by Ahdaf Soueif
‘When did the old one die?’ I asked.
‘About a year ago,’ he said. ‘He was a youth, almost. But he was a pious man and the veil was lifted from him. And his father was here before him. They’ve been here a long time. For a hundred years. From before the house was taken by the government and turned into a museum.’
‘So for a year now there hasn’t been a sheikh inside?’
‘It’s known, ya Sett. The thing is, a sheikh who lives here has to be — as you know — a man of God. It means he wants nothing of this world. This is the condition of the waqf. And you won’t find a man like that every day.’
As we turned to go I thought of one more question: ‘And Umm Aya, does she still live around here?’
‘I don’t know, ya Sett,’ the man said. ‘I haven’t heard of her.’
Isabel is upset. She wants to argue with the man but I pull at her arm. In the car she says ‘I do not understand this. They were there. I saw them. I talked to them.’
‘Isabel,’ I say, ‘sometimes I think of people, or places, and the image is so strong that I’m quite shocked when I realise it was only in my head.’
‘They were there,’ she says, ‘just as you and I are here.’
Tomorrow, I think, as I smooth on my night cream in the mirror, tomorrow I’ll place a call to her. And one to Omar. I haven’t got an international line. I would have been constantly tempted to call the boys.
Cairo
12 May 1901
Dear Sir Charles,
I have just received yours of the 8th, in which you write that the Duke of Cornwall has promised to intercede for Urabi Pasha with the Sultan and the Khedive. This is welcome news indeed and will go — I hope — some way to redressing the wrong done these many years ago. I believe I have mentioned that Mahmoud Sami Pasha al-Baroudi lost his eyesight in Ceylon — so little did the climate agree with him — and now employs his daughters and grandchildren to read to him, for he is engaged on a work of compiling the best of Arabic poetry in one edition, with his notes. A formidable task for a blind gentleman. The others, of course, are now all dead. So I pray that the pardon of Urabi may heal some of those wounds which are still felt here today.
Life here is much the same. There was a Grand Ball in fancy dress at Shepheard’s last week. The Moorish Hall is very grand and well suited to such occasions. Four officers who wished to attend but — arriving late in Cairo — had no costumes, availed themselves of some ladies’ gowns which are kept hung in closets in the corridors outside the rooms. They were a great success at the Ball but, by neglecting to return the dresses before they retired, caused a great deal of upset to the management next morning. The ladies were eventually pacified and peace reigned again. Such is the tenor of our amusements here.
James Barrington has confided to me that he thinks of returning to England. His mother has been recently left a widow and as an only child he is sensible of his responsibility towards her. He thinks he would not be unhappy — and could be of some use — on the staff of a London newspaper. I have promised to write and ask if you know of an opening? He is a very able young man and I believe you would find him sympathetic.
You ask when I think of returning. I have not made any plans. I do not yet find the heat too burdensome and I am making good progress with my Arabic —
Anna breaks off. She feels too false writing glibly to her beloved Sir Charles about the progress she is making with her Arabic. She sets this page aside and starts again. She must have copied out the first four paragraphs for the letter continues on a different sheet:
… and I believe you would find him sympathetic. I think he will be in England before me, so I shall enlist his services in carrying to Mr Winthrop those herbs he asked me for last autumn. If there is anything at all that I can send you from here …
And yet, the truth is that for the last two months, as her life in Cairo became more and more real to her, it has seemed to me that Sir Charles and Caroline and her home in London have receded in her mind. She worries about Sir Charles, but she knows that she is powerless to lift from him the greatest grief of his heart. Did she also fear that if she were in England she would be for ever ensnared in that grief?
17 May
Today I removed Edward’s ring from my finger and put it — together with the ring I gave him — into the felt purse Emily made for me many years ago. Perhaps it is as well that I have had this time alone to prepare for the great change which is about to overtake my life. To bid farewell to the past, in as much as that can be done, and lay it to rest.
I should have thought that I would feel some concern towards Edward at this time. But I believe that were he alive, he would be indifferent to my marrying again — perhaps even happy for me and relieved for himself. Except — except that I think he would only feel that if I were marrying someone acceptable to him. As for this marriage —
I try to imagine Edward and Sharif Basha (I still cannot use his name without the title!). I try to imagine them meeting but even in my mind I cannot get them to shake each other’s hand. Piece by piece it is coming to me: the distance I am placing between myself and those I have known and cared for all my life. I can imagine Caroline meeting Sharif Basha, and perhaps flirting with him a little. But of the men — even dear Sir Charles — lean only imagine my father. He, I think, could have been his friend. Not here in Egypt, nor yet in England, but had they met in some other country I can quite imagine them conversing with quiet amicableness — even though it would have had to be in French. As for my mother, I am sure they would have become great friends upon the instant.
I have not seen him these eleven days. Nor will I — if all goes according to plan — until the 23rd. But Layla — my dear friend and soon to be my sister — has relayed his messages and tells me with smiles how he chafes and frets at each passing day that I am not with him. ‘Dear Anna,’ she cries, ‘I am so happy! I thought it would never happen. And now you must hurry and give us a bride for Ahmad!’ Sometimes she looks at me thoughtfully, though. And once she said, ‘You know Abeih will let you go home and visit whenever you want.’
‘I am sure he will,’ I said.
‘Only —’ She looked troubled. ‘You must not expect him to go with you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I had realised that.’
‘He could wait for you in France.’
‘Layla,’ I said, ‘all is well with me. It is too soon to start worrying about my homesickness.’ And indeed, I would not wish him to come to London and be stared at — or worse. One day, perhaps. When Egypt has her independence, we can take our children and open up Horsham for the summer months and I can show him — but that is a long time away.
Layla has told me of the arrangements. The contract on one day. The ratification at the Agency on the next — for the contract being in place, Lord Cromer can do nothing to stop the marriage. And the wedding itself will take place on the third day. We have discussed the details and I have said I should like as much as possible of the events to take place as though I were an Egyptian, for I feel sure that will bring much pleasure to Zeinab Hanim, who has been waiting these many years to rejoice in her son’s marriage. I think also it will make him happy. And, for me, since it will not be the old church at Horsham, then it may as well be entirely different. So I have told Layla that I leave myself in her hands and she is to arrange all things as she would for her sister. She is well pleased and has started by ordering me an evening gown of gold lamé from a French seamstress on the rue Qasr el-Nil which I am to wear as a wedding gown. And whenever I go to the old house, I find her and Zeinab Hanim and the maids all stitching and embroidering various garments which they hold up against me and pin and adjust until I beg for mercy. It is a shame for Emily’s sake that she cannot be made a part of all this for she would well love to — except, I do not know how she will take this marriage.
18 May
Today I asked Layla to ask Sharif Basha if we could live with his mother. I have not seen his house, but I unde
rstand it is in the European style as all new houses are — and I have grown to love the old house more with every hour I have spent there.
‘Could we not live here?’ I asked. ‘If only for a while. It will be very hard for me to learn to keep house in the way he likes, and I would far rather learn from your mother than from the servants.’ I know also that Zeinab Hanim would dearly love to have her son once more under her roof, although she will not suggest it. And I should like, if one day pray God there is a child, to sit with Layla in the loggia at the edge of the courtyard, embroidering frocks, and watching our children play by the fountain, while I listen for the clatter of hooves and the bustle at the door that tell me my husband is come home.
20
And lend me leave to come unto my love.
Edmund Spenser
22 May 1901
Sheikh Muhammad Abdu shakes his head. The level brows, still black, are knitted over the lowered eyes as he reads the letter addressed to Prince Yusuf Kamal. In the large, austere room, its diwans and cushions covered in plain white fabric, its bookcases rising to the ceiling, the men sit in silence. When he has finished he hands the letter to Sheikh Muhammad Rashid Rida sitting at his side.
‘Those people —’ he says sadly. ‘We will never move forward as long as people think in this way.’
‘Those people have to be educated,’ Shukri Bey al-Asali says, ‘and Fadilatukum is in a position to educate them.’
‘A word from you would silence them,’ Sharif Basha says.
‘Let me think about this,’ Muhammad Abdu says. Sharif Basha feels for his old friend. It is his first day back from Istanbul and the stream of well-wishers and petitioners has not stopped for a moment. Muhammad Abdu looks tired.
‘Shukri Bey has been delaying in Cairo to see you,’ he says. ‘But if you are tired now we can come back another time.’
‘No, no,’ Muhammad Abdu says, ‘I am at his service.’
‘We were hoping you would stop by Jerusalem, ya Sayyid-na?’ Shukri Bey says.
‘Next time, Insha Allah. My hope is to pray one more time in the Aqsa if God permits.’
‘And how was your visit to the Sublime Porte?’
‘The same as every time.’ Muhammad Abdu’s smile is weary. ‘Plots and conspiracies. I was shadowed by the Sultan’s spies everywhere I went —’
‘He trusts nobody.’
‘He has reason,’ Sharif Basha says. ‘He knows many people want to get rid of him.’
‘Ya Sayyidna,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘I hear the Sultan has just met with Dr Herzl and David Wolffsohn. Is there anything new?’
‘I understand they made the same representations,’ Muhammad Abdu says. ‘They told him that the Zionists are loyal to the Ottoman throne. That they do not form secret societies like the Armenians or the Bulgar, nor, like them, appeal for help to foreign powers —’
‘That is a weave of lies!’ Shukri Bey rises to his feet in exasperation. ‘They refuse to take Ottoman nationality precisely so that — as foreign nationals — they may constantly appeal to the Powers. So that in any dispute with an Arab they have to be tried by their own consuls. How much did they offer him?’ Shukri Bey is abrupt in his exasperation. But Muhammad Abdu answers him mildly:
‘No specific sums were named. They merely said they know his treasury needs money and their friends control one third of the money in the world. If he gives them Palestine, lets them govern themselves there, as they do on Samos —’
‘Samos was returned to its people. Its own inhabitants were allowed to govern themselves —’
‘That was the model they used,’ Muhammad Abdu says. ‘They would in return pay a specified sum to the palace and a yearly tribute.’
‘And?’ Shukri Bey waits, his eyes narrowed, concentrated on Muhammad Abdu’s face.
‘Abd el-Hamid listened, but it came to nothing. Izzat Basha al-Abid was there and he frightened the Sultan by telling him the whole province would revolt if he sold the land out from under them.’
‘Why does he agree to meet them?’ Shukri Bey asks. ‘He turned down their offer to buy Palestine in ‘96. He knows that is still what they are after.’
Abd el-Hamid is very cunning, ya Shukri Bey. I think he is a match for Dr Herzl and more. He is being pressed to consolidate Turkey’s debts — and my belief is he agreed to a meeting with Herzl to throw off the bigger threats.’
‘Herzl is a threat,’ Shukri Bey says. ‘His Jewish Colonial Trust has just bought some prime land in Tabariyyah and the fallaheen are up in arms about it.’
‘Herzl told the Sultan that he has been in correspondence with Sheikh Yusuf al-Khalidi —’
‘He is not “in correspondence,” ‘ Shukri Bey cuts in contemptuously: ‘Al-Khalidi wrote to a friend of his in Paris, Rabbi Zadok Kahn, begging him to use his influence to deflect Zionist interest from Palestine. Kahn showed the letter to Herzl, who took it upon himself to answer.’
‘So you know all about it?’ Muhammad Abdu says.
‘Did you see the correspondence?’ Sharif Basha asks.
‘Yes. Al-Khalidi wrote an emotional letter, invoking History and God and ending: “Au nom de Dieu, laisse tranquille la Palestine.” Herzl wrote a sly one, full of financial temptation and veiled threats —’
‘The Jews have always lived in Palestine,’ Rashid Rida says, ‘but now —’
‘They lived as other people lived,’ Shukri Bey says. ‘But now they are coming in thousands. They are supported by the Colonial Trust — look.’ He takes a newspaper cutting out of his pocket, al-Ahram, 24 April. The paper quotes an item from the American Morning Post reporting that the Zionists had held a big meeting in Milwaukee and started a worldwide campaign to collect contributions from Jews in all countries to buy Palestine from the Sultan.
‘They offer a lot of money for land,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘and some landlords — the big landlords, the ones who live in the cities — they sell. And the fallah, instead of working the land and giving a share of the crop to the owner, finds himself turned into a hired labourer — or turned off the land. They wish to have nothing to do with the Arabs. Their children don’t attend our schools and they don’t allow our children into theirs. They speak their own languages, run their own affairs, hold on to their nationalities. What are they doing in the midst of us?’
In the silence that follows, Shukri Bey walks over to the window and stands there for a moment. When he returns, Sheikh Muhammad Abdu looks up from his beads.
‘I understand your concern,’ he says. ‘Personally, I think their dream is impossible. Their Zion is a heavenly place and Heaven cannot be created on earth. But I shall speak to Cattaoui Basha and see what he advises. He would not wish fresh divisions to come among us.’
‘Indeed we are divided enough already,’ Sheikh Rashid Rida says.
‘It is our destiny,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘our luck that we were born in these times.’
‘Things looked very different in the Sixties and Seventies,’ Sharif Basha says.
‘Perhaps because we were young,’ Muhammad Abdu says.
‘Perhaps it is only when you are young that you can achieve things, make great changes —’
‘We are all making changes,’ Muhammad Abdu says. ‘Not great changes — not the French Revolution — but small ones that will add up in the end. And the cost will be less.’
Sharif Basha smiles. Twenty years ago Muhammad Abdu saw nothing wrong with the French Revolution.
Shukri Bey al-Asali comes forward to take the sheikh’s hand. ‘I thank Fadilatukum and I will take my leave and impose on you no longer. But I beg you to remember, al-Khalidi and I are not the only ones who feel uneasy about what is happening in Palestine.’
Rashid Rida leaves with Shukri Bey, and Sharif Basha and Sheikh Muhammad Abdu are left alone. The sheikh sighs and draws his hands over his tired face.
‘What do you see in all this?’ he asks his friend.
‘I think it is a matter of concern. And so is the letter I gave you. A
nd the tax on spun thread that Cromer is trying to push through.’ Sharif Basha shrugs, then leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘But there is something else I want to talk to you about. A big favour I need from you.’
‘Kheir?’ Muhammad Abdu’s eyes are instantly alert. ‘Command me.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Sharif Basha says, ‘you contract me in marriage —’ and as his friend’s face lights up in joy, he adds, ‘to an English lady: Lady Anna Winterbourne.’
Muhammad Abdu studies his friend’s face and asks quietly, ‘And why tomorrow?’
Sharif Basha leans back in his chair. ‘Because if it gets known that we intend to do this, you can imagine what will happen. Because I cannot see her until she is safely my wife. Because I have been waiting for you for seventeen days already and I am growing old and have no more time to lose. Do you want more?’
Muhammad Abdu’s eyes have not left his friend’s face. And now a smile spreads over the sheikh’s face until it takes complete possession and he leans forward to embrace his friend.
‘Mabrouk ya Sharif Basha. May God complete it for you in all good.’ He holds him away, claps his shoulder and embraces him once again.
And as I put my signature to the contract Mabrouka’s joy-cry trilled out loud and true and nobody thought to stop her. Sharif Basha’s friend Sheikh Muhammad Abdu married us, and if any human has the power to bring down a blessing, then truly it is that holy man. The Contracts were in both Arabic and French —
and indeed, both are in Anna’s trunk, contracting ‘the Lady Anna Winterbourne (Christian) daughter of Sir Edmund DeVere (deceased) and Lady Aurora DeVere (deceased) and widow (of the late Captain Edward Winterbourne of the 21st Lancers in her Britannic Majesty’s army) of sound mind and of legal age, in marriage to Sharif Basha al-Baroudi (Muslim), Landowner and Notable and Member of the Consultative Legislative Council and by profession a Lawyer.’ The contract notes that Sharif Basha’s sidaq to Lady Anna is the sum of five thousand pounds Egyptian. I do some calculations and decide that this money would have bought 120 faddans of prime land. Sharif Basha pledges a further twenty thousand pounds should he divorce Lady Anna against her wishes and he moreover bestows upon her an equal authority to effect a divorce. A clause is also added stating that in the event of Sharif Basha availing himself of his legal right to take another wife, the divorce would take effect and the balance of the sidaq be payable from that moment. The contracts are witnessed by Husni Bey al-Ghamrawi and Shukri Bey al-Asali and officially registered on the same day: 23 May 1901. The day that Anna closes the secret blue book and returns once again to the big, handsome green volume.