The Hidden

by Jo Chumas

  “Are you ready?” he asks me.

  I nod. I have never been more ready than I am now. My whole life before this moment seems to have vanished in a dreamy haze. I am a woman on the threshold of my own future. I think of the school I am going to open. I am going to be like Virginie, teaching girls so that they can become the next leaders of Egypt. In twenty years these young women will be running businesses, heading up political parties, building their own wealth so they are protected from the oppression of poverty. I think of my marriage to Alexandre and the birth of my baby. I think of a world that is better than this, of a place where women can live free of the shackles men and religion place around their necks. I want my daughter to be raised without a religion, to grow up free, allowed to live the life she desires without fear. I see this. This is what I want more than anything. We say good-bye to the woman. Alexandre takes her hand in his and bows with gratitude. She smiles at him kindly. There is a carriage waiting outside to take us to the port. The driver nods at us as we mount. Dawn streaks the sky. The streets are deserted. How different Alexandria is from Cairo. I can smell the scent of the Mediterranean on the soft breeze that blows in from the sea.

  I pull my cloche hat down over my eyes and huddle into myself, not wanting to be seen. Alexandre holds my hand and says nothing. He is scanning the streets as we set off. I know his heart is beating wildly, just as mine is.

  The driver tries to make conversation with us, but Alexandre pretends he does not understand Arabic. The driver then changes to French, and Alexandre knows he has to answer him.

  “To the port?” he says, and Alexandre nods. A jolt thunders through me. What a strange question, I think to myself. Surely the driver must have known where he was supposed to be taking us. Alexandre flashes me a look, a warning that he too suspects something.

  “Are you sure, Sayyid? Which boat are you catching?”

  Alexandre tells him that we are scheduled to leave on La Princesse bound for Marseille. He glances at me again and pats his jacket. I know what he has in there—a revolver. The driver picks up the pace and we feel the swift movement of the carriage under us.

  Alexandre leans forward and says to the driver, “This is not the way to the port, my man. What do you think you are playing at?”

  The driver pretends not to hear, and this makes Alexandre angry. He leans forward farther and grabs the driver by the neck. The horses pull against the reins. I can see the perspiration on Alexandre’s cheeks, the straining of his temples as he wrestles the driver of our arabieh. He sideswipes the driver and kicks him out of the moving carriage. Then he grabs the reins and begins driving himself.

  “Now to the port,” he says, and I hold on to the seats for grim life. When we arrive, we see that the ship is in the port. Among the crowds milling around the embarkation area we see police and throngs of soldiers.

  “What are we going to do?” I whisper, clutching at his arm. “We can’t do this. An entire army is waiting for us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Aimee waited until Rose had gone to bed that night. She stood behind the door of her bedroom, listening to the sounds of Rachid’s moaning fading away. She heard Rose visit the bathroom and then finally retire for the night. What she had to do couldn’t wait. She didn’t want to worry Rose any further by telling her what she was going to do or where she was going.

  She went and sat on the bed for a while in the moonlight and looked at the dressing gown she had put on after her bath. Then she got up and, as quietly as she could, she opened the door to the wardrobe in her bedroom and found some clothes to wear. There was a pair of Saiza’s black trousers. She put them on. They were far too big for her, so she grabbed a belt. She threw on a thin beige sweater, slipped on some boots, and cloaked herself in a dark shawl. She folded the piece of paper with Gad Mahmoud’s address on it and put it in her pocket along with some money she’d found in Saiza’s purse.

  Ready, she thought, bracing herself for what she had to do. She opened the bedroom door quietly and crept across the dark landing to Saiza’s bedroom, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  She didn’t dare turn on the light for fear of being caught. She knew Saiza kept her gun in a secret velvet-lined compartment of her jewellery and makeup box. She saw the box on the dressing table. “Forgive me, dear auntie,” she murmured to herself.

  With the gun in her pocket, Aimee crept downstairs, out the front door, through the gates, and onto the street. She pulled her black shawl over her head, wound it around her neck, and started to walk.

  In the distance she could see a hazy cloud of smoke billowing out from the direction of the Abdin Palace. But she wasn’t going to the palace. She was going to pay Gad Mahmoud a visit in Shubra.

  She found a cab and instructed the driver to take her to the address in the letter. She was soon standing in front of Mahmoud’s house. It was a strange place that looked like a Swiss chalet, near the Church of St. Anthony that she knew well, bordered by a small garden filled with wild shrubs and plants. She stood for a moment, clutching the letter, drops of nervous perspiration from her hands smudging the ink.

  Aimee recalled Saiza’s words to her in the letter.

  I could never find it in my heart, my darling Aimee, to tell you who your real father was. You were brought up as an al-Shezira to avoid any possible repercussions or gossip. I have tried to keep so many things from you, my dear, because I wanted to protect you. Your maman was a wilful child. There seemed no point in revealing the scandal of her life. As for the journal, it was something I had wanted to destroy, but after a lot of soul-searching, I decided to let you have it when you got much, much older, after you had married. This you know. What more can I tell you?

  She’d read on.

  The details of my innocent brand of deception are something that must be discussed in person, Aimee. It is for this reason that I am writing you this letter, first. I want to tell you how sorry I am. The pain and suffering must be truly unbearable. Not only are you having to cope with the death of your dear Azi, but you now know the scandal surrounding your birth and the truly horrible events that followed. Go and see Gad Mahmoud. He is a kind man. He might—and I say, might—know where your real father is. I can only hope that perhaps your father, Monsieur Anton, is dead, because I don’t suppose he can be any use to you now.

  She had to be brave. If the Mahmoud mentioned in Saiza’s letter was Issawi’s Mahmoud, she had her gun. She was no longer afraid.

  She adjusted her scarf, pulling it down farther over her forehead and covering her mouth, so that only her eyes could be seen, and knocked on the door. It was a long time before a manservant opened the door. He had a surprised look on his face.

  “I have come to see Sayyid Mahmoud,” she said.

  The manservant was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. He looked at his wristwatch.

  “It is two in the morning, Sayyida,” he said. “I am not sure the Sayyid is awake.”

  “Please, it’s urgent.”

  The manservant showed her into a small sitting room, lined wall to wall with books. He put on a lamp in the corner and asked Aimee to sit down. Photographs stood in frames on a small oak desk. While she waited, Aimee studied them closely. She saw a pretty woman with a small child and then in another, three young men with broad smiles on their faces.

  Suddenly Aimee felt panic-stricken. She had been crazy to come. What if this Mahmoud was the same Mahmoud who had tried to kill her? She fingered her gun and waited, her heart beating wildly in her chest. A man entered, adjusting the cord of his dressing gown, squinting in the low light of the little sitting room. He was portly with age, his face intelligent and open. His complexion was as black as ink.

  “Sayyida?” the man said. “I am Gad Mahmoud. Is something the matter? How can I help you?”

  Aimee sighed and blinked with gratitude. Gad Mahmoud! It was a fairly common Egyptian name! And yet she had been so certain of the possibility of it being Farouk’s Mahmoud that she had practically convinc
ed herself of the fact, but it wasn’t. Thank God, it wasn’t! She wanted to cry with relief. Instead she stepped forward, removed her headscarf, and smiled weakly.

  “Sayyid Mahmoud?” she said. “My aunt Saiza, a very distant cousin of yours, sent me to see you.”

  A frown clouded his face, and he went to sit opposite her in a low armchair.

  “I see. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure, even at such a late hour. I’ve just been listening to the news on the radio. There was a bomb. Half of the palace is destroyed. It’s terrible. They’re saying a hundred people are dead, but they are still counting the bodies.”

  Aimee bit her lip. “I know. I saw the smoke on my way here tonight.”

  Mahmoud clasped his hands together and said, “It’s also been reported that the Abdin Quarter is on fire. The Military Police are in charge now. The king is safe. Apparently he had been called away for a moment just before the bomb went off. There’s been a massive roundup of the suspects. Quite a few perished in the bomb blast. And one was murdered in cold blood, a man called Omar bin Mohammod, alias Fabio Littoni, along with two of his sidekicks. One of the ringleaders is still missing, but he too is presumed dead.”

  Aimee put her face in her hands and breathed deeply, fighting back tears. Mahmoud moved forward and asked, “Are you all right, Sayyida? Sorry. I don’t think I caught your name? Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee? Whisky?

  She wiped her eyes and tilted her head so that she faced him with a composed expression.

  “Please call me Aimee, Sayyid,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I’m sorry—I—my aunt passed away yesterday. I’m sorry for disturbing you like this. That is why I am here.”

  The man’s mouth dropped. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  “I’m so terribly sorry. I had no idea.”

  “I have only just heard the news myself. I’m deeply shocked. I can hardly believe it.”

  Aimee went on. “She had a fall and did not recover. She wrote me a letter before she died, advising me to come and visit you. She said you might be able to help me.”

  Mahmoud, evidently confused, shook his head, his features twisting sadly.

  “I only just returned from the Sudan, Sayyida,” he said. “I really am so terribly sorry. How did it happen?”

  “She tripped and fell down some stairs, and, well, she was not young. She had a weak heart. The fall was bad. Her heart gave way, and there was massive damage to the brain.”

  “I see.” A shadow passed over Mahmoud’s face. Aimee shivered.

  “Sayyid Mahmoud, my aunt told me you might know where to find a Frenchman called Alexandre Anton. I believe he is in Cairo. I wanted to come straight away to find out if you have his address.”

  His eyes flickered.

  “Anton? Why yes, I used to know of his whereabouts, but as I said, I have been in the Sudan and have only just gotten home.”

  Aimee clutched her scarf, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

  “What do you know of him, Sayyid Mahmoud?”

  “As you say, he’s a French gentleman,” Mahmoud went on tentatively.

  “He was a very old acquaintance, someone I knew quite well, long ago. He came to Egypt about twenty-five years ago because his sister was living here. She was married to an Egyptian and lived in one of those magnificent old houses built by the Europeans at the turn of the century.”

  Mahmoud’s eyes rested kindly on Aimee’s face. Aimee stared at him. Her breath quickened.

  “And now?”

  “I believe the sister died many years ago and Anton left Cairo. He had a troubled past. I last saw him about ten years ago. We ran into each other in Alexandria. I hardly recognised him. His hair had faded almost to grey. His face was thin, and his cheekbones had become razor-sharp. He looked tired, ill. As I said, I had trouble recognising him because he had always been such a dashing young man with olive skin, a fine nose, and flashing black eyes. But when I saw him, he looked broken. I took him to a little café in Alexandria, and we chatted about the old days. He told me he was importing perfumes and household goods.”

  “And you have not seen him since?”

  “No, I have not seen him. We lost contact, you see. However, I heard he left Egypt again and worked for a while in Turkey. Apparently, he returned to Cairo recently.”

  “Have you any idea where I can find him? It’s very urgent.”

  Mahmoud studied her face inquisitively before he answered.

  “I can make some enquiries for you, telephone a friend of mine who might know. Although it is very late, lucky for you, my friend is also an academic, a night owl who will probably still be awake.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mahmoud got up to leave the room. He tilted his head, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Anton, I think I heard, had reconnected with some of his old friends from the Wafd days. You are young, obviously. Maybe you are not aware of who the Wafd were? They were the original Nationalists, the political party that stood behind Sa’ad Zaghlul when he demanded Egyptian independence twenty years ago.”

  Aimee chewed her lip and nodded. “He did not marry then? He did not have a family?”

  “I don’t believe so. There was a woman I believe, a long time ago, but I have never heard of a wife.”

  “Could I ask if you would be able to make those enquiries, Sayyid Mahmoud? It is important that I find this man. Any information you have or can get would be most helpful.”

  “I will ask my man to bring you tea while I telephone this friend. If you wouldn’t mind taking tea here, I will use the study to make my call. I won’t be long.”

  He opened the door and shouted for his servant. He was about to leave when he leaned back around the sitting room door.

  “Would it be impolite of me, Madame, to ask why you want to find this man?” he said.

  Aimee stiffened, swallowed hard, and raised her eyes to his.

  “He is my father, Sayyid. I’m sure you will now be able to appreciate why I have to find him.”

  The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

  Alexandria, October 1919

  A determined look flashes over Alexandre’s face.

  “We have no choice,” he says. “If we try and catch the next boat, we will have to wait another day, and that would be disastrous. The longer we wait, the tighter security will be. We have no choice, Hezba.” His voice is dark now, angry. I can feel by the grip of his hand on my arm that his decision is final. We must go on. We must carry out our charade. I pray quietly for deliverance, but my legs feel weak, unable to support me.

  Alexandre and I start to walk towards the embarkation station. The fear of being discovered slices through me.

  I whisper, “I will say nothing. My French is fluent, but my accent might give me away. You do all the talking.”

  Alexandre nods but does not look at me. His eyes are fixed on the soldiers checking identity papers, examining faces and luggage, and ushering people up the ramp to La Princesse.

  I feel as though I am walking the plank, like prisoners in those pirate books I have read. I count the seconds as we march slowly towards the destiny God has willed for us.

  “Halt,” a soldier says, stopping us with his rifle.

  Alexandre stops and puts his arm around my shoulders.

  “Papers,” the soldier orders.

  Alexandre asks me sweetly in French to get my papers out of my handbag as he fishes his out of his pocket.

  The soldier studies the papers, examines the photographs, compares our faces to those staring up at him from the cardboard.

  “How long have you been in Egypt?” he asks.

  “One month.”

  “And where were you staying?”

  “With a friend at Giza.”

  “What has been the purpose of your visit?”

  “A holiday, my friend,” Alexandre says cloyingly, and the soldier flinches, his eyes narrowing.

  I can hardly breathe. I
have eaten so little and rested even less. Whatever source of strength has kept my child and me alive this long is leaving me now.

  “Do you plan to keep us long?” Alexandre asks the soldier. “My wife is not well. It is not good for her to be standing around.”

  The soldier examines our papers again. There is a suspicious look in his eyes. Fear pulses through me like a vicious heat.

  “Stand aside,” he says, waving his rifle away to the left.

  I lean against Alexandre and try to remain calm. I try to think of other things to distract myself. I can almost hear Alexandre’s heart pounding in his chest. The sun is climbing slowly in the sky now. Though the air is fresh and pleasant, I look solemnly upon the city and the Mediterranean, our gateway to freedom.

  The soldier calls over a more senior officer and points at us. The senior officer marches to a shabbily constructed hut and goes inside. A few minutes later, he comes out again, this time accompanied by three other officers, all armed, all stern-faced.

  Alexandre holds his head high as they approach. Then he demands angrily in French, “What’s going on? My wife needs to rest. We have our tickets for La Princesse. Our papers are in order. Why are we being kept waiting?”

  “You are under arrest, sir,” the army officer says.

  Alexandre smiles mockingly and reaches in his pocket for his revolver.

  I lunge forward to stop him, screaming, “No!”

  Soldiers storm in on all sides. Alexandre is thrown to the ground and handcuffed. His head is pushed against the ground, and he is kicked in the stomach. His head is bleeding. I am screaming. I hear my screams, husky, dust-coated, violent, desperate. Two soldiers grab me by the arms and lift me off the ground. They take me to a waiting carriage, and I am driven through the city, then marched into a women’s prison and pushed inside a cell. The steel door clangs loudly as it is slammed shut and locked. I listen to the echo of the warden’s hobnailed shoes on the flagstones. And I hear the screams that continue to rent unabated from my throat.