by Maha Akhtar
“Let us take a look at the Fort, Prince.”
“We must do it tonight.”
As the sky turned a dark shade of purple, Salah and Faisal stole across the dunes toward the hill that overlooked the Turkish fort at the entrance to the Holy City. As they got to the top of the slope, they lay on their bellies, hiding as best they could behind a couple of dry desert shrubs. There were sentries watching the desert carefully, the lights from the fort brightening up a large perimeter around the building.
Carefully, Salah took out his binoculars, scanning the west side of the building.
“The fort is well built, Prince,” Salah whispered. “The walls are thick. You will need British artillery to get in.” He handed the binoculars to Faisal. “Take a look. The walls are not high. Your men are quick, but you will need every one of them to scale the walls and get to the top at the exact same time in order to storm the fort and take it. In the process, many will be killed.”
“Yes,” Faisal replied. “That is my worry.”
“The other option is to lay siege.”
Faisal shook his head. “The railway supplies them from the north end of the fort.”
“What if we attack the train when it comes in?”
“We have tried,” Faisal replied. “But they are smart. Sometimes, there is nothing in the cars. Sometimes, there is very little.”
“Prince, your tribesmen, as brave as they are, will do you no good here. You need British artillery,” Salah repeated. “That is the only way you will breach the walls of the fort.”
“Yes, that is what I have started to think also. But what if the artillery damages the Holy Mosque?”
“You will have to take that risk, Prince.”
“You don’t care about the Holy Mosque? It is where all Muslims all over the world turn when they pray.”
“I think God will understand.”
Suddenly, Salah heard the crunch of pebbles behind him.
“Well, well! Who do we have here?”
Salah jumped, turning around and sitting up.
“Hey! Big boy … put your hands where I can see them.”
Two Ottoman soldiers were pointing their rifles at Salah and Faisal.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
“Arabs,” Salah answered.
“We know that … why else would you be crawling on your bellies like desert snakes … your names?”
“Salah Masri,” Salah answered.
“And you?” the soldier asked, pointing the barrel of his rifle at Faisal.
“I am Faisal ibn Hussein.”
The Ottoman soldiers grew quiet for a moment.
“So, all I have to do is pull this trigger and there’s no more Arab Revolt … ,” one of them finally sneered.
“Don’t worry, my brothers Ali and Abdallah will continue,” Faisal said calmly.
Salah quickly surveyed the situation. Under his cloak, he could feel his Luger in the holster against his chest. He could take one of the soldiers. But the gunshot would no doubt bring out reinforcements. He had to work quickly, count on the surprise factor and get himself and Faisal over the hill.
While the two of them were focused on Faisal, Salah reached for his gun under his cloak. He pulled it out and shot. The soldier standing nearest to him crumpled to the ground. In the split second the other soldier looked at his partner go down, Faisal kicked the barrel of his rifle up in the air and fired a shot aimlessly. Salah got to his feet and with a couple of punches, knocked him out.
Meantime, the sound of the two gunshots attracted the attention of the sentries on top of the fort. Salah heard loud voices calling for help and reinforcements.
“Come, Prince, let us hurry.”
Faisal looked at the two men on the ground.
“Prince, please … ,” Salah urged. “They are coming up the hill.”
But Faisal stood, temporarily frozen.
Shots were fired and a bullet whizzed six inches from Salah’s head.
“Prince, you may want to die in the name of the revolt, but I do not!” He grabbed his arm and the two of them ran down the sandy dune to the safety of the Arab camp.
The next day, Prince Faisal asked his British advisors to join him. With Salah standing by his side, he asked for artillery to be brought to Mecca.
A few days later British-trained Egyptian troops and artillery pieces manned by Egyptian gunners arrived in Mecca. The walls of the Turkish fort were breached and the Ottomans finally capitulated after a long resistance.
Faisal and Salah rode into the fort on camels and amid the dust, debris, and sand flying everywhere, Faisal shook Salah’s hand.
Noura stood in front of the small door of Saydeh’s house on Zuqaq al-Hamra. She lifted the ornate doorknocker and rapped softly. When there was no response, she lifted it and let it strike the brass plate a little louder. She put her ear to the door, but heard nothing. She was about to walk away when the door opened.
“Noura!” Saydeh’s face lit up when she saw her. “How lovely it is to see you! Come in, Come in!”
“Tante Saydeh,” Noura said, respectfully addressing the older woman as “Aunt.” “I’m sorry I didn’t give you any advance notice.”
“Not at all, not at all, habibti. Please,” she stood aside for Noura to walk in.
Noura came in. Saydeh poked her head out and looked left and right, hurriedly closing the door and locking it.
“Is everything all right?” Noura asked.
“Oh yes!” Saydeh replied. “Everything is fine … now, what can I get you to eat and drink? And where is that beautiful little Siran?”
“She is with Amira, the lady who looks after my great aunt.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?”
“Oh, Tante Saydeh,” Noura sighed. “I needed a break.”
“Yes, I can understand. Now you just relax and tell me all about it.” Saydeh hooked her arm in Noura’s and the two of them walked up the stairs. “How long has it been since we saw you?”
“I saw you just as I arrived, so it’s been almost two months.”
“Too long,” Saydeh said. “Much too long. You will have to give me all your news.”
As soon as Noura walked through the door into the house, she let out a deep breath that she felt she’d been holding for a good long while. The house was bright and cheery. She felt immediately comfortable and at home.
“What will you have? Coffee, tea?” Saydeh asked, walking toward the kitchen “And you will eat something,” she insisted. “I will make some fresh manoushe. It won’t be as good as the one in Beirut, but I will do my best.”
“Please, Tante Saydeh,” Noura said. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”
Saydeh scoffed. “What trouble? It’s none at all.”
“Well then, at least let me help you,” Noura offered.
“Come in then … ,” Saydeh conceded.
The whitewashed kitchen was not big, nor was it small. It had a wood stove on the far side with a big bay window above it that gave out onto the courtyard below and the backs of the other houses. There was a small sink with a bucket of water under it and an all-purpose table along the side of the wall with a bench on either side. A big wooden bowl filled with fruit sat in the middle of the table and oregano, parsley, and basil plants occupied a small shelf above the sink. There was also a small glass cabinet in which Saydeh kept her plates and glasses and a wooden one for her pots and pans. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was neat and tidy.
“So, how are you liking Old Cairo?” Saydeh asked.
“Well,” Noura began, her eyebrows knitting together for a second while she thought about what to say, “it’s fine, but it’s a bit lonely. My great aunt is really very old,” she finally admitted. “I don’t think she even knows who I am.
“It’s a nice house,” she continued, “and there is Amira, a woman who is there all the time who looks after her, but … ,” she paused briefly, “it’s a little awkward.”
“And sh
e has no children, your great aunt?”
Noura shook her head.
“I haven’t seen my great aunt since my grandmother died. And now, all of a sudden here I am.”
Saydeh nodded.
“All I do all day is sit in my room and look after Siran. I am bored. I have no one to talk to. I feel so useless. And I think about Khaled all the time and I feel so angry.
“What is to become of us, Tante? Who is to take care of us?”
“Why you will, habibti, of course.”
“But how?” Noura moaned.
“Why do you need someone else to do it? You have two hands and two feet,” Saydeh assured her, “and you have a brain. You will find something. Noura, habibti, the worst thing you can do is feel sorry for yourself,” Saydeh said gently.
Noura felt a little piqued.
“Can you blame me?”
“You are a mother now, Noura. You have a job to do.”
Noura snorted in frustration.
“But that is all I do, Tante. There has to be more to life.”
There was an awkward silence as Saydeh rolled out the dough.
Noura was upset. She’d expected Saydeh to be a little more understanding and compassionate. What am I to do? Dear God! Give me something … a purpose. Saydeh was right, she was a mother and, yes, Siran needed her. But Siran was an infant, not yet six months old. And what Noura had not admitted to Saydeh was that every time she looked at Siran, she was reminded of Khaled and the perfect life she’d planned.
“Please don’t make too much,” Noura said watching Saydeh put several pieces of manoushe in the oven.
“Don’t worry,” Saydeh smiled. “It will get eaten as soon as Salah comes downstairs.”
Noura’s heart skipped a beat. “Is he home?”
“Oh yes … he’s locked up in his office. He’s been doing some work on the Hejaz Railway. His bosses sent him back there recently. He only just came back a few days ago.”
“Oh really?” Noura said. “His bosses from Izmir?”
“I assume so,” Saydeh said. “Yes, they do rely on him … even though he took a leave of absence, they still ask him to go to the Hejaz.”
“Does he go often?” Noura asked.
“Oh yes … he’s been twice, or is it three times?” Saydeh said. “Help yourself to some fruit, dear.”
Noura absently looked at the bowl of plums, green figs, and peaches. What is Salah up to?
“In fact, I’m a bit worried … the other day … ,” Saydeh began, telling Noura about the man in the vegetable market. “And the man was definitely Turkish. Why did he lie to me? And if he was involved in the Hejaz Railway, he would know where Salah was …”
“Did you ask Salah?”
“Yes, and he told me not to worry,” Saydeh replied. “He said that it was probably nothing.”
“What do you think?”
“Noura!” Salah said, appearing suddenly in the doorway.
“Hello, Salah.” Noura smiled.
“What a lovely surprise! We didn’t know you were coming.” He came and took both her hands in his and squeezed them.
Noura blushed.
“How have you been?”
“Settling in.”
“Come, let’s sit in the living room.” Saydeh picked up a tray and bustled through. “Now make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back,” she added.
There was silence for a few moments after Saydeh left the room.
“How is Siran?” Salah asked.
“She’s fine,” Noura said. She was short and curt.
“Maybe you can bring her next time.”
“Yes, yes, yes …” Noura got up from the sofa and walked to the window. “It’s all Siran this and Siran that.”
“Noura?” Salah started, hesitantly.
Noura turned on him, her eyes flashing. “It’s all about Siran and her damned well-being. Well what about Noura? What about me? Nobody cares about what is happening to me, do they? All they can focus on is the child! And all everyone tells me to do is focus on her. Well, I am tired of focusing on her. I have done nothing but that since she was born. I want to focus on me. And I want people to focus on me and help me. Do you understand?”
Noura folded her arms across her chest to try and stop it from heaving. She stared out the window, trying to focus on the street below.
“I hate this life!” she paced up and down. “I hate not having my own home. I hate that Khaled is not with me. Why can’t I turn back the clock and go back to Izmir? Why can’t I have my husband back? Why can’t I have my life back?”
Salah stayed silent.
“Obviously it was a bad idea to come here!” Noura said. “Please thank your mother for the coffee.”
“Noura, I wish you would stay,” Salah said. “Don’t go like this.”
“And you! What do you think you’re doing, going back to the Hejaz?”
Salah looked surprised.
“Did you think I didn’t know? Well I do! Your mother told me! What are you trying to do, Salah? Get yourself killed? Be a hero?”
Salah got up and went to Noura. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her toward him.
“No!” she said, tensing at his touch. “Leave me alone!”
But Salah took her in his arms. As soon as he did, Noura began to cry. “Why Salah? Why?”
Salah let her cry. He wiped her tears with his handkerchief and held it to her nose. “Blow,” he said.
Noura shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Blow.”
Noura did.
“Feel better?”
She nodded. Salah had always made her feel better. Even in Izmir when she and Khaled had a fight, Salah had always made her laugh.
“What did you say to Noura?” Saydeh walked in, going immediately to Noura and cradling her head on her chest.
“Nothing!” Salah said.
“He didn’t do anything, Tante,” Noura said, her voice gruff with tears. “It’s my fault.”
“But what prompted this?”
“Nothing, Tante … You were right. I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“It’s all right to feel sorry for oneself, habibti, so long as you put yourself to good use once you’ve stopped crying.”
“I will, Tante. I promise.”
“Good.” Saydeh smiled and kissed Noura’s forehead. Cocooned in his mother’s embrace, Noura looked at Salah. He smiled and winked at her, his eyes glittering mischievously. Noura looked down. He wasn’t angry at her as she thought he may have been after her outburst. She smiled back. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
“Well, for now, how about coming with me to Rania’s?” Saydeh suggested. “Perhaps the ladies there have some idea of what you can do?”
Chapter Five
Rania Assaf was behind the bar cleaning glasses, humming a tune. Where is everyone? she thought. She looked up at the huge clock on the wall. It was only ten o’clock in the morning. No wonder. She forgot that she had gotten up early today. Her eyes had shot open at six, and while she could normally force herself back to sleep, today she had gotten out of bed.
She came out from behind the bar and looked around, her hands on her hips as she took stock of the space. It was a decent size, with room enough for the old mahogany bar, behind which was a large mirror and glass shelves for glasses and cups. The plates and cutlery were kept under the bar. Her pride and joy, though, was the big, copper Belle Époque coffee machine. Both beautiful and functional, it ground coffee beans, made espresso, and heated and steamed milk. Along the bar were a few bar stools and the room was dotted with several small, round wooden tables with chairs. In the middle was a long farmhouse table with a bench on one side and chairs on the other. Directly over the table hung an antique wrought iron chandelier that she hardly ever used because the café closed at 6:30 p.m. But it was beautiful. She had placed another mirror directly across from the one behind the bar to make the room look bigger than it was. A painting of a vase of flowers and
another of a bowl of fruit hung on the walls. Two large windows on either side of the front door flooded the café with bright sunlight. Off to the side of the bar, a small hallway led to the kitchen in the back.
The kitchen was just as bright. There, too, was a long narrow table in the middle of the room, over which Rania hung her pots, pans, and frying pans from a rack. In one corner was a round, dome-shaped wood-burning oven that Rania used for baking bread. Along the walls were shelves of all shapes and sizes where she kept bottles of spices and baskets of dried legumes and dried fruit. In a small cupboard in another corner she kept sacks of flour.
Both the café and kitchen were shabby and tired, the plaster and whitewash cracked and peeling. It was the same as when her husband, Adel, had inherited the small building where it was located, from his uncle. It was Adel’s idea to turn the ground floor, which had been a general store run by his uncle, into a little café. Rania had been delighted. It was a new adventure setting up and running the café. She and Adel had been able to move out of his parents’ home into a new apartment above the café, which, although small, was theirs, and she wouldn’t have her nosy mother-in-law looking over her shoulder at all times of day and night. But then Adel had been called back into active duty and killed in the Suez Canal when Ahmed Jemmal Pasha attacked the British there just over a year before. So here she was, close to thirty and a widow. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of her dead husband. Not now, she thought, swallowing her sadness and quickly regaining her composure.
It could use some freshening up and some new clients would be nice too. But right now, money was tight. Maybe next year … she walked back to the kitchen to fire up the oven.
Rania was a beautiful woman, considered by many to be the most beautiful Christian woman in all of El-Khalili. She was tall, with thick black hair that waved and bounced with her every move. Most often, though, she kept it tied back in a ponytail or a messy chignon. Her huge dark eyes, accented by perfectly shaped, arched thick black eyebrows, were always heavily lined with black kohl, and she had a straight, long nose and full, sensual rosy lips. Her light olive complexion was smooth and unblemished. This morning she was wearing a long-sleeved, turquoise silk dress with large black and white polka dots covered by a big white cotton apron to prevent it getting stained. She wore stockings and sensible flat black shoes. The turquoise color suited her well and she looked particularly fetching.