Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “So why haven’t they found you?” she asked.

  “Once you see where my mother and I live, you will know why they have not been able to find me.”

  “Noura,” Musa jumped in. “We don’t want to take any chances. Egypt is filled with Turkish secret police. It is better for you not to be seen with Salah … for now.”

  “But what would they want with me? They already executed my husband!” Noura said hotly. “What do they think? That I am somehow involved?”

  Neither Salah nor Musa said a word.

  “Well, I don’t care! Let them come after me! Let them try! The bastards,” she cried.

  “Noura, the Arab Revolt has begun. It began over a month ago on June 10 … they are fighting now to take Mecca,” Salah tried to explain.

  “The revolt be damned!” Noura cried. “It’s what got my husband killed. I hope it fails! Let them all go to hell!”

  Salah took a deep breath.

  “Noura, this is all for your safety … and mine,” Salah said. “I haven’t left Cairo in weeks. I only came here today for you.”

  “Oh! This is just too much. I never thought we would have to go through such a charade. I hate this!” She exploded. “Why is this happening?”

  “I know, Noura … I’m sorry,” Salah said.

  Siran began to whimper at the sound of her mother’s angry voice.

  “Oh Siran …” Noura walked around, rocking Siran gently. She took several breaths to control herself.

  “Very well,” she finally said in a calmer voice.

  “Let’s go then.” Salah took her arm.

  “I need a moment with the captain,” Noura said, handing Siran to Salah.

  “Captain … ,” Noura started.

  “Are you all right?” Musa asked.

  “Yes … I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  Musa shrugged. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I know the man Salah has chosen to accompany you. You will be well taken care of, I assure you.”

  “I know, Captain. I know Salah will never let any harm come to us. But I don’t need anyone to come with me. I’ll be fine. I think I can take a train on my own.”

  “I’m sure you can. But Salah organized all of this. Don’t blame him. He’s only looking out for you.”

  Noura bit her lip, nodding. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. We understand.”

  “Oh! Before I forget, here are your papers. You and Siran are legal in Egypt.”

  Noura took Musa’s hands in hers and looked up at him, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “for everything you have done … for Khaled, Siran, and me.”

  “Noura … ,” Musa interrupted.

  She shook her head and put her finger to her lips, indicating he remain silent.

  “I don’t know how or if I will ever be able to repay you.”

  “You don’t have to,” Musa replied kindly.

  Noura nodded, her chin was trembling. She looked down at her hands trying to control her emotions, but when she looked up at the captain, she couldn’t hold back the tears. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him, crying softly into his neck.

  “Thank you,” she said again, once she’d regained control of herself. “I will never forget you.”

  And with that, Noura turned and walked to where Salah was standing with her daughter. She took Siran in her arms and turned to look back at the captain and blew him a kiss.

  Later that afternoon, Colonel Erdogan was in his office in the outwardly unremarkable, but inwardly elegant house he’d rented for his sojourn in Cairo. He had arrived in Egypt nearly three months before, in early May. There was a knock on the door.

  “Telegram, Sir.”

  Erdogan opened it.

  Noura Shadid is headed to Cairo. Await instructions.

  Interesting. Erdogan stroked his beard pensively. This could work out well. She may well lead us to Masri.

  Salah’s mother, Saydeh, lived on Zuqaq al-Hamra, a tiny cobblestone alleyway near the Al-Hussein Mosque in the Khan el-Khalili bazaar in Cairo’s Islamic district. The El-Khalili bazaar was founded back in the fourteenth century, beginning as a stop on a caravan route that went through the city. As it grew, it became a tangle of lanes and tiny alleyways, a complicated and confusing labyrinth. It was the perfect place for Salah to disappear.

  Saydeh’s apartment stretched across the first and second floors of a four-story building that belonged to her and her late husband, Salah’s father, and was close to one of the original gates of the bazaar. The ground floor was rented out to an antiques dealer who sold chandeliers and antique Berber jewelry. There was a smaller third floor that was filled with wooden boxes and old furniture covered with sheets, and an attic above filled with more boxes and old trunks that led onto the roof.

  As promised, Salah stood behind his mother, smiling when Noura arrived.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan!” Saydeh said, her arms extended toward Noura. “Welcome, habibti, welcome!”

  Saydeh Masri was not, at first glance, a beautiful woman. She was about five feet three inches and rather plump, with a particularly large behind that shifted from side to side suggestively when she walked. Her round face looked even rounder by the way she wrapped the hijab around her head, covering her hair completely, emphasizing the jowls around her chin. Her dark brown eyebrows were thick and nicely shaped, shading her big eyes, which were light brown with amber highlights depending on the way the sun hit them. She had put a little kohl in them, but otherwise wore no makeup. Her olive skin was relatively smooth, except for the crow’s feet around her eyes and the laugh lines around her mouth. She was wearing a long black abaya, but her hijab was a dusky pink that suited her complexion. Her beauty came from within … her laughter, her warmth, and her generosity overshadowed what she lacked in physical attributes.

  “Come! Let us go upstairs,” she said, leading the way. “You must be tired after your journey. I have some fresh, cold rosewater …” She chattered away as she climbed the stairs, holding onto the balustrade with one hand and her abaya with the other. “Please come in.” She threw open the wooden double doors; a dark hallway led into a bright living room that was furnished with a divan, low stools, and large bright silk cushions. Sunlight poured in from the windows that gave onto the tiny street below.

  “Hmmm!” Noura took a deep breath. “Something smells delicious.”

  “Would you like to wash before we sit down?” she offered. “My bedroom is through there.” She pointed to another door along the hallway. “And next door is the bathroom. There is fresh water in the bucket.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Noura replied. “I would like that.”

  “Off you go then … give me this sweet baby.” Saydeh held out her arms. “What is her name?”

  “Siran,” Noura replied, handing the infant over.

  “Siran.” Saydeh fussed over the bundle in her arms.

  She is so kind, Noura thought as she went into the bathroom. Upon entering there was a small sink and a table upon which was a wooden bucket filled with water. There was a mug and a small dish with a bar of green soap. Fresh linen towels hung on a rack next to the sink. The table with the bucket was placed against a small, waist-high wall behind which was a tiled area for bathing. A separate larger bucket sat neatly off to the side along with a small wooden stool.

  On a shelf above the sink was an antique walnut shaving mirror and dresser that had undoubtedly belonged to Saydeh’s husband. Noura tilted the mirror, changing the angle to get a better look at herself. Suddenly, tears filled her eyes and without warning began to spill down her cheeks. She tried desperately to hold them back but it was too late. She held onto the sink with both hands trying to stop the sobs, but one managed to escape. Quickly she grabbed a towel and buried her face in it. She didn’t want Saydeh or Salah to hear her.

  Why? She asked herself, looking at the torment reflected in the mirror. W
hy? Why does it have to be so? Why do I have to be alone? She railed against the image of herself, turning around, pacing up and down the bathroom, anger rising, her breathing labored, her face still covered with the linen cloth. She sat down on the stool in the corner and let herself cry, her shoulders heaving with the burden of her emotions. Slowly, the tide of sadness and anger that had risen without warning retreated and Noura began to relax, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

  She heard Saydeh’s voice outside the door, “Everything all right, Noura?”

  “Yes,” she managed to reply in what she hoped sounded like a normal voice.

  “Tayeb … take your time,” Saydeh said. “Come little one … ,” she added and began to sing an old song to Siran as she shuffled away.

  For some reason, the song brought a fresh round of tears to Noura’s eyes. But this time, she managed to hold them back. She quickly washed her face with cold water, dabbing her eyes, hoping the redness and puffiness wouldn’t show. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, and with one last look in the mirror went back to the living room.

  “There you are.” Saydeh looked up. A look of tacit understanding and compassion passed between them. Noura knew that the older woman knew she’d been crying.

  “Where is Salah?” Noura asked.

  “Someone was at the door. He’ll be right back.”

  “Imme!” Salah’s voice boomed from downstairs. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The door slammed.

  “My boy … always busy. He can never sit still,” Saydeh said. “Come, sit down and have something cold to drink.” She indicated the cushion next to her on the low sofa.

  Next to Saydeh, there was a tray with a large glass jug filled with pink rosewater, fresh rose petals, and lots of ice. Three glasses were placed around it. On the coffee table in the middle of the room was a very large, round tray filled with mezze, little appetizers of all kinds … hummus, a chick pea dip, babaghanoush, a roasted eggplant dip decorated with pomegranate seeds, a tabbouleh salad with parsley, small triangular spinach pies, round cheese pies, and small falafel, little balls of chick peas, spices, and parsley.

  “This looks delicious,” Noura exclaimed.

  “I will go and get the bread,” Saydeh said. “It is keeping warm in the kitchen.”

  “Let me go,” Noura offered, feeling bad as the older woman fretted around her.

  “Not at all,” she ordered. “Sit down.”

  Noura smiled and looked in on Siran, who was fast asleep in a makeshift cot.

  “So, Noura, where does your aunt live?” Saydeh bustled in.

  “She lives in Old Cairo near the Church of Saint Sergius.”

  “That is quite far from here.” Saydeh sat down. “And she is your mother’s sister?”

  “Actually, my grandmother’s sister,” Noura said.

  “Ah, your great aunt. She must be quite elderly.”

  “She is,” Noura replied, taking a sip of her drink. It was delicious … cold and sweet, just how she liked it.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “It has been some time,” Noura replied, “at least ten years, if not more.”

  Saydeh refilled Noura’s glass and her own. She kept the conversation personable and light and Noura was grateful she didn’t bring up what had happened in Beirut.

  “I haven’t been to Old Cairo in ages,” she told Noura. “I rarely get out of El-Khalili. My life revolves around this souk. There is a fruit and vegetable market, everything I need I can find in one of these lanes downstairs … and all my friends live near here in the bazaar, so I have no need to leave. We get together every morning at Rania’s Café after we finish the morning chores …”

  “Do you know your way around the bazaar?” Noura asked. “It looks very complicated.”

  “Heavens, no! I only know my little places. Even those who spend a lifetime here don’t know it well. There are very few people who do.

  “Anyway, maybe you can come with me to Rania’s Café one day?” Saydeh offered.

  “Of course, I would love to,” Noura replied. “As soon as I get settled.”

  “Good!” Saydeh bobbed her head from side to side, smiling broadly and rubbing her hands together.

  Downstairs the door slammed. “Salah is home! You keep him company while I put the finishing touches on lunch.”

  “Let me at least help you clear the mezze dishes,” Noura suggested.

  “I absolutely refuse,” Saydeh said, waddling off with the large tray in her hands. “You have just come from a long journey … make yourself comfortable.”

  “Marhaba!” Salah came in. “Sorry about disappearing like that.” He untied his turban.

  “Noura,” Salah dropped his voice, “was the journey all right?”

  Noura nodded.

  “Noura, please don’t tell my mother that you traveled by yourself.”

  “She doesn’t know … anything?”

  Salah shook his head.

  “I understand. She’s a lovely woman. She’s been so hospitable.”

  “My mother is the queen of hospitality.” Salah smiled.

  “Salah … I’m sorry about my outburst in Alexandria this morning …” Noura began, playing nervously with the cuff of her sleeve.

  When Salah didn’t answer, she looked up. He was staring at her, a funny look on his face. Suddenly self-conscious, she turned and looked out the window, glancing at her reflection in the windowpane. The afternoon light brightened her face, her eyes and hair looked lighter and her skin luminous.

  Noura looked back at Salah. She could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. She couldn’t understand why the look on his face had flustered her.

  “Noura … ,” Salah began a little hesitantly.

  She looked up at him, tilting her head.

  “Lunch is ready!” Saydeh came bustling in before Salah had time to say anything. “Yallah! Before it gets cold,” she added, urging them both to get up and herding them into the dining room on the other side of the hallway.

  After lunch, they all sat enjoying a lazy afternoon in the living room with a relaxing cup of café blanc. Salah sat quietly and Saydeh sat with Siran in her lap. Noura stirred the orange-blossom flavored hot water in her cup. What was she going to do? How was she going to support them? Khaled, why did you leave us like this? Tell me what to do. Help me! Noura sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to leave. She felt safe and cocooned here with Salah and Saydeh, who was so warm and generous. But she had to go. These people were not her family. She couldn’t expect them to support her. As scared as she was about what lay ahead, she had to face it.

  From beneath her eyelashes, she glanced at Salah’s profile. Just then he turned to look at her. Embarrassed that he may have caught her staring at him, she quickly stood to take her leave.

  “Now, habibti,” Saydeh said, tearfully hugging Noura goodbye, “you keep in touch and if there is anything you need, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Shukran,” Noura hugged her back. “And thank you for lunch. It really was wonderful.”

  “And Noura, I have not said anything about what has happened, because I wanted you to enjoy this afternoon and not have to think about the tragedy, but I want you to know how very sorry I am, habibti,” Saydeh said.

  Noura nodded her thanks.

  “So if you want to talk, or you need a shoulder … ,” Saydeh continued.

  “Imme!” Salah jumped seeing how the expression on Noura’s face had changed. “We have to go if Noura wants to be at her great aunt’s by six.”

  “I hope you’re going with her and not sending her in the carriage by herself.” Saydeh folded her arms angrily in front of her.

  “Of course I am, imme,” Salah picked up the suitcase.

  “You have a home here,” Saydeh cried out after Noura. Noura turned and waved.

  “Are you really coming with me?” Noura asked after Saydeh closed the door.

  “No,” Salah said. “You know I can’t.”

>   Noura felt deflated.

  “But Nassim here will go with you.” A young eighteen-year-old boy stepped up. Salah introduced them. “Nassim knows this souk like the back of his hand,” he told Noura. “Every back alley, lane, every tunnel …”

  “Thank you, Salah,” Noura said.

  “Come back whenever you want to.” Salah held his hands out to her.

  From beneath her eyelashes Noura could feel him staring at her. Shyly she put her hand in his.

  “You will always have a home in the El-Khalili bazaar.”

  Suddenly, she felt terribly alone and tears pricked the back of her eyes. She didn’t want to leave but she knew she had to go. Quickly, she withdrew her hand and without looking at Salah, she turned to follow Nassim toward the main square.

  Chapter Four

  A month later, on the last Friday of August, Salah was at his desk in his makeshift office in his mother’s apartment. The desk and surrounding area were strewn with papers and maps. He had spent the morning reading reports of what was going on in the Hejaz.

  The Arab Revolt had begun almost three months before at the beginning of June.

  At Faisal’s request, Salah had gone down to the Hejaz a month after he arrived in Cairo. Faisal asked Salah to run interference between the Arabs and the group of British and French officers who had arrived to assist with the revolt.

  At the initial meeting, the English insisted that the Arab forces attack Medina as their first show of force. But Salah had argued against Medina based on the information he had taken from Von Sanders’ office in Izmir … there were too many Ottoman troops and Fakhri Pasha, the Ottoman commander, was an aggressive man. “I would go to Mecca first, Prince,” Salah urged. “Not only can we take the city, but it will help the sharif in terms of propaganda. It is, after all, Islam’s holiest city.” But Faisal went with the British opinion and Salah’s advice was overlooked.

  Nonetheless, Salah rode out with Faisal and his brother Ali at the head of the Arab troops to Medina, but as he had predicted, the Arabs were pushed back by an aggressive Turkish defense. Dismayed and embarrassed by their first setback, Faisal turned to Salah. Once again, Salah told him that the Arabs should begin with Mecca.