Niki Marangou

Arriving at the apartment of Andreas Karayan, near Ibrahim Mosque, we wake up Salah who is asleep on a sofa at the entrance wrapped in blankets. His shoes on a stool in front of him. He takes up our baggage with the elevator, which does not open at the floor — you need to bang it a couple of times to make it go up and down before it opens. The apartment has old-fashioned furniture and on credenza two photos of Alexandros and Iniochos. A small oil painting of camels in the desert, and another of a strange Russian-type church.

In the room where I sleep, a beautiful armoire with inlays made from walnut wood, a dressing table and a nightstand with rounded sides, furniture for other types of homes. I think of the woman who used to look at her body in this mirror, store her jewelry here, waiting for her husband or lover. A woman satiated or hungry for love?

I don’t know why this city captivates me so much, simply walking her streets looking at people, exploring junk shops, imagining how it was in the past when my mother was here. And a climate that suits me perfectly, not cold, not hot — the temperature of my body. My feet hurt from walking; I can’t walk all day like I used to anymore, and I end up at Patisserie Delice in the afternoon. I order a fruit salad, and I am served a work of art made of guavas, strawberries, oranges, peaches — all cut into fans, brimming over the glass bowl. How does the old-world sophistication of this place survive after so many years, the sense of the good life in some areas, when everything has changed? And at the Arabic bakery down the street the croissants are the best I’ve ever tasted. They have know-how from the past.

At the Hellenic Foundation for Culture on Rue Fouad, the ancient Canopic Way, we meet Aspasia Papadoperakis, sculptress of Cavafy’s bust at the General Consulate in Alexandria. A sweet low-key woman with natural grace. Sketches for Cavafy’s bust and works by Andreas Karayan are on display in the large hall. Translations of works by Cavafy in different languages in display windows.

In the office of Manolis Marangoulis, the Director of the Foundation, I see an exceptional watercolor of two fish, and ask to meet the artist. He is Yossry al Mamluk who takes us, together with Aspasia, to Agami to show us his work on the following day. A nightmarish journey through the industrial area and garbage dump around Lake Mareotis and we arrive at Agami. He turns onto filthy dirt roads, and opens to door to an apartment with two small rooms where he stores his work. He is a calligrapher, so he includes calligraphy in his paintings. Beautiful artwork. All along the way, a wall of dismal cement buildings hide the sand. We find an opening and walk to the sea. A fine white sand and a sea of translucent turquoise. “Lemoun,” which means lemonade made from limes, at Delices while the sun sets.

In the morning I am awakened by car horns and voices from the street despite that, in Alexandria, everything starts late since people work until midnight. Only in the afternoon does the city gear up to its rhythms, when everyone spills onto the streets and the city puts on its festive looks. After the square of the consulates people jam toward the bazaars where the road leads left and right, into a maze of alleys around Rue Faransa (French Street), where a crowd composed mostly of women buys yarn, tassels, undergarments, bijoux. Alleys so narrow that two people barely fit to pass. Shops arranged by type — endless shops that sell kerchiefs of all sizes, colors and qualities for Muslim women, but also spices and jewelry. In one shop I see scorpions, and dried chameleons, lizards, bats — I assume for Alexandrian ‘magi’. Next door, they are grounding yellow roots of some kind. I ask what they are and with gestures they explain that they’re for women after they give birth. Women with black burkas multiply on the streets of Alexandria and watch, from the narrow slit, the comings and goings. A couple in front of a window with gold. At some point he pinches her, and she turns tenderly toward him. There’s a strange eroticism to this scene with the woman covered in black.

I board a tram. The first compartment is reserved for women. The rest are for men, but women can also enter. The price is 25 piastres (100 piastres is one Egyptian pound, and seven pounds are one Euro). With one Egyptian pound you can eat a tasty pita with falafel, tahini and salad. Alexandrian Greeks gather at “Enosis”, the coffee shop of the Greek Brotherhood of Alexandria. Passages from the Koran heard everywhere through loudspeakers as it is Friday. Outside Enosis one lane is blocked by prayer mats that the pious have spread along the street. They pray genuflect. It’s noon and no one is here yet. I see an old lady, curved by time, calling a cat to her. I ask for her cat’s name, and we begin to chat. She is Renée, and she is French; she has no one left in the world — “everyone’s died”. She comes from Montaza every Friday by bus to eat at the club. “Is it not too far?” I ask. “Habit makes what is far appear close,” she replies. “In any case, I can’t eat alone.”

I meet Flora Kavoura, an Alexandrian Greek, who’s brought her newborn for her friends and co-workers at the Alexandrian Library to see. They chat among themselves in Arabic, Greek, English and French. Only Flora and another woman are Greek. The aging waiter can’t remember the entire order, so he brings the teas first, then asks how many coffees were ordered, etc.

Painter Anna Boghiguian arrives from Cairo to meet us. I meet her at Delice. It is remarkable how this woman who lives in isolation can be so sharp, how she can have such keen awareness of everything. A poetry reading in Cavafy’s home. Alexandrian ladies climb the stairs with effort. The house is full and lit by candlelight. The recitation in Arabic begins with “bismi-llāhi ar-rahmāni ar-rahīm” (In the name of the omnipotent, merciful God). A handsome Egyptian man leans on a column. He recites Cavafy in broken Greek. He is Khaled Rauf. “The city” is heard in seven different languages. Then we go to Pastroudis, to the inner bar. Four of us sit at a semi-round table, against a huge mirror. It’s as though there are eight of us. We speak through the mirror. The walls are decorated with red taffeta, the quintessential bar. Next day, in the afternoon, we are invited to Mohammed’s house — an Alexandrian friend. The taxi speeds along the Corniche, passes Glymenopoulos Beach and Stanley Beach. In front of the shore with the cabins, a huge bridge has been built over the water. The taxi drops us at Victoria College. We enter an ordinary Arab neighborhood and, in a narrow alley we find the entrance to the house. We knock. Inside, the house is spotless. Blue armchairs with gold trim, the table already set, the father an imam, the mother in a long dress, kerchief and with a smile full of kindness, and the sisters — Dua, the eldest, gorgeous; the middle one, who just got engaged, pretty; the youngest rickety. All three in kerchiefs and long dresses. Three young children play. A tray with drinks made of carob is served — very sweet. We sit down at the table, which is full of food: soup, chicken, vine leaf dolma, cabbage dolma, baked macaroni. I ask about the roots that I saw at the bazaar — they are called hab el aziz, which means “seeds of the beloved,” and instantly Mohammed’s mother offers to prepare it for me. I watch. She puts two spoonfuls of butter in a briki and roasts sesame seeds. Once they are roasted well, she adds a spoonful of the powdered root. She slowly adds water and a lot of sugar. It turns into a thick drink, which she serves in a cup with coconut and ground almonds. Thousands of calories. Impossible for me to drink. During our visit, the volume of the television set was turned down a couple of times for prayers. Repentances and passages from the Koran recited by the father. The mother behind him, the men nearby, while the women busy in the kitchen — they will pray later. Andreas is asleep on the couch. Mohammed takes out the family album to show us pictures of his grandmother. He recounts how, as a child, he was greatly impressed by the photographic flash. He believed that whenever there was lightning God was taking his picture. And so, he would comb his hair, put on his good outfit, and stand on the balcony. After each lightning bolt, he would change his pose for the next photo.

These people are so friendly that I feel that, if I told them that I’d be staying in their house for a month, they’d welcome me.

I bought a children’s book and I’m trying to learn the alphabet. At night you can see the entire Corniche from Manolis Marangoulis’ apartment. He shows us a series of photos from festivals where the pious dance in trance.

Something strange has happened to Alexandria. At least the main roads have been cleaned and paved, while a few years ago – when I was here last – you had to walk through garbage and broken pavements. Now there are bins everywhere and garbage collectors gather every piece of paper from the streets. But as soon as you enter the side roads, the scene changes instantly.

On Sunday we walked along the Corniche to the Hellenic Club. A sunny day and the sea as smooth as oil. Fishing boats came out and people bought fresh fish. How fertile is Egypt — fruit, apples, guavas, plentiful strawberries. From a cart, I bought a small basket made of woven palm leaves. It contained seeds, which resemble plumules and have excellent taste. Further down another wandering merchant sells pieces of a heart of palm. The soil produces richly and plentifully, yet there is poverty and misery. People stroll to the Lighthouse. Children rent small bicycles. Petty merchants sell anything from seahorses to cups with the kaaba painted upon them.