Most of Mama’s furniture has been sold at auction; what I have chosen to keep is stored at the Cairo House along with my own furniture. There is a kidney-shaped vanity with a rose tulle skirt which I have kept, although it is of no intrinsic value, because some of my most vivid memories are of Mama sitting at that coiffeuse before the mirror. I used to know by heart the contents of the drawers: which drawer was dusty with Coty’s loose powder and puffs, which had a permanent pink nailpolish stain, which held a tangle of hair brushes, pins and curlers. But after Mama’s death, when I opened the drawers of the coiffeuse, the familiar paraphernalia was gone: the drawers were neat and bare but for a brush and a pot of Pond’s cold cream. I realized that it had been years since Mama had worn makeup and perfume. If she’d had a daughter’s support and encouragement, she might not have given up on personal vanity so prematurely.
This morning it has been disorienting to visit the company offices in the old villa. The salons have been partitioned into clapboard cubicles; telephones ring and typewriters clatter, fax machines buzz and employees shuffle paper. I went upstairs to see what had become of my bedroom. It is unrecognizable, an office with three desks. The walk-in closet is now a filing cabinet. The young woman at one of the desks looked up and smiled when Ibrahim the doorkeeper explained who I was. ‘I’ve always been curious, what was this room used for?’ she asked.
‘It was my bedroom. That was my governess’s room through there.’
‘How lucky you were to grow up here. But how you must hate what we’ve done to the house!’
I looked out of what used to be my bedroom window. I used to be able to see the Nile through that window but now my view was obscured by tall buildings that had sprouted up around the older villas.
On the ground floor I found a small office at the end of a long corridor. There was a plaque on the door: ‘Susan Baygley, Director’. The door was partially ajar and I tentatively stuck my head in. A blonde woman with glasses looked up from her desk, annoyed.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I apologized, ‘but I used to live here and I asked Ibrahim to show me around.’
‘That’s all right,’ the woman said stiffly.
Ibrahim reminded me, in Arabic, that this used to be Khadra’s room. I laughed. The woman raised her eyebrows.
‘Ibrahim was just reminding me that this used to be the maid’s room,’ I explained sweetly as I turned away.
I paced around the little apartment. I had called Tarek as soon as I arrived last night, but the maid who answered said he was away on a trip to the Red Sea with some friends and wouldn’t be back for four days. I left a message and a number, but I didn’t ask to speak to Yussef or his wife.
I should call the Pasha, and Tante Zohra, who had had a stroke. For the first few years after my remarriage, I hadn’t come to Egypt, because of the estrangement with Mama. Later, when I did come, I always came alone, and the subject of my marriage to Luc was tacitly ignored. The Pasha, I had come to realize, was really a very worldly man. Tante Zohra had had her own scandal in the family, with Gina. In general too, I realized, in this matter as in others, the Draconian standards I remembered were no longer upheld. Perhaps they had never been.
My relationship with Leila was as warm as ever, but we kept in touch only sporadically. I called her occasionally, or sent letters, but she was too busy to write back: Leila was a pediatrician, married to an internist, and mother of twin daughters. As for Tamer, he had not turned out to be the ally I automatically assumed he would be when I decided to marry Luc. He became somewhat distant. Over the years we ran into each other a few times, in Europe or in Egypt. I knew he had married, divorced, remarried.
I decided to call Leila. She would bring me up to speed on everybody’s news. I picked up the phone.
‘Leila? It’s Gigi. How are you?’
‘Gigi! How are you, dear? Are you in Cairo? How marvelous! Listen, I’m expecting some friends over for sohour this evening. Mostly doctors and their wives. Why don’t you come right over? We’d love to see you!’
‘Tonight?’ I looked at my watch: eight o’clock in the evening. We were in the middle of Ramadan, the month of fasting from sunup to sundown. The fast is broken at sunset, so the iftar meal is served around five thirty in winter; the night-time meal, sohour, would be served any time between midnight and two a.m. I had plenty of time.
‘All right, Leila, I’ll do my best.’
The problem was how to get to her apartment across town. I would be coming home at two or three in the morning, and taking a taxi alone at that time of night was not advisable. I could use Mama’s old car, it was kept in running condition, but I hadn’t driven in Cairo for years, I wasn’t sure I could still do it. No one but a native Cairene would even attempt it. Even Luc, who ten years ago would have tried anything, had lost his nerve at the idea of driving through Cairo traffic.
I jumped up. It was now or never. If I were going to be mobile and independent while I was here, I would have to drive. I should do it right away, before I had time to think about it.
I called to Ibrahim through the window. ‘Ibrahim, would you get the car ready for me, please? I’ll be going out in an hour or so.’
I decided on a black sheath dress and picked out some jewelry: a pearl necklace, earrings, my solitaire ring; more than I would have worn in New Hampshire, but in Cairo women dress up. The neckline was somewhat low-cut, so I took along a fine white mohair shawl to wrap around my shoulders in case I had to stop somewhere along the way.
When I came down Ibrahim had drawn back the gate to the villa and was wiping the windshield of the car. I got in and switched on the ignition, fumbling with the unfamiliar, stiff gear shift. Then I backed out into the street and plunged into the terrifying cacophonous chaos of Cairo traffic.
I drove up onto the overpass and was immediately engulfed in traffic swirling in all directions, the cars dispersing arbitrarily across the lanes like billiard balls scattering across a pool table. The Cairene is the worst of motorists, in that he observes no law but that of the jungle, and at the same time the most talented, in that he for the most part miraculously manages to avoid collisions. This requires hairline judgment, peripheral vision, nerves of steel, and a strategy of yielding with good grace when unavoidable and forging ahead with blind faith when an opening presents itself. He who hesitates is lost.
Cairo traffic is a microcosm of Egyptian society. Rules are only observed when they are enforced with the active presence of the authorities. Stop lights are ignored; a policeman directs traffic with a whistle and a wave of the hand. There are no fast lanes, slow lanes or passing lanes; cars swarm across lanes, jockeying for position. No one observes speed limits; one travels as fast as one’s vehicle and the surrounding traffic allow.
No one uses turning signals. Everyone honks continuously and arbitrarily, out of impatience, frustration or boredom. As a means of attracting attention, the horn is as devalued as the currency.
This is a society without safety nets; the most expensive cars are prohibitive to insure and the run-of-the-mill, past-its-prime compact not worth insuring. It follows that the millionaire in his Mercedes is far more vulnerable than the poor drudge in his beat-up Fiat.
Oddly enough, however, it is the pedestrian who is the least vulnerable. Watch the jaywalker, solitary or in a horde, who thrusts himself fearlessly into rumbling traffic, pitting his bones and flesh against steel and rubber, nonchalantly slapping the hood of a car as it screeches to a halt at his feet. He knows what the horrified tourist witnessing this scene does not: that in Cairo your car can collide with another vehicle with relatively minor consequences, but if you run down a human being, your worst nightmare has come true. Say that woman rushing into your path carrying a baby on one arm and dragging a toddler with the other happens to lose her grip on the child and it falls under your wheels. The mild-mannered crowd around you will instantly turn into a mob, the mindless rage of the have-nots welling up from unsuspected depths of frustration and despair.
By the time I made it to Leila’s I was flushed with nervous tension and triumph. I had managed to avoid getting lost or having an accident.
As the suffragi opened the door a wave of light and laughter washed over me. He ushered me in. The two salons were full. The men had spontaneously gravitated to one salon and the women to another, a sure sign that the soiree had been in full swing for a while. Leila came towards me, arms outstretched. She looked a little fuller than I remembered, but very elegant in a white silk pantsuit accentuated with heavy gold jewelry. Her unmistakably professional French twist made me aware that I was probably the only woman in the room this evening who had not had her hair styled by a hairdresser.
‘Gigi! I’m so glad you came! You look lovely. It’s so good to see you!’
‘And you! I’ve missed you all so much. How’s Tante Zohra?’
‘Still bed-ridden since her stroke. It’s such a shock, she’s always been so active.’ She shook her head. ‘Of course she’s well into her eighties. It’s just that she’s been more of a mother than a grandmother to us, Tamer and me.’
‘How is he?’
‘Fine, very busy. I only seem to see him when he drops in for lunch. You know he divorced again recently?’
‘No, I didn’t. So soon? Didn’t he remarry only a year ago?’ I’d never met Tamer’s new wife. I’d known Dina, his first wile, but they had divorced years ago.
‘Yes, it was very sudden. None of us knew her very well, you know. She was Italian, and she only came to Egypt for a month or so, then she went back to Milan. I think it was that more than anything that finally led to the divorce. They still seem to be on friendly terms though.’ She called to her husband. ‘Amin, look who’s here!’
Leila’s husband detached himself from the cluster of men in the far salon and came to greet me with a smile. ‘Gihan, Ahlan, what a nice surprise! When did you get here?’ He drew me into the salon to introduce me around while Leila ducked into the dining room to check on the preparations.
Around midnight Leila called out: ‘Soheur is served!’ The suffragi drew aside the sliding doors separating the salon from the dining room. The women led the way, filing towards the buffet table and exclaiming over the flower arrangements and the more exotic dishes. Leila took me by the waist and led me in. I glanced at the sideboard, with its array of typical Ramadan desserts, the honey and nut pastries called Syrian desserts in Egypt: baklava, konafa, ‘Palace Bread’.
‘If only I’d known you were coming, I would have ordered your favorite Om Ali,’ Leila lamented. ‘Well, come for iftar on Sunday, it’s my day for having my mother-in-law over, and often Tamer comes too. Nana Zohra can’t come anymore, of course, since her stroke. There’ll be a place set for you every Sunday while you’re in town.’
I was unable to fall asleep, too wound up after the sohour on top of the jet-lag. For some reason I thought of calling Tamer. It was past two o’clock, but then this was Ramadan and a Thursday night, the beginning of the weekend; he might not be asleep yet. I looked up his number in my phone book and dialed it.
‘Hello?’ He picked up after the first ring, sounding wide awake.
‘Hi, Tamer!’
‘Who is this is?’
‘Guess.’
‘Gigi? But – where are you calling from? When did you get back?’
On an impulse I answered, ‘I’m still in the States.’
‘But the phone didn’t ring the way it does for a long-distance call. That’s odd. Anyway, how are you? Will you be coming back anytime soon?’
‘Well, I was thinking of coming for a visit this month.’
‘Good! It would be great to see you. It must be – what – three years since I saw you? At least. How long will you be staying this time?’
‘Just a few weeks.’
‘To see Tarek?’
‘Yes. And there are some things to do with Papa’s estate that I need to look into. Tell me, how have you been?’
‘All right. Busy.’
‘Leila tells me you’re on your own again. I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.’
‘Yes, well, it turned out we got along better as friends and business partners than we did married. So we’ve gone back to just being friends and partners. Hey, wait a minute – when did you speak to Leila?’
‘Oh – she wrote to me.’
‘Leila never writes!’
‘Okay, I give up. Guess where I’m calling from? I’m here in Zamalek!’
‘I knew there was something funny about the way the phone rang! That’s great. When can I see you?’
We agreed that he would pick me up the next evening.
I went to visit Tante Zohra this afternoon. She now lives in a large, high-ceilinged apartment in a building she owns in Zamalek; she rents her villa on the same street to a foreign company. I circled the block three times, unable to find a parking space. Then I caught the eye of the minadi who works this particular territory. Even after years of living abroad, you still recognize a member of this confrèrie instantly. He helped me double-park and I left the parking brake off and the clutch in first gear so he could push the car out of the way if one of the cars I was blocking needed to pull out. I took the elevator up to Tante Zohra’s apartment.
The door was opened by a plump, poised young woman.
‘Ahlan, Sitt Gigi, welcome.’
It was Khadra. After Mama had passed away she had gone to work for Tante Zohra. It was hard to believe that this was once the little girl fresh from the country who used to chew on the leftover watermelon rind as she cleared the table.
‘How are you, Khadra? And how’s Tante Zohra?’
‘As well as can be expected, Allah be thanked. But since her stroke, you know, she’s never been the same.’ She shook her head. ‘She’ll be so pleased to see you. She’s by herself right now, but they try not to leave her alone for a minute, bless their hearts. Her daughters and grandchildren take turns, there’s always someone coming and going. Except Sitt Gina, she’s in Lebanon, of course.’
She ushered me to Tante Zohra’s bedroom. ‘Here’s Sitt Gigi to see you.’
Tante Zohra was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows. I was shocked to see her so much changed, so old. She held out her arms. ‘You’re just as pretty as ever, Gigi! Take after your aunt, your father always said so.’
‘Hello, Tante Zohra.’ I pulled up a chair and sat by her bed.
The phone rang. Khadra hurried out to answer it. She came back in a minute. ‘That was Sitt Nazli.’ She raised her voice for Tante Zohra’s benefit. ‘She says she’s running a few minutes late, but she’s on her way. She’s bringing the hairdresser with her to do your hair and manicure. I just heard the call to afternoon prayers. Would you like to get ready now?’
Tante Zohra nodded and Khadra left the room. She came back with a pan of clean, dry sand. Because of her condition, instead of washing, Tante Zohra patted the sand and went through the motions of the ablutions required before prayer. I had never seen anyone do this before but I remembered that this dispensation from using water was accorded to invalids, and in cases of shortage of water. Tante Zohra then started praying, still sitting in bed, instead of standing on a prayer mat.
I looked at the large portrait photo of Tante Zohra hanging in an elaborate frame over her bed. It must have been taken when she was in her thirties, and was signed by Armand, a popular Armenian society photographer in Egypt at the time. The pose and lighting emulated the glamorous studio portraits of Hollywood movie stars. The young Zohra threw a sultry look over a bare shoulder emerging from a cloud of tulle; her dark hair was elaborately styled; diamond earrings dangled to her bare collar bone; she had the arched, pencil-thin brows and cupid-bow lips of the period. Only the indomitable eyes belied the deliberately vapid pose.
As I waited for Tante Zohra to finish her prayers I wondered what led a woman like her back to the veil, when it had been her generation that had been the first never to have to wear it. She had told me proudly how, a
s a schoolgirl, she had been one of the youngest to take part in a public demonstration against the veil. She had stood on a train platform in the midst of a group of women wearing the filmy white veils of Ottoman court custom. Most of these wives and daughters of pashas were there with the grudging permission of male relatives. They waited for the Egyptian women’s delegation to arrive, back from attending a suffragette conference in Europe. Hoda Sha’rawi and the other delegates got off the train, throwing back their veils. The women waiting on the platform imitated the gesture. The street crowd would have jeered at them, but it was clear the women had the tacit approval of the King and of their husbands. The triumphant women rode home in their chauffeur-driven sedans, never to cover their faces again.
Tante Zohra had told me that story many times. Yet here she was, if not veiled, at least with her head covered: she wore a white turban all the time now. If it were only women of her age, with eternity looming close at hand, it would be understandable. But I had seen women of all ages and backgrounds in Islamic dress all over Cairo.
The doorbell rang, and I heard a voice in the hall, questioning Khadra, then brisk footsteps coming down the hallway. But it was not Nazli. It was Leila, but barely recognizable, wearing no makeup or jewelry, dressed in a plain tailored suit, hair covered with a silk scarf knotted at the nape of her neck. She was carrying a medical bag.
‘Hello, Nana. Hi, Gigi! What luck to run into you here.’ She seemed tired as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She opened her bag and drew out a stethoscope, taking Tante Zohra’s wrist between her finger and thumb. ‘How are you feeling today, Nana?’
‘The same, dear, the same.’
I had never seen Leila wear a scarf over her hair before. She must have noticed that I was taken aback.
‘It’s just that I’ve come straight from the university hospital. You come into contact with all kinds of people doing the rounds, and they tend to take you more seriously if you’re dressed like this.’ Leila smiled at me absent-mindedly, her eye on the blood pressure meter as she pumped up the gauge attached to her grandmother’s arm. ‘Nana, did you take your pills this morning? No nausea? Good. What did you have for lunch today?’
The Cairo House Page 17