PETE HAMILL - FAREWELL TO ALEXANDRIA

I had been meaning to visit Egypt for the last 40 years or more, so last month I bit the bullet and went.

 

No big deal, except shortly beforehand Messrs. Netanyahu & Trump decided to blow the hell out of Iran. Everybody thought I was around the bend, but I had a feeling if I didn’t go then, I might never. Besides, my travel agent said I’d have the place to myself, and how bad could that be?

 

I needn’t have worried. You’re never alone in Cairo, a city of 22 million people with traffic so dense it makes Manhattan seem like a stroll in the park. I might add there are no pedestrian walk signs, hence crossing streets is up to you, your sense of adventure, and fancy footwork.

 

But it has the nearby Pyramids and the Sphinx, though every Tik-Toker in the universe seemed to be using them as backdrop for their narcissistic posturing. Not to worry, close by is the recently opened Great Egyptian Museum, designed by Mayo’s Róisín Heneghan.

 

You could spend a week there basking in the shadows of the various Pharaohs’ statues while weeping over the remains of Tutankhamun, the boy king, and what might have been.

 

Then down to Luxor where the Valley of the Kings can overawe you, or the Valley of the Queens and their sometimes still-born children show the more achingly human side of ancient Egypt.

 

But I had an ulterior motive – I wanted to walk the streets of Alexandria, and catch any remaining echoes of a series of books set there by Lawrence Durrell, the Anglo-Irish writer. (Durrell always referred to himself as an “Irishman” and considered England “the grey death.)

 

The Quartet books, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, and Clea are set circa World War Two. They explore a romance influenced by a brooding portrait of the atmospheric city founded by Alexander The Great.

 

Justine gives a thrilling account of the love the narrator Darley has for Justine, the wife of his aristocratic Coptic friend, Nessim. As satisfying as the book is, it leaves you wanting more, and most people turn to its immediate sequel, Balthazar.

 

That’s where the real thrill is, and it becomes apparent that truth is relative as it unfolds in fits and starts over the course of the remaining books.

 

Pete Hamill and I shared an admiration for the Alexandria Quartet. We had both been introduced to it by women no longer alive, perhaps part of the fascination.

 

If Joyce masterfully captured the essence of Dublin in 1904 with Ulysses, Durrell did no less with Alexandria though in a more mysterious and hallucinogenic manner. But each writer’s city is more a character than just a backdrop.

 

Joyce’s Dublin is still glaringly there courtesy of the Irish people. You have to dig deeper in Alexandria as the Greeks, Jews, and British departed around President Nasser’s regime in the 1950’s and are barely an echo now in this bustling Muslim city leavened only by Coptic Christians.

 

But the Cecil Hotel still looms large. Darley, a penniless English schoolteacher, and the glamorous Justine met there, and its storied Monty Bar (Field-Marshal Montgomery) still reeks of a decadent colonialism.

 

One of the great bonuses of immersing yourself in the Quartet is that you become familiar with the poetry of C.V. Cavafy, “the poet of the city,”  a master at transmuting love, loss and life.

 

“One afternoon at four o’clock we separated

for a week only... And then,

that week became forever.”

 

Within strolling distance of The Cecil, Cavafy’s apartment has been turned into a miniature museum replete with photos, furniture and intimate artifacts of this Greek-Alexandrian’s life. He was Jacqueline Kennedy’s favorite poet, and fittingly the museum was founded and is supported by the Onassis Foundation.

 

Across the street from The Cecil is the Corniche, a long walkway by the Mediterranean where Darley, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, Cavafy and the hapless Clea gazed out across the sparkling waves, wondering if they’d ever escape the magnetic attraction of Alexander’s city, before they too would be swept away as his legendary library was.

 

It's strange how a book can have such an effect on you after so many years. But that’s the power and majesty of literature, isn’t it, and why writers sacrifice everything to capture one glimpse of its magic.

 

DO IT NOW!

 I was recently asked, “What was the best piece of advice you ever received.”

Though it was given to me way back in the last century, the simple words still resonate, as does the time bomb those words set ticking.

 

I’m usually loath to give advice myself, though in the fields I labor, it’s tossed about like confetti. Far better to develop your own sense of discretion, then judge any advice you’re receiving through that prism.

 

I received my life-defining advice back in my first year at Wexford Christian Brothers Secondary School - the equivalent of American high school.

 

We were a mixed bunch, wild rural lads who rode into town on heavy black bicycles, sons of factory workers confident they would soon join their fathers as apprentices, and the rest of us vaguely middle-class, though no one had a tosser, and everyone had emigrant relatives in London, Dagenham, or Birmingham.

 

In those tween-age years we were rowdy, but still constrained by the ever-present fear of corporal punishment. Still, the Christian Brother warned us to be on our best behavior, as our religion class would be pre-empted that noon by the visit of an important personage.

 

We all hoped it would be some hurling star, like Hopper McGrath or one of the legendary Rackard brothers.

 

To our surprise, in strode Brendan Corish, our local TD, and leader of the Labor Party. He came from storied stock, his father Richard had helped lead the foundry workers in the Wexford Lockout of 1911, and was a confidant of James Connolly.

 

Brendan would go on to become Tánaiste (Deputy Leader) and Minister for Health and Social Welfare in the Irish Coalition government of 1973.

 

A consummate constituency politician, he surveyed us keenly; however, he seemed troubled. Perhaps, he could already foresee our emigrant fates.

 

Nonetheless, he shook off his initial concern and breezily informed us that it had not been long since he sat in the same desks. He was then in his early 40’s, and by his own admission a socialist, though a Christian one, he added to the relief of our attentive Brother, who added, “Mr. Corish, like all Irish politicians, hews closely to our Holy Father’s religious and ethical edicts.”

 

Brendan took no notice of this well-intended compliment, and soon had us chuckling, having  quickly divined our sporting interests and favorites in the pop music of the day. 

 

And so things continued on an even keel, until the Brother intervened in a rare silence, “Mr. Corish, if you had one piece of advice for my students what would it be?”

 

This question summonsed the clouds back into Brendan’s face and he sighed. His shoulders sank for a moment and concerns of state seemed to swirl around the room. Then he gathered himself and smiled, “It’s very simple: three words, seven letters.”

 

He turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of white chalk and wrote very deliberately, DO IT NOW!

 

The silence gathered and enveloped the sun-dappled classroom as we wrestled with this no-nonsense command. The Brother and Brendan, however, shared a glance of empathetic understanding.

 

“As good as this advice is, it will haunt you,” Brendan warned, “for in the end, the things you didn’t do will weigh far heavier than those you did. So keep it close to mind and, for God’s sake, act on it as often as you humanly can.”

 

The bell for lunch rang, but instead of jumping up in our usual jumble of delight and relief, we sat there as if nailed to our rough-hewn seats.

 

“Get on with you now,” the Brother hissed and we trooped out of the classroom into the noisy corridor, some of us still wrestling with both the advice and the conundrum it would apparently present.

 

I glanced behind and saw the Brother and Brendan sharing a long handshake, their political persuasions laid aside on a hallstand of human understanding.

 

They’re both dead a long time, Brendan after a distinguished career in public service – a Christian Socialist to the end; I can’t even remember the brother’s name, let alone how he fared in life.

 

But the advice still rings true, serviceable as ever, if troubling and occasionally haunting.

DO IT NOW! It may soon be too late.