Arabesk (33 page)

“Wait,” she said.

When Zara had finished tucking in Hani, the thin sarong completely covered the sleeping child, resting lightly over Hani’s face so that it quivered with each breath like the wing of a butterfly. “That’s better,” said Zara.

“Lights lowest,” she added and the cabin dimmed.

The next time they kissed it lasted until he moved Zara gently backwards and she winced. “God, sorry.” Raf had seen the bruises again when Zara swam briefly, letting salt water sterilize the whip marks.

She shrugged. There had been worse. “Guess what?” Zara said lightly. “You’re the oldest man I’ve dated.”

“I’m twenty-five!”

“You look older.”

“I don’t feel it,” said Raf, “except on the days I’m a thousand.”

She wore no bra that he could feel and, when his hand finally found them, her breasts beneath her shirt were fuller than he remembered, tipped with soft nipples that promptly puckered against the cloth.

Raf kissed her lips, as if kissing might take her attention off where his hand had strayed, and when her lips melted he risked smoothing his palm softly up over a hidden nipple, his touch feather-light.

“How long before we’re back?”

Zara smiled. “Not that long.”

He wasn’t sure which question Zara thought she was answering; but reckoned this was the point where those
cultural differences
came in. Except her fingers were already undoing enough pearl buttons for him to slide back the sides of her shirt and reveal one full breast.

It tasted of the sea, so Raf’s tongue traced the taste in a salt circle around her nipple, feeling her flesh pucker and harden, then turn soft as his tongue lapped wave-like over the top.

Zara shivered.

So Raf undid a few more buttons for himself, bringing up both hands to grip her newly freed breasts. His balls ached, his brain swam with alcohol, cheap drugs and cheaper memories but he knew that on this boat, with this person, he’d finally discovered where he belonged, where he always wanted to be.

“Let me try this,” said Zara and she shuffled him sideways, off the long seat until Raf was kneeling between her open knees with his hip pressed hard into her. Her knees locked and she wrapped both arms around Raf’s hips to pull him tighter still. Her movements were deliberate, intense and shockingly private: as if, despite the fact Raf was kneeling in front of her, his hand gripping one breast, she was somewhere else, alone.

He couldn’t see her in her eyes. And yet Zara wasn’t totally in that urgent, rocking darkness between her knees. A darkness so intense he could taste a different salt rising to drug him. She was rocking, pushing herself forward and grinding hard against him. Each movement faster and harder than the one before. Breath hissed between her teeth like pain as she muttered something over and over. Some command or order that finally spilled her over the edge into a sudden gasp that she swallowed, muting it to a low moan that died as the rocking ceased and she pushed him away.

She was crying.

1st August

The Sunday-morning air held more smells than a spice
market—baking bread, an open drain, wood smoke from a
hamman,
turmeric from a locked warehouse…

All the scents mixed in her nostrils as Zara ploughed her way across the city, down starved alleys that turned right, then left, then right again. She was walking the bottom of a dark crevasse. Guided not by daylight, which was confined to those brief patches of sky visible between roof edge and a forest of satellite dishes or aerials, but by her inbuilt, almost perfect sense of direction. Not to mention anger, barely restrained irritation and killer PMS.

There were 150 districts in Iskandryia. Cities within the city, villages within towns. Some were rich and some crowded, a few almost deserted, backdrops to a play with no characters. Rotting houses and crumbling souks emptied of the living by the Influenza attack of ’28. Her grandmother had died in the epidemic and so had an aunt. That so few members of her family had been taken, and those old and ill, was regarded by her father as a kindness from God.

Other districts were too poor to have been mapped. They went untaxed as well, because no one earned enough to make taking direct taxes worth the trouble. Where that happened, other groups levied tariffs instead, in the name of religion, protection or some banned nationalist ideal kept alive by crowded housing, open sewers, infrequent water and nonexistent Medicare.

These groups paid protection in their turn. And those they paid had their own dues to pay. And somewhere high above them, like a hawk looking down disdainfully at vermin on the ground, hung the shadow of her father…

Ashraf Bey knew nothing of this city. He thought he did because he knew Place Zaghloul from Place Orabi and could walk from Le Trianon to Rue Cif without consulting a map or needing to stick to the grand boulevards. He believed Isk was a European city lodged on the edge of North Africa.

Anyone who knew anything knew that this was at least as untrue as it was correct. There
was
an elegant European city of red-brick apartment blocks, stuccoed villas and vast palazzos. But it made up only one layer and that was mostly confined to the sweep of the Corniche, the apartment blocks both sides of boulevards like Fuad Premier and an area around Shallalat Gardens where irrigation kept manicured lawns preternaturally green.

The
real
El Iskandryia had more layers than baklava, more layers than time itself. There was the expatriate-Greek city, the city of visiting Cairene families who appeared at the start of summer and vanished just as promptly. And the city of Jewish shops and synagogues, of rich Germans and infinitely less rich Soviets. And below all that the invisible, the Arab city from which her father hoped to remove her and his family… Money could do that, if it was used well. Take you from
felaheen
to
effendi
in three generations.

The city moved across time as well as cultures. A single turn from one alley into another could throw you back a century, to spice markets and dark warehouses where herbs hung from wooden poles, drying in the hot breeze. Another turn, a different alley and the present receded further, as the scent of herbs changed to the rawness of uric acid, of dressed hides hanging in a tannery while raw skins were trampled underfoot in urine-filled vats by men with jellabas pulled up round their hips.

She loved El Iskandryia, its uncertainties and contradictions. Its outward self-assurance and inner darkness. It was the politics Zara didn’t like. But then some things in life were beyond change: that was what her father said. She still hoped to prove him wrong.

Zara shook her head, still troubled. She believed Ashraf Bey when he said he’d been in prison rather than working at the Consulate; at least, she did most of the time. What she didn’t believe was that the Emir wasn’t his father. And she knew that was a double negative but didn’t care. She needed to see her father and, since she couldn’t go home, she was on her way to meet him at Hamzah Plaza, though he didn’t yet know that.

Her hair was perfect. Her make up so immaculate that no bruises were visible. Even her lip looked normal.

Straightening her shoulders, Zara adjusted the lapels of a dark Dior suit she’d just carded at Marshall & Snellgrove—having woken a personal buyer to get the relevant boutique opened early—and stalked across the square towards a building she’d never before bothered to visit, her father’s HQ.

The building she approached was black, with the pillars of white marble and a three-storey entrance carved from red sandstone and modelled on a horseshoe arch in M’dina. Her father was very proud of his building. The architectural critics had been less kind.
Ersatz Moorish
was one of their gentler comments.

What sounded like rain turned out to be an alabaster fountain set in the middle of a sunken garden. A thing of elegant lines and stunning simplicity, the fountain had been carved a millennium before for one of the princelings of Granada. Her father had never mentioned its purchase, far less what it might have cost.

Zara swept past the fountain and in through a revolving door that began to spin just before she reached it. Ahead of her waited a bank of elevators with glistening mahogany surrounds and brass doors polished to a shine. Any one of them would take her up to the top floor.

“Miss…” A rapidly approaching security guard almost but not quite raised his voice as he glided across the foyer, intent on stopping her reaching the lifts. In his face politeness battled with exasperation. Politeness won. His eyes had already priced her suit and noted her air of confidence but he allowed himself a second glance as he got closer, to confirm what he already suspected… He didn’t recognize her.

Zara stopped.

“Visitors have to sign in.” He motioned towards a distant reception area where a young woman stood watching them. “You do have an appointment?”

“No,” said Zara, “I haven’t. But my father will see me.”

She punched the button on a lift and watched the doors slide open, almost silently. The security guard was still looking suitably appalled when she stepped inside. He probably had a kid, Zara reminded herself, plus a wife who was bound to be pregnant, a mortgage… He needed the job she was busy losing him.

“Ring my father,” said Zara. “Tell him I’m on my way up. Say you couldn’t stop me.”

The man nodded and stood back, instantly relieved. He’d remember her kindness and not the arrogance that had let her walk through him, Zara knew that. And he wouldn’t realize what he’d just told her—that her father was already in…

Which meant he’d had an argument with her mother. Zara smiled. Her father only ever came in early on days following an argument. Some weeks he forgot about going to the office at all. Why should he, when anyone he needed to see could be ordered to come to him? His office on the top floor existed mainly to remind people who was in charge.

Hamzah didn’t do lunch with visiting foreigners—he had staff to do that for him—and he didn’t take taxis or even use his chauffeured stretch much. He walked, because money bought time and that created space for him to walk if he wanted to, which he invariably did. More people saw him that way. Remembered he’d begun as one of their own.

She loved him, of course. Feared him, too. More than she feared her mother, if she was honest. Checking her hair in a mirror, Zara brushed one sleeve to remove dust from where she had touched an alley wall and stepped out, head high, when the lift reached its destination and the doors opened. She expected to see her father waiting at the top but he wasn’t. Instead she got a small woman with tightly cropped grey hair and large amber beads.

“Miss Zara?”

“Olga Kaminsky?”

The woman’s eyes widened and Zara smiled her best smile. “My father mentions you,” she said lightly. “Always compliments.” Zara could almost see the woman reassess her, as she took in Zara’s suit, her immaculate hair, the discreet and appropriate jewellery and the folded newspaper tucked under one arm. She didn’t look like a spoilt brat who got herself on the news for being in trouble with the
morales.
Which was precisely the point.

“I’m sorry to turn up unannounced, but I was hoping to see my father.”

Olga Kaminsky nodded. “He’s expecting you.”

The door to her father’s office was ebony carved into arabesques and inlaid with leaves of pink or pale blue marble. Olga knocked once and went in without waiting to be invited.

“Miss Zara,” she announced, stopping in front of a huge desk.

Duty done, Olga Kaminsky turned to Zara and smiled. “How about some coffee? And maybe a croissant…?”

“Well,” said Hamzah as the door shut. “Coffee
and
croissant—and I’d always been under the impression that Olga didn’t approve of you.”

“How could she not approve?” Zara said. “She hadn’t even met me…”

Hamzah laughed. Neither of them mentioned the fact that Zara hadn’t been home for thirty-six hours. Or why. All the same, he saw how carefully his daughter carried herself as she sat back in a large leather chair without being invited.

“Nice place.”

His office was everything Zara expected. Huge, with windows along two walls, the longest looking north over the Corniche and a blue splash of the Mediterranean beyond. The other looked out over the red-brick edifice of St Mark’s College, where Hamzah had swept floors when he first arrived in Iskandryia.

A mountain of printouts balanced on one of the leather chairs, while an old Toshiba notepad sat open on the sofa. On the wall behind his desk an out-dated assault rifle balanced on two nails. It was old, rusty, stamped out from cheap, sheet steel. A Kalashnikov AK49. Like the fountain outside the office, Zara had never seen it before.

The whole room was a mess, which didn’t surprise her. His study at Glymenapoulo was the only room her mother wasn’t allowed to have cleaned. Here, he didn’t even have someone to nag him about the mess—unless that was Olga’s job.

“Coffee…” The door opened ahead of the knock and his PA walked in holding a tray. “Your Excellency…” Olga served Hamzah his tiny cup of Turkish coffee and beside it she put a plate of rosewater Turkish Delight, studded with almonds. “And here’s yours,” said Olga. Zara got a long cappuccino and a croissant, along with a linen napkin.

As the woman turned to go, Zara realized her father was blushing. For a horrified second she considered that there might be something between Olga and him and then realized that it was the honorific. He’d wanted
Your Excellency
so badly and now it made him blush. Zara smiled. Her father would get used to
effendi,
just as he’d got used to living in a villa surrounded by European antiques. And once he was used to it he’d start to enjoy it. That was his way.

“I suppose you’ve come to tell me you’re not coming home?”

“No,” said Zara. “I’ve come to ask for your help… But you’re right,” she added, recognizing the truth in what he said. “I’m not.”

“Do you want to return to your friends in America?”

“No.” Zara shook her head. “I’m not going to run away. Not even if that’s what you want… This is my city too.”