by Jo Chumas
Why do I live as a caged animal, constrained only because I am a woman when I want to do so much? Alexandre has told me all about his allegiance with the Nationalists and how he is part of the movement to overthrow the British and sever their stranglehold of our country once and for all. He is free. He can make a difference. One day this will be me, I pray to God, this will be me.
CHAPTER SIX
Aimee had no trouble getting Sophie to agree to go to the literary launch with her. Conversation over, she replaced the telephone in the cradle and went to get changed. Two days had passed since her meeting with Professor Langham. He hadn’t telephoned with any news of work or any more information that could help the police. Perhaps Langham really couldn’t remember anything of any interest about Azi’s mood and activity in the weeks before his death.
She thought about her husband. Would he be angry with her if he could see her longingly finger the lovely red satin dress her aunt Saiza had bought for her when she had first arrived in Cairo? She shivered. Azi had loved her in that dress, thinking its fiery colour a complement to her pale skin and black hair. The fit was perfect too, beautifully tailored to accentuate the emerging curves of a young lady. Tonight she would wear her hair up, the way Azi had liked it. Tonight she would go out for him, make a big effort to sparkle. At school she had worn starched shirts and simple ankle-length wool skirts and black boots. The nuns had taught the girls how to make their own uniforms, for economy’s sake as much for the grace of God. God, Aimee had been told, had no time for vanity. Simplicity was the first rule of presentation.
Yet Maman had given birth to her in a robe made of gold thread, her aunt had told her. That birthing robe was a symbol of her heritage, a symbol of the royal blood that coursed through her veins.
Stained with the blood of new royalty, the golden robe had been passed down through the generations. Aimee had been born straight into the arms of her aunt Saiza, and her tiny, misshapen slippery body had been washed with coconut oil. From gold thread to starched shirts and invisibility, the road didn’t make sense. It was hardly a normal trajectory.
A little while later, Aimee was in the car with Sophie. Their driver, Sophie’s dragoman—employed by the Continental Hotel where Sophie had a private suite, paid for by Tony Sedgewick—knew the whereabouts of Zaky Achmed’s house. It was at the end of a wide lane, away from the main souk of al-Qadima, a fashionable residential area with lovely old houses.
Sophie tapped the window of the car, and the driver stopped. Aimee stepped out onto the pavement, and rang the doorbell while Sophie instructed the dragoman on the hour he should return.
A small pretty woman opened the door and introduced herself as Achmed’s sister. She led the way up some stairs and along a maze of corridors to a large room at the rear of the house, atmospherically lit with fashionable lamps and tables of thick honey-coloured candles.
The room opened onto a large balcony filled with men and women deep in conversation. The room smelt of spice, leather brogues, and floral perfume laced with musk. The scent of Shalimar by Guerlain, liberally applied by the ladies, tickled Aimee’s nose. She overheard a group of women speaking Turkish, others speaking French. Laughter. Shouting. Jazz. Snake-hipped boys with greasy faces carried trays of delicacies. Sophie whispered to Aimee that she had spotted the friend of a friend who disappeared. Achmed, fetched by his sister, emerged from a crowd of animated intellectuals.
“Madame Ibrahim, I’m so glad you came. Your aunt has told me so much about you.”
Aimee smiled and extended her hand. Achmed was a short rotund man of about thirty with dark tightly curled hair receding past his ears. His brown eyes gazed kindly at her. His mouth was full and downturned. Dressed in an immaculate pale suit and tie, he clutched a small silver cigarette case.
“I knew your husband, Madame. I’m so terribly sorry for what happened.”
Aimee examined him carefully before she said anything.
“I am not sure if my husband mentioned you,” she said. “It is possible, but as you can imagine—”
He bowed amiably and put up his hand. “Please, it’s quite all right. It’s such a sad day that we meet in these circumstances. I have been away, teaching at a country school in the Delta. Perhaps that’s why you may not have been aware of me. But I used to work with your husband at the university. He was a wonderful man, an honest friend, a good sport—”
Achmed produced a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes. She touched him briefly on the arm, and he tried to pull himself together, smiling once more and turning to wave to a group of men talking in the corner.
“A few of Azi’s friends are here,” he said. “I’ll introduce you, but first I’d like you to meet my wife.” He wiped his nose and replaced his handkerchief in his jacket pocket.
“You have children, Monsieur?” Aimee enquired.
“Yes, four daughters. They’re in the sitting room with some of my cousins. They must go to bed soon, but if you’ll wait just a moment, I will have them fetched.”
“Are you expecting many people here tonight?” Aimee asked Achmed, scanning the faces of the men and women already present.
“The more the better, Madame,” he replied, and she saw his eyes glitter happily as four young girls approached from the other side of the room.
“These are your daughters, Monsieur?” Aimee smiled. “They’re lovely.” The girls appeared to be between five and ten years old. They curtsied politely and gave a little bow. They were dressed identically in tight dresses of pink lace with sleeveless bodices, gathered at the waist with red satin ribbon.
“Daughters, this is Madame Ibrahim, the wife of Professor Abdullah Ibrahim, Uncle Azi as you remember him.” Achmed coughed, then added, “It seems that my wife is detained at the moment.”
“Good evening, Madame,” the little girls said with uniform sweetness.
“This is Naima, Huda, Attilya, and Luisa,” Achmed said with pride.
“Luisa?” Aimee looked at Achmed quizzically. “Surely that’s not an Egyptian name.”
“A friend of my wife is Italian,” Achmed explained, smiling. “We thought it a beautiful name. She is the youngest, and we felt we could be a little freer with our choice.”
Aimee studied the girls carefully, their soft, cherubic faces, big black wandering eyes, their glistening black hair smoothed into two gleaming plaits. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man eyeing her. Tall and smartly dressed in a dark suit, he stepped forward and placed his hands indelicately on the shoulders of the tallest of Achmed’s daughters. The girl did not flinch and simply stood there, looking up at the man as though she knew him. Achmed’s eyes narrowed slightly. Aimee saw a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of the head, a flash of knowledge, some secret message, relayed to whom, she did not know. Then Achmed smiled at the man who stood so protectively close to his daughters. She looked at Achmed, then back at the man. In his midforties, he had a dark Mediterranean-olive complexion. His night-black eyes stared at her unwaveringly from under arched eyebrows. He had no trace of a fashionable moustache or the much-loved Arab beard. Who was he?
“Achmed, I knew you’d be behind Monument and your writers,” the man said with a laugh. His voice was low and seductive, and he obviously knew Achmed very well.
Achmed smiled at his daughters, then pushed them gently away. They retreated to the other side of the room.
“I had no idea you’d be coming tonight,” Achmed said soberly.
Farouk grinned as he took a cigarette case slowly out of his pocket and nonchalantly lit a pale Turkish cigarette.
“You didn’t think I’d miss the chance to profile your launch, did you? This kind of thing is perfect fodder for the paper. I love a good book launch. Any chance to write about the burgeoning talent of Cairo’s literati.”
Aimee shuffled uncomfortably.
“Well, Achmed, aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest? I’m sure this young lady must think you’ve no manners.”
&n
bsp; Achmed turned to Aimee.
“Madame, let me introduce you to the editor of one of Cairo’s newspapers, the Liberation, Taha Mohammod Farouk. Farouk,” Achmed went on, “this is the wife of an acquaintance of yours. Madame Abdullah Ibrahim.”
Farouk shook Aimee’s hand, his eyes devouring hers, taking in her softness and warmth. He studied her features curiously. He had not seen eyes like hers since his time in northern Afghanistan. How beautiful she was, such an exquisite face, such a young girl.
“Madame.”
Aimee shivered. She didn’t like the way he was staring at her.
Farouk went on. “I’m so sorry about your husband. I met him briefly a few months ago, at—let me see, a function given at the university.”
Aimee smiled with effort. She was sick of smiling at strangers, sick of making polite conversation. She suddenly regretted coming to the launch. It turned out she did not really feel like being out in company.
“I got the impression from our brief encounter that your husband was very ambitious,” Farouk went on. “Such a brilliant theorist and speaker on all subjects. He would have made an excellent politician, but instead he wanted to put the world to right using the long and dreary intellectual strategies of academia. If only he had used his intellect more wisely, but then, I can see he had excellent taste in matters of beauty.”
Aimee straightened her back and flushed scarlet. Swallowing hard, she scanned the room for Sophie, searching for some excuse to leave.
“I don’t think he mentioned you, Monsieur. I think he would have told me if he had met the editor of a newspaper like the Liberation.”
Farouk looked at her with surprise.
“I see,” he said, frowning. “I’m sure—oh well, Azi Ibrahim had many friends. It’s quite possible. Anyway, he was a young man with a great future ahead of him. I liked him very much on first meeting and was shocked and disturbed when I found out about his death.”
Aimee’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t know what to make of this man. She was not sure if she liked him. There was something about his mouth, his eyes, something that she couldn’t identify, but that she found disturbing. “You’re kind, Monsieur. But my husband is gone, and my only concern now is that his murderer is found.”
Unable to take his eyes off the girl, Farouk took a long draw on his cigarette. How cool she was, how calm. Azi’s confident young wife was one of a new breed of Egyptian women. But she was so young. He knew women like her. Perhaps her confidence was an act. She looked so virginal, so pure; yet she had married Ibrahim and was no doubt properly a woman in every sense, perhaps cunning, perhaps secretive, perhaps in possession of the type of information Littoni would give his eyeteeth for. Maybe Littoni had been right about the girl.
“A gang of thugs, no doubt, Madame. I regret your husband’s death, but I have no time for emotion or sentimentality. Your husband was spared the fate that will soon come to so many of our men. The Egyptian Army must prove itself. The Anglo-Egyptian Treaty has done nothing for the self-esteem of our soldiers. The British government is supposed to be supporting the Egyptian Armed Forces. Academics like our friend, your husband, Abdullah Ibrahim, will be prime fodder for eventual conscription. Before too long, your beloved academic husband would have had to don a soldier’s uniform. He would have been out there in the desert, fighting the Germans. All of al-Qahire’s young men are destined to succumb to some sort of North Africa campaign.”
Farouk did not really care about the Egyptian Armed Forces or the Western Desert military lieutenants whose ultimate goal lay in strategic war manoeuvres. He knew his words would mean nothing to a young girl like Ibrahim’s wife.
“It does not alter the fact that the police are taking their time finding Azi’s killer,” Aimee said bitterly.
Farouk nodded. “It is likely they’re occupied with other things they consider more important. Even as we speak, officers of the Egyptian Army are preparing extensive plans on how to fortify the city against attack. Twenty-three strategic sites have been pinpointed against the Italians and Germans. Cairo is shrinking into itself. Who knows if we will get out alive? And all the while, we are being entertained by the up-and-coming cultural elite of the city. We are enjoying a drink and good company. Perhaps we should be ashamed of ourselves. Perhaps the Almighty has been kinder to your husband than you think.”
Aimee recoiled in horror. She had no patience for the likes of this man. And she had no desire to be lectured. Though she trembled inside, she was determined to speak her mind. As she spoke, she regretted her youth and inexperience.
“My husband was passionate about education, Monsieur. You talk about my husband becoming a soldier and joining the war like all the other young men, but he was arming young Egyptian men with a better weapon to fight injustice—knowledge. You talk about him fighting this war, of perhaps dying a noble death, but he has not been given the chance to serve his country. His life was taken from him by criminals. He will never be able to serve Egypt again, either by educating its young men, or by defeating the Germans.”
Seeing that he had offended her, Farouk bowed and smiled in a conciliatory manner.
“Please forgive me. I suppose I have become unnecessarily hard. Nothing shocks me anymore. My poor beloved Cairo has suffered so much over the years. And death comes to everyone eventually. If I seem brutal, I apologise. You are young after all. Your husband was a good man. He did not deserve what happened to him.”
He bit his lip and their eyes met again. She wondered why he was studying her so closely. She stared into his mesmerising eyes, wondering what secret thoughts lay beneath. If he was the editor of the Liberation—a newspaper of some repute in Cairo—he must have contacts in the underworld; he must know someone who might be able to help her find Azi’s killer.
Farouk dug in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a card with his telephone number on it. “Here, if you ever need me,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I might be able to be of some use to you, you never know.”
A shudder slithered down Aimee’s spine. She studied the card and slipped it in her handbag.
“Thank you, I’m not sure—”
“You’re French,” Farouk broke in, trying to lighten the mood. “How do you find our city? Does it live up to your expectations, or do you long to return to your homeland?”
“I’m as Egyptian as you,” Aimee said defiantly.
Farouk shook his head in confusion and studied her features more closely. She didn’t look Egyptian exactly. There was something about her that perplexed him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“I see. And do you plan to help with the war effort? You will work for the war?”
His inquisitive thin smile put her on edge.
“I’ll do whatever I can. I don’t want to be idle. I owe it to the memory of my husband to do as much as I can. Women should not sit by and let the work be done by men alone. I have no children, and my husband’s family is leaving for America soon. If the people of Cairo can work together to support the soldiers, we must do so. I’m good at languages. Translating, interpreting. I’ll find something to do.”
“Your husband would have been very proud of you. You sound very determined and resourceful—admirable qualities in a young lady.”
A hot, irritated shudder prickled her skin again.
“I must go now, Monsieur. I’ve just spotted my friend Sophie on the other side of the room, and I want to introduce myself to Monsieur Achmed’s wife.”
“Don’t forget to telephone me, Madame, if I can be of service.”
Aimee nodded, offered him a vague smile, and turned to Zaky Achmed. “Would you take me to your wife? I would very much like to meet her.”
Achmed edged away and went to find his wife. Aimee followed. But she could feel Farouk’s eyes on her. Their meeting had intrigued her. He was a strange character, abrupt and hard, lacking in social graces despite offering to help her, but that aside, he was almost certainly someone who would be usefu
l to know. All the noise, the celebratory clapping of hands, the deafening laughter, the readings by the poets, the music and the animated chatter—none of it could stop her from thinking about the man on the other side of the room. She decided to make an effort to enjoy the party. From time to time, she looked over in Farouk’s direction and saw him deep in conversation with other men. Their brief exchange had disturbed her. He had spoken so coldly about her husband, as though his death had been as natural to him as the sun rising. It was almost as though death and murder were nothing to him. She shivered a little.
When she and Sophie eventually decided to leave, she looked around the large room one last time to see if she could spot him, but he had vanished.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 18, 1919
I am at the Theatre Madeleine near the Tahrir Bridge. As a present for my birthday, Virginie gave me tickets to see La Jolie Madame. I am sitting in the sultan’s private box with two of my half sisters. I am covered from head to foot. Over my face I am wearing my niqāb. We are accompanied by our aghas, Rachid and Tindoui. I had to ask Papa for permission to go, and, surprisingly, even though Maman is furious, he defied her and said I could.
Monsieur Alexandre is sitting in a private box next to ours with his sister. He cannot see my face, but I can feel his eyes on me. I saw him bow discreetly in my direction. He is dressed in government uniform, a dark fitted jacket and a tarboush. He has adopted the dress and the standards of our country, because, my tutor tells me, he has taken al-Qahire into his heart and considers himself one of us.
As he looks out over the stage, I stare at him, pulling my niqāb closer to my face, gripping it, my heart beating wildly. Little beads of perspiration have gathered at the base of my spine, and my belly feels as though it is hollowing out with nervous anticipation and desire. This is the first time I have seen him in weeks. I don’t know what is going to happen to us after I go to Minya. I want to be his amour. Will we be able to continue? I try not to think about this for the moment though. He wrote me a letter last week, which was delivered in the usual way, through Virginie at our lessons. I read that he has become involved in an underground branch of the Egyptian Nationalists and that he wants me to help him. He has a job for me, and this knowledge fills me with joy. He asked me in his letter to tell no one, not even Virginie. He wants me to prove to him that I am sincere in my desire to help ordinary Egyptians and wants me to go with him to a meeting of his group, out in the desert. My heart was racing as I read his words. I had withdrawn to a corner of the room to read the letter in private, and it was hard to keep my features serene and unexpressive, but I succeeded. When I finished his letter, I ripped it into little pieces, then returned to my lessons.