The Hidden

by Jo Chumas

  “You won’t like what you see at this club,” Farouk said after they had been walking for a while.

  Aimee did not know how to answer him. She simply stared ahead, trying to quell the anxiety flooding through her. Her head throbbed with the thought that Azi had been having an affair. She felt so young, so inexperienced. Azi had wanted more than she had been able to give him.

  “I need to see her in person,” she said quietly. “Surely you understand that?”

  She felt Farouk’s hand reach for hers in the darkness, and she let him take it.

  Aimee dared to look at him for a moment. His aged face softened when he met her gaze, becoming fuller, younger, as though he knew how she felt. Perhaps there had been a girl, long ago. Perhaps he understood how distraught she was, how much she had loved Azi.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” she asked him. Farouk fumbled in his pocket, produced one, and lit it for her. He watched her mouth tremble as she took the cigarette between her lips.

  “You don’t mind my smoking here in the street?” she asked him. “Azi used to hate it.”

  He shook his head and grinned, pointing up the street to the maze of narrow alleys and forbidden passageways.

  “The el-G is not far,” he said. “You’d better finish that before we get there.”

  Aimee inhaled slowly and looked around her. Everything seemed unfamiliar now. She didn’t know this neighbourhood. Azi would never have taken her to a place like this. It was rough and dirty. She puffed on her cigarette nervously.

  “Is it unusual for a woman like me to go to a club like this, Monsieur Farouk?” she asked him.

  “That depends. What type of woman are you, Madame?”

  She threw her head back and searched the sky for inspiration. She was hardly out of her girlhood, a young woman, a wife, a widow, the daughter of a royal bloodline but without any claim to it. She was unremarkable in the crowded streets of Wassa. She tried to see herself as others might see her: an Egyptian girl, not veiled, perhaps not yet married, for here she was out on the street with a strange man, who could be her brother, or perhaps an uncle.

  “I’m not sure, Monsieur, but I know I am certainly not familiar with places like these.”

  Farouk smiled and watched her closely. She was losing the prickly anxiety that had cloaked her when they had left her house. She had aged ten, maybe even fifteen years in the space of a few minutes, and she looked better for it, not so vulnerable. The nervous puffing of the cigarette indicated that she was still on edge, but the walk from her house to the club had obviously done her good.

  “You don’t have to worry too much. Although I’ve never seen a woman in the audience at the el-G before,” he said, “I know that women have been and do go there. Mostly European women, tourists who are after a little adventure or who are invited there as guests.”

  She looked up at him, amused. He was trying to protect her dignity. She knew what type of place the el-G was. As elite as its reputation was, it was still, essentially, a brothel.

  She threw her cigarette on the ground, stamped it out, and looked up at him. “How did you get that scar on your face?” she asked.

  Farouk’s hand flew to the silvery stripe that ran from his hairline to his jaw on the left side of his face.

  “It happened a long time ago, in the Libyan desert. I was a young man then and very foolish. I was in love, you see, and full of insane passion. The girl had a violent brother who did not want me to touch his sister. She had been promised to another, and I was getting in the way. He took his anger out on me, and I have the souvenir to prove it.”

  The speech was a convenient lie easily recited. As with so many things, Farouk knew he was a skilled actor, and he could tell from the look on her face that she believed him.

  “You must have loved her very much,” Aimee said vaguely. He didn’t say anything. There was no possible response. He gently steered her towards an archway, feeling her stiffen under his touch this time. He glanced at her face but could read nothing in its expression.

  “Are you all right, Madame?”

  “It’s no good,” she said bitterly, chewing her bottom lip, feeling suddenly vulnerable and very afraid. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Just stay close to me and don’t say anything. Just watch. Trust me.”

  They turned into Sharia Wagh-el-Birka, then down a few narrower streets, lit with duller lights. Farouk and Aimee shouldered past raucous Americans, laughing street girls on their way to work, and overfed businessmen carrying wads of notes in their greasy hands. Dirty glass shop-fronts displayed scantily clad Russian girls, who sat on stools and smoked while young men gaped.

  “The el-G’s a little farther up,” Farouk said, “towards Derb-el-Wasa’a.”

  Up ahead, Aimee saw the flashing neon blue light of the el-G. She held back, hiding like a coward behind Farouk.

  A fat Turk in a greasy fez, a black waistcoat, and stained white shirt stood guard. His huge face broke into a smile when he saw Farouk approaching. He shouted out to him in French.

  “Welcome. Monsieur. The club is busy tonight.”

  Farouk’s features were set hard, as he pushed past the doorman.

  “Yes, enter please.” The doorman bowed again, sweeping his arm to the left to usher him in. Farouk pulled Aimee from behind him, his arm outstretched around her.

  “Ah Monsieur,” the doorman said abruptly, putting a fat hand up to stop them.

  “I’m sorry, this is a gentleman’s club. No ladies are permitted inside.”

  Farouk stared slyly at the doorman.

  “This lady,” Farouk said slowly between gritted teeth, “is my wife. She’s coming in with me.”

  The doorman looked confused for a moment, and then a slow grin fanned out across his mouth. His filthy eyes consumed her. Aimee felt the slick seediness of his gaze crawling all over her. She shivered and looked away.

  “I can assure you, Monsieur, it is not customary, but if Monsieur wants to spice up his love life—perhaps his little lady would like to observe the pleasures of Madame Fatima—then who am I to come between the master and his wife.”

  The doorman grinned at them, showing off his decaying teeth. Aimee flushed a deep red, hating Farouk for possessing her, for calling her his wife, hating the grimy, sordid street they stood on, hating herself for pressuring him to bring her here.

  “Well then, enter, Monsieur and Madame, and enjoy yourselves.” He laughed hoarsely. Aimee swallowed hard. She stumbled behind Farouk down the slimy stairs to the basement below. She could hear laughter and music, and then the smell hit her. It was the smell of damp, the smell of tombs, of strange burning oils, of death spiked with wilting flowers starting to rot. Farouk led her through a door to a large, dimly lit room filled with hordes of men sitting at small dining tables. On each white-cloth-covered table was a tiny ruby-red lamp with a low burning bulb, surrounded by clusters of glasses and ashtrays. Aimee scanned the crowd, which—according to Farouk—comprised a mix of soldiers on leave, Turkish and Maltese businessmen, Egyptian men, and university types—all of whom had been lured here by the prospect of seeing Fatima. All of them appeared to be transfixed by the empty stage in front of them, their eyes trained on the multicoloured sequinned curtain shimmering before them. They were waiting for the next act, their hearts beating in a wild, alcohol-driven stupor. Farouk led her to an empty table at the back of the room.

  “What do you think?” he whispered in her ear. “Rather grimy, isn’t it?”

  Aimee studied what she saw, wishing she were invisible, wishing she were a man, dressed in a suit and tie and sturdy brogues, smoking a cigarette, laughing at it all. She sank lower in her chair.

  Dancing girls appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and started to circle the tables, stroking the faces of the men, coaxing them as they reached out and grabbed at pieces of their flesh, shoving money into the intimate crevices of their jewelled costumes. She could hear many languages being spoken, words she did not understand.


  A waiter took their order. He did not look at Aimee.

  “Two whiskies,” Farouk said. The waiter left, and Farouk reached for her hand to comfort her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I shouldn’t be here. What possessed me to ask you to bring me here? I shouldn’t have come. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “You came because of your husband,” Farouk said reassuringly.

  Suddenly he noticed a group of men in the far corner near the stage. His mouth thinned as he studied them. He was thinking, thinking how he could throw the girl off guard, try and find out what she knew about Azi’s involvement with Issawi. He needed to play the game as skillfully as he could, not for Littoni, but for himself.

  “Do you see that table over there on the left, near the stage?” he asked her. Aimee peered over at it discreetly and nodded.

  “Can you see that man, the one with the greying moustache, the big head, high forehead, hooded eyes, balding? He has a red bow tie on and a waistcoat. He’s laughing right now. With the dancer in front of him who is licking her fingers, rubbing her hands all over her breasts. There, now she’s running her hands all over his face. Do you see him?”

  Aimee nodded, her belly knotting uncomfortably. She shot Farouk a look and then looked back at the man.

  “His name is Gad Mahmoud. He’s a disgruntled ex-politician, a friend of someone I think your husband had a great deal of respect for, a man called Haran Issawi.”

  He stared at her to gauge her reaction.

  “Issawi?” Aimee said, looking at Farouk.

  “Do you know him, Madame?”

  “I’m not sure, I don’t think—”

  Aimee turned to stare at Mahmoud again.

  “Do many politicians come here?” she asked.

  “A few. Mahmoud’s known to be mixed up in all sorts of dubious affairs. He’s a member of a fundamentalist Islamic group called el-Mudarris, a breakaway Wafd movement that now works against it. The Wafd was the first nationalist group that fought to restore Egypt to independence in the twenties, as you no doubt know. El-Mudarris and the Wafd have been fighting for years. Both want supremacy, both are fighting for the same thing, but each group hates the other. This man, Gad Mahmoud, is dangerous, an underground terrorist. He has many aliases, and he’s been linked to Haran Issawi, the king’s advisor. I once saw your husband talking to Mahmoud here at the club.”

  Aimee eyes widened. She took a mental photograph of the man, watching him closely as he thrust his face deep into the dancer’s cleavage. Though his party included three other men, Gad Mahmoud was obviously the leader. The men at his table were watching him in awe.

  “Are you saying Azi was involved with an underground terrorist organisation?” Aimee said, biting her lip. “That can’t be right. He wasn’t really interested in politics. He was an academic. I never heard him even mention this man Issawi.”

  She was lying. Farouk knew that. He could tell from the way her eyes flickered as she spoke. Yet she was so innocent, this girl, so obviously naïve. Farouk continued to study her face, wanting to believe her.

  “Where does this woman come into all this?” she whispered.

  Farouk put his hand on her arm.

  “Stay calm, talk to me, and don’t look over there. Those men are looking this way.”

  Gad Mahmoud and his table were twisting around in their seats, scanning the room with smiles on their faces and jokes on their lips, slapping the dancers on the thigh whenever they came within reach.

  Just then, the music changed. Flutes and sitars and a loud drumming started up, and then, as the curtains drew back, a high-pitched trill was heard. The audience clapped and screamed in unison. Fatima had arrived. A small, buxom woman in a sequinned bodice and flowing floor-length skirt sashayed onto the stage from the wings, her arms outstretched to her beloved fans. A dwarf with a scarlet fez, waistcoat, and bare tattooed arms joined her on the stage and cried out, “Madame Fatima Said.”

  Aimee shrank back. Fatima appeared to be about thirty, with thick jet-black hair that flowed freely down to her hips. She had a sharp chin and high cheekbones, and arched eyebrows over startling shimmering eyes, which glittered in the low light of the club like smouldering coals. Those eyes took in the face of every man in the room, seducing them all simultaneously. As she started to dance, the men cheered and whooped, reaching out for her while the dwarf stood guard at the side of the stage. She thrust her stomach forward in time to the drumming, her arms raised, her eyes sending daggers of desire from under hooded lids, her breasts and belly moving at full-tilt to the music. When she moved off the stage into the crowds, pulling provocatively at her skirt, she devoured the face of each man she saw. Aimee pushed her chair back and pulled at Farouk’s sleeve.

  “I’ve seen enough,” she said in a panic. “I want to go.”

  He tried to calm her down. If they left now, he told her, they would attract attention. Fatima would pick the man of her choice soon, and take him backstage and upstairs to one of the girls. They could leave then, but not now.

  “Sssh,” he said, his arm around Aimee’s shoulders, whispering closely in her ear. “We’ll go soon, I promise.”

  As the music got louder, Fatima curled herself up like a snake and reached into the air. Then, feigning a fainting fit, she threw herself into the lap of one of the men, collapsing over him as he roared with laughter. She repeated this routine with several men in the audience, throwing herself into their laps and then bouncing up again before they had time to grab her.

  Gradually, her clothes started to disappear. First she pulled at the tie of her skirt and off it came, falling to the floor in a heap to reveal a pair of slim, shapely legs.

  A young soldier scooped it off the ground and buried his face in the fabric, inhaling the scent. Slowly, she removed her jewel-studded bodice, sweeping her long hair over her shoulders so that her breasts were perfectly hidden by her thick black tresses. Then she started to remove the small white silk culottes she was wearing, fingering the edges seductively while the men yelped and screamed and clapped.

  A man got up from one of the tables and lunged forward, ripping the silk culottes from her. Aimee saw Fatima flash a look of warning at the dwarf, but he nodded at her and the plastered smile returned to her face. She reached for the man, stroked his cheek, and allowed him to undress her further, helping him to pull the remaining fabric from between her thighs. Aimee could not see the man’s face, but the crowds cheered him on and his friends jeered and called out his name.

  “Go on, Hawky, give it to her,” they shouted. “Give her one from us too.”

  The man turned around triumphantly with Fatima’s culottes raised high in the air, like the flag victorious. His face was scarlet, his mouth loose, arrogant. He wrapped his arm around Fatima, a large hand over her right breast.

  She was naked except for the tiara on her head and a pair of thin spiky heels. The young soldier pulled Fatima close to him, his hands travelling hungrily to places forbidden.

  The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

  Cairo, August 22, 1919

  I am counting the days until I see Alexandre. Tonight we celebrate the Prophet’s birthday, the moulid-al-Nabi. Nawal, Bathna, and I decide to partake of a dangerous herb, just for a little fun. Bathna bribes Tindoui to get it for us, and we harem girls like to take it for our amusement. I mix a tiny amount of the powder with water and lemon juice in the palm of my hand and lick it away with my tongue. Bathna and Nawal do the same. After a while the world disappears into a blur. We watch a dancer perform for us in our private parlour. Watching her thrills me. I look up and see Rachid looking at her longingly while he stands guard. Five women, including me, are lying on cushions, watching the girl—a beauty of no more than twelve—as she dances to music that reaches an exotic frenzy. When the dancer finishes, I ask Rachid to come to my room after the midnight raka to talk.

  He waits until I finish my religious recitations. I am worried about him. He
is wretchedly unhappy and sometimes he tells me that the only thing keeping him from taking his own life is his love of his harem sisters. I know how he feels. I have felt the same way.

  I try and remind him that Papa treats him well, so he has less to complain about than he thinks. Nevertheless, I understand him and he understands me.

  Tonight we talk well into the night. If our hours together are numbered, we must find happiness together. The warm, dreamy sensation from the powder, running through my body, stays with me until I fall sleep. When I awake, Rachid has gone and Habrid is standing over me with his arms crossed.

  I sit up groggily and stare at him. “What do you want?” I ask him.

  “Come with me, Sayyida,” he says, yanking me up by the arm. My robes feel sticky against my skin. I am sure my blood is coming. I feel this strange sensation in my belly, a pulling pain, a sure sign that I am unclean. Habrid should not be in my rooms now. He must not touch me if I am about to get my womanly blood.

  “Where are you taking me? What are you doing?” I demand to know.

  “I know what you have been doing,” he says, escorting me to the thrashing chamber, commonly known as the Red Room. “I have orders to see you are punished.”

  “For what?” I shout at him.

  “For cutting short your prayer time and for engaging your servant in conversation while your thoughts should be on your religion. You neither submit to Islam, Hezba, nor do you honour your position as the sultan’s daughter. Your mother heard what was going on from her own spies in the harem. Two sins that are punishable in whatever way your mother sees fit.”

  I gape at him and pull away, but he is strong and I am weak. His large hands bruise the flesh on my arms. He pushes me into the Red Room, then nods to one of the lower eunuchs on guard there. Together they rip my gowns from me. I am shivering, naked on the stone floors. There is a lump in my throat and tears of rage behind my eyes as I bend over, covering my head with my hands to wait for the first crack of the stick against my flesh.