by Rasha Adly
This piece of information so intrigued her that she went to her former art history professor, the mentor under whom she had studied. She knocked on the door to his office. His dry, distinctive voice invited her to enter.
He welcomed her with his usual smile. Since she had been a student, he had taken note of her love of art history and her enthusiasm for research: she was one of the few who had come to the department out of a genuine passion for the subject, as opposed to the many who only joined it because it was the only option available to them due to poor grades. He ordered them two coffees and she told him everything she had found so far. “Why don’t you look in the location where the painting was sitting all this time?” he suggested. “Provenance, and the storage of a work of art, can be an important tool in our field.”
“All I know,” Yasmine said, “is that it was in storage at the Gezira Museum.”
His thick brows furrowed in puzzlement. “The Gezira Museum? It was only built recently. This was one of its acquisitions? I doubt it. Where did it come from originally? That is, where did the museum get it?”
How stupid could she be? If she had gone to the Gezira Museum in the first place, she could have saved a great deal of effort. She drained her coffee all at once, then put down her cup and took her leave. “I’m going straight there. I need to get there before it closes at two.”
“Good luck,” he smiled. If she had come to him with a story like this in years gone by, he might have accompanied her to the Gezira Museum and helped her look for the history of the mysterious painting. Where, he wondered, had all his enthusiasm gone? He remembered his own youth when, as a postgraduate student in Italy, he had been fascinated by the works of da Vinci and Michelangelo, and researched day and night, from museum to conservation lab and back.
The museum was not too far from her own house, on the grounds of the Opera House on Gezira Island, which also held her neighborhood of Zamalek. The museum was rectangular in shape, the doors to all the different rooms opening onto the spacious central hall. There was a room at the side with screens and electronic remote control equipment. “Is the director in?” she asked the receptionist. After a phone call, he asked her to follow him to the top floor, where the administrative section was. He paused and knocked at a door with a brass plaque bearing the words museum director.
The director, a friendly faced man in his fifties, greeted her politely at first, then warmed to her and greeted her effusively when she introduced herself with her title. “I do conservation and restoration,” she explained. “Currently I’m working on some paintings that came from storage in your museum, and I’m doing research into the history of a particular piece I’m conserving right now. I was hoping you could give me some information about it.”
His eyes shone with curiosity. “Which piece?”
She opened up her iPad and showed it to him. “This one.”
Several expressions flitted across the man’s face: deep thought and finally perplexity. “But this painting. . . .” he looked at it again carefully, “isn’t part of our collection.”
“Really?”
“Hold on,” he told her, “and we can make certain.”
He picked up the phone and asked the collections manager to come to his office. The man appeared almost at once: he had sensed from his boss’ tone that it was important. He burst in, looking as though he expected a catastrophe or something of that sort: “Has something happened? ”
The director showed him the painting and he looked at it, slowly catching his breath and mopping his sweaty brow. The tension in his expression dissipated and he relaxed. “Yes, yes!” he cried. “You’re right. This painting isn’t one of the museum’s acquisitions. It was transferred here as part of the Egyptian Scientific Institute’s collection after the fire.”
“The Scientific Institute?” Yasmine repeated in astonishment.
The director dismissed the collections manager, thanking him, but apparently overcome with curiosity, the manager refused to leave. “But is there something wrong?” he asked. “Has the painting been stolen?”
“No,” the director said firmly, clearly irritated by his intrusive questions. “Nothing’s happened. Thank you once again. Go back to what you were doing.”
Miffed, the manager stalked out, while the director kept looking at Yasmine. “When the Institute caught fire on Friday, December 16, 2011, we received several of its acquisitions that had been burned or otherwise damaged. This painting was one of them.”
“I wasn’t aware that there were paintings in the Institute,” Yasmine said slowly. “I thought there were only books, manuscripts, and rare documents there.” She looked up at the director. “Even when the painting came to us, there was no indication or anything saying that it was part of the Institute’s collection.”
The director launched into a lecture: “Napoleon founded the Egyptian Scientific Institute, originally called the Institut d’Égypte, in 1798, so that the scientists and artists he had brought with him to Egypt could have a base from which to work and make their discoveries, culminating in the Description de l’Égypte as its crowning glory, a comprehensive study of Egypt of the time, along with numerous other books and documents. As for paintings in the Institute, I do not have enough information to confirm or deny that. You can ask the secretary-general of the Institute: he’s the only one who can help you with that inquiry.”
She thanked him politely and left, filled with renewed hope: although nothing was definite, the information she had gleaned so far was an indication that she was on the right track. She had already ascertained that the portrait had been painted at the time of the French Campaign in Egypt, and that the painter must have been one of the artists who came to Egypt with the Campaign; its presence at the Egyptian Scientific Institute confirmed it. The odd thing was why the painting had remained in the Institute’s building all this time; why had it not been moved to a museum to be displayed? Why had the artist abandoned his painting so easily, leaving it behind in Egypt when the Campaign left, an artist who had used such a unique technique?
The questions rattled around in her head; she was jolted out of her reverie by the ringing of her phone. She was delighted to see Sherif’s picture on the screen—the photograph he had sent her on his last trip to Prague. The temperature had been below freezing there, so he looked at the camera from beneath the hood of a thick parka, a scarf wrapped around his neck, snow carpeting the ground around him. She loved that picture: he looked like some sort of snow god, so she saved it with his phone number, and enjoyed the way he flashed on her screen with a winning smile each time he called, and his gaze that seemed, effortlessly, to see straight through her. “Still alive?” she said cheerfully into the receiver.
“I only came back to life when you answered,” he said. “I live only to hear your voice.”
The faintest tremor went through her. How strange! He had never said anything romantic to her, not since the day they parted; he had always been careful to be strictly friendly, despite his loving glances. Why was his voice touching her this way once more?
“Where did you go?” he asked.
She shook herself. “I’m right here.”
“Still chasing after that girl?”
“You mean Zeinab?”
“Who’s Zeinab?”
“The girl in the painting.”
He burst out laughing. “Did she tell you her name?”
“Yes.”
“What happened? Did she come to you in a dream and tell it to you?”
“Didn’t I tell you,” Yasmine said calmly, “that she came to me because she wanted someone to find out her secret? I’m a detective now. I follow her footprints everywhere.”
“I think this calls for a coffee and a catch-up.”
“It’s half-past three now . . . how does five o’clock sound?”
“Okay. The usual place.”
14
The painting had kept her too busy to primp or pretty up. She pulled her hair up into a
ponytail and shrugged on whatever she could grab out of her closet. She felt she ought to look good for some reason, so she passed by the beauty salon and asked her hairdresser to give her a new style. “How about putting it up?” he suggested.
“I want it wavy,” she said. Then she placed herself in the hands of the manicurist, also getting a pedicure, and got her makeup done too. She left looking completely different from when she came in. She felt attractive, beautiful. Spritzing on some perfume, she went to see him.
As usual, he had chosen a corner table outdoors, with nothing between him and the Nile but the thick rope that encircled the place like a guardrail. He was breathing out smoke in slow, lazy breaths. He smiled to see her coming, like a fresh breeze. She told him everything she had been doing in the past few days. “I think you’re about halfway there,” he said seriously. “The hardest part is done. The painter’s got to be one of the French Campaign artists. Might be that he fell in love with her, or maybe the girl, the way she was dressed and the way she looked, was part of his job. The Institute’s mission was to document everything about this country.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s what I hope to find out. I got an appointment with the secretary-general of the Institute to tell me everything he knows.”
He put out his cigarette and asked her: “Is it okay if we change the subject? Let’s talk about something else.”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Go on. I’m all ears.”
He laughed aloud. “What? Are you expecting me to give a speech? These past few days we’ve only been talking about the painting and the girl in the painting.”
“What do you expect us to talk about?” she countered. “The weather maybe? Or the state of the nation?”
“The state of us,” he said earnestly.
“Us?” she repeated. He said nothing, and she found herself deep in thought. She turned to the river as though it held the answers. His hand crept forward to touch her fingertips. She smiled and their gazes intertwined. His every glance said I love you, I love you, I love you. Their eyes remained locked until the ringing of his phone broke the spell. He glanced at the screen and stabbed the button to silence the device, but the persistent caller started to ring again, on and on and on, so finally he took the call.
A feminine voice poured out of the receiver. “Sorry,” he cut her off firmly, “I’m busy right now.” But the powerful voice, full of vim and vigor, chattered on without pause. Yasmine couldn’t make out what the caller was saying, but it put a smile on his face. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I will.” Then he ended the call.
She didn’t ask who it was, and he didn’t tell her. It would have been stupid of her to imagine that women would leave a man this good-looking alone. What did the woman look like, Yasmine wondered? She sounded so alive. She must be in her twenties, probably in tight jeans and tottering on high heels. “Where did you go?” he asked.
“I’m here. I was just wondering what she looked like. The girl who was talking to you.”
“Can’t you give your imagination a rest, just for a minute? Why don’t you ask me? I’ll tell you.”
“Didn’t I tell you that it’s my imagination that keeps me alive?”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he smiled, leaning forward and resting his chin on one hand. “What did she look like?”
“Tall,” said Yasmine. “Slim. Long, smooth white neck. Long, wavy black hair like a gypsy’s. Her eyes are outlined in black kohl. She wears skinny jeans and platform heels. Maybe a tattoo on her neck, and a nose piercing, and lots of bracelets on her wrists.”
His eyes widened. “I can’t believe it,” he stammered. “It’s like you’ve met her. How . . . how did you manage to describe her so accurately?”
“It’s not a magic trick,” she said. “Instinct combined with experience fuels the imagination.” She took a sip of her nearly empty glass of juice and leaned back. “I didn’t know you liked that kind of girl.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Or is she the soul mate for your dark side? When you leave everything behind and cruise on your Harley?” She laughed, pushing her hair back. “Leather jacket and sneakers, helmet and bike . . . all you need is a girl like that riding behind you with her arms around your waist.” Although her mocking tone irritated him, he was delighted to hear the jealousy in her voice that she couldn’t manage to hide.
A sudden sadness had come over her when she thought of something going on between him and that girl. What does he see in her? she thought. Here she was, a university professor over thirty, always careful to look conservative, her only concerns taking care of her old grandmother, doing research, and restoring old paintings. She imagined the girl sitting behind Sherif on his motorcycle, slim arms around his waist, wild hair fluttering in the backdraft and whipping around his face. The girl laughed, filling the world with fun. Her young head had nothing in it but the latest fashions, house music, trips, nightlife, phone permanently glued to her hand, tapping on it with her long, brightly painted nails in long chats with her millennial friends, and of course with him. Maybe in the morning he texted her: u awake? followed by a sleeping emoji. coffee with me? he would text, with a coffee emoji. Did he maybe write love u with an emoji of a heart with an arrow through it? Could his heart beat for another woman, she wondered? Could he love someone else?
She had been gazing out onto the river: but now she fixed her eyes on him. She wanted to scream at him, Could you? He was smiling, typing something on his phone. She had been right! Here he was, sitting with her at the same table, and chatting with another woman. “I need to go,” she muttered, gathering her things and stuffing them into her handbag.
He didn’t argue, but asked for the check. He could tell that there was something the matter. This was not her habit; she always looked at her watch, then with a startled ‘Would you look at the time!’ said that she had lost track of time and must be going. This was different; something was up. Could it really be that she was jealous?
“You can stay if you want,” she said.
“No, I’ll go—Oh, I just remembered. Here’s your invitation.” He was just about to put his hand in his pocket to take something out, but the waiter interrupted him with the check and he was distracted with paying it.
In that short moment, her mind whirled with questions. Invitation? What invitation? Could it be that he was getting married and this was an invitation to his wedding? He held it out to her, but she pulled her hand back.
“Whatever is the matter with you, Yasmine? Just take it! It’s an invitation to the Mevlevi dervishes’ performance!”
She heaved a sigh of relief, unable to hide it, and managed to collect herself with difficulty. “But,” she forced out, “I’m not a fan of that kind of dancing.”
“It’s not a dance. I told you before. It’s a type of prayer. A spiritual ritual.”
“Are you still into all that?”
“You could say it’s a matter of faith.”
She gazed at the image on the ticket: a man wearing a white skirt, a tall hat on his head, whirling. His skirt flared out with the movement, while his eyes were fixed on infinity. She tried to pronounce the name of the troupe, finding some difficulty doing so, and he corrected her pronunciation. “It’s one of the best-known Mevlevi troupes in Turkey.”
She looked from the invitation to him, unimpressed. “Isn’t that the same as the tannura dance that we have here in Egypt? You know, the one with the big skirts in many colors, and they spin and spin while people cheer and applaud? It makes my head spin.”
“That’s actually a method adapted from the Mevlevi dance, and it’s a pity, they’ve cheapened it.” Sherif shook his head. “They made it into an entertainment to be performed at parties and for drunken nightclub patrons. It’s got nothing to do with the real Mevlevi dance, and when you see these dervishes perform, you’ll discover it for yourself.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll come.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow.”
He
walked her to her car and gave her a wave as she drove away. Sometimes, she thought, he was a strange person whom she could not understand: he was a follower of a Sufi order but wore the latest fashions, rode a Harley and smoked, and listened to music, both instrumental and vocal, which some Islamic sects considered a sin.
15
“Are you still into all that?”
Her question preoccupied him. It was not an interest as much as it was faith. He had been like a ship adrift at sea, and they had been a lighthouse shining to lead him onto the right path. Yes, the idea of salvation had been in his mind, but he had been drowning in the mire, unable to pull himself out; and even if he had managed it, he could hardly have managed to get all the mud off himself. Until he met them and discovered that this world was temporary and ephemeral: the eternal world, on the other hand, was right there, behind a delicate veil, a veil that did not need to be lifted to reveal what lay beyond it. All we must do, he had realized, is purify our souls, and then we shall see everything clearly. He would tell himself: I was bewildered; my mind was confused, and so was my soul. That man was my guide, that man who appeared to me from the other world. I needed someone to reach out their hand to me: and in our world, where everyone is chasing after their own interests, no one cares or takes an interest in others. On the contrary, they reached out their hands to me to drag me further into the mire of the world they occupied, while those on the outside envied me my wealth and position. No one thought to ask themselves what I had given up to get where I was; and even if they knew that it was my very peace of mind that I had given up, would they have cared? Would they have taken pity on me? Who cares about peace of mind when compensated with fat bank accounts? Screw peace of mind, they would say, and screw conscience as well and its incessant nagging.
He had come back from Konya a different person. It was not only his mind that had changed, but his face, his eyes, his voice. He told no one of what had happened, of the ray of light that had penetrated his heart and soul. It had catapulted him into a war, not only with his baser nature, but with everyone around him, for all roads led to a single path. Because he knew that the wars where the fiercest fighting raged were with oneself against one’s own desires, where if one won, one won everything, he was quick to cut off all ties with his former life. He quit his job, moved out of his house, abandoned the circles he had traveled in, and changed his phone number. He began to establish a new life and a new world for himself.