The Girl with Braided Hair

by Rasha Adly

  I have never been a supporter of this campaign. I believe that the army of a country had no business entering the land of another country without good and just reason, or else it was merely opportunism of the basest kind. But the discrepancy between the Mamluks and the common people in every possible thing made me angry. The beys of the Mamluks were living a life of luxury, building palaces from the sweat and toil and moneys of the Egyptian people: they saddled their horses with gold and jewels, they wore silk shot through with gold and adorned with diamonds, they brandished the most modern weapons imported from London, and flashed around their Damascene shields encrusted with precious gems. Anyone could see the injustice under which the poor citizens were groaning from a single glance into the private gardens of the Mamluks, extending as far as the eye could see, filled with every bounty the earth had to offer, while the people could not find their daily bread.

  Entertainment was limited to boating on the Nile, sitting in cafés to smoke water pipes and chat, and the soldiers’ and officers’ only pleasure was riding the mules that ran like the wind. It was a common matter, then, to see the officers and their solders galloping at top speed through the narrow streets, amid the stares and questioning glances of the passersby. But the worst of it, the worst blow to the soldiers’ hopes and expectations, were the women of Egypt, of whom they had painted wondrous mental pictures of beauty and coquetry—hopes that were dashed when they encountered reality. The women in this country are of two types: respectable harem women and wives, whom no eye may see: they pass by you in a flash, concealed under layers of clothing in mule- or horse-drawn carts. The second type are prostitutes and belly dancers who can be seen in their revealing clothing in alleys and cafés all over. They have lost whatever lissome litheness they may have once had, and have a vulgar and common manner; they harass and pester you so badly that it is best to stay away from them.

  During my wanderings, I discovered a small island between Cairo and Giza, called Roda. It is the island where the Nilometer rests. It is covered with many varieties of trees and plants of varying forms and colors, the perfume of which wafts over you from hundreds of meters away. To me, this island was the loveliest thing in all the city: I went there from time to time to take the air in its gardens, inhale the scent of flowers, and enjoy the refreshing breezes of the Nile, watching the boats that came and went bearing people from one shore to the other: tradesmen, older gentlemen, and laborers. The most beautiful of these boats were painted in gold, and these were private crafts whose owners engaged in a friendly rivalry as to who could build the most luxurious and eye-catching boat, and even encrusted them with gems and all manner of stones.

  Cairo: July 1798

  After we had been in Egypt for a short time, everything began to take on a French character. Restaurants and cafés sprang up serving French food and drink; the Jews and Greeks who manufactured wine and had sold alcoholic drinks in secret now hung out shingles in French and Arabic announcing that they served alcohol. The streets of Cairo acquired a distinctly Parisian aspect: not only because of the new cleanliness and order which Napoleon had been careful to impose since his arrival, but due to the names of the stores that were now written in French. The goods in the stores were now imported from Spain, France, and Italy, and it was now a simple matter to find a store selling French hats and perfumes.

  My presence in this country was different from that of the other men of the Campaign, who cared only for fulfilling the general’s commands, whatever they were. They fought and battled with great gusto, despite their differing beliefs, mobilized by a single idea: everything they were doing, they were certain, was a national duty. As for me, I was certain that Napoleon was in Egypt out of greed, wishing to build a French empire in the East, making him the Emperor of the East and West. Egypt had been chosen by him for its strategic location and its many natural resources, and more importantly, the weakness of its ruling class. Since he could not rule over a mere substratum of ignorant riffraff, he had brought with him scientists, architects, engineers, experts, doctors, and artists of every stripe, to beautify this new empire and make it worthy of his name and status when he finally appointed himself proud emperor of all he surveyed. To achieve this end, he cared nothing for the wives he had widowed, the children he had orphaned, or the households that were now in mourning.

  While the men of the Scientific Campaign were pursuing their research and discovery day and night, I went out to explore the world living around me. I wanted to see behind these smiling faces, accepting the fate that befell them and theirs. Day and night, their bathhouses were filled with men and women, their cafés were filled with patrons, their Nile was filled with flowing water. I walked through the narrow alleyways, from place to place and path to path, drawing faces, customs, manners. Little girls playing primitive games; little boys wrapping turbans that looked too large for their emaciated bodies around their heads in imitation of their elders; I walked through the markets glutted with goods, where the tradesmen laid out their wares to dazzle the eyes of the customers and lure them to stop to test the quality of a fabric or the strength of a carpet. The tradesmen’s voices rose up in organized song, at the sound of which a customer could not but stop and buy.

  The more I walked, the more the various aromas assaulted my nose, smells that filled the streets: the scents of spices, fresh fruit, delicious sweetmeats, grilled meats, and fried fish. Tables were spread out outside the doors of restaurants with cane chairs set at them and bolsters stuffed with straw; and the cooks, in embellished costumes and mighty turbans, their great paunches extending what seemed like meters before them, offering the delicious dishes prepared by their own hands. “We have the most delicious food you ever tasted!” they boast. Whenever the smell tempted me, I would go into a restaurant and sit there to watch the street bustle all around me. Once, opposite a restaurant, I found a café with a group of men sitting and smoking water pipes and playing cards. Another time, I saw a camel burdened with a heavy load, who almost ran over a small boy hanging onto the hem of his mother’s gallabiya: the woman screamed at the camel driver and a fight ensued, whereupon people gathered around them and separated them, each eventually going their way and smiles once again winning the day.

  This is life in Cairo: it has a magical side that enchants me and makes me want to leave everything behind and go out to draw and paint. What is war and conquest to me? This man who has appointed himself a god wishes me to paint them and him, in battle on his horse. I cannot. I can only paint and draw that which tempts me, and I have never felt life batter at my defenses and push me bodily toward my easel as I do in this life here today, among the Egyptians, this strange people who, in spite of everything, find small ways to celebrate and to smile.

  My stay in this country has forced me to live as its people do. I follow their customs and manners and respect them so that I can live in peace among them and get to know them better, in hopes that they may accept me. But I have set limits to this: I do not chase after their world like General Jacques-François Menou, who changed his religion and married a woman of Egypt, had himself circumcised and put on a gallabiya and turban. Did Menou convert to Islam out of conviction? Or was it his love for Zubayda that made him do so?

  Without warning, the image of Zeinab came to my mind, and her smile, radiant like the sun, was there, pushing away the darkness of my life and spreading light in its stead. Her smile grew broader, dimpling deeper and deeper. My heart beat faster with my love for her. It started with light beats, then grew stronger and stronger still, until it crashed through the doors of my heart, and she burst in and is now seated on the throne. Yes, I am in love with this girl; I will do anything to be close to her.

  A noise roused me from my reverie. A group of people had gathered in a street around a conjurer doing tricks in a café. Their applause and cheering revealed the most common two types of people that one is likely to see in the streets and alleyways of Cairo: the water carrier and the carter. Each of these has his own market
, and a trading center with its own systems and rules. They are both extremely important for the Egyptians: water only comes with water carriers, who carry bags of deerskin upon their backs, and brass cups in their hands, their faces leathery from the sun and tanned to an attractive dark shade. Similarly, the only means of transportation are mules and donkeys.

  I must confess that these scenes gave me the energy that brought me back to life: I go back to my studio filled with renewed passion to depict everything I have seen within the four corners of a painting. I painted a street scene, the mule market, and here I am, almost done with the painting of the water carrier. I painted him groaning under the weight of the bag upon his back, and in spite of the clear fatigue on his face that has been baked by the sun like a round of pita bread, he was smiling at the woman to whom he was giving his water.

  19

  Yasmine watched an episode of her grandmother’s favorite Turkish soap opera with her that evening, to keep her company. The events of the soap were like a black-and-white movie whose story she had seen repeated scores of times and knew by heart, but she feigned surprise and amusement while the old woman laughed wholeheartedly or cried bitterly from scene to scene.

  Eventually, her grandmother went to bed, and Yasmine made herself a cup of coffee to banish the sleepiness that weighed down her eyelids. Then she went online.

  She was surprised that she had never made the acquaintance of Alton’s work before, despite his skillful brush and varied subjects. “How did he get past me?” she murmured to herself. She had studied eighteenth-century painting and its most prominent artists and schools of painting. Why had his works never caught the eye of critics and historians? All his works were in private collections, it appeared, not exhibited in public; although his work was every bit the equal of the great masters she had encountered, this was the fate of paintings and artists: either to shine, or to live forever in obscurity.

  Her eye was caught by a painting entitled Battle of the Pyramids. It was a scene of fighting between French and Egyptian forces in the desert beneath the Great Pyramid. No information about the work was available: again, only the name and the date.

  She was examining a painting entitled The Man of Life, a portrait of a water carrier in the streets of Cairo, before water had been piped into homes and cities. The man seemed to bear the weight of countless years upon his back, and he wore a short gallabiya, breeches, and leather boots up to his knees. A woman was holding out a pot to him into which he was pouring water, and it was clear that they knew each other from their air of easy familiarity. They seemed deep in friendly conversation: his eyebrows were knitted together and his eyes widened in surprise, as though she had let him in on some secret. She scrutinized these details of the painting and felt she was part of the scene, standing between the pair and listening to their conversation, almost able to hear the man’s gruff voice and smell the woman’s perfume. She looked more closely at the woman: she was wearing a white habara veil and her face was covered with a silken scarf; only her wide black eyes showed. She looked deeper and deeper into those eyes: she knew them. “Oh!” she suddenly found herself crying out. “It’s her! It’s her! It’s Zeinab!” Surely, this was the most powerful clue yet that this was the artist of her painting.

  She wrapped up her research for the night, falling asleep overjoyed with this new lead.

  The next morning she went straight to the office of Dr. Khalil, who welcomed her with a broad smile, as was his habit. “Good morning!” he said warmly. “I sense something important behind this visit.”

  “Yes,” she smiled, “there is.” She told him about the art site and the painting she had found online the day before, and the resemblance between Zeinab in the water carrier painting and the other one, and handed over her iPad to show him.

  Khalil took his time examining and comparing the two paintings. “Yes,” he said at long last, “there is a strong resemblance, particularly around the eyes. But we can’t say for certain that it’s the same girl. The veil covers part of her eyes, and you can barely make out one of the irises.”

  “The irises are the eyes.”

  “Wait,” he said. He connected the iPad to his printer and printed out the painting of Zeinab. With a pencil, he sketched out a veil covering the girl’s face. When he was done, he returned to the other painting, comparing his copy with the penciled-in veil with the painting on the screen. He looked from one to the other, expressions of surprise and perplexity chasing one another across his face. “Yes,” he admitted finally, “there is a strong resemblance. Still, I couldn’t say for certain that it is the same person.”

  Although the picture of Zeinab in her newly acquired veil did resemble the woman in the painting, Dr. Khalil had not positively confirmed it. Still, that did not sway her from her task: she knew what Khalil was like, a meticulous art historian who would not say anything for certain unless he had proof positive in his hand. When something was almost certain, he would never lean one way or the other, which was just how he was in his profession. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I’ve got to get to class.”

  She was distracted, and her students noticed. They exchanged glances and smiles, especially when she misspoke and said an artist’s name wrong, then caught herself with an apology, only to make the same mistake once more. Heavens, what’s wrong with me? she thought to herself. I’ve got to get my head in order. On the way home, a horn blaring from the car behind her prodded her to notice that the light had turned green and the cars had started to move, while she was still lost in thought.

  Cairo: December 1798

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Zeinab.”

  “Yes? And who’s Zeinab?”

  The woman spoke with a haughty air, looking at the girl with derision. “I am Zeinab,” the girl replied, “the daughter of Sheikh Khalil al-Bakri.”

  The woman snorted. “And is this any way for the daughter of a sheikh to dress?”

  Zeinab had no idea how she was supposed to respond. She had no experience with the slyness and cunning that some women possess. She merely lowered her head without a word.

  “But tell me,” the woman said, “why are you here?”

  “The general sent for me.”

  “The general? Which general?”

  “Bonaparte.”

  The woman pointed at her as though she was an insect. “You? Bonaparte sent for you to come here?” Then she burst into gales of laughter.

  Nearby, Rostom was standing and watching what was going on between them. He approached them. “The general invited her,” he snapped at the woman, “and is awaiting her in his private suite.”

  Zeinab noticed that Rostom was greatly changed from the way he had looked when he used to work for them. He was more elegantly attired, positively glowing in an embroidered jacket adorned with gold and diamonds, his gem-encrusted Damascene sword hanging at his waist, a dagger in his jacket pocket. Clearly, he was now a man of some standing in this palace, for the woman fell silent at once and obeyed his command without a word. Rostom’s words, which had silenced her, bore the hidden meaning: ‘Don’t interfere in matters which are none of your business.’ Her face darkened and filled with disgruntlement and jealousy, twisting her attractive features.

  Rostom took Zeinab by the hand and took her up to Bonaparte’s suite. He whispered to her, “Take care. He loves to pinch ears until they redden.” Spontaneously, she found her hands rising to her ears, but she thought, If it’s only ear pinching he wants, that’s safe enough.

  This time was different from the previous one. She was clearly unhappy and preoccupied; after all, she was in love now, and her heart beat for another man. She had realized now that the heart meant more than all the gold medals that glittered on Bonaparte’s military tunic, more than the feather on his tricorne. She stood at the door of the room, transfixed, thinking. What if he touched her, or kissed her, or asked her to share his bed? What could she do in that case? So many thoughts burned through her young head. Coul
d she push him away? Run? Cry? Scream? What could she do, powerless as she was? Perhaps he would let her go if she told him that his touching her was a sin in her religion, punishable by stoning to death.

  He was sitting in his chair, his legs extended in front of him, propped on the chair opposite. Rostom approached him and bent to whisper into his ear. Bonaparte nodded and commanded him to leave. Alone with her, he looked thoughtfully at her for a while. His eyes appeared filled with thought, and his visage was dark. In a tone filled with guilt and blame he asked her, “Are you telling anyone of what goes on between us?”

  She shook her head violently. He could barely make out her “No.”

  “Do you believe it yourself?” he asked. “What goes on between us?” He went on staring at her. “Have you ever asked yourself why you are here, for instance?”

  “No.”

  He rose languidly, walking toward the bed and sitting on the edge. He motioned to her to come over. With halting steps she came and sat next to him. When she looked down, he took her by the chin and lifted her head, forcing her to look at him. “I like the way you smell,” he said. “It is a smell that owes nothing to perfumes; it is the smell of nature.” He thought deeply, then went on in a near-whisper, as though talking to himself, “The soil after rain. Fresh-cut grass. Seaweed on the shore at night.” Drawing closer to her, he added, “I hope that time never changes it. Time never lets anything alone.”

  His voice changed, his face overcome with some sadness, a veil falling over his eyes all of a sudden. He bolted up, and began pacing to and fro across the room. “Would you believe me if I told you,” he said, “that my schoolmates made fun of me? Some of them even called me ‘Old Saggy-Stockings.’ Others called me ‘Corsican,’ because I originally come from that island. They mocked me because my French had an Italian accent. It showed as soon as I opened my mouth.” He paced back again. “That was why I abandoned everyone, all friends, always alone, with only books for company. When I entered military school at eleven years old, I was the only student who spent all his free time in the library, reading books on history and battles. I saw myself in every hero.” He came to a stop at the window. Standing silhouetted in it with his back to her, hands clasped behind his back, he continued his monologue. “Do you know the real reason I came here?” he asked. “It’s Alexander the Great. He made himself an empire and established his awe-inspiring rule in this part of the world. This is a land that makes heroes of men, and makes heroes immortal. The mighty pharaohs are looking down upon us now, to see what we shall make of their land. They cheered when we arrived to rid their descendants of poverty and backwardness, and the reign of the Mamluks.” His voice softened. “Do you know? I wept when the Sphinx’s nose was broken off. We came here to build a civilization, not to destroy it.” His next words were barely audible. “But was there not some moral to the breaking of his nose? It might be a good omen, indicating that this land and its people, with its blessings and its beauty and its ugliness, too, would be putty in our hands, and that I was to become the Emperor of East and West.”