A good steak

By Fayza Hassan
Whenever I observe the attempts of Third World countries to attract the US's attention to their plight, I am reminded of the shenanigans old friends of mine engaged in to get their aunt, a millionaire, to loosen her purse strings. I never met Tante Marie, but she was a legendary figure in the background of my Alexandrian years. My husband and one of her nephews were best friends and many an evening, when I had wished to spend time alone with my husband, the three of us had sat instead till the wee hours of the morning, discussing the old woman's avarice.
Tante Marie had never married. Her only heirs were her sister's four children. None of them had done particularly well; with the nationalisations of the 1960s and the exodus of Alexandria's cosmopolitan society, their financial future looked even bleaker. They were not poor in the sense we usually give to the word, but they had never managed to rise to the standard to which they aspired and which they considered their birthright.
The old lady seemed to delight in playing games with them. She would invite one of her relatives with spouse and children to spend a month in her chateau near Paris, and would hint that he had always been her favourite; indeed, she was thinking of leaving her fortune to him alone. This of course invariably provoked a great deal of tender care from the elected. Tante Marie's every whim was attended to; she was accompanied on her long walks by the niece or nephew of the moment, carrying her bag, her thermos, her shawl and whatever else she cared to take along. She would be invited to expensive restaurants, wined and dined and showered with little gifts. At the end of the holiday, she would dismiss the "favourite" with a pinch on the cheek and a wink: "Don't forget what I said -- and don't tell the others," she would admonish him.
The following summer, another nephew or niece would be asked. Meanwhile Tante Marie thrived. The older she got, the more demanding she became. The walks grew longer and the restaurants more exclusive. She wanted company in the evenings and amusing plans for the day ahead, and seemed totally oblivious to the discomfort of her relatives, left to finance the entertainment. Furthermore, her divide and rule policy completely spoiled the relationship of her putative heirs and created ill feelings and mistrust between them.
My husband, who had not been blessed with a rich aunt, gave advice to his friend. "Next time you see her, tell her honestly that you are planning to relocate to Beirut and need money to buy an apartment. Don't play games; just be open about your problems. Since she is going to leave you all this money anyway, why not give you a small down payment on your share now and enjoy the fact that she made you happy?" My husband always wondered why rich people did not give away their money in order to bask in the aura of their generosity.
While Tante Marie globetrotted from Paris to New York, Geneva and Beirut and back to Paris, things were not going well for the family. My husband's friend closed his surgery and, penniless, he claimed, prepared to move to Beirut while his brothers and sister were getting used to their first freezing winter in Canada. It was time, my husband decided, to come to his friend's rescue. He wrote himself to Tante Marie, whom he had known since he was a child, telling her that her nephew was at his wits' end, no longer knew what to do and had been so depressed lately that he had to be hospitalised. Surely Tante Marie did not want to see her dear sister's son in such despair?
Two months later, a lady telephoned my husband. She had just arrived from Beirut. Tante Marie was there at the moment and was sending a package to her nephew. Since she did not know the name of the hospital he was in, she wanted to entrust the package to my husband. A talkative, bejewelled and over-perfumed lady arrived soon after. Over coffee, she told us that Tante Marie was involved with charity work in Lebanon and was travelling to collect money for the church. She was in better health than ever. Looking after the needy had given her a new lease of life. The Lebanese lady eventually handed my husband a small envelope, recommending that he take it to "that poor boy" at once. After her departure, I wondered aloud at the thinness of the package. "It's a fat check, silly," said my husband. "Did you expect her to send it in a container?"
He rushed to his friend, who was not in hospital, but whiling away the time at one of the downtown cafés. I was not there to witness the trepidation with which they must have opened the envelope, but my fuming husband later told me that it contained a $50 bill and a short note in which Tante Marie advised her nephew to buy himself a couple of good steaks. "Nothing like a good slice of medium rare meat to cure your depression," she wrote. She spoke from experience. As for the rest, she suggested that he throw himself into his work. When Tante Marie finally died, she left everything she owned to the church.
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