The Hidden (13 page)

My hair is wet. It feels sticky and tangled. Anisah prepared my hair when I went to bed, tying it in a thick roll with calico ribbons, but now it is coming loose and feels hot around my neck. Little streams of perspiration trickle down my back.

Perhaps I have Maman’s infection. Perhaps this is further punishment. I am afraid. The evil jinn is here to claim me. The jinn reads your thoughts. The jinn knows of the shame and longing in my heart. At last, I can hear heavy footsteps outside my rooms and Tindoui quietly opens the door.

“Here you are,” he says. He carries a thick, dark cloak and hidden within its folds, a rough soldier’s uniform. In the other hand, he carries a tall yellow candle.

He puts the candle on one of the small tables and looks at me.

“I am afraid for you, Hezba,” he says. “You are taking too many risks. I shall never forgive myself if something happens to you.”

“I will be fine,” I say.

“Don’t fool yourself, Hezba. If you are found out, you will be sent away forever. You are close to being found out. I am just warning you.”

“Look at the streets,” I say. “They are full of foreigners, women, young girls my age, living their lives while we are caged like little golden birds. I must go to him.”

“But Hezba,” he says softly, “your husband is your master, not this man, Monsieur Alexandre.”

“No man is my master,” I say. “You least of all. You are my servant. You speak too freely.”

Tindoui stares at me with his wide, black eyes. He is trying to distract me from what I am about to do.

“Take me to the stables immediately,” I say.

He bows, but his eyes quiver with concern.

I change quickly, and we creep quietly through the harem and out to the stables. I breathe in the night air, trying hard not to think about what I am doing. The night guard is asleep and we creep slowly past him. My heart beats so loudly, I think I am going to faint. My narrow slippers do not give me good protection against the hard stones in the courtyard leading to the stables at the back of the palace.

“Mustafa, find me some boots, before we mount, will you,” I order one of the palace’s horsemen. He appears with a pair that looks suitable for the ride into the desert. I put on the boots and throw on the thick cloak to hide my gear. I suddenly feel ready for anything. My hair is plaited in a single braid down my back. I put on the peaked cap and pull it down over my eyes, straightening myself against the rough uniform chafing my skin. I feel every inch the Australian lieutenant, and with thick boots and a rough satchel attached to my horse, I am transformed—no longer an Egyptian. I am a man, free at last.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

While Aimee was at the el-G, one of Littoni’s head sector men, Mohommad al-Dyn, was staking out Issawi’s club, the Oxford. He loved his job, loved acting the part of waiter. It had been his secret desire as a young boy to work on the stage, but his parents had disapproved. No matter, he thought sinisterly, he had become an actor of sorts anyway, working for the X, playing whatever part was assigned to him by the Group of the X. Tonight, Issawi was scheduled to make his first appearance at the Oxford since his widely reported return from meetings in Luxor.

Al-Dyn’s job as a waiter at the club gave him access to a great deal of information. He was on good terms with the doorman, Hagar, who had told him excitedly the night before that Haran Issawi was back. His eyes had glittered hopefully as he delivered the news.

“We’re in for some big baksheesh. The pasha loves to throw his money around. He can’t have the faintest idea of what anything’s worth. He just spends and spends and spends. I know the government gives him a blank cheque and he certainly uses his position to maximum advantage. If I were that rich and powerful—well, it’s good for us, is it not?”

Al-Dyn had smiled passively at this. The doormen at the Oxford ingratiated themselves with their clients, as they relied on
big tips to support their families. His job as waiter, however, was as far down the scale as one could go, right next to the kitchen hands. He stood to gain little from Issawi’s generosity as a big tipper, but he didn’t care—it wasn’t Issawi’s money he was interested in. The X looked after him in that respect. Their coffers—it was rumoured—were kept full by wealthy sponsors and supporters.

Tonight al-Dyn was in a good mood. With Issawi due any moment, he felt in control, on top of things, and useful to the X’s cause. It felt wildly exciting to be at the forefront of the mission, and he enjoyed working at the gentleman’s club. Located on Gezira Island, the Oxford was a far less stuffy and sultry environment than the cloistered confines of the old city.

A deliciously cool Nile breeze fanned the faces of the men as they stepped out of their cars. Inside the club, al-Dyn stood by his group of tables in the large dining room, ready to take orders. His mind was racing. He had casually asked the doorman what time Issawi was expected.

“I like to see the big grin on your face, Hagar,” al-Dyn said. “It makes me happy to see you smile like that.”

Hagar had thumped al-Dyn affectionately on the back, and, peering at the large leather diary on the reception desk, told him, “Nine o’clock, my friend. I’ll be richer and happier.” Then he’d pressed his finger to his mouth, emitting a soft chuckle, as though a thought had flashed through his mind. Al-Dyn wondered if Hagar was already planning what he was going to spend his tips on.

“Will we be seeing much of our rich friend?” Al-Dyn went on, “Because if we do, I can expect you, Hagar, to be permanently rich and permanently happy.”

Hagar cocked his head knowingly.

“He’s missed us. He’s been very busy. The life of a chief advisor is all work and no play. He’s asked us to reserve a table for him every
second night for the next two weeks. After that, we can expect to be poor again, because my dear rich friend has to leave Cairo on more political business.”

“But at least we have him now.” Al-Dyn smiled, congratulating himself inwardly on his ability to put Hagar at his ease. It was so easy to fool these gullible, greedy imbeciles.

At nine o’clock to the minute, a sleek chauffeur-driven Daimler drew up. Hagar opened the door and bowed at Issawi, who stepped out accompanied by two security men.

Al-Dyn spotted him from the far side of the dining room—his great bulk, dressed in dinner jacket and black tie, waddling his way towards his table.

His heart pumped wildly. He studied Issawi’s face and demeanour, trying to assess his mood. Littoni would want to know everything. The headwaiter showed Issawi to his seat, then unfolded a starched napkin and draped it over his lap. He snapped his fingers in al-Dyn’s direction. Perfect, al-Dyn thought. He longed for a close-up of the X’s latest project.

He moved forward to take his order.

“Sir?” he said with a servile smile. “A drink?”

Al-Dyn sneered secretly at Issawi’s bloodshot eyes, his huge jowls gathering pools of perspiration, his pregnant belly, which wobbled as he wheezed.

“A whisky,” Issawi spat huskily without even looking up. “No, make that a double.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Al-Dyn placed the order and returned with the drink.

Another man had joined him, someone younger, his junior assistant perhaps? His two security guards sat at a table nearby. As he walked towards him to place the whisky on the table, the young man spoke.

“I think you’ll approve of the speech, sir,” he said. “I am still waiting for the latest figures to come in, but the gist of it leaves no doubt that you were completely blameless in all this. I have written it to absolve you of any involvement, and I am prepared to take responsibility for the mistake myself, sir.”

“You certainly will,” Issawi snorted, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Then, seeing al-Dyn approaching, he put his hand on the young man’s arm to silence him.

“A drink, sir?” al-Dyn asked the younger man.

“Another double whisky,” Issawi answered for him. “Leave us alone for ten minutes. You’ll be called when we are ready to order our food.”

Al-Dyn went to stand by his station and began polishing cutlery, flashing quick looks at the two men from time to time. If he moved closer, he was sure he’d be able to overhear their conversation. Strangely, the dining room wasn’t that crowded, although he expected a big crowd later. During the summer months, people dined late at the club. Al-Dyn took a tray of silver goblets, cutlery, and bread plates over to a closer table and replaced one of the settings, keeping his head down as he worked.

“I’ve ordered four more security men for you, sir,” the younger man said.

“You were wise to do that,” Issawi said, rimming his glass with fingers. “Your job’s on the line as it is.”

“We can never be too careful,” his assistant went on dully, without flinching.

“No,” Issawi said with a laugh, “It’s you who can never be too careful. Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea how powerful I am, how I can crush you between my fingers and make your life a living hell. How would you support your family, eh, Salamah,
once I spread the word that you are an incompetent nobody incapable of holding his own even in the most menial of government positions?”

Salamah nodded humbly. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m at your service, sir.”

Issawi drank some more whisky.

“The men have been thoroughly checked out,” Salamah went on. “There can be no doubt as to their record. They’re clean, humble men from poor backgrounds with absolutely no links to any group or organisation.”

“Good.”

“You leave for Alexandria in two weeks,” Salamah said. “Your train will have the fully armed patrol you require and will be thoroughly checked from top to bottom before you leave. I have cancelled most of your engagements for the next week, except for the king’s birthday celebrations at the palace. I think it’s wise that you changed your mind about your engagements. Hilali and Gamal have told me everything.”

“I didn’t ask your advice,” Issawi snapped. “You want me to fire you? Remember who you are talking to, you useless idiot.”

This time, al-Dyn saw the young secretary’s face harden in humiliated shame. He decided to move away. It would be dangerous to hover around too much. He risked one last look before he slid through the double doors to the kitchen. Issawi was throwing back the dregs of his whisky. A few moments later, al-Dyn was called back to take their order. He took the younger man’s first.

“Very good, sir,” he said. And then he leaned subserviently towards Issawi.

“Very good, sir,” he said once more.

Littoni could not fault his acting tonight.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 23, 1919

I am ready to ride out to the desert. Not for the first time I thank God for my pale complexion, unblemished by sunlight. With my hair tucked under my hat, it is easy to pass as a young officer of the Australian Light Horse Brigade, out on a midnight excursion to visit the family of a new friend—an opportunity to experience true Arab hospitality, perhaps to witness a zikr, something to write home about.

Mustafa is sedately dressed in his servant’s garb, a blue turban, and a dark cloak. As we prepare to leave, I order Tindoui to go back to the palace, but he refuses to leave. He stands to one side, looking sullen and anxious.

“I will be back an hour before daybreak, Tindoui,” I say. “Make sure you are here to meet me, or send Rachid. Mustafa will stay with me, of course. Don’t act as though it is the end of the world. I will be back soon.”

I smile at him as I pull on the reins of my stallion, looking up at the glassy sky, blue-black and glittering with worlds I long to know.

“Go back to bed,” I say with a laugh at Tindoui, who had crossed his arms angrily across his broad chest.

Mustafa mounts his horse with a look of thunderous anger, and we start off. I have paid him well to accompany me. He has no right to look at me in that way. No one will find out he has helped me. I will make sure of that. We ride off. Disguised as a man—unmade-up, unadorned, and anonymous—I feel ecstatic to be out in the open and to be free.

“Papa did not realise how well my riding lessons would serve me,” I say out loud, suddenly unafraid that someone might hear my voice.

As we ride, I don’t think about danger. I think about freedom. I am determined, almost fearless. I should have been a boy. I tell myself I am going to Kerdassa to deliver money to the Rebel Corps, Alexandre’s
underground Nationalist group. But why would they accept money from a girl like me? a little voice inside me says. Another voice says I am fooling myself, trying to make myself believe I am going for a good cause when I am really going because of Alexandre. Another voice mimics Maman’s, claiming that England is good for Egypt, that the British have poured money into Egypt. It goes on to say that jewels and silks and gold are more important than the common man and woman. It denies the misery of the wives of the fellahin, the women who bear their farmer husbands ten children and who can see no end to their poverty.

In Mustafa’s world, my actions make me unfit to worship, unfit to touch a Qur’an, unfit to speak in the presence of a man, but still he does not say anything. Maybe all men are not the same. Perhaps there are some among them who want women to be free and equal.

Things are changing, slowly, of course, but the seeds have been planted and the radical intelligentsia is questioning the models and beliefs of our religion, separating real faith from choking tradition and fundamentalist dogma. This I know from my studies.

As I ride, I think of my teacher’s copy of the book
The Liberation of Women
written by the progressive lawyer Qasim Amin. I read a few pages of it some time ago with my heart in my throat. Maman would have sent me away forever if she knew I had read it.

But Maman was not there when I read it. She was far away, lying on her bed, while her eunuchs fanned her into slumber, with her forever in denial about the change that is happening. She sleeps now while her daughter rides across the desert towards freedom.