The Hidden (10 page)

“Anything?” she asked.

“No, nothing.”

He walked towards her, took the glass from her, and set it down on one of the little tables. She was feeling warmer now with his jacket around her shoulders.

“Did you look in the study?” she asked him, jerking her head in the direction of Azi’s room.

“Anything to see?” he asked her.

“Someone was rifling through papers, looking for something, a document of some kind perhaps?” she said.

“Come with me,” Farouk said, pulling her up by the hand. She walked with him into Azi’s study. Farouk pushed open the door and stepped aside as she brushed past him.

“What a mess,” he said.

Aimee began scanning the bookcases crammed with books, the wooden filing cabinet, and Azi’s desk, which was covered with newspapers, past editions, photographs, pamphlets and great dusty volumes, all sprawled in disarray. This was a man’s room, an academic’s room.

A low dull pink couch was partially covered by boxes of papers. On a small table, she saw Azi’s dusty Corona typewriter, the one he’d used to type his articles.

“I can’t imagine what they wanted. There’s nothing here except Azi’s academic papers,” she said.

Farouk furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you have no idea, Madame Ibrahim?”

Aimee didn’t know what to say. How could she admit to this stranger that she hadn’t really known her husband all that well, that theirs had been a very brief love affair, that she was not the keeper of his darkest secrets, his ally in his private affairs, or his equal in any way. It was especially hard for her to admit that her husband had had a life, in some outer social sphere, that she knew nothing about and that she would probably never have been admitted into his secret world. And then she considered the pieces of paper that had fallen out of her mother’s journal. Azi must have hidden them there, knowing that it was highly unlikely they would ever be discovered locked away at the university.

“There is something,” she stammered. “The university asked me to pick up something they found in his locker. Inside a notebook was a piece of paper with some strange letters on it. I have no idea what they mean. It’s probably nothing, but—”

“Do you have them? May I take a look at them?” Farouk asked her, plucking his cigarette tin out of his pocket. He eyed her quizzically as he lit one.

“Yes, I’ll get them.” She disappeared, returning moments later with the document and the photograph of the woman. She handed Farouk the paper first. He studied it, his heart beating excitedly in his throat.

“Do you know what it is?” she asked him.

He shook his head, studying the shapes on the page, running in columns up and down the page. He checked for patterns, familiar lines, anything he recognised—to no avail.

“No, but it looks like code of some sort. Can I hold on to it for a little while? I might be able to decode it. It might help the police with their enquiries. I won’t keep it long, just long enough to work out if it could be of any help to you.”

Aimee nodded.

Farouk folded the paper and put it in his top pocket. Then she handed him the photograph, asking, “Do you know who this woman is?”

His eyes narrowed as he studied the photograph. Fatima. The flash of recognition chilled him. He turned the photograph over and saw the loops and swirls of Arabic writing.

“I’m not sure—I—”

“It was in my husband’s possession. Why would my husband have a photograph of this woman?” Aimee heard herself say. She knew she was just thinking out loud. “Judging from his scrawl on the back of the photograph, it seems my husband knew her quite well.”

Farouk looked at Aimee, moistened his lips, and studied the photograph again.

“She looks familiar. I think.”

Aimee stared at him, hating the burning sensation in her throat, the dizziness welling up from her stomach to her mouth.

Farouk went on. “I’m not sure. I think she runs a club in Wassa. The face looks vaguely familiar, but then—”

“Is that all you know about her?”

He looked up at the ceiling, then at Aimee. If he inspired confidence in her, she might confide in him in turn. She looked innocent enough, but beneath the façade, what did she really know?

“I know of a woman at this club, the el-G, who works as a double agent for the Germans and the British. She sells secrets, information. This could very well be her.”

Aimee shivered. Was he telling her that her husband had been in love with a spy? “Why would my husband have a photograph of this woman?” she asked him more directly this time.

Farouk didn’t know how to break it to her gently. “I think he used to go there, Madame, to the club. Many of the university men go there. It’s a popular club, well established, with a fairly well-to-do and diverse clientele.”

He fell silent, discreetly running his eyes over Ibrahim’s wife as she stood before him, trying to come to terms with the news he had delivered. He handed her back the photograph, and she studied it for the thousandth time, silently memorising the woman’s face, her blood hardening in her veins, her mouth paling to silver. She shot him a dark angry look and shook her head.

“What do you know about my husband’s death? You must know something. You have contacts, don’t you? You write about the underworld, about breaking news. There must be something you can tell me.”

Farouk knew he had to speak carefully. “I know your husband rubbed a few people the wrong way. He had certain loyalties.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You told me tonight that you had only met my husband once. Is that true? Were you really just acquaintances?”

“His circle of friends overlapped a little with mine. I used to hear people talking about him. People liked to talk about Azi Ibrahim.”

“So what did you hear?”

“That Azi was thinking about moving into politics. That he’d been approached, was considered one of the few academics in Cairo who could be primed to run for government.”

Her eyes darted around the room. “Are you saying he had enemies, Monsieur?”

He cleared his throat. “Tell me something, Madame. Your husband’s university department is partially funded by royal money, is it not?”

She held his gaze, unsure where the conversation was leading. “Yes. The young men are from wealthy families and the fees are high, but a department like that always needs extra money. I believe Azi told me once that the king had a financial interest in it. His sons were students there.”

Farouk blew smoke into the air. “Madame, there are many poor people in Cairo who are ignored—men who would hate the privilege and wealth of those who can attend Cairo’s most prestigious university. Perhaps the men or man who murdered your husband saw him as a target for their personal vendettas. Perhaps they thought a man like Ibrahim would get too powerful and he was murdered to send a message to those who operate within Cairo’s elite. Perhaps he was a scapegoat. I don’t know.”

“But the woman?” Aimee said. “Is it possible that my husband was having an affair with her? Why would he have a photograph of her locked away at the university?”

He took a deep draw of his cigarette. “I’m not sure. It’s possible you’re right. You didn’t suspect?”

She shook her head miserably. She felt sick, and her body was trembling. Suddenly her vision blurred, and she stared blankly into space. She couldn’t answer him.

“Madame Ibrahim? Are you all right?” Farouk went to her and held her elbow, steadying her.

“You asked me whether I suspected, Monsieur. No. I knew nothing. My husband worked very hard. We hadn’t been married very long. I had no reason to suspect anything.”

Farouk stood silently for a moment, watching her, thinking.

She looked so drained, so tired. At last she slumped down in one of the chairs, holding the photograph, not speaking, hardly moving.

She looked up at him. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this woman?”

Farouk walked over to the French doors and stared out through the glass. “I don’t know much really. She runs a club, as I said, in Wassa, called the el-G, a gentleman’s club, a dancing club.”

“Did you ever go with him?”

Farouk shook his head. “No, I never went with him, but I have been there and I have seen him there.”

Aimee closed her eyes and urged him to continue. Farouk watched her carefully. He saw her trembling slightly, every tiny muscle in her face contracting with some inner shock.

“Up until recently the el-G was owned by Horzog Esfahan, a Persian businessman, but I was told that this Fatima Said paid him a very handsome sum to take over the place,” he said.

She listened blindly, her body growing numb. Suddenly, she stood up, her face set. She wanted air, wanted to get away, to get outside. “Take me to this club. I want to see this woman for myself.”

He moved closer, close enough that his scent and the aroma of Turkish cigarettes—the same brand Azi had smoked—tickled her nose.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

She shot him a dark look, then turned away and ran her hands over her face. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I am. Very sure.”

They were quiet for a moment. Aimee turned to examine him, her eyes running over his taut, sculpted face, his furrowed brow, the little beads of perspiration that sparkled on the bridge of his nose.

Music was heard outside, a local moulid. Spirits were high, even at that late hour. Farouk touched her arm. “If you’re sure, I’ll take you.”

“I can’t stay here,” she said, “They might come back.”

“Can you stay with your friend?”

Aimee looked around for her purse. “Sophie? Yes, I’ll stay with her.”

Farouk watched as a mask slowly clamped into place over her features. Iron bars closing down on her soul. He nodded slowly, biting his lip.

“Come on then. We’ll go now.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 22, 1919

Tonight, Virginie, my tutor, is attending a costume ball at Shepheard’s, one of the great European hotels here in Cairo, a place that’s a favourite destination of the wealthy. I have written about Shepheard’s before. It is a very popular place, where the British elite come for their holidays.

She tells us all about it, as she has attended a ball there before. I’m entranced and jealous. How I would love to go. How I would love to dance like those European ladies with jewels in my hair, wearing a floor-sweeping gown, my arms and my décolletage bare. I love talking to her about things like this. For the time being, al-Shezira is on the outskirts of Cairo visiting relatives, and I decide to focus on happier things. Some government business will also hold his attention for a few days. The stars are shining on me at the moment.

When the lessons are over and the others have gone back to their apartments, she pulls me aside and hands me a red handkerchief.

I take hold of it, my heart pounding, and I feel suddenly breathless. It is from Alexandre. Our rendezvous is on. I start mentally preparing myself for my escape into the desert and walk around on air for the rest of the day as happy as can be, taking interest in every little detail of the palace, every silly domestic argument, every face that passes me. That evening, as I am imagining Virginie twirling around the ballroom at Shepheard’s, I hear Nawal shouting, “Hezba, where are you?”

I rush out of my rooms to see what the noise is all about. There are Battna, Nawal, and Amina, my half sisters, in the small corridor outside the girls’ apartments.

“A peddler woman has come to the palace. Come on, let’s go and see her.”

Nawal drags at my arm, her face lit up with excitement.

“Rachid has spoken to her and has gone to get Uluk’s approval. Habrid will not find out. The peddler is selling little bottles of ink, perfumes, and paper. I thought you would want to see her. Come on, hurry up.”

Rachid appears. I am glad he is here.

“Has Uluk agreed?” I say. “How can we be sure Habrid will not find out?” I try to sound like I am in charge, but Rachid pats me on the arm and turns to lead the way.

“Just a quick look, Mesdemoiselles,” Rachid says, laughing. “It is late and I have strict orders to send you off for your beauty sleep as soon as possible.”

Just then Anisah, my maid, appears. She is as excited as I am. We love to buy things together, and even though she is my maid, she is more like my sister. She often accompanies me when we are allowed to go on excursions to the local souks. I link arms with her and we walk together. Anisah is a pretty girl. The whites of her almond-shaped eyes contrast
shockingly with their charcoal colour, and her cherubic face reminds me of that of a very small child. She is beautiful really, slender but shapely with small pert breasts that often get an admiring glance from Rachid. Sometimes I can actually admit I am a little jealous, but Rachid is not my amour, I keep reminding myself. He does not make my heart pound the way Alexandre does.

We find the peddler in the ladies’ hall. The woman stands grim-faced between two palace guards. I examine her face, her features. Peddler women are reputed to be able to read minds—to tell the truth from deceit—and I’ve been told I have a deceitful face. Perhaps the old woman has heard rumours about the Sarai and the “unsettled one” who lives within its walls and has come to examine the specimen for herself. But I try to ignore my feelings because I am eager to inspect the nibs and inks she is selling, lovely treasures, as important to me as the oxygen I breathe. I want to write about everything that happens to me.

Uluk arrives and we are allowed to approach the woman. Uluk hates Habrid, so he is glad to help us out. The peddler woman is shrouded in heavy robes. She greets us with a bow, kneels down on the floor, and lays out a swathe of silks on which she places a selection of beautiful bottles, ivory-boned nibs, and marbled papers.

I gasp in amazement at the beautiful colours: sepia, honey, rose, and dusky grey. I can hear Maman’s words in my head.

“People will talk about you even more than they do already, Hezba.”