My Cousin Edmond’s Journey
Michael, my cousin Edmond’s son, called this morning. We are in the middle of the Coronavirus epidemic. We are all instructed to stay home, just so not spread the virus. Also, they have made a new law that any person seventy years or older are not to go out. Overnight, they have made us feel fragile and frail. The risk of our perishing from this is epidemic is quite high. It doesn’t bother me. At our age, it really did not matter. We’ve lived our lives.
All the younger generation has been calling or texting or What’sApping. “Are you okay?” “Are you okay?” “Are you okay?” they keep asking. I am very touched, flattered and feeling very loved. I also feel very sad that practically overnight everyone feels so uncertain about their mortality, especially the younger generation. I feel a need to comfort and reassure them.
I felt that way about Michael. I changed the subject. I began to speak about my uncles, my father and Edmond, his father. Uncle Maurice, who was estranged from the family for oh so many years. He suddenly reappeared at my grandmother’s funeral. None of us had ever seen him. It was strange to see my father, his brothers and sister rush up to this stranger and hug and kiss him with such emotional abandonment. It finally it dawned on us who he was. This was our Uncle Maurice. After that, on occasion, when my father came to New York, Uncle Albert would arrange for them all to meet. Most times Edmond would be there as well. All of them had a witty sense of humour. I remember the three brothers and Edmond gathering one winter evening at our house. It was cold grey day, but the logs in the fireplace were merrily aglow. Every once in a while they made a loud cracking sound as if to accompany the crescendo of the men’s gleeful laughter. The room had a wonderful cozy warmth to it, because of the loving intimacy of the brothers and their nephew. I smiled happily as I went in and out of the room, offering them tidbits to nibble at. There was such a feeling of warm contentment amongst them, I knew it would be an intrusion if I joined them. I just liked listening to the sound of their voices being happy and full of laughter. All these years later, I still cherish that memory. It is gently wrapped and placed carefully in the bottom of my heart with all thememories that I treasure.
Edmond left Iraq in the early sixties. He stopped in Tehran for a visit. As I just mentioned, Edmond had a very happy disposition. He very soon became great friends with all my friends and was included in all our activities. Edmond being in Tehran made it so much easier for me to go out with my friends. My parents had a habit of asking who was going to be at each function. If they disapproved of the genealogical history of any of them, my fate was practically sealed. There was no way that I was allowed to go. Mama would say something like, “When her mother was single, she smiled at a young man.” Oh horrors of horrors! How very unladylike of her. Or about a certain young man in our group, she insinuated that his grandmother had an extra marital affair. “No, Stella, I definitely do not want you to be around him!” His grandmother? Wasn’t she dead or infirm or something? My father was just as bad. “Berta, have you noticed that Stella is putting on nail polish and eye shadow? I will not have it! I tell you I definitely will not have it!” On that point Mama sided with me. She reminded him that I was now of a marriageable age and no longer a little girl in ankle socks. He even objected once that I did not wear a bra while sleeping! What? Give me a break! But now that Edmond was there and had practically become part of our group, things became so much easier. “There is a party next weekend,” I announced, casually, eyes lowered and studying my bracelet intently.
“Who is going to be there?”
“But Mama, Papa, Edmond is coming too,” I answered coyly.
A slight pause. “Whose house?” I told them. They felt they were losing this round. They had nothing against the lineage of this family. Their eyes then turned to Edmond. He squirmed slightly. He was not accustomed to this kind of grilling. He said nothing but gave them his most charming smile.
“Edmond, you are responsible for her and she has to be home by ten o’clock sharp, you understand?”
“Mama, Papa, please! The party is just beginning at that hour!”
Two pairs of stern eyes stared me down. Edmond nodded his assent. A week later we were off. Edmond had become very popular and was having a great time. I was also. I hoped he had forgotten about the ten o’clock curfew. Then ten o’clock struck. Without a word, Edmond took me by the elbow, led me to the car and drove me home. As I entered, he said, “Good night Stella. I’ll see you in the morning. He then turned around and drove back to the party. He did not return until the early hours of the morning. My jaw dropped! I felt so betrayed. There he was enjoying himself with MY friends as I seethed alone in my room! For years I could not stop reminding him of what I felt was his betrayal, each time I saw him, which wasn’t too often.
Many years passed. Edmond and my aunt’s family lived in New York. We still lived in Tehran. I got married and Edmond got married a year or two later. One night my Uncle Albert and his wife had a party. At the end of the evening we headed towards our car. There was something tucked underneath the windshield wiper on the driver’s side. My ex picked it up and looked at it closely. I noticed his face transform into a dark stormy cloud. I became wary. I knew that look and did not like it.
“Who is this man with you in this picture?” he thundered. I took the picture and looked at it closely.
“That’s my cousin Edmond, but that is not me! He lives in New York!”
It was his wife Naomi. Although she looked like me in the picture, she looks nothing like me in real life. She is tall, I am short. I was slight, she is bigger boned. Our faces held no resemblance at all. It was just a strange quirk of the photograph.
Years passed. We now lived in New York. I was now married to Peter. It was discovered that Edmond had cancer. One day he called me. He said, “I am calling you to tell you that I have cancer. I am not likely to survive. I want you to hear this from me.”
My heart fell and I felt grief stricken. I began to visit him and took him Iraqi food to tempt his appetite. He couldn’t eat it, so I stopped. Even though he knew he was dying, he never lost his debonair charm. He retained his thoughtfulness. He did not get angry at his fate. He retained his humour. I marveled at him.
That last summer, when our mulberry tree was laden with fruit, we invited the whole family over. Edmond loved mulberries and he loved picking them from our tree. We picked a bowlful of them, hoping he would enjoy the taste of them. We sat in the garden. Everyone was there when they finally arrived. But Edmond was tired and had fallen asleep in the car. Naomi sat patiently with him as he slept. In the garden, we spoke in sad hushed voices, waiting for him to wake up.
The last message he left Peter and me before he passed away, was to wish us a happy Jewish New Year. For any years I played it back to myself until the answering machine broke. I did not know how retrieve his voice. I was reluctant to throw it away. Then one day the machine disappeared into all the accumulated things that I hoarded over the years. Someday, when I am gone, someone will go through my stuff and wonder why I kept that. It was because a dying man cared enough of others to wish us good things for the coming year, even though he knew he would not be around then …