The Hidden

by Jo Chumas

  Prayer time is strictly supervised. I will not be allowed to pray alone in my room, so there will be no room for deceit. Prayers are conducted in the grand hall of the harem to the voice of the mosque’s muezzin.

  There are to be no lessons of any kind. I am yet to be allocated a night, once a week, to spend with my husband. The night chosen for me will allow me to express my love for my husband. I will be stripped of all body hair, oiled, and perfumed and taken to him. He in turn will have a duty to satisfy me and make me happy, so that I can return to my rooms the following morning, a balanced and serene wife.

  Umm Iswis, my husband’s sister, has also advised me to have a child as quickly as possible. In fact she has ordered her brother to pay me special attention until I am with child again.

  “It will not do for one of the wives of the Minya palace pasha to be without a child. It is not normal. You must have a child right away. Then you must have another, preferably one a year until your husband is furnished with as many as six or seven sons from the belly of the sultan’s daughter.”

  I have everything I could possibly want, but I want none of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sophie had seen Aimee’s disgusting display and watched in horror as her dear friend made a total fool of herself in front of crowds of leering men. Sophie had clung to her seat, shooting hateful glances at Sebastian as he had clapped and laughed. He evidently found Aimee’s dancing on stage highly amusing, but it was clear to Sophie that Aimee had lost her mind.

  “It’s not funny,” Sophie yelled. And then that horrible man had climbed on stage and scooped Aimee up in his arms, taking her backstage. Sophie knew that these dancers were expected to seduce a man and earn big money for the brothel madame, the woman who Aimee had said had been her husband’s lover. In an effort to find Aimee before it was too late, Sophie had run to the headwaiter and had shaken him by the shoulders.

  “Take me backstage. That’s my friend who was dancing up there. She’s not well. I must rescue her.”

  The headwaiter chewed his lip and smiled smugly. “It’s out of the question. Your friend is a new dancer at the club. No one is allowed backstage except for the girls and the men who have paid for them.”

  Sebastian tried to calm her. “Sophie, come on. Leave it. Your friend obviously knows what she’s doing. Let’s go.”

  Sophie flashed him a look of contempt. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I’m going to find Youssef. I’m going to get her myself.”

  Running outside to find Youssef, who was waiting for her in a nearby street, she saw that man hauling an unconscious Aimee into his car. She shouted out, but he was already pulling away.

  “Follow him,” she ordered Youssef, and jumped in.

  Sophie clutched the leather seats anxiously, peering in the darkness at the car in front of them. The man in the car ahead scared her, and she didn’t know what she was going to do. When his car slowed down, she ordered Youssef to slow down too and then told him to park unobserved a little way off.

  “It’s okay, Youssef. Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

  A half hour later, the car remained there, not moving. From a distance Sophie saw Aimee moving inside the car and a man reaching for her gently. They were talking. Aimee didn’t look concerned or worried. They seemed to be having an amicable conversation. She wondered if it would be better to wait. Then their car started and they drove off towards the Nile. Sophie ordered Youssef to follow them. They parked away in a shadowy spot, almost out of sight. Sophie was watching them like a hawk. She leaned over the front seat and watched them get out of the car. Sophie reached to open her own car door but stopped. Where was he taking her? They were walking towards the houseboats, and she saw them go down the steps of one. She didn’t know if she should follow them now. A few seconds passed, then minutes.

  “Wait here, Youssef.” said Sophie, slipping out of their car. She sprinted across the pavement, slid down onto the houseboat deck, and peered through the window.

  The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

  Cairo, September 9, 1919

  Virginie arrives from Cairo to visit me. I am allowed to walk with her along the Corniche. I am escorted to her by one of the general household servants, a young boy.

  Virginie is waiting for me by a row of arabiehs that line the Corniche waiting to take tourists on little excursions. She stands stroking the horses, looking delightful in a fitted sand-coloured jacket over an ankle-length skirt and black boots. She is wearing a smart new hat.

  I approach her, and she realises it is me beneath the veil. Her face lights up, and she holds out her arms to embrace me.

  “My dear friend, I am so happy to see you,” she says.

  I am glad I am veiled, because I do not want her to see me cry.

  “Dear Virginie,” I say softly with a lump in my throat, “I am so glad you have come.”

  I push my veil away slightly for a moment to study her face properly. I love her shimmering eyes, her soft downy eyebrows, and the curve of her mouth. Then I let my veil fall back into place.

  “And your brother? Is he coming too?”

  Viriginie takes my arm and leads me away towards the Corniche. The servant assigned to chaperone me stands back and watches us closely, but he does not try to follow us. We watch the feluccas and dahabiehs sailing with the gentle currents of the river. We see tourists aboard. Egyptian children are cleaning their shoes and cooling them with large palm leaves.

  “Yes,” she says. “But I am scared for you, Hezba. I am scared for your future if you continue this affair with him.”

  “I can’t stop, Virginie. I don’t know much, but I know I can’t stop this.”

  “My dear Hezba,” she says, “my brother loves you, but your worlds are too different. His mission is a political one. Are you so sure you want to be part of a revolution?”

  I lean on her arm, feeling very tired all of a sudden. “Virginie, we are all part of it whether we like it or not. My papa is involved because he is supporting the British. I am involved because I am a part of a world that accepts the old traditions that are crippling Egypt. You are a teacher. You educate people. You are helping things to change, Virginie. Why can’t I?”

  Virginie pats my arm and then embraces me, telling me to be brave.

  “There are terrible times ahead, Hezba,” she says. “I am thinking of returning to France, and I am trying to persuade my husband to come too. The Nationalists continue to riot and burn buildings. My brother says he will not leave while the Nationalists are fighting for a better Egypt. He says he has to stay and fight. Forget Alexandre, Hezba. Come to France with me.”

  I lower my head. I can’t leave Alexandre. “Will Alexandre come soon? I will feel better if I can see him.”

  Virginie rubs my arm to calm me down. “Yes, he’s on his way, but your father is in trouble, Hezba. He’s being targeted as an aide to the British, as you know. The Nationalists see violence as the only way to force change. They won’t be satisfied until Egypt is independent of all British involvement. They are tired of living as servants in their own country. You know that. Things are not safe for your father at the moment. You must write to your father and try to make him see sense. Try to persuade him to leave Egypt for a while with his family. Go to Switzerland, London, France, anywhere but here.”

  “My father is stubborn,” I say. “He’s a patriot, but he does not see things clearly. He does not hate the British. He will never leave Egypt, and he will never listen to me.”

  “Then we must wait and see what happens. It is in the hands of Almighty God,” she says, hugging me. “I’ll pray for you every night, I promise.”

  We part and I am escorted back to the palace.

  When we arrive, I ask Anisah to make arrangements for me to meet with my father who will arrive in Minya soon on government business.

  “I cannot do that, Hezba,” Anisah tells me. “He is busy with his government duties.”

  Anisah does not give me
any more information. I feel desperate that I am waiting, waiting for something to happen and no one will talk to me about the things that matter.

  “Eat this, Sayyida,” Rachid says, passing me a plate of fruits. “You cannot live on pastries alone. You don’t look well.”

  “Come and listen to the musicians tonight in the grand hall, Sayyida,” Anisah says.

  “You will be measured for new robes, Sayyida,” Rachid says.

  “Your husband wants you to wear clothes tailored to suit his palace.”

  I sigh. They talk too much, and they order me around. It is ridiculous to be talking about clothes when Cairo is on fire and our palace is in danger.

  “The other women want your company at the baths,” Rachid says. “You must go and spend some time with them.”

  Then Anisah says, “Al-Shezira has sent you this little book to read, a story about a wife’s devotion to her family. It is about how the wife longed to have five wonderful little babies and how after the fifth baby boy was born, she planted a little garden for her children and watched the trees and the flowers grow, just as her children grew. It is a lovely story.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. Rachid and Anisah have had their minds stolen from them. This is all a conspiracy, to make me feel as though I too am losing my mind.

  But still I go and listen to the musicians in the Great Hall. Then a fortune-teller comes to the harem to entertain the women. I ask Rachid to arrange a private sitting with her in my rooms.

  I am the last to be seen. The fortune-teller sits me down in front of her and takes out a pack of elaborately painted cards. She asks my name, how old I am, and the year of my birth. I tell her I am not sure but think I was born in 1902.

  She looks into my eyes and strokes my face gently. I do not like the feel of her fingers. They feel rough and smell of dirt. She tells me I am unhappy, and I nod.

  She pulls a card from the pack and sighs. The card has a picture on it of a naked man and woman, entwined like snakes. Behind them, the sky is dark and stormy.

  “This card is called the Lovers,” she says in a husky voice. “You are in love with someone other than your husband.”

  She takes another card from the pack. This time the card shows a tower and a bolt of lightning. “Great distress and change,” she says.

  The next card shows a man on a white horse.

  “A stranger is coming,” she says, “and he will bring you much luck and happiness.”

  I don’t say anything.

  The next card has some gold coins falling to the red earth.

  “Luck, wealth, and happiness,” she says.

  Finally, I say to her, “Tell me who you really are. Have you been sent to me?”

  She looks around the room to check that we are alone. “Yes,” she says. “I have a message for you.” She pauses. “But first,” she says, “tell me which night do you spend with your husband?”

  “Monday.”

  “Before the moon rises on this Monday—before you perform your wifely duties—take one last look at your husband’s face.”

  And she presses something cold and hard into my hand. I stare at it in shock. It is a revolver. The fortune-teller looks around nervously.

  “Hide it away, Sayyida,” she says. “It is ready to use. Your Sayyid wanted me to give it to you.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Then I roll some money into her palm, sit back on my heels, and close my eyes gratefully. When I open them again, she is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Aimee stood on her balcony thinking about Farouk, Sophie, and the el-G. The look on Sophie’s face when she had opened the door to the boathouse haunted her. She had been in Farouk’s arms when Sophie had burst through the door, her face ashen at the sight of them together.

  Aimee clung to the balcony railing, watching people going about their business. The morning air was soft and silky, but the heat was building. Farouk had held her close, had told her to leave Cairo, had told her she was in grave danger. The reason? Mahmoud and his gang would probably choose to dispose of her as they had disposed of her husband. She had considered his words but knew she would not leave. She was an Egyptian, Cairo was her home, and no war, no dark underworld would make her leave now. She was a woman who would do things her own way, though only a few days ago, she’d felt adrift in this city. Her pride in her heritage was growing. Something was happening to her, and she knew that deep inside her the spirit of her mother was stirring—and with it a determination to stand tall and face whatever the future had in store. Going to the el-G had been a stupid mistake, but she’d read something on Fatima’s face when she’d been with her, a hardness. Fatima was a woman without conscience, Aimee was sure of that, from their brief exchange, a woman who was a slave to money who’d do anything—even seduce another woman’s husband—if the price was right.

  She shuddered at the memory of Farouk’s brief and tender kiss on the houseboat. She had allowed him to kiss her, his lips soft against hers, for a matter of seconds, but she had pulled away, standing back to study his face for a clue, for something. She felt torn, drawn to him but very, very wary. As he had reached for her again, cupping her face in his hands, wanting more, Sophie had burst through the door.

  She tried to push Sophie out of her mind and focus on what was in front of her. Her neighbourhood entranced her. Booksellers sat on mats alongside kilim sellers, women tended vegetable stalls, and emaciated children ran laughing through narrow harets. Aimee’s mind swirled. Though she was still adrift, she couldn’t ignore the growing feelings she had for this place of her birth. Neither an outside observer nor a real insider, she was living on the fringes of this hypnotic world, unable to understand any of it. She couldn’t help but wonder how her life would have been different if Azi had not been murdered, if her mother were still alive.

  Sophie had left the houseboat as abruptly as she had entered it. Aimee had tried to run after her, but Farouk had pulled her back. Then he’d driven her home as dawn was breaking, leaving her there alone at her request. Though the taint of the break-in still lingered, it was her home. She could not stay away forever. He had wanted to stay with her, until Hakim, Aunt Saiza’s driver, arrived to take her to Saiza’s house, but she had insisted that he leave. She needed some time to herself to think things through, so she had run a bath. Lying in her bathtub, in her little house, she had quivered with the memory of him. She saw Farouk’s face, felt his hands stroking her own, the look of longing in his eyes. As she gripped her balcony railing, she knew that something was about to happen—something dark and unspeakable—but she couldn’t make any sense of it. The “thing,” whatever it was, was a living shadow with no discernible shapes.

  In her mind, she pictured Farouk’s houseboat, the bookshelves crammed with volumes of literature in French, Arabic, Italian, even Urdu. She could smell the raw oak aroma of the floors and the window frames. She could see the little bedroom with its low bed where they had sat talking. She’d also seen a briefcase with a strange insignia and envelopes on a small desk with unfamiliar names scribbled on them.

  Farouk’s houseboat seemed so cosy and lived in, with its bookshelves and furniture. It didn’t seem like the type of place a man would go to hide out from a pack of assassins. He had his house on Gezira Island. He seemed to live openly. Any group who wanted him dead would be able to find him. None of it added up. Aimee thought about the drama of their desert arrest and their conversation in the trench on their way back to Cairo. Mahmoud, Farouk had suggested to her, was the Group of the X. This Group had murdered Azi because Azi was, according to this Group, working with the Germans, trading secrets. Fatima was involved with the X. The name Issawi came to her. She’d heard Farouk mention him, but she didn’t know who this Issawi was. If this Mahmoud was after Farouk, why didn’t he go to the police? He seemed to be against the idea of any authority getting involved in the tracking down of murderers. So he must have something to hide. Aimee didn’t trust him. He seemed so protecti
ve of her, and that in itself concerned her. Why would he want to help her? She was nothing to him, not part of his circle in any way. He said he had met Azi, was aware of him, but Aimee got the impression Farouk held some sort of strange grudge against him. He spoke with raw hatred when he mentioned the privileged circles that Azi was supposed to have moved in. And then there was the coded letter that had fallen out of her mother’s diary, with the photo of Fatima. She had given him the letter with the strange code, but nothing more had been said about it. She made a mental note to ask him about the letter, but then she realised that they had made no plans to meet again.

  She returned to her bedroom to change. She put on a pair of trousers and a blouse, rolled her hair in a tight bun, stroked the soft leather cover of her mother’s diary, and thought for a moment.

  The telephone rang. The sun was streaming in through half-opened shutters, and the heat hung low in the room. Aimee picked up the phone. It was Sophie. Aimee heard her friend say her name feebly, painfully. Then there was silence. She could hear Sophie breathing into the receiver.

  Finally, she spoke. “I don’t know what to say. I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  “Sophie, it’s all right. I’m all right. Isn’t that all that matters?”

  “You know nothing about this man, Aimee. And now you’re involved with him?”

  “Yes,” Aimee said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be, but I am. In some strange way, I am.”

  “But what will people say? Your aunt?”

  “I don’t care,” she said, swallowing the heavy lump in her throat. “I don’t care what people think.”

  “But he’s old, Aimee, at least twice your age. What on earth do you see in him?”

  Aimee sighed impatiently. Sophie couldn’t possibly understand. The truth was that she hardly knew herself. “I don’t know, but I can’t let go now. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I need you to try to understand.”