heâd been when he joined the household seven years earlier. He had a good job, friends, even girlfriends, and he knew that he should think of living on his own. Yet even he was stunned when, not long after his recovery, and without even giving him notice, my father informed Salomone that he would have to move out immediately.
My cousin couldnât help wondering if his friendship with Edith was to blame. The two had grown close in the past year. Was Oncle Leon resentful or even jealous?
It was no secret that Edith adored her husbandâs urbane Milanese nephew, and considered him the only real friend she had in the house. She viewed her mother-in-law with a gimlet eye and found her judgmental and oppressive, despite her kindly airs and solicitous manners.
Edith assumed her life would change once she gave birth. Her husband, who took his familial duties so seriously, would surely recognize the need to stay close to home. She pinned her hopes on the child she was carrying, who would validate her worth, redeem her in the eyes of the mother-in-law who seemed to find her inadequate and the husband who didnât care enough to stay with her through the night.
Her more cynical side knew this was probably wishful thinking, aselusive and intangible as the apricot season, which is so brief and fleeting as to seem illusory.
âFil mesh-mesh,â goes a popular Arabic saying; When the apricot season comes.
What it really means is: Donât bet on it. It will never happen.
On March 6, 1944, the midwife was summoned to Malaka Nazli.
My father, Leon, planned a major celebration to mark the birth of his son. He set out early in the morning to the Congregation of Love and Friendship, bearing a double portion of coffee and sugar and other treats and delicacies.
âUne fille?â he said in disbelief when he returned and the midwife handed him the pretty dark-haired infant.
âCe nâest pas possible.â
He was so disappointed that he left my mother and his newborn daughter and, hailing a taxi, went to the café where a year earlier he had fallen in love with Edith. Seated at his favorite table at the bar, he ordered an arak, and then another, and another. He stayed out all night, unable to hide his dismay, unwilling to face my grandmother, who had wanted a boy almost as much as he. It seemed not to matter that the infant was to be called Zarifa in her honor. That was the way of Old Aleppo, where a father has the privilege of choosing the name of his firstborn.
Years later, after my mother had told her the bitter story of her birth, my sister would steadfastly refuse to be known by that name. Though she was called Suzette from an early age, for that was the way of modern Cairo, where families conferred European names on their youngsters to help ease their way into colonial society, official documents still listed her as Zarifa. From the time she was a young girl, my sister demanded that all traces of her Arabic name be expunged from the records. As she raged and raged at my father, it was as if she were seeking a way to punish him for that original sin, for the fact that heâd had to
Salomone looked nervously up and down the street to see if anyone would notice that a grown man was wearing pajamas in broad daylight.
âSeulement les fous sâhabillent comme ça,â he grumbled; Only crazy people dress like this. But my father ignored him, and the taxi raced through the bustling streets.
Upstairs, Dr. Grossi had to contain a laugh. His âcureâ had worked beyond his wildest imaginings. He couldnât find a hint of pleurisy.
Â
MALAKA NAZLI WAS BEGINNING to feel too small to accommodate Leon, his young bride, the baby on the way, my grandmother, and Salomone. My cousin was twenty-two, no longer the skinny, nervous youth that heâd been when he joined the household seven years earlier. He had a good job, friends, even girlfriends, and he knew that he should think of living on his own. Yet even he was stunned when, not long after his recovery, and without even giving him notice, my father informed Salomone that he would have to move out immediately.
My cousin couldnât help wondering if his friendship with Edith was to blame. The two had grown close in the past year. Was Oncle Leon resentful or even jealous?
It was no secret that Edith adored her husbandâs urbane Milanese nephew, and considered him the only real friend she had in the house. She viewed her mother-in-law with a gimlet eye and found her judgmental and oppressive, despite her kindly airs and solicitous manners.
Edith assumed her life would change once she gave birth. Her husband, who took his familial duties so seriously, would surely recognize the need to stay close to home. She pinned her hopes on the child she was carrying, who would validate her worth, redeem her in the eyes of the mother-in-law who seemed to find her inadequate and the husband who didnât care enough to stay with her through the night.
Her more cynical side knew this was probably wishful thinking, aselusive and intangible as the apricot season, which is so brief and fleeting as to seem illusory.
âFil mesh-mesh,â goes a popular Arabic saying; When the apricot season comes.
What it really means is: Donât bet on it. It will never happen.
On March 6, 1944, the midwife was summoned to Malaka Nazli.
My father, Leon, planned a major celebration to mark the birth of his son. He set out early in the morning to the Congregation of Love and Friendship, bearing a double portion of coffee and sugar and other treats and delicacies.
âUne fille?â he said in disbelief when he returned and the midwife handed him the pretty dark-haired infant.
âCe nâest pas possible.â
He was so disappointed that he left my mother and his newborn daughter and, hailing a taxi, went to the café where a year earlier he had fallen in love with Edith. Seated at his favorite table at the bar, he ordered an arak, and then another, and another. He stayed out all night, unable to hide his dismay, unwilling to face my grandmother, who had wanted a boy almost as much as he. It seemed not to matter that the infant was to be called Zarifa in her honor. That was the way of Old Aleppo, where a father has the privilege of choosing the name of his firstborn.
Years later, after my mother had told her the bitter story of her birth, my sister would steadfastly refuse to be known by that name. Though she was called Suzette from an early age, for that was the way of modern Cairo, where families conferred European names on their youngsters to help ease their way into colonial society, official documents still listed her as Zarifa. From the time she was a young girl, my sister demanded that all traces of her Arabic name be expunged from the records. As she raged and raged at my father, it was as if she were seeking a way to punish him for that original sin, for the fact that heâd had to
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