Alexandria, 1936.
Stacy has counted nine languages before Caelwyn tells her to stop.
STACY:
“I’m interested.”
CAELWYN:
“You look irritated.”
STACY:
“I can be both.”
The café should not work.
Egyptians. Greeks. Italians. French. British. Germans. Armenians. Sailors, merchants, locals, travellers.
Different languages.
Different religions.
Different customs.
Earlier that day, Alexandria seemed full of categories.
Nationality.
Religion.
Class.
Passport.
Foreign.
Local.
Welcome.
Tolerated.
Then evening comes.
Someone begins to play an oud.
A Greek violin joins.
Then an Italian accordion.
The musicians can barely speak to one another.
So they stop trying.
Four notes.
An answer.
A rhythm.
Someone claps.
Another joins.
Soon half the café is following.
STACY:
“They’re negotiating.”
CAELWYN:
“Without speaking.”
Then people begin to dance.
An Egyptian woman pulls a British sailor from his chair.
He tries her steps.
Badly.
She laughs and shows him again.
Then he teaches her one of his.
Now she gets it wrong.
Now he laughs.
Neither becomes the other.
Both learn when to join in.
Later, an elderly woman sends Stacy a plate of something sweet.
STACY:
“I didn’t order this.”
The woman gestures:
Eat.
Stacy tries it.
The woman raises her eyebrows.
Stacy nods.
The woman beams.
CAELWYN:
“Ten.”
STACY:
“What?”
CAELWYN:
“Languages.”
STACY:
“She didn’t say anything.”
CAELWYN:
“Precisely.”
Soon food crosses tables.
Then bottles.
Then chairs.
Then people.
A Frenchwoman plays cards with an Egyptian boy.
He cheats.
She catches him.
Within minutes six nationalities are arguing about rules nobody understands.
CAELWYN:
“International diplomacy.”
STACY:
“He’s cheating.”
CAELWYN:
“Then it’s authentic international diplomacy.”
Near midnight, the café owner raises his glass.
He gives a speech in Arabic.
Someone translates it into French.
Someone else into English.
By the time it reaches the Italians, the entire speech has become:
“Good daughter. Good husband. Good sea. Good friends. Drink.”
Everyone understands that perfectly.
Then the musicians begin another song.
Arabic words.
A Greek voice joins.
The accordion finds the refrain.
By the sixth repetition almost everyone knows when to come in.
Most don’t know the words.
Some simply sing sounds.
Nobody cares.
STACY:
“They don’t know the words.”
CAELWYN:
“Neither do I.”
STACY:
“You’re singing.”
CAELWYN:
“Apparently that isn’t required.”
For perhaps fifteen seconds, something changes.
The musicians stop.
But the room keeps singing.
And beneath dozens of voices, Stacy hears another.
Low.
Distant.
Singing the same refrain in a language she does not recognise.
STACY:
“Did you hear that?”
CAELWYN:
“Yes.”
STACY:
“What language was it?”
CAELWYN:
“I don’t know.”
Perhaps another café.
Perhaps a sailor in the street.
Alexandria is full of music tonight.
Then the violin starts again.
People cheer.
Someone knocks over a chair.
And the celebration moves on.
Later, walking towards the harbour, Stacy finally understands.
STACY:
“They haven’t become the same.”
CAELWYN:
“No.”
STACY:
“The differences are still here. Language. Religion. Nationality. Custom.”
CAELWYN:
“Yes.”
STACY:
“But none of them had to be solved before people could participate.”
CAELWYN:
“Perhaps participation is the solution.”
STACY:
“Too simple.”
CAELWYN:
“And yet you ate food from a woman whose name you don’t know, celebrated a marriage involving people you’ve never met and sang a song whose words you couldn’t understand.”
Stacy considers that.
STACY:
“Fair.”
Celebration does not abolish borders.
It does something smaller.
Perhaps something more useful.
For a little while, it makes crossing them easy.
Because sometimes you don’t need to understand my words to understand my celebration.
You only need to know when to join in.
QUESTION FOR YOU
Have you ever sung a song whose words you barely understood, danced to music from somewhere far from home, or celebrated with people whose language you did not speak — and discovered that, for that moment, understanding each other mattered less than simply knowing when to join in?
PLAY EPIC. FEEL THE STORY.
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