Read The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit Online
Authors: Lucette Lagnado
She paused to take a sip from a glass of tea. “She was so littleâvery
littleâand your father was big, much too big.”
She recalled my mother as soft-spoken and delicate, and above all as someone who
loved children. “She would always give candy and chocolates to my girls. Remember?” she
said, turning to her daughter, who smiled and nodded, though it was by no means evident that her
memory was as clear as the Old Bride's.
Suddenly, I could see my mother, Edith, as a young housewife,
fishing in her purse for some bonbons, because she was good-hearted and liked spoiling children
and missed her days as a teacher at the Ãcole Cattaoui where she had been the popular
Mademoiselle Edith, object of respect and adulation.
I walked over to the old woman and took her hand to kiss it.
“Do I really look like my mom? Are you absolutely certain?” I asked
her.
I was looking in the large mirror in the center of the living room, near her,
studying my face and features and praying that her answer would be yes.
I felt her staring at me intently all over again.
“Absolutelyâexcept for the teeth,” she said, frowning. “The
mouth.” I could tell that she was sifting through the labyrinth of her mind with its eighty
years of stored-up memories and impressions, trying to discern what was different about the woman in
front her and the woman she'd met some fifty years earlier.
She was smiling now because it had all come back to her, it had all come back
perfectly.
We continued to chat; my driver was translating, though I no longer needed him: I
felt that I understood her perfectly by her gestures and smiles. Her daughter gave me the obligatory
tour of the houseâthis bedroom, that sitting room; they were all deserted. Finally, she
beckoned me over to the balcony, which was the family's pride and joy, with its graceful
concrete canopy, its panoramic views of Malaka Nazli and beyond it, Cairo itself.
I put my jacket on, smoothed my hair, and rose to leave. The old woman suddenly
cried: “Wait.”
I stopped to look at her.
“I am old and I am lonely,” she cried. “There is only me and my
daughter here, and I have so many rooms.” With a sweeping gesture, she pointed to the empty
rooms, the dining room devoid of any diners, the bedroom without a husband, the sitting rooms and
playrooms with no children.
“Why don't you stay?” she said. “Why don't you move
here?”
I looked at her, after my driver had translated what she'd said, and
translated it yet again.
“You can have any room you want,” she added, sensing my confusion,
though not really understanding it. To her, it was perfectly natural
to ask this
stranger, who really wasn't a stranger at all, who was as familiar to her as her own past and
her own family, to come live with her.
I was being offered a chance to move back: to move back to Malaka Nazli.
I ran to embrace the old woman. That moment, when she held my hands in hers, I
suddenly understood my father, and his despair after Cairo, and the sense of desolation that he had
tried to blame on the flowers that didn't have a scent and the people who didn't have a
heart.
Malaka Nazli hadn't simply been a place, I realized, but a state of mind. It
was where you could find an extraordinary, breathtaking level of humanity. What it lacked in
privacy, what it failed to provide by way of modern comfortsâhot running water, showers,
electric stoves, refrigerators, telephonesâit more than made up for in mercy and compassion
and tenderness and grace, those ethereal qualities that make and keep us human.
If Adly Street had been the way to the Gates of Heaven, then Malaka Nazli was
paradise itself, and Dad had been fortunate enough to taste it, and I was lucky to glimpse for
myself what he'd meant all these years when he kept his small suitcase packed and ready to
go.
As I climbed back into our car, I glanced up to see the old woman standing on her
balcony. She seemed forlorn and lost in thought, looking out to the farthest reaches of Malaka
Nazli. She was searching up and down the boulevard, as if trying to find me, as if trying to find
not only me but also my parents, and her husband, and her own youthâthat time when she was a
girl on a balcony with a family waiting for her to come inside.
As we drove away, I felt that I was leaving all I cared about behind, not simply a
stranger who had shown me such unexpected kindness, but another old woman, my grandmother Zarifa,
and another, Nonna Alexandra, and a young woman, too, my mother, Edith, crossing the threshold of
Malaka Nazli as a twenty-year-old bride, and Baby Alexandra, the sister I had never known, and my
two uncles who had seemed forever lostâthe child of the souk and the priest, returned from his
Jerusalem monasteryâand my aunt Bahia, back from Auschwitz, clutching her husband and
Violetta, and my father, above all, my father.
I felt as if they were all standing there, on that wrought-iron balcony.
I
n the spring of 2004 I found myself leafing through my family's files obtained from HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.
Amid the yellowing papers, I stumbled on a ledger that chronicled my father's repayment of the debt we incurred coming to America on the
Queen Mary
âa month-by-month accounting of each of my dad's ten- and fifteen-dollar checks.
I proposed a piece about my father and the ledger to Erich Eichman, the
Wall Street Journal
books editor who oversees cultural commentary, and to my great delight he decided to publish the column on Father's Day 2004.
He was a deeply sensitive editor, and I owe him so much.
The day the piece appeared, I was flooded with calls and e-mails. One of the callers was literary agent Tracy Brown who felt there was a book to be done about Leon and my relationship with him. From the start he was insightful and supportiveâhelping me to frame the story and offering me the constant feedback that carried me through this undertaking.
The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit
would not have been possible without Tracy's luminous comments, grace, and sensibility.
My encounters with Dan Halpern, Ecco's publisher, showed me why he is such a legendary figure and my book found such a lovely home. I was moved
by his passion for the Levantâfrom the music of Om Kalsoum to the rose water in Oriental pastry.
At Ecco, I am indebted to acquiring editor Julia Serebrinsky for her enthusiasm: As a Russian immigrant, she seemed to relate completely to the story of my Levantine father.
Lee Boudreaux, Ecco's editorial director, who oversaw every aspect of the book, proved to be an extraordinary editor and friend: Tireless, charming, rigorous, weekend after weekend she would take my manuscript home and figure out precisely what needed to be done. I am profoundly grateful both for Lee's passionate dedication and sense of excitement.
Ghena Glijansky was an invaluable assistant editor who gave careful, loving guidance and helped fine-tune the book even after she left Ecco.
Editorial assistant Abigail Holstein taught me the meaning of the word “indefatigable.” Art director Allison Saltzman created the most exquisite cover.
A number of relatives generously shared their knowledge of my tangled family history over the book's hundred-year span.
One of the greatest joys of working on this memoir was being reunited with Salomone Silvera, my cousin in Milan who had lived with my father in Cairo from 1937 to 1944, and was able to provide exquisite details about life inside Malaka Nazli. In meetings at his home near the Duomo, Salomone conjured up lost family members, including my Syrian grandmother, Zarifa, who through his colorful stories became a major character. He taught me much about his own mother, my aunt Bahia, who had perished at Auschwitz together with his father and sister. I will always be indebted to Salomone and his wife, Sally.
My oldest brother, César, emerged as the keeper of the flame, the family archivist who collected my father's papers for more than forty yearsâbusiness cards, Leon's wallet, even old canceled checks from some of his favorite charities. César also volunteered his own memories of Egypt, France, and our earliest days in America, hilarious and sad at the same time. He unearthed most of the photos in this book. I am grateful to him and his wife, Monica.
My sister, Suzette, vividly described Alexandra, our beautiful, gifted, and supremely sad maternal grandmother. She even sang for me the Italian songs Alexandra had loved, and provided useful insights into the world of Egypt's Jewry after Suez.
David Ades, my cousin in Los Angeles, offered charming recollections of how his mother, Tante Rebekah, prepared rose petal jam. Victor “Pico” Hakim regaled me with stories of my father's work in Cairo and volunteered details about his mother, Tante Rosée, and other members of my mother's family. He and his wife, Rachel, were deeply kind and hospitable.
Josette Hakim gave heartbreaking descriptions of Alexandra lost amid the orange groves of Ganeh Tikvah.
I also wish to acknowledge the wondrous Desi Sakkal, founder of HSJEâthe Historical Society of the Jews of Egypt, the website that has enabled Egypt's lost Jewry to begin to reclaim their heritage and to finally reconnect. Desi was a constant resource, deeply caring, always eager to answer my most obscure questions. His organization is nothing short of miraculous. Albert Gamill and Dr. David Marzouk, fellow expatriates, were deeply kind to read over my manuscript and review every one of my Arabic phrases.
Two authors of works on colonial Egypt must be singled out for special praise. Samir Raafat's lively, witty books and articles were invaluable to me, and Artemis Cooper's wonderfully detailed and charming book on World War II Cairo was a terrific resource.
I am grateful to the Egyptian government for welcoming me back to Cairo and offering me access to Jewish sites. Aaron Kiviat, a young American who lived and studied in Egypt, helped me plan my return. Carmen Weinstein, who carefully oversees what's left of the Cairene Jewish community, kindly opened the doors to the Gates of Heaven and allowed me to visit the shrine of Maimonides.
Arnold Paster of Southampton, New York, was a grand and magical friend, encouraging me in the most difficult stages, convincing me that I could really accomplish this, and even surprising me with a bottle of Dom Pérignon when I completed the first draft. The essence of style, with a special fondness for wearing elegant white suits, Arnie became a kind of muse. He also helped me come to terms with my enigmatic father and to embrace his extremes and contradictions.
Rabbi Rafe Konikov and his wife, Chany, offered me a home away from home at the Chabad of Southampton Jewish Center. It was a haven, a place where I could reflect and where, little by little, ideas jelled: In the course of an ordinary Saturday-morning service, I would find myself thinking of Leon, and my thoughts were like a prayer. Once I looked up at the synagogue's bay windows and swore I caught a glimpse of him in the garden, wearing one of his jaunty hats and looking my way. Afterward, I would strain to see him again, but I never did, except on the pages of my book, where I saw him constantly.
At the
Wall Street Journal,
no one was more encouraging or supportive than Paul E. Steiger, the managing editor who hired me. He has consistently been both mentor and friend. I revere his instinct and his intellect and all-abiding love. The
Journal
's Daniel Hertzberg was deeply generous in granting me leave to work on the book, as was my editor, Joe White.
Arthur Gelb, the grand old man of the
New York Times
and its former managing editor and cultural czar, was wonderful and loving as only he can be and helped keep me focusedâI cherish our friendship and deep bond.
Ken Wells, my former editor at the
Journal
and the author of many books
himself, was profoundly encouraging to me throughout every step; he is the most exquisite and gifted role model and friend I can ever hope to have.
Doctors are a crucial part of this book and of my world. I am, as ever, grateful to Dr. Burton Lee, who was able to re-create scenes and events that took place more than thirty years ago. I consider Dr. Lee one of the great men on this earth, and I love him utterly and completely. I am also indebted to Dr. Ronald Schwartz who helped me bring
Sharkskin
to fruition. Finally, I owe much to my internist Dr. Jerome Breslaw, who has tried so hard to make me and keep me well.
Steve Solarz had wonderful insights into the Syrian-Jewish community he had come to know as their congressman.
Steve Olderman, a creative director at R/GA, was deeply generous in sharing ideas about the jacket and marketing of
Sharkskin.
I want to convey special gratitude to the sublime Grace Edwards, the novelist of lost Harlem, and my teacher at Marymount's Writing Center. It was Grace who heard the earliest iterations of
The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit
and taught me the value of reading one's prose out loud. She is kindness incarnate. I am indebted to Lewis Frumkes, the Center's director, for creating such a nurturing place. I am also grateful to my wonderful class at Marymount, who heard me read chapter after chapter and offered so much insight and help.
Clifford David was such a magnificent friend. He is a wonderful actor and a gentle force of nature.
Maryann Callendrille and Kathryn Szoka turned Canio Books in Sag Harbor into my favorite literary retreat on earth. In Southampton, Jack Biderman was deeply kind and encouraging; the most wonderful friend imaginable. My childhood friend Stella Ragusa was generous with her memories of her family and mine. George Getz and Sandy Becker, my New York accountants, gave me terrific financial counsel. Silvia Burgos and Kyle Spelman at the
Journal
gave me the technical support I needed to work. Daniel Pipes graciously answered my thousand questions about Cairo.
When I returned from Cairo in the spring of 2005, I visited Rabbi Raphael Benchimol of the Manhattan Sephardic Congregation and told him of the strange sensation that overcame me from practically the moment I was airborne, and continued as I explored the streets of my childhoodâthe feeling that my father was by my side.
A mystic at heart, the rabbi didn't seem surprised. “We are taught that although people leave a place, their effect remains imprinted and permeated there for eternity. Their footsteps, going from their home to the synagogue and back, remain imprinted forever. Indeed,” he said, “even the air they occupied and the contour it shaped remain forever.”
I would never have been able to work on
Sharkskin
without my husband,
Douglas Feiden, who listened to me read out loud every chapterâevery wordâthat I had written, and offered profound, discerning, stern but always loving guidance. He accompanied me to Paris, Milan, Brooklyn, and Cairo and was with me when I knocked on the door of 281-Malaka Nazli Street, sharing my joy and my pain at being home finally and again.