Chapter 41: That´s the point of love

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it was blunders like these that ultimately dissuaded my grandfather from leaving for Cuba. Throughout their correspondence, it seems to me, Botros was more hesitant than his brother wished to believe. Indeed, even suspicious, as can be seen from this enigmatic passage in Gebrayel’s letter:

My trust in you, in your devotion to work and to the family, has always been great and never stops growing from day to day, and in my mind there isn’t the shadow of a doubt as far as this goes. This is why I’m very surprised by the allusions in what you wrote to the fact that some members of the family don’t trust you. Tell me, who are you referring to? Are you thinking of me, by any chance? If so, let me tell you, dear sir, that if doubt has crept into your mind on this subject, it is the fruit of your imagination, or the fruit of a misunderstanding. And if you have someone else in mind, I can only advise you to exercise your usual magnanimity and spirit of forgiveness toward that person.

The tone remained polite, diplomatic even, as was usually the case in our family correspondence. But it is clear that at this point, regardless of what Gebrayel says, there was a serious lack of trust between the two brothers. Botros must have sensed that Gebrayel and Theodoros were consulting each other behind his back on the best way of finding a suitable occupation for him and persuading him to give up the shaky projects he had embarked on.

I find it very understandable that my future grandfather was sensitive and touchy at this stage in his life, particularly in his exchanges with two younger brothers, both of whom had “made it,” each in his own area: the priest had become the superior of his convent, and the businessman had amassed a fortune. As for Botros, he had yet to “make it” in any field.

Indeed, while he was pursuing these long-distance negotiations, he never stopped asking himself what direction his life should take next, his feelings of anxiety being all the more acute in that he wasn’t twenty or thirty anymore, but over forty-four. It wouldn’t have been easy for him to leave his country and adapt to another society and another way of life. To give up his work and start out in a completely different profession, from the bottom rung, like an apprentice. And it couldn’t have been easy for him to confront the fact that he didn’t have a home of his own, didn’t have a wife or children, while his youngest brothers and sisters were all married.

He had probably seriously considered leaving for Cuba in the year 1912. I don’t have his letters. If he made copies, they are lost. The only letters I have are those of his brother, and they suggest that at one time his departure was taken for granted and imminent. But I am not surprised that ultimately Botros decided not to go. If he hadn’t been able to bear emigration when he was younger, how could he put up with it now? Moreover, his departure would have seemed like a defeat, a disavowal or betrayal of all the people he had constantly lectured on the obligation to stay and contribute to progress at home. He could never have accepted losing face in this way.

In the end, he didn’t leave. He informed his brother of his decision at the end of that summer. Gebrayel was disappointed and remained so all his life, but he had no choice but to resign himself to this. In any case, it was too late for the two brothers. Their paths had diverged irreversibly for too long, and blood ties alone had kept their dialogue alive, a dialogue devoid of true complicity. Though they still shared the same ideals, from then on, each brother would remain on his own shore and would walk down his own road, at his own pace, to his own demise.As it turned out, 1912 was one of the most decisive years in Botros’s life, and this had nothing to do with Cuba. As I write, I realize that I am presenting a somewhat biased view of my grandfather’s biography. But I find it difficult to be coldly objective in relating the encounters that brought me into the world, without which this narrative would have no raison d’être. And from my point of view, 1912 was the year of a crucial meeting.

While he was still discussing with his brother the appropriateness of a second trip to Havana—plagued, as he so often was, by scruples and indecisiveness—Botros had a flash of inspiration. He went to see Khalil and solemnly announced that he had come to ask his daughter’s hand in marriage.

The daughter in question was Nazeera, the youngest. During a recent family reunion my grandfather had had the opportunity to exchange a few words with her and had been struck by her insight, determination, and serene beauty. During the following days and nights he frequently found himself tenderly recalling her penetrating gaze and soothing voice. Initially, he didn’t want to acknowledge that the young girl was becoming important to him. But as the days went by, a certainty began to take root in his mind—not unlike the one Tannous, his father, had once felt about Soussène: the certainty that he could no longer do without her; he wanted her as a wife. To Botros, this must even have seemed like his last hope. For there he was, constantly wondering what career to engage in next, deciding obstinately to remain in the mother country though he had lost all faith in its future, discussing expatriation once again though he lacked the courage for it. Indeed, he had lost his way, and now, lo and behold, his path was suddenly lit up. The calamitous year was going to be the year of happiness. The more he thought about it, the more this union seemed like a lifesaving miracle.

Moreover, a rational miracle, which seemed in harmony with the natural order of things. When my future grandfather made his request to his former teacher, he didn’t doubt for a moment his response. Hadn’t there already been two marriages between Tannous’s children and Khalil’s? Gebrayel and Alice, most recently, and before that, Yamna and Shukri. In fact, Nazeera’s older brother Shukri had been one of Botros’s best friends for a long time. He was convinced that the preacher would welcome him with open arms, for he had been his most brilliant disciple, whose opinion he had solicited before consenting to Alice’s marriage.

But that’s not the way things turned out. Khalil reacted evasively and with embarrassment. He didn’t have the strength to look Botros straight in the eye and turn him down, but he had no desire to give his consent.