by Maha Akhtar
A few inches away, a small rusted iron ring stuck out from the ceiling. He reached over and pulled on it and felt something give. He pulled a little harder and the ceiling felt like it was going to give way. Finally, with one big tug, a trap door came down and Salah was staring into the chandelier shop. Luckily it was lunchtime and the shop was empty or he would have had a lot of explaining to do. He heaved himself into the shop and walked toward the back where he knew a staircase led up to his mother’s apartment. But he also knew it was locked. There was a big iron lock on the inside that his mother had put on ever since she had rented the ground floor to the chandelier merchant. He had no other choice but to knock and have his mother open up.
Crouching, he waited until he heard someone walk by and gently knocked. The footsteps stopped and came back and stopped in front of the door. Salah knocked again.
“Meen?” It was Noura’s voice.
Salah heaved a sigh of relief.
“Noura … it’s me, Salah.”
“Salah? Where are you?”
“Behind the door.”
“What are you doing behind the door?” she asked.
“I can explain, but can you open it?”
“There’s a huge lock on it,” she told him.
“I know,” Salah nodded. “My mother has the key, although I don’t know where she keeps it.”
“Your mother took Tante Takla home,” Noura told him. “She’s not even here.”
“Noura, can you look in the kitchen? Or in her bedroom?”
“Wait! There’s a key hanging here on the wall. Maybe this is it?”
Salah heard the lock click open a few minutes later and Noura opened the door to let him in.
“What on earth is going on, Salah?” Noura said. “You told your mother you were going to buy fruit!”
“Well, I did go to the fruitseller …”
“But that was at least an hour ago.”
“I know,” Salah said.
There was silence between them.
“Ya Allah! Salah!” Noura said softly. “You’re still involved aren’t you?”
Salah was silent.
“How could you, Salah?” Noura cried angrily, the color rising in her face. “After what happened to Khaled and Wissam and Rafic … you’re still helping those goddamn foreigners.”
“Noura, please try and understand … ,” Salah began.
“You bastard!” Noura shouted. “They’re the ones who murdered your friends … they betrayed them all … they hung because of that betrayal.”
“I know, Noura.”
“Tell me why the French ambassador would leave town and leave behind only the correspondence between him and Rafic? Why?” Noura cried. “He took everything else, destroyed everything else, yet left those letters …”
Salah was silent.
“And still you go on?”
“They would have wanted me to,” Salah said. “They would want me to continue the struggle.”
“What you want, Salah, what you all wanted is nothing but a dream,” Noura said vehemently. “Do you really think the Arabs will be allowed to govern themselves? Not a chance … these Westerners lie to get us to help them, and in the end, they will help only themselves because they are arrogant enough to think they are better than us and that we are ignorant natives who know nothing. They will never understand this part of the world. It is too complex.”
“I can’t get out now, Noura,” Salah said.
“You are just as much of a traitor as the French!” Noura stepped back from Salah, her eyes blazing. “You do not mourn your friends … you never have. You continue to plot with their murderers.”
“Noura, they died for a cause they believed in,” Salah tried to explain. “They are martyrs …”
“Oh spare me your pathetic explanations!” she sneered. “I don’t want martyrs! I just want my husband back.”
Salah didn’t know what to say to calm her.
“We had plans, Salah,” she continued, her slender hands balled into fists at her side. “Plans for a life, a home, another child, maybe two. We had plans to grow old together … and now what? Now what do I have? I’m a widow, a single mother stuck with an infant, living on my great aunt’s charity! I have absolutely no one to turn to, no one to ask for help …”
“You have me, Noura,” Salah said gently. “And you have my mother … we will help you. You should consider this your home and come here …”
“Oh stop it!” Noura said. “Don’t patronize me!”
“Noura,” Salah began softly.
“I’m angry, Salah. I don’t want this life.”
“But Noura, you have Siran,” Salah said. “You have to think about her.”
“Think about Siran! Why does everyone always say that? Are you all parrots repeating the same thing? Of course I think about her, Salah! Do you really think I’m that selfish? But I also need a life. I can’t live for a daughter who will one day go away and have her own life.”
She paused briefly.
“I have to go,” she said. “If I’m going to live on someone’s charity, it might as well be my own family’s.”
Salah tried to take one of her hands in his. But this time, Noura held them rigidly by her side.
“Endings are inevitable, Noura,” Salah began hesitantly. “An ending can be the end of a year, the end of a summer, the end of a war, or the death of someone we loved. Whatever they are, endings always make us feel sad. But we move on. And the people we have lost along the way are the small clear voices in our heads that will be with us always.
“I am here for you, Noura,” he said before he walked through the door.
Chapter Seven
“Meet at mosque … urgent” was the message Salah encrypted into a newspaper article.
He handed it to Hisham. “Get this to Major Thomas Lawrence at the British Army barracks. Wait for an answer.”
“Tomorrow. Evening prayers,” came the response.
Salah zigzagged his way through the bazaar. He was even more careful than usual. Close to the mosque, he noticed a couple of men in red tarbushes a few feet behind him. He quickly ducked into a spice shop, watching, waiting. But the two tarbushes walked casually by. Salah came out of the shop and looked left and right. All the way to the mosque he kept looking over his shoulder. Near the mosque, he saw a couple of men leaning casually against a lamppost, smoking. Salah quickly turned on his heel and took another street to the mosque. As he got closer, he saw a man reading a newspaper. As Salah walked by, the man lowered the newspaper and made eye contact with him. Salah nodded a greeting and kept going. His heart started beating faster. He wondered if he’d made a mistake acknowledging the man. He looked behind him, but the man was still in the same place reading his paper. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Finally, he arrived at the Midan Al-Hussein just as the adhan sounded from the minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. He quickly crossed the square to the mosque and went in, removing his sandals at the entrance and placing them in a small cubicle and performing his ablutions at the fountain with everyone else before going inside to pray. He stopped quickly at the shrine of Hussein, a huge engraved silver casket that sat on a slab of pure white marble, and said a quick prayer for his friends who, in his eyes, like Hussein, were martyrs.
In the enormous prayer hall, Salah looked around surreptitiously. He was looking for the Turks and the Englishman. But no one stood out. Everyone looked the same in their long white tunics, prayer caps, and long white scarves. Slowly they all shuffled into place and the imam came and took his place. “Allah u Akbar!” he began the evening prayer.
“I have heard the gardens in the back courtyard of the mosque are pleasantly cool this time of year,” a voice whispered next to him.
“I believe they are.”
“Perhaps you would join me in an exploratory stroll?”
Salah arrived first and sat down on a marble bench under the cool archway that bordered the rose beds in the middle. He b
reathed in the scent of the flowers. It was so beautiful and peaceful, with nothing but the sound of a few bees and the gentle trickle of water flowing from the fountain into the small streams that fed the roses.
“Good evening, Salah!”
“Lawrence!” Salah acknowledged the Englishman who emerged from behind one of the pink Egyptian marble pillars.
The Englishman was not a tall man; in fact, he was rather short. At five feet and five inches, he came up to Salah’s chest. He was handsome, with piercing blue eyes, fair skin tanned from hours in the sun, bushy eyebrows, a long, plump nose, and thin lips. Despite his adherence to all things Arabic, he was clean-shaven. His thin, wiry frame was also quite a contrast to Salah. He was wearing a white Arab cloak over his military uniform and a white scarf covered his head, hiding his short, light brown hair.
“Salah … haven’t seen you in ages. I’m very sorry about your friends.”
“Thank you. But right now, I need a favor,” Salah said.
“Of course.”
“A young boy, Nassim Alamuddin, has disappeared,” Salah said. “He’s eighteen years old and he has been my ears and eyes in the bazaar, keeping me informed about strangers … watching my back.”
Lawrence nodded.
“I know the Turks have him,” Salah said. “I need to find him before they kill him. They’re after me, Lawrence, and this boy’s gotten caught in the crossfire. I have to help him, even if I have to turn myself in.”
“You’ll hang if they find you.”
“I know, but I couldn’t live with myself if they kill Nassim.”
“If he’s in Cairo, we’ll find him.”
Back at the café, Rania led Fatmeh upstairs to tend to Rabih’s wounds.
“Come!” Rania said. “He’s in here.”
Rania gently pushed the door open.
Rabih was lying on his back on a small single bed. His arms lay at his sides. His head was turned to one side, exposing the wound on his head. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. His torn shirt was open, revealing the shredded and soiled vest he wore underneath. His chest was gleaming with blood and sweat. Rania wasn’t sure if he was asleep or just resting. She turned to Fatmeh.
“Bring me hot water, boiling water,” Fatmeh said calmly. “And as many towels as you can. And rubbing alcohol.”
Rania nodded as Fatmeh picked up a small wooden stool and set it down next to Rabih. She touched his forehead. He didn’t move. She pursed her lips. His skin was burning.
Rania came back in with a small pile of towels and a bottle. “The water is boiling. How is he?”
“He has a very high fever … What is his name?” Fatmeh asked.
“Rabih,” Rania answered quickly.
“And he’s a friend of Salah’s?”
Rania nodded.
“How did this happen to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need some kind of antiseptic.” Fatmeh looked back at Rabih, peering at his wounds.
“Is alcohol not enough?”
Fatmeh shook her head. “What he needs is carbolic acid or hydrogen peroxide, but we can only get that in a hospital or in a doctor’s office.”
Rabih turned his head slightly and groaned. Fatmeh and Rania looked at him.
“Lemons,” Fatmeh said suddenly, her face lighting up. “Lemons and honey. That, with the alcohol, will do. Where’s the alcohol?”
“Here.”
“Is this all you have?” Fatmeh asked, looking at the green bottle that was barely half full.
Rania nodded.
“He’s going to need a lot more than this.”
“I don’t have any more.”
“Bring me one of those bottles you keep behind the bar,” Fatmeh said calmly, “the clear liquid.”
“You mean gin? But that is for drinking.”
“It has alcohol in it.” Fatmeh turned to Rabih who was starting to get agitated. “Go! Quickly!” she ordered.
Fatmeh put her hand again on Rabih’s forehead.
“Rania,” he moaned, turning his head.
“Please don’t move,” Fatmeh said softly, reassuring him with the touch of her hand. “You’ve lost quite a lot of blood. I’m going to try and stop that.”
Rabih groaned, turning his head back to the other side. Hurry, Rania, Fatmeh thought, wishing she had access to the bottles in her father’s dispensary. She took what little alcohol there was left in the bottle and soaked one of the small towels. She needed hot water, but this was going to have to do until Rania returned. She looked at the bloodied man in front of her. He had all kinds of knife wounds, not to mention a bullet in his leg that was going to have to be surgically removed.
“This is going to sting,” she warned Rabih before she began, softly and deftly cleaning the congealed gash on the side of his head.
Rabih gave a sharp cry of pain. “I know,” Fatmeh said soothingly. “Stay strong … please.”
Rania came back a few minutes later, clutching a heavy bucket of boiling water with both hands. Breathlessly, she put it down next to Fatmeh, spilling a few drops on the stone floor. “I’ll go get the gin and the lemons. I couldn’t carry everything.”
“I’m going to need more hot water too.”
“I’ll put some more on to boil,” Rania said, walking out the door.
“Rania … we’re going to need some kind of linen or cotton to bind these wounds,” Fatmeh said.
“I don’t have anything … a few pieces of linen, maybe.”
Fatmeh continued to clean Rabih’s wound as Rania looked on.
“I know.” Fatmeh put down the alcohol-soaked cloth for a moment. She got up and started to unbutton her abaya.
“Fatmeh!” Rania said, shocked. “What are you doing?”
“We will use this for his wounds,” Fatmeh declared. “Bring scissors too.”
“Fatmeh, please, you will get into such trouble,” Rania pleaded.
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said. “Now go, get the scissors. I need you here as my assistant.”
Rania turned to go back downstairs.
“He was asking for you,” Fatmeh said behind her as she continued to work on Rabih’s head.
Rania stopped, her hair swinging behind her as she did.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised in a tone of voice that Fatmeh knew was meant for Rabih, not for her.
It was early evening when Salah and Lawrence left the mosque. The sun was slowly dipping into the horizon in front of them. Lawrence stood in the alleyway behind the mosque and looked left and right. Quickly and carefully, they made their way across the square into the bazaar. Back on familiar ground, Salah heaved a sigh of relief.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Lawrence said suddenly.
“Oh no!” Salah said, immediately understanding. “Turks?”
Lawrence nodded.
“Did they have to come after us today?” Salah groaned.
“Yes.” Lawrence sighed, putting his hand on the gun he was carrying around his waist. “Unfortunate, really.”
“Damnation, Salah!” Lawrence glanced behind him. “You’re really done for if they recognize me … I mean, not that you’ve got it any easier now … but if they recognize me, Ahmed Jemmal will happily shoot you himself.”
Salah hurried down the alleyway. “What if we split up?”
“There’s two of them,” Lawrence said. “And they’re closing in.
“Any ideas, Salah?” Lawrence said after a few moments. “This is much more your turf than mine. I have no idea where we’re going.”
“Turn right!” Salah said suddenly, swerving into a barely visible narrow alley. He began to run. “Follow me!”
“Do you know where you’re going?” Lawrence hissed behind him.
“Don’t worry! We’ll manage!” Salah said over his shoulder.
“That’s what a camel driver once told me!”
Both men ran down the alleyway, turning left at the next la
ne.
“Are they still on our tail?” Salah asked.
“Yes!”
Salah ducked into another tiny alley, crossing another lane, and going down the next one. At the end of it, he stopped.
Lawrence looked around them quickly. He went to the corner and peeked out. The next lane looked clear. “We have to keep moving.”
“Come on!” Salah dragged Lawrence by the sleeve of his thawb. Crisscrossing a couple of lanes and a few more alleys, they emerged across from Rania’s Café. The “Closed” sign was still on the door. Rania had not opened after lunch.
“It’s closed, Salah.”
“No! I know she’s in there.”
“But how do we get in?”
“This way!” Salah said, moving quickly. They walked behind the building. Navigating another smaller maze of alleyways, some of which Salah had to squeeze himself through, they finally came to a door. Salah knocked.
Rania’s face peeked through the curtain that covered the back door of the café. She looked at Salah and shook her head in indignation.
“Now what?” she said, opening the door.
Salah strode in. “Thank you!”
“Again?” Rania stood with her hands on her hips. “Can’t you use the front door like normal people?”
“Rania, this is my English friend, Lawrence … Thomas Edward Lawrence.” Salah ignored her, making introductions instead.
“Lawrence,” Salah pushed the short Englishman in front of him. “Say hello to Rania.”
“Good evening,” Lawrence said politely.
Rania nodded, still indignantly staring at Salah.
“Say something nice again.” Salah poked Lawrence.
“I’m very pleased to meet you.” Lawrence bowed.
“Salah!” Rania punched him gently. “What in God’s name is going on?”
“Rania!” Fatmeh’s voice sounded at the top of the staircase. “Please! I need your help.”
“Don’t think you’ve gotten away with this,” Rania said, shaking her finger at Salah. “I’ll be back.” She ran up the stairs.