by Jo Chumas
Madame Virginie sits very erect in her startlingly turquoise silk dress, hiding behind a beautiful ivory-coloured fan. The play is long and tedious. I cannot concentrate.
Alexandre’s attention is not on the play either. Every now and again he looks over at me, and I notice a faint smile.
The play ends. We stand. The audience applauds the actors, and then they applaud us. We bow at them and leave our private box, marched by Tindoui and Rachid to our horse-and-trap waiting for us outside. As my sisters and I prepare to step in, Virginie approaches. She pulls me aside and invites me to have supper with her at her house in Zamalek. My heart expands with excitement at the prospect.
I nod and press her hand. She says she will expect me at my convenience. I tell her that as soon as our driver has escorted the ladies back to the palace harem, our driver will continue on to Virginie’s house. Rachid will accompany me. It is unusual that I should make such a trip on my own, but because Rachid is accompanying me and because the invitation has come from a dear friend of the sultan’s family, it will not be viewed as shameful.
I climb into our carriage and sit with my sisters. As we are driven through the streets, I break my news. Even in the dark, I can see my sisters’ eyes twinkling at my adventure. I say nothing to suggest that my visit to Virginie is anything more than an innocent supper party for her and her special lady guests.
“Rachid will escort me home,” I say, waving them good-bye at the palace gates as Tindoui escorts my veiled sisters through the palace to the harem. On we go to Zamalek. I pull my veil down over my face as I step out of the carriage and, accompanied by Rachid, I mount the steps to the front door. Virginie opens the door herself. She smiles. She says she has been waiting for me. She is excited, she says. Did I enjoy the play? Would I care for refreshments in her sitting room?
I dismiss Rachid. Virginie tells him he can go to the kitchen. Her boy-servants are preparing a supper feast, and he is welcome to have whatever he likes.
I follow Virginie. We walk up the stairs together with arms linked. She unfurls my veil and looks into my eyes.
“He’s here,” she whispers. I nod, hardly able to speak.
“I know,” I reply.
“I will leave you alone for a time. No one will disturb you. As you know, my husband is away in Malta. My servants are under my supervision. They will not go to the second-floor sitting room.”
“Why are you doing this, Virginie?” I ask her, holding her hands in mine.
“I want you to be happy, Hezba,” she says, hugging me.
I wish she were my mother, my sister. I cannot imagine a kinder or better person than she. She knows that al-Shezira is on his way from Minya to get me. She knows that I hate him. She knows too that I dream of being allowed to divorce him, but she knows this will never be allowed. Still, despite this knowledge, she does not judge me. She wants me to be happy. She leads me to the door of the sitting room, pushes it open, and nudges me in with a little laugh. Alexandre is standing by the divan. He is smiling. He says nothing. I stand with my back to the door and unravel my veil, then remove it entirely. For what seems like an eternity, we stand at opposite ends of the room, staring at each other. I step forward with my heart in my mouth and clear my throat.
“Monsieur Alexandre,” I say.
He puts his finger to his mouth and comes to me, enfolding me in his arms.
“We don’t have long, Hezba,” he whispers.
I bury my face in his neck, wrap my arms around his neck, and inhale his scent. I feel warm and protected. Then I look up at him and say, “Is it all arranged?”
He nods and looks into my eyes. “We’re meeting next week at Kerdassa. You must come. Do anything you can to come. I am going to discuss the whole operation with my men, the Rebel Corps. But we need the money you promised us. Can you bring it with you?”
I assure him that I will have it. I have been amassing my allowance for a long time, and it has turned into a small fortune, which I keep locked in a jewelled box in my rooms. Alexandre needs it more than I do. He asks me to sit with him on the divan. Then he gently folds me in his arms once more and reaches for my mouth with his own. I tremble inside. I stare into his dark eyes, and I see the love he feels for me shining there. He holds my chin as he kisses me. Then he pulls me closer. Lying back, I let him press his body onto mine. He is gentle and loving. He does not force himself on me like al-Shezira used to. I feel his hands on my flesh and I shudder inside. I desire only to be with him, to feel the pressure of him inside me, to extinguish the entire world so that no one exists except for us.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Littoni closed up the Café Malta early and pushed through the crowds towards Sharia Suleyman Pasha. No time like the present, he thought sinisterly. He would risk it. If he could force his way into the girl’s house, he might find something. One of the sector members had flagged up the girl as a key player in Issawi’s band of spies. Issawi’s men were planning a massive counteroffensive; that much was obvious from the information the Khan el-Khalili sector members had gleaned. He’d tried to play things down with Farouk—who was a dead man anyway. Farouk was old, a shadow of his former self, and he wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. Littoni just wanted him out of the way. Littoni had been told Abdullah Ibrahim, the murdered man, had had a coded document in his possession with key information, maps of underworld Cairo, terrorist lairs, and entry points to strategic sites. With this document decoded, Littoni would have the last piece of the puzzle. Though he already knew a good deal, he wanted this document. So it figured that it was now at the girl’s house. Farouk was useless. The only thing to do now was to search her house for information himself.
With the girl out at Achmed’s launch and Farouk on her tail, the chances were good that her housekeeper, if she had one, would have gone home—and if she hadn’t, well, Littoni had never been afraid to use his fists. He wasn’t afraid of a woman.
Though the sun had set, the heat was still stifling. He tugged at his shirt collar and pulled out another cigarette from a tin in his jacket pocket, lighting it as he walked. He lowered his hat to partially shield his eyes, thinking some more about Farouk. He had a reputation for stalling, buying himself time. Littoni had seen him do it before. The time to act was now.
If he were honest with himself, he wondered why he hadn’t done away with Farouk long ago. He wouldn’t be missed. What would become of Farouk after the revolution? Littoni had not really given it much thought until now. Perhaps it would be better to eliminate Farouk.
For the moment, however, Farouk was in al-Qadima at Achmed’s house with the girl, and Littoni could proceed quietly with his plan. His heart pounded as he raced along the street, bumping into people as he passed. As he rushed towards the girl’s house, he went through the manoeuvre in his mind. Too wired to take a tram or a car, he found that walking fast gave him time to plan. He’d give himself fifteen minutes to do the job, not one minute more, in case she came home. He slipped down a narrow haret, found the archway into the courtyard, pushed open the iron gate, and was on the stone steps in a second. No lights were on. That was good. No one was home. He peered around him, his eyes darting in the gloom, searching the shadows for a human presence. He was alone. He gave the door a swift kick, felt it give a little, and decided that the door had been badly fitted. He pushed against it with his entire body and felt the frame give some more. His hands methodically and mechanically felt every part of the door frame for the weak points. Another shove. Still not quite there. Littoni raised his leg and kicked the lock panel. The door gave way. He was in.
He found himself in a dark narrow hallway. He stood for a moment to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. The hallway smelt faintly musty, as though the place had been shut up on a hot day. Once his eyes had adjusted to the slatted moonlight dappling the room, he saw the double doors leading to the living room. He entered and scanned the furniture. He walked over to the desk and gave the desktop a yank, dragging down the foldaway lip. Inside he
saw partitions for correspondence, envelopes. He flicked on a light and began pulling drawers out, searching, searching. Nothing. He spotted a small clutch of letters tied up with string and scanned them. No good. Wrenching open more drawers, he discovered a flat parcel tied up with string. He grabbed it and opened it. A notebook fell out. He flipped through it, held it upside down, and shook it. Nothing.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He ventured into the bedroom and lifted up the mattress, pushing it off the bed frame onto the floor. He wanted to find something there, a box with secret papers, but there was nothing. He flung open the doors of an armoire, found a suitcase, jacked it open, extracted a man’s suit, fumbled in the pockets, and pulled back a sheath of fabric hiding a revolver. Seeing that it was loaded, he slipped it in his pocket and stood up. His eyes darted around manically, his mouth was parched, and the sound of his heart was vibrating and crashing against his eardrum. He was running out of time. There must be a safe, a vault. He padded over the kilims, treading carefully in an effort to locate an uneven floorboard, something that would indicate a hiding place for secret papers. He went to the farthest corner of the house. Huge windows overlooked Sharia Suleyman Pasha. From the window, he saw a smart-looking car draw up and two women get out. A blond woman with ringlets looked up at the window and pointed. He drew back from the window, not wanting her to see him. The other, a dark-haired girl with pale skin, shook her head and kissed her friend four times on the cheek. Was she the girl? Already home from Achmed’s party? Littoni slipped invisibly through the darkness and hid in the shadows of the courtyard to wait for her.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 19, 1919
Papa is here. He has summoned his Fire to his library. I can’t wait to see him. He has been away too long. I am not sure how long he is in Cairo, but I must not waste another moment. I must go to him. Fire is the affectionate name he has for me. I used to sit on his knee, curl up in his lap, pull his moustache, and tickle his nose. Papa loved to stroke my face back then. As a young child, barely older than four, I remember him remarking how hot my forehead and cheeks were. Since then he has always called me Fire. Oh Papa.
I walk through the long corridors of the harem towards the salamlik and my father’s quarters. As I walk, I am transported back in time. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the five-year-old who is held down by her nurse and her eunuchs and her mother while she is circumcised and made pure, who screams in pain, who doesn’t understand why she is being mutilated. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the six-year-old who plays hide-and-seek with the other children of the palace. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the seven-year-old who is separated from her dear brother, Omar, and sent to live in the harem because that is the way of our people. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the eight-year-old who sings the suras of the Qur’an while Maman scolds me. “You should not sing them, child. Recite them with heart, not in a flippant voice full of light and joy. Be serious for once. Have some respect for the Prophet.”
I am the Fire of the Sarai with a voice that can be heard through the marble corridors, the great dining rooms, the bathhouse, the stables. I am the Fire who begs Papa for riding lessons and a horse, who promises to be a good girl forever. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the ten-year-old child who puts her arm around Papa’s shoulders and kisses him on the cheek, who dances and runs from room to room, who hides little poems under her maman’s pillow, wanting her love so badly, who writes verses about the sun and the moon and the silvery light that falls on the trees in the palace gardens at night.
I am the Fire of the Sarai, the young girl whose body is no longer hers, whose blood starts to flow, who is scrubbed of womanly impurities, who is stripped of all her body hair, who is perfumed and veiled. I am the Fire of the Sarai who is married as soon as she is old enough to be opened up, so she can bear children.
I shiver when I remember all these things, my girlhood taken from me. And now I have to face my destiny as a woman, a life segregated from the world when I want to be part of it. If you were a living thing, journal, flesh and blood, you would pray for me. My rendezvous with Monsieur Alexandre seems like a dream. He has asked me to go to the desert to be part of the Rebel Corps, but how can I if I am sent away? This is why Papa has called me to his study, to tell me the details and to prepare me for what is to come.
In front of me is the door to Papa’s library. I knock and open the door. It is a warm, welcoming room. I know every locked bookshelf, every floor tile, every chaise and leather tome intimately. I spend a lot of time here when Papa is away, just whiling away the hours, happy to be among knowledge and books. Papa does not like me lingering here, but he encourages me to take whatever volumes I want for my studies. He is sitting in his armchair near the window. I must make sure my eyes don’t wander as he speaks to me.
“Fire,” he says.
“Yes, Papa?”
“You know the time has come, don’t you, to be a wife again to your husband.”
My eyes become wet with tears.
“Papa?”
“You have not lived as your husband’s wife for nearly six years.”
I purse my lips and swallow. This is so difficult for me. To look at the face of the man I love, my father, and know that in my heart I am betraying him. I remain silent.
“Why don’t you answer me, Hezba daughter? You must know it’s your destiny to be a good wife to your husband and to have a child. Why do you insist on being so difficult? Why do you not rush to prepare yourself for his coming?”
“Papa, I—I don’t know how to answer you.”
“If you cannot talk to me, talk to your mother.”
“Maman won’t listen to me. She thinks I am impulsive. She thinks I have ideas that are too grand. She is not interested in anything I have to say.”
Papa cocks his head at me. “That is not true, Hezba daughter. Your mother wants what is best for you. She wants you to have a good life. She does not want the whole of Cairo to be talking about you. She does not want you to shame the name of the sultan. Nor do I. You know you are my favourite daughter, Hezba child, but I will not tolerate this behaviour for a moment longer.”
I stand before him and feel nothing but shame burning through me. I want to burst into tears, but I do not dare. Papa hates shows like that. It would upset him further. I decide to try and remain composed and wait for the awful news, which I know deep in my heart he is going to tell me, that al-Shezira will be here soon, and I will be robbed of my chance to go to Alexandre’s rendezvous in the desert.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Farouk didn’t stay long at Achmed’s literary launch. Ibrahim’s wife did not want to talk to him; that much was obvious. As he’d listened to speeches and the readings, and flicked through the book of poetry Monument, he had studied the girl’s demeanour, her facial expressions, the way she held herself in public, trying to get an idea of what type of person she was. No ordinary girl, he had concluded. Something of an aloof character, poised, holding herself well in her grief. There was nothing more he could do tonight. If he had tried too hard to befriend her, she might have gotten suspicious. Besides, he was only doing what Littoni had suggested to put him off guard.
He took a taxi to Jewel’s dead brother’s apartment in Abbassiya. Farouk found the building and let himself in through a dull brown door. Before closing the door, he swung round and shot a look at a cluster of children playing in the corridor. The door to their apartment was open, and a woman was moving between the apartment and the corridor, checking on the children. It was late. He could not imagine why they were up at this hour. Maybe the heat was keeping them up. He counted seven of them, and they were all eyeing him curiously. Seeing him, the woman gathered the children impatiently to her and ushered them back into her apartment.
He closed the door gently. The place was still furnished. Dust sheets had been thrown over the sofas, chairs, and tables. The air was musty and stale, and it was clear that no window had been opened in weeks. A fam
ily of dead cockroaches lay huddled by the doors to the balcony. He stood and listened, eyes darting in all directions. This building was occupied by hundreds of poor Egyptian families, who would take no notice of the comings and goings of his group. He knew that the Liberation offices in Bulac were being watched. The group had to keep moving fast to confuse onlookers. His houseboat was too public and his private mansion was out of bounds, a private place that few, if any, knew about. In the gloom, he fingered the dust sheets. A smile spread across his face, and his eyes twinkled darkly.
There was a knock at the front door, and it opened quietly. It was Mitwali, a tall, lean well-dressed youth of eighteen with thick black hair, a hooked nose, and wide-set eyes that pierced the gloom eagerly. Mitwali bowed at Farouk.
“You weren’t followed?”
Mitwali shook his head.
“What do you think?”
Mitwali was smiling. “Perfect. Far enough away, anonymous enough.”
“Exactly,” Farouk said. “You understand what is required of you, Mitwali?”