A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [186]
Two crossed swords hung on the wall above our heads in the corner where we sat. I tried unsuccessfully to guess who were the guests and who were family. Most of the men were in their fifties or sixties, and one was a very old man in a threadbare brown suit that was a little frayed at the cuffs. He was a wrinkled old man, his cheeks were hollow, his silvery mustache was yellowed from tobacco smoke, as were his lined plasterer's hands. He closely resembled some of the portraits hanging on the wall in their gilt frames. Was he the grandfather? Or even the greatgrandfather? Because to the left of Ustaz al-Silwani there appeared another old man, veined, tall, and stooped, looking like a broken tree trunk, his brown head covered with prickly bristles. He was sloppily dressed, in a striped shirt that was buttoned up only halfway and trousers that seemed too big for him. I was reminded of the old man Alleluyev in my mother's story, who looked after an even older man in his cottage.
There were a few young people in white tennis clothes, and a pair of pot-bellied men in their mid-forties who looked like twins; they sat sleepily side by side, with their eyes half closed, and one of them fingered a string of amber worry beads while his brother chain-smoked, making his contribution to the gray pall of smoke that hung in the air. Apart from the two English ladies there were some other women sitting on the sofas, or circulating around the room, taking care not to collide with the servants in bow ties carrying trays laden with cold drinks, sweetmeats, glasses of tea, and tiny cups of coffee. Which of the women was the mistress of the house was hard to say: several of them seemed to be at home here. A large woman in a flowery silk dress the same color as the vase containing the peacock feathers, whose fleshy arms were so festooned with silver bracelets and bangles that they jangled with every movement, stood talking eagerly to some young men in tennis shorts. Another lady, in a cotton dress printed with a profusion of fruit that seemed to accentuate the roundness of her bust and thighs, extended her hand for her host to kiss and immediately repaid him with three kisses on the cheek, right, left, and right again. There was also an older matron with a gray mustache and flared hairy nostrils, as well as some charming young girls, slim-hipped, red-nailed, ceaselessly whispering-pspispering, with elegant hairdos and sporty skirts. Staszek Rudnicki in his ministerial dark suit that had emigrated with him from Lodz some fifteen years previously and his wife Mala in her brown skirt, long-sleeved blouse, and drop earrings seemed to be the most formally dressed people in the room (apart from the waiters). Even the postmaster general, Mr. Knox-Guildford, was wearing a plain blue shirt with no jacket or tie. Suddenly the parrot who sounded like an inveterate smoker called out from his cage at one end of the hall: "Mais oui, mais oui, chere mademoiselle, mais oui, absolument, naturellement." From the other end of the room the pampered soprano immediately answered: "Bas! Bas, ya 'eini! Bas min fadlak! Usqut! Bas wahalas!"
Every now and then the servants in their black, white, and red materialized out of the cloud of smoke and tried to tempt us with bowl after bowl of almonds, walnuts, peanuts, pumpkin and melon seeds, and trays laden with warm pastries, fruit, slices of watermelon, more little cups of coffee, glasses of tea and tall frost-ringed glasses containing fruit juices and pomegranate juice with lumps of ice, and little bowls of blancmange smelling deliciously of cinnamon and decorated with chopped almonds. But I made do with two biscuits and a single glass of fruit juice, and politely but firmly refused all subsequent delicacies, mindful of the obligations that stemmed from my status as a junior