La Belle Vie: The Beautiful Life

By Albert Mechawar and Raymond Mechawar

A Delight Story
Irresistible
Deliciously
Intimate
Two Brothers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483682570

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Albert Mechawar.

Library of Congress Control Number:                     2013914447

ISBN:                   Hardcover                           978-1-4836-8256-3

                             Softcover                            978-1-4836-8255-6

                             Ebook                                 978-1-4836-8257-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 09/13/2013

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www.xlibris.com.au

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503587

Contents

One

Location… Heliopolis

The Desert Adventure

Lucky Me, a Fine Opportunity

Sahara City

Mother Not Feeling Well

Yemeni War, Egyptian Involvement

President Tito of Yugoslavia

Summer Holiday in Alexandria

Showjumping at Cheops Pyramid

Auberge des Pyramides

Hard Training

The Army, the Last Contest and Beyond

To Stretch with No Return

A Solution to a Problem

Unavoidable Fate for Egypt

Cataract Hotel, Aswan

The Unbelievable… Believable

Once in a Lifetime

Description for our Readers

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In memory of my younger brother, Raymond:

Without his help, advice, and encouragement over the years, I could not have completed this book.

Thank you, Brother, from the bottom of my heart.

All characters, other than the obvious historical figures and events in this publication, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Tous Droits de Reproduction.

I would like to thank people for their generous help.

Fifty per cent of the proceeds from the selling of the book goes to a definite charity, a promise to my younger brother, who passed away.

The needy need your help.

I do express gratitude to humankind.

Thank you.

La Belle Vie…

The Story Written

Two Brothers

Albert Mechawar

and

Raymond Mechawar

One

In this book you will find a story translated into everyday language, a family tree dating back to 1590, a valuable contribution to understanding and tolerance.

To describe La Belle Vie, I didn’t know much about my family tree. As a result, I carried out extensive research and obtained most of the information from the archives of one of the oldest cathedrals in the narrow busy streets of Old Cairo.

Cairo always has mixtures of spices in the air. It makes you feel good about yourself; happy to start your day with lots of people around you, some funny faces, others talkative, helpful, kind-hearted, down to earth.

We people make or break it; sweet sometimes, a little bruised, with some mistakes. Mind you, life goes on; something that makes a person choose to act in a particular way in life, to see clearly or not.

Copyright

Tous Droits de Reproduction

Location… Heliopolis

On Ibrahim Pasha Street… stands a solid construction of Belgium design consisting of six large apartments…

The number is 1/20 Ibrahim Pasha Street, Heliopolis… I like the name, such importance… This very large apartment on the upper ground floor facing the front has a high ceiling, three double bedrooms, a guest room facing the main, active street, a large formal dining room, a long corridor to the bathroom… no bathtub… only a shower, and a separate restroom. Then comes a very important place in the whole house which also hosts the preparation of exquisite tasting things and the smell of fresh cooking every day of the week… yes, the huge kitchen; it has lots of storage, with the larger area of storage located between the ceiling of the kitchen and the roof of the next level.

This kitchen has seen many friends, neighbours, relatives, anyone and everyone for a brew of fresh Turkish aromatic coffee and crisp home-made biscuits.

One of the back bedrooms has a big-sized balcony, from which if you go a few steps down, then you are in the backyard. We kids, this is our shelter. Almost every building in Heliopolis and Cairo has a caretaker who is married, has a wife and a few kids; they live on top of the building… the caretaker starts his duty early in the morning and continues till late night. He sits in front of the building on a hand-made wooden bench… his hands… all day long have tea, coffee, lunch/brunch, nibble something, hardly any robberies. He is always polite… ‘Good morning, madame. Good evening, sir.’ . . . If a stranger arrives, ‘Excuse me, anything you want… ?’

‘Just go away, choukran . . . thank you.’

He puts on a galabiah . . . a long loose garment, and a white turban round his head, looking smart… an Arabian in the city . . . in front of the main entrance gate of the building…

The next day is another lovely day for him…

Ibrahim Pasha Street is a long wide street, with many shops on both sides displaying menswear, cigarettes, and lolly shops, a plumber, a place for washing and ironing clothes (ready the same day), roasting coffee daily from Brazil, Columbia, Lybia; name the country, and you will get the coffee. Next door to us is an alley for a fruit and vegetable market, lined up, starting from five in the morning. Everything is fresh daily; there is a nice display, especially the fruits. Also, we are in Heliopolis, which means New Cairo, better clientèle; still, for some things, you must bargain. Opposite Cinema Kashmir now is Cinema Heliopolis, for which every session, there are three movies, one from America, cowboys, one from India, the third, a local Egyptian one, which has big stars. They are there for two or three weeks; depending on how popular the films are, they can be screened month after month.

Then come the patisseries. Wide windows display gateaux, petits, chocolats des croissants, ah, so many choices to choose from. The flower shop displays in its windows and outside the shop different arrangements of flowers, colours, oo la lah; from 200 metres away, you can still smell the roses; you feel alive and in love.

The King’s freshly squeezed fruit juice, sugar cane and the fruits of the season, the deli shop, with home-made varieties of dairy products. ‘Would you like to try our charcuterie, madame?’

‘Of course,’ and you will end up with 250 grams of this, 250 of that; it’s a pleasure to have such attention and service.

There is the friendly family chemist, the barber shop; It’s a day out for the ladies, going to the hair dresser’s salon. All day long, on a mobile trolley, your cup of tea is served with the gateaux-petits-four-croissants.

Two brothers were married to two sisters on the same day for the two couples to have one comfortable wedding.

One of those couples included my father; his name is George. And my mother’s name is Adéle… they tried their luck in Syria, in a town called Halab, which was narrow in outlook, not much to do, limited jobs. They went back to Beirut, Lebanon. My father made a great effort. At that time, people were struggling: no future, what to do? My father and his brother had a long discussion the Egyptian way. They had to put into action only one Plan A, no Plan B.

‘Let’s move to beautiful Egypt, maybe third country lucky.’

On arrival in the capital, Cairo, they lived in Old Cairo for a few years; they were young and active; they needed a new Cairo. George, my father, decided to move to the new suburb of Heliopolis; his brother remained in Old Cairo.

Looking, searching, asking here and there for a place to live, after the first look at this apartment in Ibrahim Pasha, in a flash, he said, ‘Woman (he always addressed his wife as my woman), we found our home sweet home, which shall be our headquarters…’

The action started. The firstborn child was a boy. What a cute little moon face! The name was given from joy and heart combined: Habib. Now, the translation of the name means ‘sweet love, darling, my love, amore’, all in one it means Habib, what a joy!

My father was working in a cigarette factory part time. He rolled and smoked his own. For the occasion of the birth of his firstborn son, he rolled more than 200 cigarettes by hand just to give away as a welcoming gesture at a kind of get-together with relatives, friends, neighbours. All day and night, there was assorted food and smoke; a friend brought his own tablah, which is an Egyptian drum, another his ouwd, which is an old stringed instrument shaped like a half pear. People from most of the Middle Eastern countries use this popular instrument. Most of the men or women try to shake the belly or try their luck in singing, and if they sing badly, then they will make them sit down by force; the night will not end without a few jokes and a great simple time being had by all.

The head of the family was our father, and to bring in extra income, he was importing apples from Lebanon; the apples were very popular, expensive, and brought good business.

Then a second child was born; this time, a pretty girl with a pretty name: Mary. The mother and father were very happy; they had a boy and a girl. Enough? But of course not; they carried on with a third child, another cute doll-like girl, Emily. They were a small and happy family. My father became jobless; jobs were hard to find. From time to time, he bought large quantities of tobacco, rolled them, and tried to sell them door to door. There was not much to do. Sometimes he got together with his friends or his brother for a chat and killed a few hours. It was nice to be surrounded by your own kids; another little darling girl, Odette, was born, with a nice in name. They were all cute, they were all equal, and there was more love; they didn’t worry about tomorrow.

Habib went to one of the best schools—College Des Fréres Heliopolis. There, he learnt French, English, Arabic, and Latin. The three girls went to College du Sacré-Coeurs, with its unique uniforms. For most of the cabinet ministers’ daughters and those in high society, the so-called upper class, education there was the best; several generations came out from these two colleges, held good positions in Egypt and abroad, each one could fluently speak at least three languages. If anyone asked, ‘Which country are you from?’, as soon as Egypt was mentioned, they would say, ‘Oh yes, of course. You speak many languages.’

George, our father, was the laughter of this house; he was the big keeper, keeping the family all together in a loving way… his way. Any amount that he earned, large or small, he spent on them. If anyone needed help, he would help, no questions asked.

From time to time, my father went to the main biscuit factory there to buy a few kilos of mixed biscuits in brown bags in bulk for almost a few piastres. They were good quality biscuits at a cheap price. Happily, my father would bring many brown bags of biscuits; they went well with tea, lots of tea that he drank all day, but when my little sister Odette asked him, ‘Dad, why are all the biscuits broken? We cannot find one intact…’ they would all laugh.

‘When you put the biscuit in your mouth, tell me if it will break or not. Yes, it will break. Then, what’s your complaint? I bring them already broken for you.’ More laughter.

Habib was a very young man, and being the Number 1 son, he started to work for a few hours a day at Helopolis Palace Hotel. It is a palace of a hotel, one of the best of the best in the world. Almost everywhere you walk and everywhere you touch is marble, mosaic, or granite, with great finishing touches; the glamour is top class.

The two sisters, Mary and Emily, found work also, for a few hours a day, at the Naphie, a British camp. Naphie means ‘type of supermarket for the ranks of generals to plain soldiers in the British Army’. Working as telephonists, they were very helpful and useful, as they spoke fluent Arabic, French, and English; also, they helped bring some cash home for Father and Mother.

The usual housewife, that was our mama; of course, she prepared all the meals for hours, taking care of everybody without noticing that we have been taking care of ourselves. We did not notice it as such anyway. She did it all for the love of her children, for them to be together as one family for many, many years to come.

My father and mother felt the house was empty, the children had grown up, they were out somewhere most of the time, so they’d been trying to have another boy, if possible.

Then, after a nine-year stretch, I, Albert, was born in November 1942. The entire world was at war, engaged in many battles. One man was using his good speeches; he was talkative, manipulative, and with several skills, plus his influence made a whole nation adore and follow him without a second thought, occupying one country after the next. He said he had a great vision. Sometimes, for people who are like puppets, living the boring routine of everyday life, when one person comes along, so completely strange, they follow him with thumbs up.

Zaghrouta is a sound that comes from the mouth, tongue, and lips, very hard to imitate. It’s a Middle Eastern tradition and comes from the Bedouin in the desert. Women would always make the zaghrouta sound to welcome a newborn; it is the same as wishing it a happy, long life and thanking God and the parents for having such a healthy baby, plus it was a bonus if he was a boy.

Life went on at a normal pace. Three years later in 1945, it was almost peacetime, there came the last of the family tree: another boy with a happy face and French name, Raymond, born in March 1945. There was peace on Earth. By then, the whole world was exhausted, destroyed mentally and physically; there was peace. Everyone loved everyone, did good to one another. Men and women on Earth were mentioning God more often for the meal in front of them, praying to God for no more war against humankind. Enough was enough! There had been enough destruction of happiness.

Then, we had a good-sized family: Habib, Mary, Emily, Odette, Albert, and Raymond, a total of three boys and three girls.

My father’s brother, his five girls, and two boys resided in the old part of Cairo. As one large family, once a month, the girls tried to organise on a Saturday afternoon, a kind of a party in our place in Heliopolis, persuading Mama and Papa to get together with family, friends, neighbours and eat, drink, listen to nice music, and consume lots of tea. On those days, my sisters spent hours in front of the magic mirror; they took their time to look and feel shiny. By the time the party started, everyone was seated, exhausted and shy. The music played was classic first, then tango. As soon my brother Habib made his entry, he looked so good: He was tall, with a high chest, was slim, good looking, played soccer for the sporting club Heliopolis, and it was easy for him to express himself on any subject. First, he stated in English, ‘Hello. Good afternoon, everybody.’ Mind you, everyone present is Egyptian.

They answered back hello in Honey/Sugar/Cute in Arabic means, ‘Ya assal-ya soukar-ya walad ya lazize.’

The singer expressing fun and joy then became serious, down to business. He changed the record to one of Arabic belly dancing. There was lots of movements; the girls in the back started to shake the whole house; even the walls vibrated to the sound of the drum. The passers-by envied that house. I wonder what made people change against other people, because between races, people of different religions, those that are dark, black, white, friendship was always there. After the party, most of the girls helped our mother clean up and wash the dishes. The boys then helped restore the furniture to order, and plans were made for Sunday to meet the girls, just to be seen with a lovely girl.

Suddenly, one of our cousins mentioned to my sisters that she had been accepted to immigrate to America. That was a bombshell for my father and mother; they wanted to keep the family, all the family, in one place and one country. This cousin, she is still alive, on her own, aged sixty-five, and a millionaire, never been married yet never been back to Egypt, and lives alone.

My father’s brother’s son, my first cousin, Joseph, goes every year from Canada to New York. He stays at her grand house for a couple of weeks, where there is a list ready for him for all the repairs required in the house. He tries his best to complete them with no pay; maybe, just maybe, she will remember him in her will…

In Egypt, at that time, especially among the young generation, they were always talking of going overseas or immigrating. The most popular countries were America, Brazil, Argentina, or Venezuela, as they were the richest countries in the world. Look at them now. With the exception of North America, there is no self-control, no discipline. They are hot-blooded; one word can take them up or down; a revolt can happen or a revolution, with bloodshed. There is lots of goodness in the heart, stubbornness and pride, and plenty to show off, but respect for the family comes first. As soon as they reach the top, they forget everyone else.

My sister Mary started to go out with an Englishman from the British Army, a soldier. His name was Les, a handsome young blond man from County Durham, so my other sister, Emily, she thought that if her sister was going out with a British soldier, so should she. A few days later, she found a soldier from the north of England, to be very accurate, from Yorkshire, a handsome man. His name was Jim; some called him Jimmy.

So both Egyptian sisters were going out with two British men. Any dates were always foursomes with a chaperone, the big Number 1 man of the family after my father, my brother Habib; everywhere they went, he also went, on order from the high command, our father. There was to be no hanky-panky; they should always behave like gentlemen/gentlewomen, until the wedding. Six months later, Les came to the house to meet the parents and ask permission for my sister’s hand in marriage. Meanwhile, they tried to convince her not to marry a foreigner. We didn’t know much about him. Also, she could find a local Egyptian man. They were more handsome, with the same culture, same tradition, and we could find out all about him, at least for the marriage, in one word: his upbringing.

‘No,’ said my sister. ‘I love him and he loves me.’

My mother learnt a few words in English, but the most frequent and favourite word was ‘bugger’ . . . The family meeting had an almost daily subject: How can you marry a foreigner?

So the wedding went on at a huge church, La Basilique d’Heliopolis, a famous landmark that was centrally located. When you are in Cairo, a visit is a must to Helioipolis. La Basilique was built by a Belgian baron, and there is also a magnificent castle in the same street. His name was Baron Empin.

Most of Les’s friends were officers. The soldiers attended the ceremony, then celebrations continued at home with all the families, including the neighbours, the British Army officers, and it had lots of delicious home-made food by a grand chef, our mother. There was a well-known and famous beer, Stella, fresh, icy cold in 750 ml bottles, a glorious drink made in Egypt; there was a supply of Johnny Walker and Gin. It was widely known that this regiment of the British Army knew how to organise plenty of booze. There were people everywhere in the house, the backyard, in front, and the festivities lasted two full nights and days. Some slept for a few hours in the spare room, some went home to freshen up and return, and the atmosphere was a state of happiness, with gentleness, warmth, and friendliness.

Sure enough, six months later, Emily came with an announcement that she was to get married to Jimmy, the second Englishman, another soldier in the British Army. This time, the wedding was in a very large church at Heliopolis, the Maronite Church, with only a few friends and relatives; most of Jim’s friends had shipped out of the country, back to England. There was a nice reception at home on a small scale. It looked like we had a written contract for a wedding to an Englishman every six months. At that rate, there wouldn’t be any left for the Englishwomen. That house had seen good times. So far, there was nothing but happiness; it was a lucky home, with love and caring between brothers and sisters, extra love and care from the two wonderful parents, all together one extra large family with an extra two English soldiers.

All the unmarried girls envied my two sisters; they wanted to get married as soon as possible. That’s what happened. Most of our cousins got married soon after, one to an Armenian man, the next to an English soldier in the Air Force, who fixed planes and was well educated, the third girl to an Egyptian from Upper Egypt (they could be stubborn), and the fourth girl to a man from a well-known town called Choubra, approximately ten kilometres from the heart of the city of Cairo. Cairo is busy, overpopulated, with buses, trams, and cars in small streets and people all in the same place. This suburban city is bonded by good united families; they save a piastre upon a piastre for rainy days. Anywhere you travel in the world, when you find a migrant and you ask what part are you from, first he or she will say from Egypt, then Cairo, and the last words will be, ‘We are from Choubra. You will get almost anything you want and at a good bargain. Check this town especially for chrystal chandeliers in the latest design, for much less than from Italy or any other country. We bought two chandeliers. Choubra has been transformed; the old trams and buses have been replaced by the underground Metro, French Metro progress, similar to the one in Athens, in the heart of Athens, the French underground Metro. In Athens, this is another progress.

Heliopolis is a well-planned city with wide streets that are lined with palm trees for miles and miles, public gardens, clean air, no factories, no pollution Heliopolis until now.

Every morning, our mother took my little brother Raymond and me to school five days a week, Fridays and Sundays off. We went to the same college that our big brother Habib went to. We always spoke French (Je parle le français.). Also, we spoke Arabic. Now we talk sports two hours every day. We loved it then. We never missed school and were always there early. We felt free, liberated there; it was over-crowded at home. At 7.30 a.m. sharp, the whole school lined up for inspection by Frére, the assistant inspector assistant of the brothers. Then, the Brother Superior would appear for a few words of wisdom; this was a must every day. By eight, everyone went back to class. From 10–10.30, there was half an hour of recreation, then it was back to heavy material like geography or dictation or mathematics; lunch was from one till two, great! Our mother would be waiting for us at school by 4.30 p.m. When we got back home, first, our homework would be got out of the way, then we went straight to the backyard, whistled to the neighbour boys to come down and play cowboys and Indians. Mama would say, ‘Enough, come up to wash and eat.’ When she saw our condition, the dirt on our clothes, it seemed like we really just came from the Arabian desert, fighting the Indians.

In those days, toys were very expensive. We made our own arches and built little huts, so-called tents, to hide in. We accepted the simple life; we never complained because such and such family or neighbour had more than we did. We were very happy. I think the reason was clear and simple: Everyone surrounding us were happy. No one ever whined or complained. Mama always said ‘Thank you, God, for everything we have and especially our health.’ By accepting what we had, we enjoyed each day. Slowly, as we grew up, the worries grew with us. As long as our minds, bodies, and brains were in good shape, we knew the difference between the good and the bad and we were close to our loved ones.

My little brother Raymond and me, the youngest two kids of the family, we were pampered by our sisters and brother, who were adults, and we were two little cute kids. They took us to Luna Park, gave us lots of kisses, love, and care. They did mention that as soon they had children, they would like them to be like us; we never cried, always had bright faces.

One day, my father took me to the noodle factory, where they made fresh pasta on the spot in front of you, while the owner discussed the order with my father and how many kilos of this and that. Silly me, I tried to take the hot boiling pasta with my bare hand. I screamed like hell! Everyone came to my rescue. Mahmoud, the owner, was in the business for over fifty years, passed on from father to son. The wife came, the next-door fruit and vegetable owner, and a few more people tried to do something to my right hand. They poured cold water on it. They said, ‘Please don’t cry. Here’s a big red apple, a bottle of Pepsi-Cola.’ My father would not take me home. Mother would say, ‘What have you done to my son?’ They tried to tickle me just to make me laugh and forget the pain. Mahmoud’s wife, she took me in her arms. ‘Look, look, my little son look like you.’ All the men sat down outside the shop with the coffee and food, preparing the sheesha, that’s the waterpipe.

‘Yes, boss, the sheesha is coming, boss.’ As a little boy, I forgot my pain. Also, my father was very popular; almost everyone knew him. A few hours later, we went home. This time, luckily there was no drama.

Suddenly, one day, there was screaming and shouting at a high level between Mother, Father, Mary and Emily, my two sisters. Suddenly, without planning anything beforehand, the latest news was that they wanted to go to England with their husbands. The British Army gave the order to Les and Jim to leave Egypt in three weeks’ time by ship. It happened slowly, the troops leaving the country.

Dad said to his sons-in-law, ‘You go establish yourselves, then take your wives. Explain where you are going to stay with no money, no jobs.’

Les said, ‘Don’t you worry, Dad. My mother has a big house in County Durham, and Jim’s mother in Yorkshire. Both mothers are divorced.’

‘That makes it worse. You are saying both mothers?’

‘Yes, both of them.’

‘And you want me to send my two daughters to a foreign country with you? You English people cannot keep a woman or have a family. Always, you look elsewhere.’

‘Calm down, Dad. We will look after your daughters very well, unless they leave us. Also, the Army will find something for us to do, no problem.’

My parents thought they would be losing two children in one go and that they would be going far, far away. They, who couldn’t afford a bus ticket, were talking about a ship or a plane ticket. They thought they had lost them forever. Their hearts were deeply hurt; they never thought that one day such a thing could happen to our family. Every girl’s dream was to get married and settle down at least in the same country. Army regulations gave short notice; three weeks meant three weeks. They had to ship out; each person could take one suitcase, no more.

The time had come for the departure of our two beloved, gorgeous sisters. There were cries of sadness from the whole family, our cousins, the neighbours, the whole of Ibrahim Pasha Street; if the walls of our house could speak, they would have shouted loud and clear, ‘Stay, Sisters, stay!’ but our hands were tied; that’s life.

The next day, a jeep came early to take them to a nearby camp in Heliopolis. Later that day, they moved into large Army buses, going to Ismailia through Suez Canal, where a ship awaited, and the final siren from the ship said, ‘Goodbye, farewell, oh lovely Egypt, with your kind people, soft at heart, with warm friendship that exists nowhere else in the whole wide world. We shall never forget you. As long as we can drink a glass of water from the Nile, we shall come back. You will see!’ They made a promise to Mama that they would come back. By the way, they loved my mother; they were very kind to her and my brother Habib, to my father, so, because he was firm; they had few tears to leave this incredible family behind. The next day, the following week, and month, the house was quiet, so quiet no one was able to talk to anyone. Mama was not cooking much, my father was rolling cigarettes, smoking more, always in a corner or on the balcony; it was hard for parents to be separated from their children. In our house, the doors were always wide open for everyone, especially for Mary and Emily; they were the happiness, the fun, the joy of our house. Everything is written or calculated from a greater power from above, God. Thank you, for better or worse.

Life is beautiful, simple, easy, taking things the simple way. Think positive. Why should we whine? Who’s going to listen? Work harder. You will reach somewhere, maybe not that high. At least, don’t wait for it to happen, because it won’t happen. Life is short. When you are young, it is very important that parents must talk to their children, explain sometimes what life’s all about, and the first lesson is love, not hatred.

The neighbours helped my parents be full of courage, patience, and prayer.

Politics was the ruler of the land of all Egypt. The young desired fame. In King Farouk and Queen Nariman, Egypt had a king and queen who were the perfect royal pair all the way. They gave us an honour; they built a huge cinema and theatre in Heliopolis on the next street from our house, which is King Farouk Street.

For the grand opening of the cinema and theatre of King Farouk, that day was marked by grand splendour, the mark of royalty, the crown of gold. Inside, the decor was superb. At 3 p.m., King Farouk appeared in a Rolls Royce Cabriolet and a blitz of police escorts in the best royal uniforms, along with his entourage, his ministers. As a custom of the king’s appearance at an official engagement or on his birthday, they gallantly parade at the spectacle. The King’s gold coins were similar to sovereigns in gold. In those days, the value of this coin meant lots of Egyptian pounds; it also meant you could buy lots of food for the table. Many kept the gold coins. Some had five or six coins. We were outside the cinema; we saw the king.

It was rare to see royalty; we were glad and happy. The country had plenty of milk and honey. If they didn’t have much money to spend that day, well, they would eat foul medammas. That’s the incredible local beans and falafel, all vegetarian, healthier, no colesterol and no doctors. When things got better, well they would have kebabs to compliment it, with a nice strong white tea with two to three spoons of sugar, and voila! They were done for the day. The next day, there would be beautiful sunshine for a better day, in sha’allah, God willing.

With the usual sadness and tranquillity in the house, my brother Habib would say, ‘Come on, people, get dressed. We’re going out. Mama, Papa, and you children, that’s the only sister left, Raymond, and myself, we are going to Palmyra.’ It was a huge terrace café that was open air, plus it had a big room with four large billiards tables. My father loved to play billiards, and my brother trying to put the smiles again on our faces. It was a well-known sort of garden terrace café serving meals of all sorts and all kind of liquor, with a Greek owner, with such name as Palmyra of Heliopolis. Papa had a Stella beer and we had ice cream while we watched the passers-by and listened to the birds singing noisily, but they were nice surroundings. Everyone looked at us and whispered softly, ‘You see this family? His two daughters left them to go to England with Englishmen…’ and the rumours were spread around. Life went on, but my father kept his cool. He was the kind of guy who could make others smile with his sense of humour automatically, without thinking. He would come up with a joke like: ‘One side of your moustache is shorter, must be your wife gave you a whisker’s cut.’ Strangely enough, he kept all his problems on the inside; he looked happy or funny, but he was sad in his heart.

We could say this man had no worries at all. That’s why it’s very hard to judge a person from their looks. Suddenly, my father got ill, started to lose weight, had no appetite for food, and seemed to lack the will for activity. The man who loved to see people and joke, he was in low spirits; he never heard from his two daughters, not even one letter. We didn’t know if they were alive or not. What could my father or any of us do? It was a losing game; nothing we could do; the worries built up in my father’s head. They say love goes both ways: from parents to children and in return, from children to the most wonderful parents who looked after them, provided every care and attention from the moment they were born on this planet. We say love is just a word of little worth.

The day had come when he could not speak any more. How could he put it into words? He would try to express himself with a movement with his hands and head to show he was trying to give us a message, but our eyes were in tears. The silence in the room was the only sound; there was a great flow of water dripping from each one of us. If the floor tiles could speak, he was injured in his heart.

Six months later, our father passed away.

When we examine his life, I wonder… he got married, raised his six children with a great deal of help from his other half, and did the best he could. Mind you, this was at a time which required a great deal of hard work, and maybe, maybe there would be enough to find something to fill your stomach with: some round brown Egyptian bread, just bread and nothing else. He got excited with anger, causing pain, tension, stress, fear, from one thing to another, a stab in the heart, and voila, now he has gone to a better world.

We tried not to get angry; we tried to solve the problem. God gave us a brain. I know it is easy to say; still, it was in our hands. We took the world very seriously. Life is a wonderful gift, the best from the Creator God. We have to play it wisely, as much as we can. Do good as much as possible, and leave the rest to your Creator, and everything will work out fantastically. What its written for you, the eye will let you know and hope for the best.

The happy house became more sombre, more low in morale than at any other time. I had never seen so many people: friends, relatives, and the neighbours from far-off places, some we had never seen before. They just came to offer their sympathy and friendship in a time of need. The man was loved by many; just a simple man, but with a different touch of joy, an intimate helper to others. Sometimes, he would help a family when he heard that they were in difficulty.

When they asked how he would provide for his own family, he would say, ‘We manage, thanks to God . . .’ but some were unable to manage at all.

He always said, ‘Do good in life.’

Some people will say where do you cash it from, he will say when you do bad where do you cash it from. Then, do good. Good is better than doing something bad. That was his way of thinking, his simple philosophy in life.

‘My children, in life,’ he said, ‘you must learn to educate yourself. Education is a state of mind. You can see the light brighter.’

Goodbye, Father. We shall miss you a lot…

Always, Father told us, ‘Everyone you meet, you greet them with, Sa bah el kheir men el qalb (Good morning to you from the heart).’

Our brother Habib became the head of the family (it sounds like the Mafia). His responsibility grew with the expenses. He managed to find a second job with a night shift in a five star hotel in Cairo, the Semiramis Hotel. Now, it’s the Inter-Continental, a famous prestigious hotel. His job was on the switchboard trunk international to organise all the phone calls to all over the world, plus he needed to be articulate in several languages.

He loved it; there wasn’t much of a salary monthly, but the tips were great, which meant the guests would give him a small gift of money for his services. He would start from 10 p.m. and continue to 8 a.m. the next morning. Every phone call guests wanted to make abroad had to go through the switchboard, and to get an overseas call, night-time was the best time, not much overload or jammed calls.

There was 90 to 100 per cent full occupancy most of the year at the Semiramis. Journalists from all over the world, diplomats, spies, tourists, all sorts, this hotel location was perfect for them, nearby the American embassy, the British, and the French. The news would go out from this hotel to the world; then the guest, after he or she got the call, they wanted to come down to see him in person, this young man who got them through. They could have been trying for days with no success.

My mum said, ‘My son, it’s too much to work two jobs and a night shift. You must take care of your health first, not the money. You cannot buy health with money, my dear Number 1 Son.’

‘Mama, my beautiful Mama, my health is fantastic! Don’t worry. Like our dear father, I need to save some money to find a nice girl, nice, tall, gorgeous girl like you,’ and he would give Mama a kiss on the cheek.

She would laugh and say, ‘Now you want to leave us too. Enough, my dear son, your two sisters, we don’t know nothing about them, if they are happy, if they are eating or starving. God only knows.’

To calm her down, he would say, ‘Mama, in England, no one starves.’

‘Now that your father is gone, you are the only one we can depend on. You have your sister Odette and your two little brothers.’

‘Once more, Mama, just take it easy. When I get married, I shall stay with you in this house, with all of you. Just wait and see. I shall tell her, "Wife, you do what one is told to do, and if she said no, well, then I shall divorce her."’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, only talk. When it comes to reality, always men are easily led by women.’

‘Mama,’ he said, ‘I am a man. No girl can change my word. What I say goes, and if she won’t accept, I’ll find another until the right one is for me. Who do they think they are, Greta Garbo or what?’

Mama’s face was all smiles. ‘I wish.’

Habib started to tell us about the hotel, the many visitors, and the lovely, pretty girls, some tall, some blonde, with soft white skin, eyes as blue as Cleopatra. The girls we so high classed with beauty, good spirits, liveliness, they were all beautiful.

‘Stop,’ Mama would say to Habib, ‘enough joking, my son.’ In the back of her mind, she thought and worried that he would find a foreigner and leave the country and leave us, like his two sisters did. ‘Be realistic, down to earth. Forget about all these girls. Find a nice, local Egyptian, pretty girl.’

We all laughed; we hadn’t laughed for so long, which was the best medicine. At the same time, we kissed Mama in turn and said, ‘Be happy, Mama.’

Many times I’d wished I’d been a grown-up person then to work, earn, and bring some money to give it to my mama. but I was still at school as was my little brother, and our sister Odette was at Sacred Heart School.

By the end of the year, she found a job as work experience for three months. Usually, school holidays were for three long months. She went to work in a retail shop selling embroderie, tricot, and wool for jumpers imported from all over the world, with a wide variety of cotton, silk, a large, wide window display, a mannequin fashion model from London and Paris, and the name of the owner and that of the business. The father was Greek and the mother English. A big neon sign, Christo for wool and embroderie, hung outside. The manager’s name was Gino, who was an Italian. Then, there was an employee, Vicki, a pretty Jewish girl, Leila, an Egyptian girl with dark black hair, wide black eyes similar to black olives. Beauty existed at that time, in our days, only on television or in a fashion parade. There was Odette, of course, our sister, with a ringlet of black hair and black pearl eyes, the youngest one in the workshop. There was also a tall blonde Russian girl, oh . . . bombe a la Russe, of beauty and finesse. Her name was Natasha, a funny but sensational name. Then there was Osman. He was the man who dusted. He sang in Nuba-Sudanese while dusting, a nice voice. He had a shining black cute face to be admired, a tall young energetic man. You could hardly understand him when he spoke in Arabic. He spoke some Arabic with a mixture of Sudany-Nubi-Barbary; he had to repeat himself at least twice and speak very slowly so that you could take note and understand him. At least you must find out how to say yes or no to his question.

In most Arab countries, you can write and read exactly the same, but they speak a different dialect, same as the people of Yorkshire from the north of England or the Irish, Scottish, and many others in the world. All the girls and the customers adored him; as soon as the customers entered the shop to buy something, they would ask, ‘Is Osman here? Ask him to make ready a nice coffee.’ They liked to hear his accent, and it was very funny the way he expressed himself sometimes, like a rhythm of music to the ears. There were so many nationalities in one shop, and they all got along quiet well in harmony; they were friendly, happy all day.

During school holidays, my sister Odette would say, ‘Come, you cute little monster. I’ll take you to work with me. At least you give Mama some peace and leave the house.’

It was joy to my ears, going to work with my sister. We loved her very much. She was the only sister we had then. The shop opened six days a week and was closed on Sunday. I was pampered by all those attractive-looking girls; they were so nice and I was so cute, so I