The Girl with Braided Hair

by Rasha Adly

  “Good evening,” said Alton. The sight of the other Frenchmen calmed him, and he suddenly felt at ease enough to speak of his doubts. “With every day that passes,” Alton said, exasperated, “I find myself less and less certain of what on earth Napoleon wants from us.” He flung himself down into a chair, shaking his head, thinking of an innocent girl’s smile. “Why did he bring us here? What was so incomprehensible about this land, so outside the order of creation, that he needed us to explain it to him and set it down in books and reference volumes?”

  Gaspard Monge set down his instruments and straightened. “Au contraire. This country is full of treasures as yet undiscovered. There are a great many resources as yet untapped. It’s up to us to find them.”

  “Treasures?” Alton sighed. “Resources? That’s all very well, my good fellow, but what exactly is required of me? What am I supposed to do?”

  Monge fixed him with a proud look. “We are preparing a book on the description of Egypt. That is the volume in which we plan to describe everything in Egypt in words and pictures.” He added, “I don’t believe you have not yet found something that inspires you to draw! Ever since you got here, the only thing you have completed is that painting of the celebration of the flooding of the Nile.”

  The words seemed to rattle around in Alton’s head. “Inspires me to draw?” he said aloud, while thinking, What makes him think I haven’t already found my muse, and that the only thing I’ve thought about since I set eyes on her is to paint her?

  He left Monge and went to the studio where the artists and sculptors did their work. He took out a fresh piece of paper and spread it out, preparing to paint her: but something made his brush veer away, changing his mind at the last minute. He felt a sudden reluctance to paint her in public, in that room where anyone could see. He wanted to be alone with her. No one should look upon his brush as it painted the intimate details of her. No one should see him painting with his heart instead of his hand.

  He would paint her for himself, and himself alone. He would not allow her to become a part of their research. She was not some sort of animal to be caged within the four corners of a painting. He would not allow her to become the laughingstock of the elite Parisian women who went to museums and stood before paintings—her painting—not bothering to hold back their titters as they made fun of the veil around her head or the striped silken gallabiya she wore. They would care nothing for her striking features, nor for the charm and innocence she radiated: he knew such women well, all the women of the bourgeois set, the nouveaux riches of the Revolution.

  Alton originally came from an aristocratic family, and had always hated the snobbery and artifice of that class. Still, want and a need to earn a living, coupled with the hard times his family had fallen upon after the Revolution, had kept him in contact with a class he hated. His father had been a courtier in the court of Louis XVI; the Revolution had not only imprisoned him, but confiscated all his family’s property, leaving them penniless and out in the cold. His mother had lived for a while on charitable gifts from wealthy members of the family who had fortunately escaped the clutches of the Revolution; however, as time passed, these gifts slowed to a trickle and eventually dried up completely. Alton, a handsome and eligible dandy who had many Parisian beauties chasing after him, of the type who went for walks in the Jardins de Luxembourg at five every afternoon accompanied by their maids and little white poodles, was obliged to leave his life of luxury behind to earn his living. His only skill was painting: he went out to Montmartre with his canvas and his brushes, and set up his paints, canvases, and easel on a street corner. Fortunately, he was talented, so the faces and scenes in his paintings made people stop and stare, asking him to paint them, or requesting particular scenes that had tickled their fancy. He sold well, and thanks to his gift, he became quite well known within a short time.

  He managed to save a bit of money and rented a garret on the rooftop of an old apartment building that he converted into a studio while keeping his old location on the street corner. He became well-known in Parisian high society and aristocratic families requested him by name to paint their family portraits on special occasions and at their extravagant parties. Circumstance forced him not to be choosy; he needed to be able to live within his current more modest lifestyle, but one thing he never abandoned was his smart attire. Now he was ‘the handsome artist,’ ‘the lively young man,’ and so on, and thus still retained the ability to attract young lovelies and women of the world alike. Still, he only had passing flings with them; he would visit this one and accept the invitation of that one with gentlemanly charm, no more, for they always struck him as shallow and vacuous. What was truly strange, even to himself, was that he had left all these beauties behind, traveled all this distance, to meet this ordinary girl and fall in love with her, as though fate had arranged this journey to this land at this particular time only for this purpose, to bring him face to face with her.

  He had never planned to visit the Orient. The organizers of the Campaign had not meant to include his name on the roster of its artists. It had all been sheer chance. On a bitingly cold day in February, as the snow was falling outside and the juniper logs were crackling as usual in the fireplace, he heard—as he was placing the finishing touches on a painting before handing it in for a few francs—a horse-drawn carriage pull up outside his house. The brass knocker sounded insistently against his door. When he opened it, he found Monsieur Lombard himself outside. He was one of the most famous artists in France and a professor at the School of Fine Arts. “Come in, come in,” he had said, stunned, and Lombard had stepped inside. He was a fiftyish man with a beard that looked as though it had not been trimmed in years, and a pipe that never left his hand even when he wasn’t smoking it. He could not begin to guess the reason behind this odd visit at such a late hour. Another man was with Lombard, stern-faced and with the air of a military man. He welcomed them both and set out two chairs. “It’s an honor to have you here in my humble studio,” he said.

  Gruffly and with a supercilious air, Lombard responded as he looked all around the studio as though inspecting it. He blew out smoke from his pipe. “It is humble indeed,” he said, “but your work is quite the reverse.” He raised his eyebrows. “You have a fine hand, and your talent is unparalleled. That is why we are here.”

  The other man took up the thread. “Your name is on a military list to take part in an exploratory campaign where we shall be in need of several professional artists to draw and paint everything strange and unusual on our journey, and document what is important on our voyage.”

  Tongue-tied by surprise, he was obliged to shake himself in order to find something to say. “What campaign?” he asked. “To where? How?”

  “You are not permitted to ask questions,” the military man said. “This is an imperial command, and you must obey without question. This is not a matter of choice to which you may say yea or nay.”

  “But what is the purpose of the expedition?”

  “That is classified information.” He went on to tell Alton that he was not to tell anyone about his upcoming voyage, which was a state secret.

  “But what about my family? I’m the only breadwinner.”

  “You don’t need to worry on that score. They will receive a sum of money at the start of every month.”

  Lombard looked around him at the paintings on the walls and propped up against them on the floor. “This is a golden opportunity, my boy,” he said while taking his leave at the door. “The artist who should have gone in your stead has fallen ill, and your name was recommended to replace him. You can take your own equipment with you, the things you can’t work without. We will send you a telegram to tell you of the travel date and other details.”

  Alton stood rooted to the spot on his doorstep after they left, snow blowing in. Finally, half-frozen, he closed it, still thinking of the man’s words, “This is a golden opportunity.” Was it truly golden? It was a military command that he could not refuse. Sailing in
to the unknown! That was an exciting prospect that any artist would envy—if he was setting sail of his own free will, to a destination of his own choosing, to draw what his eye desired, not commanded by a military officer. But soon enough he convinced himself to set his misgivings aside. The command had been issued, after all, and he could do little else but obey.

  A few days later, he received a telegram telling him that the date to set sail would be at dawn that next Monday from Toulon Square. On the telegram was scrawled, “please ensure secrecy.”

  Secrecy? That alone piqued his curiosity. A scientific expedition . . . why would they require secrecy? In any case, he would obey orders; he had no wish to court disaster by disobeying. He made his arrangements and took his leave of his family and friends, telling them that he was going on a brief journey through various cities and towns in France. Only his mother did he tell about his secret: she said goodbye with bitter tears. He promised her that he would write to her. He had resolved not only to write letters to her, but to set down every detail that transpired on his journey from the moment his ship set sail until he set foot on his home soil once more. Perhaps these notes he would write might be important enough to publish later, in book form: many artists and men of letters had written travelogues and published them upon their return.

  On 19 May, 1798, at the port of Toulon, two great ships were preparing to cast off. One of them was laden with modern war machines, ammunition, and supplies; the other with laboratory equipment, scientific apparatus, and printing presses. The officers stood in rows to the fore. Behind them were the scientists, and I was among their number. The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in the last row: long lines and eyes filled with wonderment, and confused chattering, for no one knew what this man was planning. The crew was moving around busily in preparation to cast off and set sail.

  The sun had not yet risen when Napoleon appeared, the usual smile on his face that never left it, even in the bleakest times. He made a short speech, his breath condensing in puffs of vapor in the freezing air as he spoke. For a moment, I fancied that he was a dragon blowing his smoke into our faces and that he was about to attack. But he wished us a pleasant journey and disappeared into the ship.

  The address he made to us was a very short one, a few mysterious words of which we understood nothing. He was careful not to betray anything of his plans to us. In under an hour, the foghorns sounded, indicating the ships were setting sail. Where to? To the Orient! This was all the information we were able to obtain.

  I was in the company of great scientists on that ship. Because I never kept up with science or modern discoveries, I did not know any of them. Monsieur Monge arranged a meeting to introduce us all to one another, and asked us to all come up on deck after lunch. Only then did I stand there, speechless, as he called out their names. There was a historian, an archaeologist, an astronomer, a physician, and a geographer—and myself! Whatever had brought me there? What brought me into the company of these eminent men?

  I met a great many scientists, craftsmen, and workmen, these last powerless and helpless; they had been perforce torn from their homes and the company of their families, forced to leave everything behind—their sweethearts, their wives, their children, their jobs—and go off into the unknown. They could not show disgruntlement or refuse. I made friends with Leon Pointard, a fortyish man whose profession was betrayed by the ink stains on his fingers: he was responsible for the printing presses and the machines that that department comprised. He took me down into the bowels of the ship, and took it upon himself to show me the machines and how they worked: strangely enough, there was one with Arabic lettering. Pointard told me that the Commander-General had told them to bring it along so that they could print circulars and newspapers in Arabic for the people of those lands.

  After several weeks’ sailing in the wide open sea, one foggy day we sighted land, looking like an extension of the sea. I had not yet known that it was a changeable country, swinging between extremes from one day to the next: one day glittering, the next dark; one day light, the next gloom; extending to right and left, wide as her river and old as her pyramids.

  Cairo: November 30, 1798

  Since Zeinab had returned home after meeting him in the park, his face had not left her. She was filled with him, her soul clinging to him. His face, his scent, his voice. Was she in love with him? She must be, for what else but love could be making her only live for the hope of seeing him? What else but love could be making her think of him and only him, day and night?

  But what could come of this love? In the eyes of all, he was a Frenchman, here with the Campaign to invade her country. He was one of the infidel invaders, as the Egyptians called him. Even though he was only in the country to paint and not to fight, who would understand that?

  But what did she care? The tremor that took her when she laid eyes on him was enough. She had been so close to Napoleon that there had been only a few breaths between him and her; he had touched her cheek and stroked her hair; yet he had stirred nothing within her but a feeling of panic and unease. With Alton, everything was different: she had but to lay eyes on him to dance inside with joy. The whole world meant nothing compared to what she felt for him. What had the world given her but cruelty, rebukes, and envy? A mother who cared for nothing but cooking, sweeping, and polishing, and blind obedience to her husband; a selfish father who could give anything away to make his own dreams come true; friends who were only jealous of her; family and relations who only came to visit when they needed something or to borrow money; neighbors who could hardly wait to see some disaster befall them so as to gloat their fill. Alton was the gift that fate had given her: he had come to free her from the clutches of the world she lived in, and she would let him come to her rescue and sweep her away from this life she lived.

  Her mother came into the room; she didn’t even notice, lost as she was in another world. “Hey!” her mother prodded her in the arm. “Aren’t you done dreaming yet? Wake up!” She put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t it enough what you’ve done to us? You’ve made us the butt of everyone’s gossip!”

  With wide, bold eyes, Zeinab looked up at her mother. “No, I won’t wake up,” she said firmly. “Will you not even let me dream?”

  “A word of advice,” her mother said. “When you dream, dream a dream your own size. That way you won’t break your neck when you wake up from your dream in seventh heaven!”

  “Let it happen,” Zeinab snapped back. “It’s enough to have dreamed.”

  “Get up and help me clean the house and make dinner.”

  “I’m not cleaning or cooking. The house is full of servants and slaves who can help.”

  “Now I see!” her mother cried. “That’s what comes of your father spoiling you!” She stormed out, muttering curses under her breath.

  Zeinab knew perfectly well what her mother was talking about: she thought Zeinab was in love with Napoleon. She was right to be fearful and apprehensive: grown men trembled just to hear the great man’s name. No one could presume to know what was going on in his head. If only she could tell her mother that her dream had nothing to do with Bonaparte. If only she could tell her about Alton and her feelings for him. But could her mother even understand what love meant?

  Fatima, wife to Sheikh al-Bakri, was deeply worried about her daughter’s well-being. What worried her even more was the fact that she knew nothing about what anyone was thinking—not her husband, not her daughter, not Bonaparte. From behind the meshrabiyeh, she could see dark clouds gathering in the sky and hurrying toward her fate, thunderous storm clouds. She had been unable to sleep for thinking and worrying, turning right and left, looking at her husband to find him lying on his back, his fat paunch vibrating to the rhythm of his loud snoring and making her want to prod him, wake him up, and yell, “What’s happened to you? Are you that much of a slave to power and position? Would you sacrifice your own family to them, your religion, anything and everything, just to get what you want?” Suddenly, as if he h
eard the screams she was choking back, he opened one eye and looked at her. He slurred drowsily, “Go to sleep, woman.”

  Perhaps before, in another time, she would have gone to sleep, feeling she had no choice since he commanded her to do so; but now was the time to reject his commands, now that they had lost their power. He had fallen in her estimation ever since he had agreed to present his daughter as a gift to Napoleon in exchange for high rank and status. How had he allowed himself to do such a thing? How could he look people in the face, and him a high-ranking Azharite sheikh? She herself could no longer look anyone in the eye. She passed through the streets with her head down, looking at the ground as though she was looking for something she had dropped, while the wagging tongues of those whom she passed by lashed at her back like whips.

  She waited until the sun rose, sending its smooth silken threads out to spread light and warmth, then quickly pulled on her burka and slipped out of the house unnoticed. She walked through the streets, head down, taking unaccustomed paths that made her journey longer, so as to avoid meeting other women who she knew would shower her with coarse insults. Through the alleys she went until she arrived at the mule market and cart stop; from there she hired a cart and asked the carter to take her to Harat al-Yahud, the Jewish Quarter, in the district of Moski.

  The carter stopped at the gate to the Jewish quarter, telling her that the cart would not fit inside: “The camels, you see, are loading up a bride’s trousseau, and we won’t be able to get past through that narrow path.”

  She threw him a quarter-bara and went on foot through the alley, stumbling hesitantly and dragging her feet. She saw a woman frying zalabya pastry balls, sprinkling them with sugar and placing them in paper cones for sale. She bought one, then walked to the end of the alley. Taking hold of a rusty wooden door knocker, she knocked on an old, cracked wooden door with a Star of David carved into it. She knocked again and again; she waited, and then, when no one answered, decided to turn back the way she had come. Just then, she heard a creaky voice coming from behind the door: “Patience! Patience! Patience is a virtue!”