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Al-Ahram Weekly 8 - 14 July 1999 Issue No. 437 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 8 - 14 July 1999 Issue No. 437
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Profile Features Focus Books Travel Living Sports Time Out Chronicles People Cartoons Letters A fine holiday
By Fayza Hassan
A few weeks ago, my brother called me from Switzerland, where he was on business. "I am in Wengen," he said, "it has not changed much."
"What possessed you to go there?" I asked him on his return. Wengen had been one of our parents' favourite spots to spend the summer months. I had always thought that taking us there was a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Situated at the foot of the Jungfrau, the village boasted a pollution-free atmosphere long before pollution was invented. Cars were forbidden from circulating, and luggage was carried from the station to quaint little hotels on mule-back. As far as I could recall, the tourists consisted mainly of old people and very young families, the food was generally awful and there was nothing at all in the way of amusements for the teenager I was then. Why would anyone in his right mind wish to revisit the dump? "I was looking for Annelise," said my brother.
Rack my brains as I would, I could not conjure up a face to fit the name. As I was trying hard to jolt my memory, the face of Tomaso, the young Italian I befriended there one summer, presented itself. I was 15 and felt quite protective of the frail young man who had confided that he suffered from a rare nervous disorder and in all probability would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. His mother, a sturdy Italian woman, did not seem particularly aware of the cloud that hung over her son's head and treated him quite normally, insisting among other things that he look after his healthy younger brother. I had harboured intense ill feelings towards the woman and had planned to tell Tomaso not to worry -- as soon as I was a little older, I would go to Italy and look for him. I would then devote my life to pushing his wheelchair. I did not tell him at once, however, because I was rather awed by such an absolute commitment. Would I not regret it one day? Wasn't there rather more to life than that?
I was able to postpone the agonising decision, however, as my brother, my sister and I came down with chicken pox suddenly and in quick succession. I was not very ill, but I did not consider it possible to show my pimply face to someone as exquisitely sensitive as Tomaso. The sight might traumatise him forever, I reflected and I spent the regulation two weeks in my room, during which time the boy and his family departed without saying goodbye. I never saw Tomaso again, which was just as well, since I soon forgot him.
There was, however, no Annelise materialising in this landscape. "Tell me more about her," I urged my brother. "She was a pretty girl I used to meet after dinner," he said vaguely. Finally I remembered a rather buxom young lady, quite plain, her face covered with a thick layer of foundation to hide the imperfections of her skin. "She was much older than you were," I said tentatively, "and she had pimples..." My brother smiled rather sheepishly. "Only five years older, and besides, I looked much older than my age," he said. "And she did not have pimples, not really. She had chicken pox, but at the time I did not tell anyone, because I would not have been allowed to see her anymore. "Then we all caught it from her," I said, seeing the light suddenly. "Didn't you feel guilty?" My brother could not remember having had any trouble with his conscience; on the contrary, these had been very happy moments, since Annelise had volunteered to spend the afternoons with him, assuring my mother that she had already had chicken pox when she was little and would therefore not catch it again.
Such pleasant memories had prompted my brother to find out if Annelise was still living in Wengen. He was unable to locate her, of course, but the place is so beautiful, he says, that he may well decide to spend his next holidays there. And he may run into her yet; but somehow, I hope he doesn't. It would strike a mortal blow to my own memories of that summer, when boredom added a touch of tragedy and desperation to the romance that never was. If Annelise is a fat old lady who never left her native village, Tomaso could well be out there somewhere, a robust grandfather who never misses his morning jog.
