The truth of caricature

By George Bahgory

Peering into one of the cafés I spot two men sitting at a table, playing cards and drinking -- Badi' Khairi and Naguib El-Rihani.

In, as it turns out, the vain hope of being noticed by these two, I enter the café but fail to draw attention to myself. The consolation, though, is another event, and one that will change the course of my life: I notice a poster announcing an exhibition at the Armenian Club of works by the caricaturist Saroukhan.

Running up the stairs four at a time, somewhat like a kangaroo, I reach the door. The noise coming from beyond is an Armenian noise: it is loud, and when I enter I find the walls themselves are laughing. And I was surprised that each caricature hanging on the walls had its equivalent standing in the room, speaking that unmistakable Armenian dialect, mixed with French and Egyptian Arabic. More than 50 years later I now realise I was surprised because this was the first time I had encountered the truth of caricature.

Saroukhan mingles with the spectators, collecting bouquets of flowers and kisses. A huge woman is at his side, her tiny head lost atop the folds the bulk beneath, her face streaked red and green with make-up, framed by thick locks of red hair. She is, clearly, the heroine of many of his drawings.

I stay on as the throngs of visitors depart and Saroukhan embraces them one by one until he and I are the only ones in the room. He comes towards me, light, whispering, smiling, and tells me in his unmistakable accent that we have to close the place. He switches out the lights himself.

In the lobby of the Al-Ahram building, I remember all of this, and looking at the pictures on the wall cannot help but feel Saroukhan is among them, looking down, laughing.