Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  The Hashemite tribesmen attacked the Ottoman garrison in Mecca on June 10 and in an effort to wipe away the disaster of Medina, the sharif of Mecca proclaimed the Arab Revolt had officially begun. Mecca was taken by the Arabs at the beginning of July but had fallen back into Ottoman hands.

  According to the report Salah was now reading, while the fresh battalion of Ottoman troops was outnumbered by the Arab tribesmen, the Ottomans were better armed and better trained and were defending the city well.

  “Salah!” he heard Saydeh’s shrill voice call out. “Salah … I’m going over to Rania’s to meet the girls.”

  Salah looked up and rolled his eyes. “All right, imme.”

  “I’ll be back in time for lunch.”

  “All right.” Salah sighed.

  “Are you going for Friday prayers?”

  “Yes, imme, I always do.”

  “Such a good boy,” he heard Saydeh mutter before the door closed.

  Salah groaned inwardly. He, like his father, was anything but religious. In his new world, though, the house of God served a purpose: it was the perfect hub for espionage operations.

  Salah looked at his pocket watch. Damn! He had to hurry if he was going to make midday prayers. Even though it was only a quarter past eleven and the Al-Hussein mosque was ten minutes away, Salah took a longer, different route every time he went. Magdi, the fruitseller, was one of the handful of people who lived and worked in the El-Khalili who knew all the alleyways, hidden lanes, and underground tunnels that crisscrossed the bazaar, and devised new routes for Salah to take to the mosque every Friday.

  And it was Magdi who, along with his son, Hisham, had created a network of informants around the souk to warn Salah every time the Turks were in the bazaar. There had been a couple of difficult moments, but so far, Salah had managed to slip through their net.

  Salah abandoned the report and finished writing something on a piece of paper, folded it, and put it in the pocket of a fresh tunic he was going to wear. He checked the gun in his shoulder holster before slipping into it. He put on the tunic that was cut to hide the holster, quickly tied his turban, and headed downstairs. Pulling the end of his turban across his face, he opened the door and looked around carefully, checking the rooftops, before stepping out into the narrow lane. Keeping to the corners and trying to blend in, Salah finally got to the Midan Al-Hussein, the large open square in front of the Mosque. This was the trickiest part.

  Salah scanned the square. He looked at his watch. He still had a few minutes. He wanted to wait just in case any of Erdogan’s boys showed up. As soon as the call to prayer sounded from the minaret, a group of men left a coffee house and came up the lane toward the mosque. Salah attached himself to the end, walking toward the mosque with them. Once inside the courtyard, Salah followed them, did his ablutions alongside them and went into the main mosque. He milled around for a few minutes, fingering his prayer beads, and when the imam called for everyone to take their places, Salah stood at the end of the first row and bowed his head. The young man next to him was another one of Magdi’s sons. Salah took the note he had written earlier out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. In return, he received an envelope that he slipped into his tunic.

  The prayers ended and in the general commotion that usually ensued at the end of Friday prayers, Salah slipped into a hallway that led to the back of the mosque and through a door that led to a street that looked more like a rabbit’s warren. From here, there was a way home that took him across the rooftops of the bazaar’s shops.

  Back in his office at home, he pulled out the note that had been handed to him.

  Urgent. Come to Mecca.

  It was just past one o’clock in the afternoon. If he hurried, he could get the late afternoon train to the Gulf of Suez. Salah packed his small satchel and left a note for Saydeh saying that there was another problem with the railway in the Hejaz, similar to the one he’d had to deal with a few weeks before, and he had received orders from his bosses to go and take a look. Sort of the truth.

  Outside, he made his way to the fruitsellers’ lane near one of the old gates of the souk.

  He slipped into a stall from the back entrance and sat on a small stool behind the seller, shielded by a screen made of reeds.

  “Marhaba, brother,” Salah said softly.

  “Good afternoon, Salah,” Magdi replied without turning around.

  “Magdi … I have to get to Mecca. I’m taking the train to Suez. Can you arrange for transport to Jeddah?”

  “I will send word to Nusair to meet you at Suez. A boat will be the quickest way there.”

  “That is what I was hoping. Where is Nusair?”

  “He is not far. He’s near Eilat. Hisham will send word to him now,” Magdi replied.

  “Thank you, Magdi.”

  Magdi nodded. “The Red Sea is safe. The British have cleared away all the Ottoman gunboats.”

  “One good thing they’ve done,” Salah said.

  “What is happening in Mecca?” Magdi asked. “How did the city fall back to the Ottomans?”

  “I don’t know, Magdi.”

  “Salah … ,” Magdi said in a low whisper. “Word on the street is that the British are going back on their word.”

  “I have heard the same,” Salah replied.

  “Why promise us what they are not going to deliver?”

  “I don’t know that either. But trust me, Magdi, I will find out,” Salah swore. “Because whoever is behind this, also betrayed my friends. If it turns out to be the English, they will pay for it.”

  “You can count on my help.”

  Salah took a deep breath. “Thank you, Magdi. I will send word from there.”

  “Very well. Ma’asalame.”

  Lost Masri at Cairo train station.

  Omer Erdogan slammed the telegram down on his desk.

  “Why, in the name of God is it so hard to keep an eye on that giant?” Erdogan shouted at the team of agents standing in front of him. “How is it that you people keep losing him? Do you at least have an idea as to where he was going?”

  “North? South? East? West?” Erdogan asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  It was midmorning. Noura was in her bedroom in her great aunt’s house. She was exhausted. Siran had kept her up most of the night, having finally gone to sleep on Noura’s shoulder only a few minutes before. Noura carefully set her down in her cot and sat next to her in a comfortable armchair, gently rocking her and humming softly.

  As she did this, she looked around. It was a comfortable, large, bright and airy room with high ceilings and tall French windows at one end that looked out onto the small garden in the back. The windows were covered with creamy white cotton curtains. There was a big white wooden double bed made up with crisp white linens. At the bottom of the bed lay a red and white paisley-patterned cotton quilt. Next to it was the chair she sat in and Siran’s cot. Near the window were a small sofa and coffee table and a small writing desk with a wooden chair that faced the windows. The walls were whitewashed and clean. There were no paintings, but there was a ceramic blue hand of Fatima that hung on the wall next to the window.

  Noura got up and went to open the windows for some fresh air. She leaned on the small wrought iron railing in front of the window for a moment and took a deep breath.

  Even though she’d only been in Cairo for a month, Noura felt as though it had been years. Time crawled. She had nothing to do, no one to talk to. Her great aunt, Hanan, suffered from dementia and sat in her room or the salon staring out into nothingness. The only other person in the house was Amira, Hanan’s personal maid and longtime housekeeper.

  There was a gentle knock on the door. Noura turned and ran to answer, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Siran. It was Amira with a tray of coffee and cookies.

  Amira was a large, buxom woman who came across as Amazonian and intimidating when in truth, she was gentle and kind. She was in her fifties, although she looked ten years younger. She had a perfectly round
face, with beautiful, smooth, dark olive skin, and dark brown eyes that smiled sadly beneath bushy eyebrows. Her high cheekbones, thick, sensual lips, and short, squat nose made her look more African than Egyptian. She had a mass of sandy-gold, tightly curled long hair that she always kept in a tidy ponytail.

  “The cookies just came out of the oven. You didn’t eat much breakfast this morning, so I thought you would like some.”

  “Thank you, Amira,” Noura said gratefully. “Siran kept me up all night. She’s only just gone to sleep.”

  “Yes, I know … poor little thing. It was probably the heat.”

  “Did you hear her all the way at the other end of the house?” Noura asked, horrified.

  Amira nodded.

  “Oh my gosh! I hope she didn’t disturb Aunt Hanan,” Noura said, wringing her hands.

  “Don’t worry. Madame takes a sleeping pill before bed. She would not have heard the child.”

  Noura’s shoulders sagged. As so often happened these days, tears appeared in her eyes. She willed them back, balling her hands into little fists at her sides.

  Amira put the tray down on the coffee table.

  “Would you like me to pour the coffee, Madame Noura?”

  Noura shook her head.

  “Madame Noura … ,” Amira ventured timidly. “Is everything all right?”

  Noura shook her head again, her gaze firmly on the floor as she fought back tears.

  Without a word, Amira took Noura in her arms.

  Noura began to shake. She buried her head in Amira’s shoulder, sobbing silently so as to not wake Siran.

  “I’m sorry, Amira,” Noura finally said, wiping her tears with her handkerchief.

  “No need for apologies,” Amira said softly. “Come sit down, Madame. Have a glass of water.”

  Noura drank deeply. “Thank you, Amira.”

  Amira smiled.

  “I’m so confused,” Noura began, reaching for some more water. “I cannot come to grips with what happened. I don’t understand why Khaled never shared anything with me. Why he did what he did? And why did he take us back to Beirut in the first place? It wasn’t my idea to go to Beirut … it was his.”

  Amira took Noura’s hand in hers. “I don’t have answers to your questions, Madame.”

  “Oh Amira, sometimes I feel so terribly sad and alone and sometimes I just feel so angry … at Khaled for putting me in this situation and at the people who executed him who also put me here.

  “What do I do, Amira? I have to do something. I have to make myself useful. I have to take my mind off of what has happened. I’m going mad just sitting around all day.”

  “What did you do in Izmir?”

  “I had a husband to look after, I had a house to keep, I had friends, I had a life to plan … and now I have nothing. No husband, no home, no friends, nothing.”

  “You have your daughter, Madame, and she needs you.”

  “I know that,” Noura looked over at Siran, “but I also need a life … I want my old life back,” she lamented.

  The two women sat silently.

  “What is to become of Siran and me? Who will look after us?”

  “Have faith, Madame Noura. God will help you. Now, have your coffee before it gets cold.”

  Noura smiled sadly. God … she was running very low on faith these days. She helped herself to the thick coffee and stirred it.

  She wondered if Saydeh was at Rania’s Café. She could see her sitting at a table enjoying a cup of coffee, laughing and talking about everything and nothing. Strangely, even though she didn’t know Saydeh well, she missed her.

  Noura sighed. And what would Salah be doing? Where would he be? She thought of Salah taking her hand in his, looking at her and smiling. She could see his eyes twinkling mischievously. She remembered all those times in Izmir when he would stop by on his way home. They would have tea and cake and he would make her laugh until her sides ached.

  Suddenly, Noura realized what she was doing. Stop it! Why am I thinking of him? What is wrong with me? Salah was Khaled’s friend, the best man at their wedding. Noura slammed her cup of coffee down on the saucer.

  Siran whimpered. Repentant, Noura ran to the cot and took Siran in her arms, rocking her gently back to sleep.

  It was Thursday and, for Saydeh, market day. On her way to the vegetable market, she wondered what she was going to make. Salah was away until God knows when … she could possibly host a lunch or a dinner … but it wasn’t really opportune in the midst of the Arab Revolt, although you would never know it living in El-Khalili. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky, birds chirped here and there, and the morning sounds of the market mingled with the voices of vendors and made Saydeh feel safe and cocooned from the big bad world at war beyond

  Standing at Amin’s vegetable stand, Saydeh perused the mounds of eggplants, carrots, artichokes, and tomatoes.

  “Saba al-khair, Madame Saydeh,” Amin said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, Amin,” Saydeh replied.

  “Can I help you pick something out this morning?”

  “No, thank you. You are a rascal and you always give me the riper vegetables.”

  “Aw, Madame Saydeh.” Amin held up his hands in protest. “I give you the best.”

  “I will pick myself.”

  Saydeh was deep in concentration, feeling the firm skins of the deep purple eggplants, rolling the tomatoes in her palms, turning the artichokes over to look for any spots.

  “I need two pounds of eggplants, please,” Saydeh heard someone say. “And two pounds of tomatoes, please.”

  Temporarily distracted, Saydeh looked up to see a man dressed in a dark suit standing next to her.

  “These are beautiful vegetables,” the man remarked.

  He sounded Turkish. Saydeh’s ears pricked up.

  “Yes … all from Egypt,” Amin said proudly. “How do you prepare eggplant?” he asked as he weighed the vegetables.

  “I’m not sure,” the man replied. “I am not a cook.”

  “Well, if I were you,” Amin started, “I would …”

  Saydeh rolled her eyes as Amin started to give the man a recipe.

  “And finally, I would add onion …”

  “What?” Saydeh interrupted. “Have you gone mad, Amin? That is the most ridiculous recipe for eggplant I have ever heard. Now, Sir.” She turned to the man in the suit. “Do not listen to him. The recipe he gave you is terrible.”

  “Madame,” the man tipped his tarbush hat to her, “I would be honored if you gave me your recipe.”

  Saydeh explained quickly.

  “Thank you, Madame!” the man said. “We are simple Syrians from the countryside. We do not have the culinary skill you do.”

  Saydeh’s brow knitted together. Syrian? He’s lying. Why would a Syrian peasant look as smart as this fellow? Besides, all Syrians are great cooks.

  “What are you doing in Cairo?”

  “We are here on some business.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, we are involved in the Hejaz Railway.”

  “Very interesting. What is a Syrian from the countryside doing working for the Hejaz Railway?”

  “Many of us were recruited to work for the railway. In fact, I am looking for someone who also works on the railway … you might know him … Salah Masri?”

  “Ohhh …” Amin opened his mouth, but quickly shut it when he saw Saydeh glare at him.

  Saydeh turned toward the man. “Masri? No …” She pretended to think. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “We need him to come with us to the Hejaz.”

  “Masri … No … doesn’t ring a bell. Well now, I must be going.”

  Saydeh turned around and headed toward Zuqaq al-Hamra. Her heart was beating fast. Why did he want to know where Salah was? And if he worked on the railway, wouldn’t he know Salah was already in the Hejaz? So why did he lie? Something very fishy is going on. Is Salah up to something? She looked over her shoulder. The man was paying Amin
for the vegetables. Pulling her abaya close around her, Saydeh quickly disappeared into one of the labyrinthine lanes that led away from the vegetable sellers’ square.

  The port in Jeddah was chaos. British warships and seaplanes were crammed into every available dock space. Arab troops swarmed the quays, elated by having taken the Ottoman garrison a month before, at the end of July.

  “There’s the ship that won Jeddah for the Arabs,” Musa Nusair pointed out as they anchored a couple of hundred yards at sea, waiting for one of the ships to pull out.

  “It’s a seaplane carrier,” Salah said.

  “Yes … the British pilots bombed the hell out of the garrison.”

  Salah leaned on the railing. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. How did I get myself involved in this? I should be in Cairo with Noura. “Nusair, I must get to Mecca.”

  “Let me see if one of my men can row you in, or I can lend you one of dinghies,” Musa said. “Can you row?”

  “I’ll have to learn …” Salah smiled and climbed down into the little boat.

  Salah rode by camel to Mecca and arrived at Faisal’s camp just outside the holy city as the sun was setting. He saw Faisal’s big white tent from a distance, glowing golden in the waning sun. The desert was beautiful at sunset. The dunes were all shades of chocolate and caramel and the sand looked like gold dust.

  As soon as he arrived, he went to see the Hashemite prince.

  “Salah!” Faisal’s face brightened when he saw him.

  “I came as quickly as I could. What is going on?”

  “I don’t understand, Salah,” Faisal admitted. “There were only a hundred of them compared to five thousand of ours. The Holy City should have been ours after we captured the Ottoman government office. But the Turks refused to surrender. They are in the Turkish fort. Some of the tribesmen have gotten into the fort and there has been some street fighting, but we have not been able to overwhelm them.”

  “Prince, I am not a soldier. I do not know anything about military strategy. What are your military advisors telling you?”

  “The British tell me this is a foolish strategy and I should go to Medina. But I did that before and it was a fiasco.”