by Jo Chumas
Then al-Shezira speaks.
“Look at this wife,” he says, speaking not to me but to the group of giggling girls seated on the floor. “Be careful that you don’t become like her, fat, dull, and ugly, so ugly that no one wants her, not even her husband.”
I listen in disbelief. I look at his bulbous face and the slow unintelligent slope of his skull. A rage is surging within me, but I can do nothing. He stands up and walks over to a pretty girl sitting on the floor. I assume she is a Minya girl. He reaches for her and pulls her up. He leads her over to his cushions, sits down, and lays her down across his lap. He strokes her naked belly. Then, pushing the silk off her head, he strokes her face. Finally, he pushes his hand inside her bodice and then down the front of her skirt. She giggles with delight.
I stand naked, shaking with anger. My limbs are giving way, and my head swims. Al-Shezira does not even notice me. He lays his new piece of flesh on a little mattress beside his cushions. He disentangles himself from his robes and lies down on top of her, brazenly entering her while the harem girls hang their heads, stifling nervous giggles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Aimee’s act was moments away. She hurriedly applied a little gold dust to her cheeks. Then she raised her thin arms above her head and tried to move her hips. There was no way she was going to convince Fatima. The men would laugh at her, and Fatima would get wise to her in seconds.
She had surely lost her mind. She removed her clothes and slipped into the red stocking sheath. It clung to her body like a glove. She pulled the long black gloves off the table and slipped them on. They reached past her elbows, with little ivory buttons holding them in place.
She scanned the room, taking in the cracked ceilings, the rough wooden floors, the antique armoires, the heavy velvet drapes. As she tiptoed barefoot out of the room, a plump old woman sidled up to her and took her hand.
“If you are Amina Khalil, then come with me,” the woman said. Her hand felt rough and cold like parchment. Beyond the long corridor, she saw the lights of the stage and the sequinned curtains. Aimee watched a young girl, probably no more than thirteen, swirling, entranced, on the platform. She was wearing a jewelled bodice and loose trousers, and her arms were decorated with silver bracelets.
In the wings on the other side of the stage, Aimee spotted another woman whom she was certain she had seen somewhere before. She peered out at the audience, sizing up the faces of the men through the cigarette haze.
“You’re on next,” the old woman said, sliding onto a small stool as the music faded out.
Aimee held her breath. The sound of a flute was heard, and then a hush came over the room. She could not think. She thought she would faint. She didn’t know what she was doing. The sound of tablas started up, followed by lutes, then pipes.
The old woman gave her a shove onto the stage. She was overwhelmed by that same unpleasant oily smell, which reminded her of the caravansarais and kiosks in the seedier parts of town, places she’d walked past with Azi when they’d explored the city together She was fairly certain it was opium, an odour so strange her head started to swim.
She moved slowly at first. Then gradually, swaying in time to the music, her movements became more vigorous. She tried to remember the steps of the flamenco dancers who had fascinated her as a young girl. She stamped her bare feet and stretched her arms high over her head, arching her body as she danced. Then a face loomed out of the cigarette haze. It was a good-looking face, the face of a man she knew. Farouk!
She kept dancing. She danced and danced, her body tightening with each breath, the thick, heavy scent sending her reeling. She saw Sophie and Sebastian. Sophie was staring at her in horror, her mouth open. Aimee continued, unable to stop. The face of Sophie’s friend dissolved into the blur, and she saw Farouk again. He had left his seat and was pushing chairs and tables out of the way, but Aimee kept dancing to the throbbing music.
She was dancing for Azi, not for Fatima, dancing in her sheath of a dress that clung to her pale flesh, her tiny feet stamping away on the dusty, dirty floorboards, which were spiked with shards of glass from broken bottles. Swirling to the pounding, hypnotic music; she crouched and twirled until she was almost naked, pulling at the thin sheath of fabric that covered her thin body. Still she did not stop. The audience had broken into a frenzy. Farouk pushed them back, leapt onto the stage, and encircled her waist.
“Get off the stage,” the men shouted. “She has not yet chosen. You can’t just take her. You filthy bastard.”
Farouk had wrenched off his jacket, was wrapping it around her, scooping her up in his arms. The dwarf pulled at Farouk, grabbing at him, biting the backs of his legs, but with one swift kick, Farouk sent the dwarf flying off the stage.
The audience roared with laughter. Aimee heard Farouk shouting, but she didn’t understand what he was saying. The room was a cacophony of music, laughter, clapping, and yelling. Farouk’s eyes were black and wide and hungry. The time had come for her to earn her commission.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 30, 1919
Rachid smuggles Alexandre into my apartment just before dawn. My lover comes dressed in a floor-sweeping chador, like a woman. When he arrives, he throws off his robes and gathers me to him hungrily, burying his face in my neck.
After lighting candles on a low table in the corner of the room, Rachid leaves us. He will stand guard outside my rooms, in case Habrid decides to pay me a visit. Anyone who tries to enter will be told I am still suffering with women’s business, although this is not true.
Alexandre and I have only two hours together, but it is enough to restore my faith in love.
He says, “Rachid told me that you will arrive at the Minya palace in five days, Hezba. You are stopping for some time at Beni Suef with some close friends of your husband’s. This is enough time for me to rally my men. I know the Minya palace and the streets around it. I know people there. I will find you.”
“Rachid will bring you to me,” I say. “I am certain I will have my own apartment. I have a reputation. They will want to keep me apart from the other women.”
“You must be prepared,” he continues. “I will draw some of the servants at Minya into my confidence. Behave quietly and do not draw attention to yourself. Do not let al-Shezira get suspicious in any way. Wait for the signal.”
Alexandre holds my hands and kisses my fingertips and then takes me over to my cushions. Clasping my hands around my lover’s neck, I taste the pleasure of a real man.
I try to take in what Alexandre is saying—that he and his men are going to seek revenge for the injustices inflicted on their people by my husband. He has told me that the Rebel Corps will take control of the Council of Fellahin, allowing the fellahin to run their businesses for profit once more. He has told me that I will be free of al-Shezira before too long. I don’t know how it is going to happen, but I am excited. I let myself imagine living in Paris or London and starting a school there. When all the violence is over, I will return to my beloved country.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, “for loving me, for understanding.”
“You have nothing to thank me for, Hezba. Al-Shezira is an easy target for us. You mustn’t be afraid. You must think of your freedom, of our life together, of a free Egypt, of the school you want to start. You want to be part of a better future for Egypt? You will be, but things have to change, and we’re going to make that change happen.”
“With you?”
“Yes, we must continue our fight first. The Rebel Corps has work to do. There are too many rich landowners who must pay for their crimes. Then we can free our country.”
“I am scared for Egypt,” I say, “There is violence everywhere. The men are rioting. Women are protesting on the streets. I am scared, Alexandre.”
Alexandre embraces me, and I savour the warmth and urgency of his kiss. I want to tell him of the night I was raped, but I say nothing. We must not make any noise.
The women of the harem are sleeping.
We lie together for a little while, flesh against flesh, with a sheaf of silk over us until I see the first glimmer of light and Rachid comes to us to tell us that Alexandre must leave. We have had so little time together, just two hours.
“Habrid has been given orders to wake you, Hezba,” he says. “It won’t be long before he is knocking on your door, Sayyida.”
Alexandre gathers me up in his arms one last time.
“Hezba,” he whispers, “don’t lose courage. We will soon be together.”
After prayers, I am escorted to Maman’s rooms to say good-bye to her. She is ill again. I must listen to her as she warns me not to be a bad wife. Then I am fully veiled and escorted to the four arabiehs waiting for us outside the gates of the palace.
I do all this blindly, with the taste of my lover still on my lips. My inner thighs are still burning from his touch, and his mouth on my breasts has left a mark I wear like a badge.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Darkness enveloped Aimee as she came to. The smell of old leather and the familiarly pungent Kyriazi Freres tobacco made her nose twitch with recognition. She thought she heard a voice, low and tender and rich with age, like a seductive whisper, against her ear, but she could not be sure to whom it belonged at first. She opened her eyes and looked around, but had no idea where she was. As she got her bearings, she realised that she was curled up on the front seat of a car, covered by a man’s trench coat. The heavy satin lining slid over her naked arms. Her head felt swollen and numb and thick.
She scrambled up, blinking, trying to focus. Farouk was next to her in the driver’s seat. The car was parked on the banks of the Nile. She could see feluccas tacking across the river in the moonlight. Up ahead she recognised the Sinan Pasha Mosque, its cool white stone shimmering under the stars.
“God, it’s you. How—what? What’s going on? Where are we?” Aimee asked huskily, rubbing her head.
“You look ill,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel strange,” she said. “What happened? How did I get here?”
“Sssh.” Farouk turned and put his finger on her mouth to silence her. He squinted in the darkness and pointed at a group of men huddled near the entry to the mosque. Farouk told her in a low voice that the men had the houseboats along the Nile under close guard. What he didn’t tell her was that they were Issawi’s men and they were watching the comings and goings along the banks of the river.
Aimee followed his gaze to the men by the mosque.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Mahmoud’s men. They’re checking me out. They have their eye on that houseboat over there.”
Aimee studied the scene more closely. All she could see was a throng of men lingering around the entry to the mosque.
“Why? Who does that houseboat belong to?”
“I use it,” Farouk said.
“What for?”
“As a place to compile my reports,” he said.
Aimee sat up straight and pulled the coat over her.
“What am I doing here with you in this car?” she asked him.
Farouk lit a cigarette. “I rescued you. You were dancing at the el-G. A new job?” he added sarcastically. She didn’t answer him, instead sinking back against the seat and huddling inside the trench coat. Then she remembered the red dress. Peeling back the coat, she saw that she was wearing the lilac dress she’d borrowed from Sophie. Had he stripped her of her el-G clothes and somehow gotten her dressed?
“How did I get back into this? I was dancing. I had the red dress on—I remember that much.”
Farouk wound down the window and flicked ash out. “I collected your things. The old woman took you into a small room and helped you dress. You don’t remember that? She told me you were very sick. Fatima was nowhere to be seen. I waited for you. Then I carried you out through the side door. I wrapped you up in my coat and settled you down on the backseat of the car. I had to follow someone.”
“Who?”
“Gad Mahmoud. I’m on his hit list.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I’ve done him wrong. He’s crazy, a thug.”
She chewed her lip, her cheeks burning. She tried to remember the old woman, removing the red sheath, putting on her own clothes, but she couldn’t.
“You remember the dwarf and the crowds cheering?”
“Yes, yes. I think so.”
“And you remember that intoxicating smell? Opium?”
“Yes, yes.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette for her. She took it, and he steadied her hand as he lit it for her. She was shaking.
“I suppose you will tell me in your own time what you were doing dancing at the el-G.”
She searched his face. “Why were you there?”
He lit another cigarette for himself and shot her a look. It was the reaction he had expected.
“A friend of mine warned me that Mahmoud was planning on breaking into my houseboat tonight,” he said. “I got on Mahmoud and his gang’s bad side last year. I didn’t know then whether your husband was being targeted by them or not. But recently I’ve become surer of it. If my sources are correct, Mahmoud is planning something just as final for me.”
Something over by the mosque caught Farouk’s attention, and he stopped speaking. He straightened up, looking startled for a moment, and then a wide smile spread over his face.
“He’s getting into a car. It looks like he’s heading in the direction of Shubra with a few of his men. It appears he’s given up. None of them have been near my place.”
Aimee didn’t say anything. Farouk finished his cigarette and threw the butt out of the window. Then he reached for her, slid his hand inside the trench coat, and pulled her to him. He could not hold himself back, and she did not stop him. His mouth, scented and warm, on hers, made her long for him, and all barriers slipped away, dissolving until there was nothing between them. But he pulled back and held her to him in a more restrained fashion, inhaling the scent of her hair.
“You’ll tell me why you were at the club, won’t you?” he said.
“Fatima,” she said.
Farouk disengaged himself from her and pushed her hair tenderly out of her eyes. Then he started the engine and drove the car towards his houseboat. They got out of the car and walked together towards the mooring. The velvet milky darkness of dawn felt cool and soft against their skin. Farouk pulled her face to his, moistening her mouth with a second tender embrace.
“Don’t go to the el-G again, Madame Ibrahim,” he said. “Mahmoud is a dangerous man. If he finds out you’re spying on him or on Fatima, he’ll kill you.”
Aimee bit her lip. “Did Mahmoud kill my husband, Monsieur Farouk?”
Farouk wanted to tell her. He hated lying to her. At first the lies had come easily, but back then she had meant nothing to him. She had simply been the wife of a man he despised.
He pulled her to him without answering. There was nothing he could say at that moment. He felt her eyes burning holes in him, but he stayed quiet. They reached the steps of his boathouse, and he looked back at her angel face and reed green eyes glittering in the soft dawn light as he helped her navigate the steps. He saw it again, that look of victory, and suddenly he felt afraid. He was losing his mind. He had met women like her before, angels masquerading as spies whose intelligent strategizing outmanoeuvred the cleverest of men. He put his hand in the curve of Aimee’s back and ushered her down the tiny steps of his houseboat to the cabin below.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, September 8, 1919
We arrived at the Minya palace earlier today, and it turns out it is just as luxurious as the Cairo palace. My first glimpse of it was from behind my long black traditional burkha. The metal fastening holding the whole contraption together is a constant irritation.
Al-Shezira insisted that I be dressed in full traditional Turkish harem clothes ben
eath my dull black veil in preparation for my installation in my quarters. Once we had arrived, I was unveiled and paraded in front of the Minya palace harem women in my brightly coloured silk robes. Then I was introduced to everyone.
The White Palace—as it is commonly known because of its ivory stone—is on the banks of the Nile. Pleasantly positioned on the eastside, my private rooms are on the top floor and overlook the water. A small stairwell leads to a roof garden. I have been told that the roof garden is mine alone. Because of my nervous disposition and the concern for my sanity, I am to be given special permission to use it privately for as long as I want. I have fine views of the Corniche and can see families promenading in the evenings. Al-Shezira’s home is not so much a palace as a large mansion surrounded by small harets leading in all directions. The nearby streets are lush with palms and wide like the image I have of Parisian boulevards.
My servants Anisah and Rachid have rooms not far from mine. I have a bell rope, as I did in Cairo and can call for them anytime. The decoration of my rooms is fairly pleasing. Instead of my cushions, I have a large, low bed, raised only slightly off the floor. The mashrabiyya is as intricate and as delicate as that of the Cairo palace.
I have Persian carpets, silver bowls, and vases, a little anteroom where I can lie on a couch and read literature especially chosen for me by my husband. I have the services of a lute player—a eunuch boy—who comes to play for me whenever I want. I can eat in my room—I have only to ring for Rachid and he will bring me sweet pastries, little delicacies, fatta, the very best Ethiopian coffee, chocolate, sherbet, very sweet tea, whatever I choose.
The harem is ruled by al-Shezira’s aging sister as his mother is dead. She has already visited me and told me the palace routine.
I am allowed one excursion a week, in the company of the other harem women, perhaps to the theatre or to participate in a local moulid, and I am allowed to take a promenade on the Corniche once a day, as long as I am chaperoned.