A Tale of Two Omars Read online

  I assign no blame to Jim and his crew. They were remarkably patient and delicate with Grandfather, doing everything possible to make it work, but in the end, they couldn’t accomplish what they needed. They cut Grandfather out of the film, and since the majority of the scenes I’d done were with him, they cut me out, too.

  The next morning, I stepped off the elevator to find Grandfather sitting comfortably on a sofa in the opulent lobby of the InterContinental Dublin hotel. He was holding the newspaper open, covering everything except his fingers and the top of his head. My eyes drifted to the familiar face of his French secretary, Catherine. She was sitting across from him, wearing a cream sweater with the brown and black print of a cheetah’s face covering the front. As I approached them, I noticed Catherine was occupied with a conversation on the phone. Catherine had been with Grandfather since she was sixteen or seventeen years old, and when our regular driver wasn’t available, she’d pick me up from the airport when I traveled to see Grandfather. Like Catherine, and my longtime nanny, Pepita, everyone around Grandfather became family, and they treated me like theirs, which is why I never felt displaced when I was with him. Grandfather had long-standing relationships. Pepita helped raise not only me but also my father.

  For as long as I remember, Catherine’s smile was as genuine as one could be, and she seemed to carry the same cheerful demeanor wherever she went. Sweeping, soft bangs covered her forehead, and her dirty-blond-and-gray hair cascaded around her neckline with the ends lightly flipped up. Once again, her comforting eyes illuminated beautifully, saying bonjour as they always had, before she returned her attention to her call.

  Unless Grandfather was working on a film or going to horse races, it would be a rare occasion to see him at that hour. He’d usually wake up at 1:30 or 2:00 in the afternoon, take a bath, and review the racing journals. Committed to a noticeable routine, Grandfather would not have eaten by that time of day. When he’d finally emerge from the confines of his bedroom, cigarette in hand, well-rested, and neatly dressed, we’d watch the end of the Tour de France, then take a leisurely stroll to a local restaurant and have a dinner that would extend past midnight. When I was a young adult, he’d take me to the casino or the horse races, kindly slipping fifty francs into my hand so I could place bets, too. Over time, Grandfather increased the amount, always making certain that when I was with him, we had fun together. He didn’t want me sitting at a card table watching him live inside his world as if I were tagging along out of necessity. Grandfather wanted me to be as jovial and engaged as he was, and his friends knew to interact with me in just the same way. Every time he’d lose a hand of cards or an unlikely bet at the racetrack, he’d turn to me and say, “Put your losses in the past and leave them there; tomorrow we win big.” Although I never took to gambling and gambling never took to me, those years together were among our best.

  That morning, Grandfather appeared to be in good spirits, exuding his distinct brand of innate class and sophistication, causing my grin to broaden as I seated myself next to him on the sofa. A server politely approached me and asked if I’d care for any coffee, tea, or juice. It has never been my preference to drink tea or coffee in the morning, but my eyes darted to the coffee table to see if Grandfather was having his usual. There was a white ceramic teapot, cup, and saucer, and the rest of the morning newspaper spread out in front of him. After observing his disposition on set the day prior, I wanted now, as much as possible, to slip into a world with him that I recognized, if only to have tea. Nodding politely at the server, I asked for another cup.

  Dressed in charcoal-gray trousers, a navy jacket, a long-sleeved royal-blue polo, and black shoes, Grandfather looked dapper as always, thanks to Catherine. Carefully studying the expression on his face, it didn’t take long before I noticed he wasn’t reading the paper at all. Grandfather was looking at the pictures and eagerly turned to show me the faces of football players. He began pointing at each one with childlike laughter escaping his warm grin. That moment was more evidence that, though hard to admit, Grandfather was no longer in this world or even responding to it the way he once had. I glanced at Catherine, and she shrugged as if to say, This is how he is now. His soulful brown eyes, mustache, and thick white hair were the same, but a chronic neurodegenerative disease had all but extinguished his internal, intense fire. It was agonizing to realize that his passion for acting, his world-class skills at bridge, his love for crosswords, the long dinners with the most stimulating conversations, and the intellect to do it all had been stolen—without him knowing. Omar Sharif, the Hollywood icon who had received an Oscar nomination and won multiple Golden Globes and a César Award, sat next to me as if it were impossible for him to have accomplished any of it. I conceded that Alzheimer’s had come closer day by day, like the tide, until he was completely underwater and had transitioned into an empty vessel.

  Our family was always important to Grandfather, but he started to show it a lot more once his health began to falter. Maybe he was afraid he hadn’t done enough, but I think it was that he’d forgotten. I’d been aware of his diagnosis and had watched the progression of nearly every stage for almost ten years. It was painful. Once Grandfather reached late-stage Alzheimer’s, any time he seemed to understand something, the disease surfaced and swallowed his thoughts as quickly as it had his memories. Entering Grandfather’s world and fully understanding what he saw, felt, and remembered was impossible, but from the outside, I watched Grandfather lose a lifetime.

  In the first few years, Grandfather’s decline was slow and appeared to be part of the natural aging process. By the second stage, our relationship changed and I became more of a caregiver when we were together. Each adjustment coincided with the progression of the disease, and I made them without letting him know I was doing it. I never wanted to embarrass Grandfather. He was too proud.

  For over forty years, when Grandfather was in France, he frequently dined at Chez Miocque, a restaurant owned by a family friend in the seaside resort of Deauville near the Casino Barrière. Photographs of celebrities, including Grandfather, who had dined there covered the walls and ceilings of the establishment. We never looked at a menu; we knew it by heart. We’d always start by ordering wine and several of the appetizers for everyone to share and proceed with one course after another. One evening, Grandfather and I were dining alone, and dinner presented a different narrative. When it was time for the main course, the server asked Grandfather what he was having, and Grandfather looked at me as if he didn’t know how to respond. He needed help communicating what he wanted. I suggested a variety of items he typically selected, pretending to decide for myself.

  “The sole meunière sounds good. I remember how much you enjoyed that last time,” I told him. “And the escalopes de veau is always delicious.” I sighed expressively, entertaining the idea of two of his favorites, hoping one of them would appeal to him.

  Grandfather didn’t reply to the server. Instead, he turned to me and asked, “So, what are you having?”

  When I told him, his eyes lit up and he smiled triumphantly. He looked up at the server and confidently exclaimed, “I’ll have the same.”

  Grandfather had dined all around the world and had quite a discerning palate, but when the server returned to see how everything was, instead of replying confidently, he glanced at me, checking for validation, and questioned, “It’s good?” When I smiled and nodded in agreement, he answered again with more assurance and cheer, “Merveilleux!” I realized Grandfather couldn’t recall what was on the menu, nor did he know exactly what he was eating. From that point on, as soon as I detected a lapse in memory or difficulty with his decision-making or communication, I’d make subtle decisions on his behalf, without him knowing it.

  The little modifications were constant, and over time, they became more significant. Whenever we went out to dinner, the horse races, or anywhere else, I’d make slight adjustments to his appearance. I’d brush light dandruff off his shoulders before we’d get out of the car to go in
to a restaurant, adjust his tie, recommend something he would normally have chosen on his own, and guide him in the direction we were heading when he seemed lost. I was careful not to do anything in a condescending or patronizing way. I simply managed the little things that would not have escaped Omar Sharif.

  Over the next six or seven years, Grandfather became more withdrawn and increasingly agitated due to his inability to remember some of his most cherished memories. They were the fabulous stories I’d heard him tell at the dinner table for decades, keeping everyone completely captivated. Grandfather didn’t recite stories; he had mastered the art of recreating the color, characters, and clarity as if he were there once again. As his recollections melted together, he told the same stories out of chronological order. Before anyone noticed, I’d ask a question to redirect or interrupt his recounting, and he’d seldom remember to go back to it. If something upset Grandfather, I’d bring up memories that took him to a happier place, and somehow, he’d regain his composure. They were usually stories about Barbra Streisand or Peter O’Toole. My father and Catherine were the only other people I knew who could discreetly guide Grandfather in a better direction without him knowing, leaving his dignity intact.

  Eventually, stories he told that were familiar to us, or even to the public, didn’t make sense. Grandfather wasn’t lying about the stories he innocently attempted to share—the disease was in the process of eradicating his memory. It began erasing one colorful line at a time, advancing to paragraphs, and then chapters of his life. Fragmented memories left by the disease were what Grandfather had to work with, and whatever he said was what he believed happened. It seemed that Grandfather was deteriorating faster than time, and one day, his personality changed to someone I no longer knew.

  Just two years before our time in Dublin, Grandfather and I were at Fouquet’s, a crowded restaurant in Paris, enjoying our time together over dinner. He appeared to be in good spirits, laughing as he recounted pieces of familiar stories. This never bothered me, because I could fill in the gaps. This was as close as Grandfather came to the way he used to be, and I was grateful for that time with him. I closed my eyes to savor the moment.

  “Omar. Are you okay?” Grandfather asked. I opened my eyes to find him looking at me curiously.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Then, what? What is it?”

  “I’m just happy to be spending time with you,” I replied.

  His dismissive laughter was interwoven with the beginning of a story, followed by another. Somehow, I brought up his love for horses, reminding him of the time he’d taken me to a horse auction in Deauville. Grandfather placed a forkful of salad in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, listening attentively as if it were the first time he’d heard of it.

  Deauville is renowned in the horse-racing world for its races and for its thoroughbred auctions. The auction I had attended was filled with people from around the world, but the excitement had come from being with Grandfather. I loved watching people approach him and studying his interactions, and I could tell that his focus never wavered from the impressive collection of horses. Before the auction, the horses were taken on the round, where potential buyers closely scrutinized their movements, taking notes, and chatting amongst themselves. I stood next to Grandfather, admiring one thoroughbred with a dark chestnut coat and a slightly lighter mane. Her muscles rolled beneath her glossy coat each time she walked past, and she turned her head to stare directly at me with her dark brown eyes. I mentioned this to Grandfather, and he dismissed it with his signature laughter. When the bidding started, we went inside, but there weren’t any available seats. While the auctioneer rambled on, inaudible bidding went as high as two million euros that afternoon. The dark chestnut horse that kept eyeing me went for 14,000 euros and had a new home. While leaving the auction, Grandfather was handed a yellow slip, and I was shocked to learn that he had secretly purchased her for me. We spent the following two days coming up with names and decided to call her Dinner Time. For our favorite pastime together.

  My horse didn’t seem like the best investment, because she had a distinctive walk that resembled a limp; nevertheless, she won several group races and was decidedly good for breeding. Later, she sold for nearly half a million euros.

  “Do you remember that?” I asked Grandfather.

  He laughed and nodded his head affirmatively.

  “You bought me my first horse, and then my first car with some of the earnings.”

  “Yes. And Catherine—no, Pepita—she took you to riding lessons—and to polo,” he added.

  “Yes, she did,” I replied, pleased that he remembered. I assured him that my summers in the north of France were always the best.

  An hour into dinner, Grandfather stopped talking and pushed his plate away as though the food were awful.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  Grandfather didn’t respond. Instead, he dabbed his mouth with the napkin and sat back in his chair, shifting his face to a meditative expression. I glanced around the dining room to assess the size of our audience and cringed. Every table was seated, the noise was at a minimum and the ambient music playing in the background was delicate. Grandfather bit down slightly on one side of his bottom lip, fixing me with cold, piercing dark eyes. Responding to the abrupt change in his mood, I became uncomfortable and mentally prepared for whatever was about to transpire. I placed my knife and fork together on the right edge of my plate, certain that the course was my last; his anger was swift.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with you?” he stated resolutely, sounding as though he did.

  “No,” I answered.

  “You’re not handsome,” he began. I lowered my head and swallowed hard. He’d never said anything like that before. “And you are not talented! You aren’t,” he said, shrugging apathetically. “You want to be something, but you are never going to be anything like I was because you will always be a failure! And you—you are never going to be anything like me,” he scoffed.

  His brutal wrath echoed throughout the dining room, garnering attention from complete strangers who turned sharply toward us. I didn’t defend myself, because I never thought there would or could be another Omar Sharif, but in this moment, he wasn’t Omar either, and the people around us looking at him with apprehension didn’t know that. He wasn’t saying those things because he was jealous of me building a career; he was suffering from his own decline. My eyes glazed over. I remained frozen in that space, traumatized by his attack while he blasted me with a barrage of cutting insults. I didn’t think he could get any louder, but somehow he managed it with each one. Both embarrassed and saddened by his unmanageable behavior, I knew the best thing for me to do was to sit quietly and take it. Moving his hands expressively as he spoke, Grandfather knocked over a glass, spilling red wine across the crisp, white tablecloth. More people stared and whispered, but he didn’t appear to notice or care. From the corner of my eye, I saw an older gentleman with a stern look get up and head toward us. As we made eye contact, I slowly shook my head for him not to intervene. He’d only make it worse. Another middle-aged woman came from behind me, placed her hand on my shoulder and said in French, “Why do you put up with that? Why don’t you get up and walk away?” She shook her head disapprovingly at Grandfather, expecting him to be shamefaced, but he wasn’t. “Come with me,” she insisted, reaching for my hand.

  Glancing up at her, I replied in a whisper, “It’s okay. We just have to get through this.” She patted my shoulder and hesitantly walked away.

  I sat, fidgeting with the cloth napkin on my lap until Grandfather ran out of insults and anger. Although he had plenty to say, he didn’t utter a single word about me being gay or my letter published in The Advocate just six months prior.

  Eventually, Grandfather realized what he was doing, and the tide washed back out, signaling it was time to leave. I didn’t want anyone to see that his eyes welled with tears or to hear him sobbing. When we left the restaurant, he started hitting him
self in the head and pulling at his shirt over his heart, crying, “I don’t know why I do this! I don’t know why I hurt the people I love the most!”

  That evening, complete strangers watched as if I had the most abusive grandfather, but I didn’t. I was just getting to know this man.

  I handled Grandfather the best way I knew how, but it was terrible to see my father on the receiving end. There were many occasions that Grandfather did the same thing to Dad, and just as I had, he’d sit there and take it. We loved him. Regardless of how he treated us in those moments, we’d never leave him alone in that world or this one. He needed us. He was our family and we wanted to take care of him, just as he had cared for us.

  When I read what the press had written about my grandfather’s brushes with the law and his unfavorable behavior in public, it hurt. We knew he had Alzheimer’s—they didn’t. The press reported what they heard or thought they were witnessing, but it wasn’t actually what had transpired. Over the years, Alzheimer’s took nearly everything from Grandfather; however, his ability to speak Arabic, English, French, Spanish, Italian, and other languages fluently lasted to the end. I could tell when Grandfather didn’t know what people were talking about, but with his signature smile, he’d still speak whatever language was in the air.

  In Grandfather’s final year, the only thing in control was time, and it worked intimately with Alzheimer’s to remove the memories of his life. Always adorning his wrist was his favorite Cartier watch with a small white face, a gold trim, and a black leather band. Near the end, he even believed that the watch had mystical powers. He’d tap on the face and say, “This watch is magic.” Subconsciously, he was probably communicating that his time was running out.