by Jo Chumas
“We haven’t much time,” I say. “Al-Shezira is very close. He will be at my palace very, very soon. And then I will have to leave for Minya.”
He puts his finger to my lips to hush me. I close my eyes. In the darkness of the hut, he wraps his arms around me and holds me against him. In the space of a second, I forget my despicable, torturous marriage and my hateful life at the palace. My body ripples, little shivers pulsating inside me.
Alexandre steers me towards a low couch, his finger still on my mouth. I can hear the thump of his heart. He lays me down, unbuttons my jacket, slips his hand inside, against my warm flesh. He sweeps his hand over my face and hair. Then he disengages himself, removes my boots and trousers, and throws a blanket over us.
“Hush,” he says.
He lies down with me. He traces a line with his finger from my forehead to my breasts and then gently gathers me to him, kissing my mouth slowly and tenderly.
When he has removed his clothes and turban, he teases me with little kisses until my breasts and my body are quivering. Then his mouth makes its way to the crest of my womanhood.
Later, in the darkness, I look into his eyes. I feel the hard heat of him as his thighs cover mine. I taste his breath, absorb the fire from him. My body jolts as he joins his own flesh with mine. As we move together, I forget who I am, forget where I have come from. It is only when he wrenches himself from me that I realise that perhaps for the sake of honour I should have stopped him. But I know that I will become his wife and together we can plan for a better Egypt. I want to be by his side, fighting, as he fights. Years ago when I was forced to do my duty as a wife, I cried because I did not want al-Shezira in this way. Now I am different. I want to love Alexandre as a wife loves her husband, physically and with every bit of passion she has. Convention will not stop me. Alexandre caresses my face and after a while he speaks. I have no qualms about being Alexandre’s lover. He is my true love—my one and only love—and in my heart, I know that to be with him is my destiny.
Warm flutters ripple through me. I want to hold on to this moment forever. I do not want to go back to al-Qahire. I want to be free among the stars of Africa, a child of the earth.
“I have heard talk of al-Shezira’s plans to reclaim all the land within a fifty-mile radius of his palace for himself. This will destroy hundreds of businesses. Your husband has a great deal of political power, but the Rebel Corps cannot allow this to happen. I have many friends among the traders and the farmers, and I know for a fact that many families’ lives have been ruined by al-Shezira. He is not a man who pays his debts or keeps his honour. He has enslaved many of the young boys who work the farms for their fathers, and these boys have been carted off as auxiliary soldiers, leaving their families struggling. He has bought up acres of cotton land for nothing and is now reaping extraordinary profits. He plans to do this again in Minya.”
I turn away and my tears start to flow.
“Yes,” I say, “yes, I know.”
He tilts my chin with his finger. “What we are attempting is dangerous, Hezba, but we cannot sit idly by and let this man have his way. The revolution will start with the destruction of al-Shezira’s power. By destroying the power he holds, we will change things for good. Al-Shezira and the British are one and the same—you know that, don’t you. To get rid of the British, we must start by getting rid of al-Shezira and his political associates. Only then we can restore the power to the people of this country. I know you want that too. With your money and your connections, all this is possible.”
I shake my head in despair and humiliation at being al-Shezira’s wife and with the knowledge that my father, the sultan, is an associate of his.
“But Hassan and Aalim seem to despise me. They don’t appear to want my money or my help.”
“Ignore them,” he whispers. “They are humble fellah. It will take them longer to get used to the idea of a woman helping us. They are ignorant, uneducated, but deep down they are good men and we are all working for the same thing, for Egypt.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Farouk arrived home just as the eastern sky began to show signs of dawn. Instead of entering the house, however, he went around the side to the garden and sat down on the bench by the fountain. He needed to think. The girl would be upstairs in the blue bedroom, where he’d instructed Gigis to put her.
The sun was rising now, and gold-tinged clouds broke through the black rim of the night sky. Light began to flood the streets of Zamalek. He could not go to bed. He was far too agitated to sleep. He plucked the document the girl had given him out of his pocket and started to read.
At first he didn’t understand the code. His mind kept wandering to Littoni and what he had said. The ten sectors on the east side of the city were all personal friends of Farouk’s. He counted at least fifty of them, knew their operations, where they worked, what their aliases were, how many code names they operated under, their covers, their fields of speciality, how often they compiled their reports, how their reports were transmitted, how many of the men were decoders, how good they were at their jobs, how many men had access to radio transmitters, who the subagents were—and yet Littoni had tried to fool him into believing he was on his own.
It worried him that Littoni had brainwashed the lot of them into taking part in Littoni’s version of the revolution. A thug’s revolution was what Littoni wanted—followed by a dictatorship with himself at the helm. But if Littoni were to become Egypt’s ruler, it would only result in more poverty for the country, more civilian deaths, and no progress. The country would soon be on its knees and at the mercy of the Germans. He had to get word to Nemmat, fine-tune his plan, and inform her that Ali and Mitali Khaldun were ready to move in on Issawi on the sixteenth, three days from now.
He continued to try to decipher the coded document. He’d once been a skilled code-cracker. He peered closer. The code appeared to address Ibrahim as a member of Security Operations. Yes, he could crack that much. But of Security’s specific plans to move in on the X? Well, that was where the code got tricky. Farouk was sure that the document had been double-coded. He would need time to work it out.
He looked up and saw the dark shape he knew to be Gigis standing at the top of the stone steps that led to the terrace. He folded the paper and slipped it back into his jacket, waved to his servant, got up and walked towards him.
“Is the madame asleep?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I believe so,” Gigis replied. “I brought her some tea around half past three and haven’t heard a sound since then.”
“She needed my help,” Farouk said, shaking his head sadly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can take the day off, Gigis,” Farouk continued. “But give me the keys to the car. I’ll need it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gigis said, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.
“Now go.” Farouk smiled. “You look half dead from lack of sleep. Have you been waiting for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Farouk patted the boy on the shoulder.
“Well, I’m here now. The madame is safe, and you can go and get some sleep.”
Gigis smiled, turned, and left.
Farouk followed him inside, discarded his jacket, and stood for a moment, thinking. Then he climbed the marble staircase to the first floor and padded along the carpeted corridor to the blue room. He just wanted to see her. He could picture her—her pale, striking youth, her unblemished features unmarked by life, her still-forming soul swelling to take its place inside her nearly adult body—yet she had married the evil Ibrahim; it didn’t add up. Was there more to her? Was her innocence a useful foil?
He quietly opened the door. In the gloom, he could see her body lying motionless under the sheets. Her dress had been discarded on the chair in the far corner. Her hand clutched the edge of the cotton, like a child seeking comfort. The balcony doors had been flung wide open. Splashes of dawn bathed the room in a soft morning glow. He tiptoed towards the bed and sat down on t
he edge of it, never taking his eyes off her. Her hair was wild and loose and splayed out like a fan on the white pillow. Her mouth was downturned, her thick black eyebrows highly visible in the shuttered light. He longed to touch her long, straight nose and run his finger gently along the bridge of it towards the pout of her mouth, but he did nothing. He just sat and stared at her. And then he let his eyes wander down to her shoulders and her breasts, partially covered by the cotton sheet.
He raised his hand and let it hover over her skin, not daring to touch her, his breath quickening, becoming laboured, a painful sensation jabbing at him from within his stomach and down around the base of his spine and his groin.
She stirred slowly, moaning slightly in her sleep but did not wake up. He sat back and bit his lip as the haunting refrain of the muezzins signalled the start of a new day.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Kerdassa, August 23, 1919
Alexandre gets dressed. I do too. I wish we had more time together. But we don’t. I will have to be happy with the feeling of him inside me as I ride back to al-Qahire.
“You know what we have to do, don’t you, Hezba?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is kismet that you have to go to Minya,” he says.
I nod slowly. I know what he is talking about. It is our secret.
“Yes,” I say. “I know.”
“My sister tells me you want to go to Paris or London where you have friends, that you have begged your family to be released from this marriage.”
“Yes.”
“Your husband will not divorce you?”
“No, he will not. He wants me to give him children. I am the youngest of his wives, you see, and I have not yet fulfilled my duty.”
“And you cannot divorce him?”
“My papa will not allow it. My marriage to al-Shezira is an important political alliance. He has promised to disown me if I divorce my husband.”
“Is your father really so cruel, Hezba?”
“My father does not love me. Something happened between us a long time ago. Something even I don’t understand. When I went to live in the harem, my papa stopped showing me affection. Our relationship became almost like that of a frustrated teacher and his pupil.”
I swallow hard. It was hard talking about Papa like that. I study Alexandre’s face as he dresses. Suddenly I feel a pang of fear that I am leaving myself too open, too vulnerable, that I am putting all my hopes in the hands of my lover and I should not be doing this.
I wonder why I have told him these things, things that are so close to my heart. I want to believe he is on my side, but how do I know? By telling him things, I make myself vulnerable to him.
Alexandre wraps his arms around me once more and whispers in my ear. “My men and I cannot forgive a man like al-Shezira for robbing our friends and their families of money and their livelihood. I want to make sure my friends’ debts are repaid.”
I slip my hand in my pocket and dig out the money I have brought him. He doesn’t count it. He puts it in his pocket and kisses me tenderly on the mouth.
“Thank you. I will pass this on,” he says. “It will buy us more weapons, more equipment. We are eternally grateful to you, Hezba.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aimee was having one of those dreams in which she knew she was dreaming. In her dream she saw a silky, hazy image of a silent courtyard tucked away behind the minarets and the mosques. The sun beat down unforgivingly on the hard pavement and a lone jacaranda tree. In her dream she saw a pair of large hooded eyes, a hand decorated with henna playing nervously with the voluminous black cloth, in which a figure was draped from head to toe. She recognised the face of Fatima, and Azi was standing before her.
She woke up suddenly and cried out. Then she rubbed her hands over her face and calmed herself. She had been dreaming; that was all. She grabbed her dress and underclothes from the chair and went off in search of a bathroom. Two doors down from the bedroom she found one and locked herself in, squatting behind the door on the cold mosaic tiles. Then she turned on the taps and ran a warm bath. She sank into it and washed herself. She examined her thighs and her arms and her stomach and the dark hair between her legs; then she closed her eyes.
After towelling herself dry, she slipped on her underclothes and dress, smoothed her hair into a long plait down her back, and ran her hands over her face. Then she went back to the corridor and stood quietly, not knowing whether she should leave, write a note, or return to her ransacked house on Sharia Suleyman Pasha. She wanted to thank the monsieur. Then she remembered. He had promised to take her to Ismailia today, to Lake Timsah, to the spot where Azi had been murdered.
She heard the sound of footsteps and saw him. He smiled brightly at her and stretched out his hands to greet her.
“You must be hungry, Madame. I’ve given my boy the day off, but I’ll find something for you in the kitchen. Then we must leave for Ismailia.”
Aimee tried to muster a smile.
“Thank you. You are very kind. You’ve helped me so much already.”
He beckoned her to follow him, and together they walked to the kitchen.
“We’ll eat outside in the garden,” Farouk said.
Aimee quelled her beating heart and went to sit on the little bench near the fountain. A few minutes later, Farouk arrived with a tray of delicacies and two glasses of sweet tea. He handed her a glass and a plate of food.
They ate silently. Aimee stared at her plate and into her glass of tea. She did not want to look at him, but she could feel his eyes burning into her face. Reluctantly, she raised her head and gave him a timid smile.
“Why are you being so kind, Monsieur?” she asked him.
He looked away for a moment, then turned back towards her and met her gaze.
“I liked your husband,” Farouk said. “And it stands to reason that I should want to help his young widow with any information that could lead to the arrest of those responsible for his murder.”
Aimee hung her head and breathed deeply. He made everything sound so proper, so devoid of emotion. So why was her head swimming? Why did her body feel so weak?
“You are certain you want to go to Ismailia?” he asked. “You realise it’s going to be hard for you?”
“I know, I know,” she said solemnly, bowing her head. “But it might help me. In fact, I think it will.”
“You must change your clothes,” Farouk said abruptly, putting down his tea glass. He stood up and pulled her to her feet.
“My sister’s bedroom is upstairs near the blue room where you slept. There are lots of clothes in the wardrobes. She was slender too, about your size. I’m sure you’ll find something to fit you that will be suitable for the desert. Your dress and shoes are too dainty for this trip.” She tried to protest, but he explained. “We must leave the car some distance from where we are going. I know that area. We have to walk through desert scrub to a little village. We will meet someone there, a friend. You would be better off in sensible clothes.”
“Must I wear your sister’s clothes?” Aimee asked.
Farouk laughed. “Well, nothing of mine will fit you. Now go, upstairs. It’s the third room on the right. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
Aimee found the room. It was musty, with the shutters tightly closed. She pulled some clothes out of the trunk, dressed, and returned to the garden.
“That’s better.” He smiled, cocking his head at her. “You look remarkably similar, dressed in her clothes.” But his voice fell away, and he bit his lip.
“Similar? What do you mean?” she asked.
His eyes flickered sadly. “My sister. In those clothes, you remind me of her. Your eyes are a similar colour and you have the same slight physique. She was a beauty too, much fairer than you with sun-bleached hair but just as striking.”
Aimee blushed inwardly. “You have no photograph? No painting?” she asked.
“I don’t like to keep things like th
at. I keep it all in my memory.”
He suddenly looked so young, like a little boy. “Finish your tea and we’ll go. I have to stop off somewhere first; I hope you don’t mind?”
Aimee eyed him curiously. “No, of course not.”
“It won’t take long,” he said. “I have to give a message to my friend Nasser at Nasser’s Trinkets in the Muski district. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m ready,” she said.
Farouk led the way to the garage. As he opened the garage door, Aimee asked, “Were you never married, Monsieur Farouk?”
He was silent as he opened the car door for her and she slid into her seat. While he started the engine, she saw that his mouth was pinched, as though he were trying to repress a thought. She realised she had touched a raw nerve.
“I would like to have been,” he said as he pulled onto the road. His brow was wrinkled; his long nose twitched. He wound down his window and cursed a group of young boys kicking stones along the road, lingering too long behind donkeys and carts and little trolleys of wares.
“I would have been a most unsuitable husband for any woman.”
“Oh, really?”
“I travel a great deal, and I have a restless heart. It’s like a sickness. I have given myself to many peoples and places, but I have not yet managed to give my heart to one woman, to settle into family life. And now I am old. I don’t see myself changing.”
She stared at the road ahead.
“Is it far to Lake Timsah?”
“Not too far. The journey will take about one-and-a-half hours, assuming that we don’t encounter any trouble on the road.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“There are road blocks, inspection of papers. But you mustn’t worry. We should have no problem.”
But first they had to go to the Muski district. Farouk parked his car opposite Nasser’s Trinkets and went across the street, while Aimee stayed in the car. A man greeted him in front of the shop. He pulled Farouk into his arms and kissed him on both cheeks, shaking his hand at the same time. The man appeared to be talking a hundred miles a minute while Farouk just nodded and shook his head every now and again, staring at the cracked pavement. But as the two of them stood there, Aimee saw the man slip something into Farouk’s hand. A few minutes later, Farouk returned to the car, started the engine, and pulled away. They drove in silence, out towards the Moquattam Hills, and then on to the desert road to Ismailia.