Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “Yes … he was with me when it happened,” Charles said. “A freak sandstorm. He was very young, no more than eighteen.”

  Michel nodded. “So you know his father, Magdi?”

  “I do … I had an assignment in the souk some time back, so I got to know it quite well.”

  “It is a confusing place.”

  Charles agreed. “Where is your father’s shop?” he asked.

  “He’s got several,” Michel said, “but the main one is an antique chandelier shop on Zuqaq al-Hamra … next to a café that was run by one of my father’s best friends, but he passed away and I think he left the café to his nephew and his wife.”

  “So you know Rania’s Café?” Charles laughed.

  “Not very well, but I’ve passed by very often … she’s quite a beauty, Rania.”

  “She is,” Charles agreed.

  “But … ,” Michel sighed, “all the beautiful ones are always married.”

  They stopped at a crossroad and waited for the traffic policeman to give them the go-ahead.

  “I believe Rania is a widow.” Charles turned to Michel and cocked an eyebrow meaningfully.

  Charles’ heart started beating stronger as soon as he saw the Midan Al-Hussein.

  This is where he’d been waiting for her. He remembered how she had run across the square, her hair flying around her, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “Anytime, Major.” Michel Khoury saluted.

  “I’ll see you around the barracks.”

  “Or perhaps right here in the El-Khalili.” Michel smiled.

  “Yes, indeed!”

  “Ma’asalame.” Michel waved casually. “Allah ma’ak.”

  After the motorbike drove away, Charles stood for a moment and took a deep breath, looking around. There were times when he’d thought he would never see it again. He never quite knew where he’d gotten the resolve to stay alive, especially the nights when they had thrown him brutally back into his cell after beating and torturing him for information about the movements of the Arab Army and Lawrence. Was it the memory of her face? He wondered now as he walked toward the entrance to the souk. Did she still look like that? Or was it simply a picture he had kept in his mind and the reality would no longer match. Suddenly, he stopped. Had she even waited for him? What if she’d gone back to her husband? No, he said to himself. She’d given him her word. She wouldn’t have gone back on it. Charles took a step and stopped again. But on the other hand, he really couldn’t blame her if she’d changed her mind. After all, they didn’t know each other at all well. They’d really only spent that one evening together. Filled with uncertainty, Charles made his way across the square. He saw a man pushing a wheelchair with a woman in it out onto the square and another woman walking next to him.

  The woman took over the wheelchair and carried on toward the souk, leaving the man behind. There was something familiar about him, but Charles couldn’t see that far. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Suddenly, the man saw him, stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at him, but the sun was in Charles’ eyes and he put his hand up to shield them. Slowly the man started walking toward him. And then suddenly he came into focus. Charles stopped and smiled, his eyes moist when he saw a slightly bigger Salah come running over, his tunic clinging to his stomach, his waistcoat flapping in the wind.

  Salah was openly crying when he reached him, throwing his arms around him.

  “I thought I’d lost you too, Charlie.” He choked up, hugging his friend as hard as he could.

  “Well,” Salah sniffed, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, suddenly embarrassed about his emotional outburst in the middle of the Midan Al-Hussein, “shall we go have a coffee or something stronger? I know Rania has some whiskey behind the bar.”

  “How is she, Salah … Fatmeh?” Charles asked.

  “You will see for yourself soon enough.” Salah smiled. “Come!” he said in his big booming voice.

  “So how the hell are you?” Charles slapped him on the back.

  “Me? Oh well I’m very well! Noura has agreed to marry me.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Very funny! But I must say you look very well … ,” Salah said as they walked away. “No hair though.”

  “Yes, well, it’ll grow back.”

  “You’ll come to the wedding, of course …”

  “When is it?”

  “Sometime soon … honestly I can’t remember the date.” Salah laughed. “My mother and Noura … I’m leaving myself in their hands.”

  “I would, old friend …”

  And the two men walked along the old, narrow cobblestone lanes and alleys, enjoying each other’s company, talking as though no time had gone by and nothing had happened.

  “So how do you feel being a divorced woman?” Noura asked Fatmeh as they sat together in the salon.

  “I feel so much lighter.”

  “I can imagine,” Noura said. “Now, after we finish our tea, do you want to help me continue with the uniforms or shall we start my wedding dress?” Noura’s eyes shone mischievously.

  “Oh let’s start the dress!” Fatmeh agreed with equal enthusiasm. “I’m so excited for you, Noura.” Fatmeh spontaneously hugged her. “And I’m so happy for you. You couldn’t have found a better man than Salah.”

  “I know.” Noura nodded. “I am very lucky. And what is important is that Siran will not grow up fatherless.”

  “But … in addition to having a father for Siran,” Fatmeh started tentatively, “you are … in love with him? Aren’t you?”

  Noura looked up at her. “Completely and with all my heart.”

  “Noura!” they heard Salah’s voice call out from downstairs.

  Noura and Fatmeh looked at each other and grinned at the coincidence.

  “Yes!” Noura shouted back. “We really need those new telephones in this house so we’re not yelling from floor to floor.” She turned to Fatmeh.

  “Noura, is Fatmeh with you?” Salah boomed.

  “Yes!”

  “I’m coming upstairs to get you.”

  “What’s all this about?”

  Fatmeh shrugged.

  “Noura, I have to show you something outside,” Salah said when he came upstairs and swooped her up in his arms.

  “What?” Noura looked at him, puzzled. “What about Fatmeh?”

  “Oh!” Salah said quickly. “She can wait for us … !”

  “Noura, I’ll go and continue the ironing,” Fatmeh said as Salah took Noura away.

  “No! No!” Salah said, a hand firmly on Fatmeh’s arm. “Just wait right there, Fatmeh! Don’t move! We’ll be right back. Really. Please! Just wait!”

  Shaking her head, wondering what was going on, Fatmeh went back into the salon. She walked to the window and looked outside. Salah and Noura were just below the window. Salah was saying something and Noura’s hand flew over her mouth. Fatmeh tried to strain her ears to hear what they were saying but there was too much street noise.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise behind her. She froze. Chills ran down her spine. A figure appeared in her line of vision. She didn’t dare turn. She quickly closed her eyes to stop the tears that had formed, and put her arms around herself protectively.

  Slowly she turned and opened her eyes. The minute she saw his shiny, polished shoes, the tears started to fall. She looked up at him, her chin trembling, unable to speak.

  Charles also had tears in his eyes.

  And then suddenly she was in his arms, crying into his neck. “Charlie … ,” she sobbed. “I knew you weren’t dead. I just knew you were alive …”

  Charles couldn’t speak. Finally, he lifted his head to look at her, caressing her face, pushing her hair back. He smiled. She was just as beautiful, if not more so. He ran his thumb over her lips and she kissed it. He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and searched her face. She placed her hands around the back of his head and brought it forward. Sh
e closed her eyes as he bent his lips to place them over hers, gently, growing in passion until she opened her mouth and their tongues met, feeling, exploring, and probing, hesitantly at first and with more confidence as their kiss deepened.

  Charles pulled back and looked at her. Fatmeh opened her eyes, her lips still parted. He still held her face cupped in his hands.

  “It is only the image of you that kept me alive, Fatmeh,” he said simply. “It was the thought of you waiting for me that kept me going.”

  Fresh tears appeared in Fatmeh’s eyes.

  “You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he told her. “I don’t think I can let you go.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  “But what about your husband?”

  “It’s over,” Fatmeh smiled. “The imam divorced us … today, as it turns out.”

  “Then,” he said as he very slowly went down on one knee, “will you have a wounded soldier as your new husband?”

  Fatmeh sank to the floor on her knees and put her arms around him. This is what love feels like, she told herself. This is what she had only dreamed of up until now. What she felt right now in this moment … the warmth in her heart … was the feeling she wanted to capture and keep with her forever. And she knew she would always have it, as long as Charles was by her side.

  As promised, Musa Nusair married Salah and Noura, although not on the Tree of Life. The wedding ceremony was held in February of 1919 in the Jardin des Plantes in Zemalek, where Salah had first kissed Noura and told her he loved her. The only people there were the immediate family and friends … Saydeh, Yvonne, Takla, Charles, and Lawrence. Fatmeh and Rania had stayed behind at the café to organize the reception.

  Noura wore a dress she’d made of white netting lined with satin silk that shimmered when she moved. It was a simple, v-neck empire-silhouette design with short puffed sleeves. The fitted bodice ended just below the bust, making her look longer and taller. The gathered skirt was long and loose and flowed around her.

  And just as he had promised, Salah carried her down the aisle.

  Afterwards, everyone went back to the Khan el-Khalili. Rania’s Café was packed.

  The café erupted with loud ululations and cheers as people clapped and shouted their congratulations when Salah brought Noura in, placed her gently at the long farmhouse table, and sat down next to her.

  Noura glowed on Salah’s arm, shielding herself from the showers of rose petals and grains of rice that came down over their heads.

  The party was in full swing when Fatmeh noticed a new face.

  “Who is that?” she nudged Rania.

  “Who?” Rania looked around, her dark hair swinging around her.

  “Over there.” Fatmeh tried to discreetly indicate with a tilt of her head.

  Rania looked over and across the room, her eyes met the smiling eyes of Lieutenant Michel Khoury. He inclined his head, acknowledging her. Embarrassed, she smiled tightly and looked back at Fatmeh.

  “So? Who is he? And why is he looking at like you like that?”

  “Like what?” Rania blushed.

  “Like … you know!” Fatmeh winked. “He clearly thinks you’re beautiful.”

  “Ya, Fatmeh! Bas!” Rania scoffed. But secretly she smiled to herself. She looked up again, searching for him over the heads of the crowd that had gathered around the bride and groom. She saw him sitting with Charles and Lawrence. He was talking to them and suddenly they all laughed and he turned and caught her looking at him. Rania blushed and quickly tried to pretend to be serving drinks. But whenever she could, she stole a glance at him.

  Fatmeh noticed but didn’t say anything. So much has happened at this café, she thought. So many stories have begun and ended here. It feels like One Thousand and One Nights.

  “What are you smiling about?” Charles asked, coming up behind her.

  “Well, I just think that everything is going to work out.”

  “Really,” he turned her around to face him.

  “Yes,” she said confidently. “I do.”

  At the old farmhouse table, Salah took a hold of Noura’s hand. She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

  “Noura, I will never let anyone destroy this,” he said, gesturing to the two of them. “It hurt me immeasurably to destroy the railway that I had built, but us … if anything or anyone threatens us, they will have to kill me first.”

  Saydeh came over and put a huge wedding cake in the middle of the table and began lighting the candles.

  “Salah,” Noura whispered into his ear. “I want to stand and cut the cake with you.”

  “I’ll hold you up.”

  “No.”

  “All right, you two,” Musa Nusair said before Salah had time to react. “Time to cut the cake.”

  Noura put her right hand on Salah’s shoulder. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes focused on her. Noura put her left hand on the table and slowly lifted herself up. The crowd murmured their surprise. Once she was standing, she took her left hand and placed it over her right on Salah’s shoulder.

  The crowd began to clap and cheer. Salah had tears in his eyes. Gently, he took Noura’s hand in his and stood, cautiously. She stumbled, but he was right there and quickly put his arm around her waist to balance her. He looked into her eyes. She, too, had tears in her eyes. Noura reached for the knife and Salah put his hand over hers.

  Carefully, they cut the cake. The crowd cheered again.

  Salah turned Noura toward him.

  “A kiss! A kiss!” the crowd demanded.

  “I am the happiest man in the world, Noura,” Salah whispered to her.

  “Please don’t let me go, Salah.”

  “I never will.” Salah slowly and gently kissed her.

  Cheers went up as everyone congratulated the happy couple again. Salah sat down with Noura at his side. He saw Michel making his way over to Rania. He saw Lawrence and Musa Nusair laughing. And he saw Saydeh, Yvonne, and Takla moving through the crowd, making sure everyone was eating and drinking to their heart’s content. And here he was, still alive and holding the woman he loved in his arms.

  Epilogue

  The Sinai and Palestine Campaign of the Middle Eastern theater of war came to an end when Damascus fell to the British and Arab troops on October 1, 1918. Faisal ibn Hussein and the Arab troops rode victorious into the city and the Arab flag flew proudly over the governor’s mansion.

  The British and their allies had won. The Ottoman Empire had been defeated. The Arabs would now have their independence. Or at least, that is what they expected. After all, it was what the British had promised them in return for their revolt against the Turks.

  But it didn’t quite work out that way.

  On October 3, Faisal was told by Edmund Allenby that things had changed … that Syria was to be under French protection, guidance, and financial backing and that a French liaison officer would assist him every step of the way. The Arab naturally objected. Allenby was forced to pull rank, saying that he was commander in chief and Faisal would have to accept the situation, at least temporarily, until matters were settled at the peace conference in Paris.

  Lawrence, horrified, returned to England the following day to begin lobbying the British government to honor its original promise to the Arabs. He even went so far as to gain an audience with King George V, in front of whom he caused a scandal, refusing the medals the king wanted to award him because he was so outraged over Britain’s betrayal of the Arab cause.

  At the peace conference in Paris that began in January 1919, the most important and pressing piece of business on the table was how to punish Germany. It was really only after the Treaty of Versailles was signed in June 1919 that the Allied Powers turned their attention to the Ottoman Empire and the Arab demands.

  Lawrence convinced Faisal to come first to Britain, where he managed to drum up a modicum of support before going to Paris. He prepared a speech for Faisal, presenting the Arab point of view to the delegates and di
plomats, which Faisal delivered in Arabic. Lawrence then delivered the speech in English and French. Lawrence hoped fervently that perhaps the Americans would understand and back the Arabs, especially since the American President, Woodrow Wilson, was an advocate of self-determination, urging that all nationalities within the former Ottoman Empire be assured “an absolutely unmolested opportunity of autonomous development.”

  But the Europeans had other ideas. Britain and France were adamant about maintaining their colonial empires and expanding them, especially with the discovery of large quantities of oil in the Arabian desert.

  The British and French also wanted to loosen Islam’s hold on the region by promoting a secular government. But, as the historian David Fromkin wrote, “these foreign powers trying to impose their own order would not be welcomed in places whose inhabitants for more than a thousand years have avowed faith in a holy law that governs all life, including government and politics.”

  To further complicate matters, in addition to the Sykes-Picot agreement with France in 1916 (according to which Britain would get Mesopotamia and Palestine, France would get Syria and Lebanon, and the Arabs absolutely nothing), the British also announced its support for a “national home for the Jewish people in Palestine” in 1917 in a letter known as the Balfour Declaration, written by the British foreign secretary, Arthur Balfour, to Baron Rothschild, a leader of the Jewish community in Britain.

  So in the end, despite Lawrence’s efforts, the Arab point of view was completely ignored and the British and French promises made by Henry McMahon to Sharif Hussein of Mecca in 1915 disappeared like footprints in the desert sand.

  By the time the Treaty of Sevres, the peace treaty between the Allies and the Ottoman Empire, was signed in August 1920, a year and a half after the peace conference began, the Sykes-Picot agreement came into effect. Britain and France received “mandates” from the newly formed League of Nations to oversee much of the former Ottoman Empire, where they created several new states and installed figurehead rulers.

  Even at the time, the Americans believed that the lines being drawn in the sand by the British and French, lines that did not take into account race, religion, and tribal loyalties, were creating “a breeding place for future war.”