‘So what was the weather like in London when you left?’
‘Wet and cold, as usual. But you get used to it. There aren’t many days in the year you’d get a chance to wear a dress like the one you have on.’ He glanced at her bare shoulders, lightly tinged with pink from the sun.
Gigi blushed, she wasn’t sure why. She tried to think of something to say but every topic seemed fraught with implications of one sort or another. She was a little resentful that Yussef seemed to be making no effort, while she felt it was incumbent upon her, as hostess, to keep up the conversation. For his part, he seemed perfectly at ease answering questions but devoid of curiosity himself. She wondered if it simply meant that he had already made up his mind. But based on what? Her looks and her pedigree? She was disappointed rather than flattered. But she tried to put herself in his shoes: it must be awkward to be the suitor, waiting to be accepted or rejected; perhaps that explained why he didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard.
‘Did you find it hard to learn to drive on the wrong side of the road in England?’ she hazarded.
‘A little at first. Not that I drive much there, I don’t have a car. But one time, I borrowed a friend’s car and found myself going the wrong way down a one-way street.’
Gigi’s attention was distracted. Tamer had acquitted himself of the first half of the mango easily enough, scooping out the flesh with his spoon, but when he came to the half with the pit he abandoned all decorum and simply sucked on the pit like a dog worrying a bone, juice coating the incipient down on his upper lip and dribbling down his chin. He picked at a mango fibre stuck between his teeth.
When they left the dining room Gigi pointed Yussef to the washroom and, as soon as his back was turned, lobbed a small, hard mango at Tamer’s ribs. He gave an exaggerated yelp.
‘Now, now, children,’ Madame Hélène remonstrated automatically, ‘jeux de mains, jeux de vilains.’
Gigi flushed, mortified. But Yussef only looked amused. At least that was one point in his favor, she thought; Tamer’s antics didn’t seem to disconcert him.
‘Well?’ Mama asked impatiently on the phone late that afternoon, after Yussef had left. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Oh, nothing special. We went for a walk on the beach. You know, he was wearing espadrilles all the time.’
‘Espadrilles?’ Mama sounded puzzled. ‘Darling, have you made up your mind yet?’
‘Not yet, Mama. But I will by the time I come home tomorrow, I promise.’
Gigi decided to take Domino for a walk on the beach; he had been cooped up a good part of the day to keep him out of Yussef’s way. She changed out of her dress and put on a pair of comfortable Bermudas.
The sun was setting and the beach was deserted. In the distance she saw a windsurfer skimming the water, headed for shore. A lonely swimmer bobbed in the foreground.
Gigi turned and headed away from the chalets, splashing calf-deep in the surf, looking away from the blood-orange horizon periodically to check the sand under her feet for the dread jellyfish. She knew she had been gone long enough for Madame Hélène to fret, but she was reluctant to head back.
Mama would expect an answer about the marriage proposal when she arrived in Cairo. Gigi tried to concentrate. She realized it was the first time she had had to make a real decision in her life, and it would be the most important decision she would ever make. It frightened her to feel as detached from the outcome as if it concerned someone else.
The idea of marriage seemed unreal, somehow. Whether she said yes or no, Yussef would go back to England and life would go on as usual for her. Even if she said yes, she would have a year to change her mind.
Years later, many years later, Tamer was to ask her: ‘Why did you marry Yussef? I always wondered about that.’ It would be years later, on a balcony overlooking the Nile, overlooking a by-pass bridge like a gigantic Ferris wheel spanning the city; a bridge that would not be built for another decade, and would be named after a war that was yet to take place: the Sixth of October Bridge. Years later Tamer would ask her that question, long after they had both crossed over to adulthood; when they had changed as unrecognizably as the transformed vista over the familiar old river; when they were trying to reach across the distance the years had stretched between them. He would ask her that question then, and for the first time, even to herself, she would have an answer.
But the girl walking her dog on the beach that day had no answer. Except perhaps that she was tired of waiting for life to begin.
5
The Wedding
The month before the wedding went by in a whirl. Gigi tried to concentrate on her final exams, but she was distracted by the sessions at the dressmaker’s and other preparations. She left the details to Mama, even the styles and colors of the embroidered satin negligées for her trousseau. But the choice of a stone for the solitaire engagement ring was to be entrusted to the Pasha, by family tradition. He was considered as much a connoisseur of jewelry as he was of period furniture.
Rather than pick a ring, Yussef’s parents had presented Gigi with an equivalent sum of money, discreetly concealed in a navy Sèvres bonbonnière. She called her uncle.
‘Of course, dear, I’ll call my jeweler right away. Do you have any preference as to cut? No? All right then, I’ll tell him what your budget is and he’ll pick a few stones for us to choose from. You can pick them up from the shop in town tomorrow morning and bring them right over. It’s the Sirgani jeweler downtown, but make sure you ask to speak to Sirgani Senior himself. Just tell him you’re my niece, he’ll be waiting for you.’
Gigi had driven downtown to the busy square and circled a couple of times, not looking so much for a parking space, which was near impossible at this time of day, but for a minadi, one of the self-appointed parking attendants who offered to watch your car when you triple-parked. In exchange for a small tip, they staved off the roving policemen so you did not get a ticket or your car towed. She finally caught the eye of a minadi and parked. She hopped out, telling him she would be in the jewelry shop and he was to fetch her if one of the cars she was blocking needed to pull out or if the tow truck showed up.
The man shook his head and explained that there was a particularly active police patrol that day; she needed to leave the key with him so he could move the car if they showed up. Gigi hesitated, but she recognized his face; he had taken care of her car before. She left the keys with him and went into Sirgani, Père et Fils, Bijoutiers.
The owner, Sirgani Père, was expecting her and handed her a small blue velvet pouch. ‘There are four stones in there, all about two carats. I think the Pasha will find something to suit. Please give him my regards.’
Gigi took the light pouch with what felt like tiny pebbles inside. She hesitated, but the man did not seem to expect her to sign a receipt of any sort, he merely ushered her to the door. Outside she looked around for her car but it was nowhere in sight, nor was the minadi. She looked up and down the street, in case he had moved it, but there was no sign of it. Gigi waited, with increasing misgivings, as the minutes ticked by. Five minutes. Ten.
A noisy parade of cars passed by, horns tooting and flags waving out of windows. Red flags identified the riders as supporters of one of the two national football teams, the Ahli; red and white were the colors of the rival team, the Zamalek. There was a football match scheduled that afternoon. Owners of white cars might find that vandals had painted a red stripe on their parked vehicles, or vice versa. Party politics were banned in Egypt; there was only one party, the regime’s National Socialist Party. Football mania was a substitute for party politics. Gigi was somewhat concerned: her little Simca was red.
She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes. Could the minadi have made off with the car? She shouldn’t have given him the keys. Should she try to hail a taxi and go home, then call the police? But she didn’t even know the man’s name.
Just as she was about to hail a taxi, the minadi pulled up in her car and jumped out. ‘I�
�m sorry, but the police came through with the tow truck and I had to take your car and circle around with it until they were gone. You were done quicker than I thought.’
Gigi tipped him and drove off. She was a little late but she knew her uncle would be home. He was under house arrest, had been so for the past three years. Someone had falsely reported to President Nasser that the Pasha had been seen laughing with some cronies at the Gezira Club on the night of Nasser’s speech acknowledging Egypt’s terrible defeat after the Six Day War. An infuriated Nasser had ordered the Pasha thrown into an internment camp. When brave souls interceded to point out that the Pasha had been nowhere near the Gezira Club in ten years, Nasser commuted the sentence to house arrest. That had been over three years ago.
Vast as the Cairo House was, there must have been times when the Pasha would have settled for a short stay in an internment camp rather than this indefinite house arrest. But he was never heard to complain. The Pasha lived alone. He had been a widower for many years now, and he had no children. His mother had died a long time ago, and his married brothers had moved into their own homes. But he was never alone for long during those years of enforced seclusion. The clan and the closest cronies rallied around, coming over every night for long soirees of chess and monopoly, while the Mukhabarat agents posted outside the gate took conspicuous note of everyone who went in or out.
Gigi negotiated the narrow streets of Garden City and parked in the yard of the Cairo house, ignoring the man at the gate who copied down her license plate. She took the little pouch and went up the long marble staircase. Fangali met her at the top of the stairs and ushered her into the Pasha’s bedroom suite. She found her uncle in his club chair, dressed but for his shoes. Gigi leaned down to kiss him.
‘Hello Gigi dear, did you pass by Sirgani? Good, I’ll have a look right away. Just ring the bell, will you, I’ll ask the maid for my magnifying glass.’
Gigi pulled the long tasseled silk bell cord and a wiry girl of about fourteen hurried in.
The Pasha did not look up; he was intent on opening the pouch. ‘Get me my special magnifying glass and tweezer kit for jewelry.’
‘What?’ the girl bleated in a nasal country voice.
He looked up in alarm and stared at her. ‘Who are you? Where’s Fatma?’
‘Fatma went back to the village yesterday to be married. I’m Khadra. I’ve been in this house for two weeks now.’
Gigi smiled because Khadra meant green. Her thick, glossy black hair was cut very short, and gave off a faint whiff of benzine. Gigi guessed that when the girl had arrived from the country her head had been shorn and deloused with benzine.
‘Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me these things,’ the Pasha grumbled. ‘Call Fangali – No, just bring me my slippers, I’ll get up and find the kit myself.’
‘Let me look, Uncle,’ Gigi offered.
‘I don’t think you’ll find them, only Fatma knew where she placed things.’
The girl brought the slippers.
‘Which village do you come from, child?’ he asked.
‘Mit-Gibala. We live by the second irrigation ditch from the road. I’m Fangali’s niece.’
‘I see,’ he sighed with resignation, ‘help me up.’
The Pasha found the kit and settled himself in front of the high window, spreading the four small diamonds on a blotting pad on the desk before him. Gigi sat down beside him, watching silently as he picked up each stone with the tweezers and held it up to the light. After what seemed like a long time he put two back in the pouch and placed the other two in the palm of Gigi’s hand.
‘One of these two will do.’
‘Then the bigger one, of course!’
He hesitated then shook his head. ‘The bigger one isn’t as well cut, and it has a yellowish tinge; the smaller one is much finer.’
‘But I don’t notice any yellowish tinge! Besides, Tante Zohra always said her ring was as yellow as a topaz!’ She had never seen her aunt’s ring, only heard about it; it had been sold, of course, after the sequestration decrees that had cut off all the family’s sources of income.
The Pasha laughed. ‘Imperfect color may be overlooked in a ring of close to twenty-two carats! Anyway I never liked Zohra’s ring. But with a stone of the size we’re looking at, quality is essential. Are you disappointed because it’s the smaller of the two? I’ll have Sirgani set it for you in a special platinum raised setting, it’ll look bigger than the yellowish one, I promise. And he won’t charge you anything extra, the setting will be my wedding present. All right?’
Gigi smiled and kissed him.
He handed the pouch back to her, along with one of his calling cards, the top right hand corner carefully folded down. Gigi knew he always did this to make it clear there was no message written on the back; that way if the card fell into the wrong hands it could not be misused.
‘Just take all the stones back to Sirgani, and he’ll take your ring size. I’ll give him a call to tell him which one we picked and give him instructions about the setting. Mabrouk, dear, congratulations.’
Her ring had been ready two weeks later, and the Pasha was right, the setting made all the difference.
The Pasha was also to officiate at the signing of the marriage contract, as Gigi’s proxy.
‘But Papa, why do I have to have a proxy at all?’
‘The legal aspect of the marriage is a matter of signing a civil contract. It’s men’s business. There’s no need for you to be there. It might even be awkward for you, surrounded by all these men, not just your uncles but male relatives you’ve never seen and friends of the family, important people. You’ll be so busy, anyway, the day before the wedding. Just leave the contract to us, and concentrate on getting ready for the wedding.’
Papa had explained that in her case the contract would be a very standard, simple affair. It comprised the mandatory stipulations, like the mahr the bridegroom offered the bride, for instance: since it was not an issue, ‘as agreed between us’ would cover it. The same with the divorce settlement, which by law had to be specified: it would be put down that the bridegroom was to pay the bride five piasters in case he divorced her.
‘Five piasters!’ Gigi was indignant. ‘You can’t buy a stick of gum for five piasters! Is that all I’m worth?’
Papa smiled. ‘It’s precisely because we value you so highly that we specify a purely nominal sum. Substantial divorce settlements are typical of matches where the bride marries for money.’
‘What if I’m the one who wants to get divorced?’ Gigi knew the husband could divorce the wife any time, but that the opposite was much more complicated.
‘The marriage contract can stipulate that the wife has the same right to divorce unilaterally as the husband. It’s legal under the Islamic Shari’a. But you won’t find a man willing to agree to that, unless he is of a much lower status than the woman he’s marrying.’
Gigi knew that Papa had a law degree, although he had not practiced much.
‘But I still don’t see why I have to have a proxy,’ Gigi was unconvinced.
‘Listen, darling. When Yussef takes your uncle’s hand – as your proxy – and their hands are covered with the white handkerchief, in front of all these witnesses, it stands for something. That in this marriage he is not dealing with a friendless girl, he is dealing with the men in her family, and is accountable to them.’
‘All right,’ Gigi conceded, ‘but if I must have a proxy, why can’t it be my own father?’
‘But your uncle is the head of the family. It’s both an honor and an obligation for him. That’s just the way it’s always done in our family. So when the two witnesses – two of your uncles – come to ask you whom you choose as your proxy, you must designate the Pasha.’
‘Can I at least look down from the upstairs gallery to watch them do the handshake and the white handkerchief? I’ll hide behind one of the columns, no one will see me.’
‘No, Gigi,’ Papa laughed. ‘There’s no point.’
<
br /> So it was that Gigi did not see Yussef again until he was her husband. He arrived the day before the wedding. His plane was delayed and rather than having time to see her before the signing of the marital contract, he had to go straight from the airport to the Cairo House, where twenty men were assembled and waiting. Gigi held them up a little longer by teasing the two witnesses who had come to ask her to name her proxy. ‘Papa,’ she insisted.
‘Oh, we don’t have time for these childish games,’ Uncle Hani exclaimed impatiently. ‘Come on, Zakariah, we’ll just say she named the Pasha.’
‘No, we won’t,’ Uncle Zakariah, Papa’s third eldest brother, shook his head. ‘These things are dead serious. I’m not leaving till she names her proxy properly.’
Gigi, shamed into seriousness, meekly named her uncle.
An hour and a half later Yussef was at the door, smiling. She put out her hand and he leaned forward to kiss her. Gigi drew back, shocked. Only then did the realization sink in that they were actually married. ‘I’ll feel married tomorrow,’ she told herself. ‘After all, that’s the real marriage, the wedding.’
‘Gigi, will you please try to smile? You look as if you’re at a funeral, not at your own wedding. People will start to wonder.’ Yussef took her hand in his.
The bride and groom were enthroned on matching gilded armchairs set on a raised dais in a bower of white flowers: chrysanthemums, calla lilies, gladioli. A pair of turtle doves, a symbol of marital harmony, cooed in a silver-gilt cage above their heads. It was about two o’clock in the morning, but none of the guests sitting at the round tables in the garden of the Cairo House seemed ready to leave. The night was balmy and the colored light bulbs strung between the trees swayed gently. The last of the three belly dancers had performed her number and left; the waiters were clearing away the buffet, carrying off the carved carcasses of the spit-roast lambs. Gigi and Yussef had sliced into the three-tier cake, and portions were distributed to each table. The guests lingered over ice cream and coffee while the band played a slow number to which a few couples were dancing on a carpeted platform.
The Cairo House Page 7