It was a mid-summer evening, and an assembly of well-coiffed women stood on the turf of the Maadi Croquet court and coddled in small talk. They were the last of their kind within a 3-mile radius, for it was June and the upper class's seasonal migration to the north – to Alexandria proper, but more recently to the Bourgeois colonies of Montazah, Ma'moura and Agami that were in vogue - had commenced almost a month ago, promptly at the closing of the school year. For 3 months of summer, Cairene women would whisk away their children and their nannies to evade the stifling summer months in Cairo. And for the Cairine girls who had neither nannies nor children but wanted both, summer was the official hunting season for eligible bachelors. The beaches of Agami and Montazah were the new chasing grounds for young women with any aspirations of upward social mobility. It was the sport of preference of any lady-of-society-in-the-making. They could stroll around in décolleté swim suits to demonstrate to their suitors – or the matchmakers that represent them – that they hold the proper credentials for the title of Wife.
An in a recent, most exciting development, the rapid commercialization of hair spray introduced dramatic hairstyles to the beach scene, hairdos like Jackie Kennedy's flap, once avoided in adherence to the laws of nature (namely Alexandria's notorious humidity, capable of reducing slick styles into bundles of frizz), a new generation of women braved the elements and marched to beach resorts in diamond-studded do's; hordes of Audrey Hepburn wannabes a la Breakfast at Tiffany's frolicking at seaside resorts. This was Cairo in 1962.
On the turf, the conversation of the feminine assemblage centered on the earlier sighting of Madame Rafik – née Angela Antonioni - at the tennis courts, allegedly accompanying her son Adham, Maadi's undisputed tennis champ and equally undisputed teenage heartthrob. The alleged sighting aroused excitement among the crowd, mainly because Monsieur Rafik was arrested a mere few days ago, for alleged subversive communist activities. The effect of a potentially fresh rumor was decidedly orgasmic: the women could not contain their excitement at the prospects, and proceeded to deconstruct every angle of the unfolding story. What body of etiquette governed the behaviors of wives of polticical prisoners? Was it appropriate / scandalous to appear in an elite social club while said spouse is touted by police in interrogation rooms? Was their a decorum mourning period for which, not unlike a widow, the wife must reflect on her loss in the confines of her private lodgings before resuming normal day-to-day activity? Was it even appropriate for the wife of an alleged communist to indulge in daily activity in a decidedly Bourgeois, and - hence capitalist - private social club? Would that be an indication that her husband is innocent of such horrid accusations? Or did he in fact betray his principles by blending in this irreverent garden community and calling it home? Or has she betrayed his ideals? This ignited a somewhat intellectually stimulating discussion among the women. The urban-come-suburban former downtown Catholic school girls argued Trotsky vs. Stalinism, and rhetorically pondered the question: is the revolution a constant process or two-phase? The wives of officers, provincial-come-suburban women of no particular formal education to draw on, were suddenly anxious at the Russian-names-dropping of their gossip-club colleagues and decided to divert the conversation to the silly and benign, the way they always do whenever the conversation became too political or less cliché. In the next few years, as the military ruling class strengthened its hold over Egyptian Intellegencia, the provincial mentality of avoidance of all things serious would reign supreme: a new unwritten book of etiquette cautioning against the mere mention of authors or ideas in casual conversation to avoid embarrassing / offending those who never read a book (who by the mid-60's would be appointed at every critical administrative position in the state). In a book she wrote and published years later, Angela would dub it the politics of trivialization.
Angela walked out of so-called "Social Building" and stood in its terrace, a depressing modern (read: minimalist) two-story cement block that was christened only a few days back. Angela was lost in one depressing thought upon visiting the new mammoth building (mammoth relative to all the smaller structures dotting the Maadi club): why was her world collapsing so suddenly? The terrace overlooked the croquet court, and the sight of a posse of middle-aged Barbie dolls first startled then intrigued her: when did they start allowing stilettos on the croquet turf? Then she spotted Madame Karim (née Fadila Hussein) in a Liza Mennelli frock and instantly got her answer. Every tea party has a Queen (or so the proverb goes, or should) and if the queen of this tea party also serves the role Wife to General Karim (dutifully promoted from Officer to General after the '52 Coup d'Etat) then she will have her tea and cake on the turf if she so pleases, stilettos and all. In fact, she could have a marching band perform on the turf to go with the tea. Or even a firing squad, but that would be in poor taste. She found herself entertaining the thought of her own croquet-firing-squad, but who would they shoot? Officer Gameel for starters, the prison guardian who denied her a visit to her husband this morning and every morning, and possibly Madame Karim for ruining the turf with her stilloto-trotting posse. A mischievous smile came across her face momentarily as she basked in that thought. This was Angela's coping mechanism with tragic circumstances and life's little annoyances alike, she imagined herself capable of terrible vengeance against the perpetrators, indulged in the dream-like thought, then banished it from her memory altogether.
Meanwhile on the turf, Madame Karim had spearheaded the movement to steer the conversation from Trotsky to Angela's sighting in a white Coco Chanel dress with an elusive hemline. Mrs. Gamayil (née Geneviève Frangieh), the resident Femme Moderne expressed her doubt that a woman like Angela, known for her austere appearance would don a trendsetting Chanel dress. Others shared anecdotal evidence to that point. They were lost in a transcendental moment of joyful revelations when they noticed sensed the towering figure shadowing them, and synchronously turned around to see Angela standing on the terrace above them. She stood still, her hands to her sides, staring down at the now silent crowd beneath. The sun was setting behind her. To the women, all they could make of Angela was a silhouette of a slender, tall woman against the backdrop of a red sun, casting her shadow on the entire pack. Her appearance was both iconic and imposing. To the Catholic school girls among them, the fair woman in the white dress with a Fire-y glow was of mythic proportions. They believed they were witnessing an apparition of the Madonna.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment