The Hidden (24 page)

“But Sayyid Anton will still come?” I ask Rachid again to reassure myself.

“Yes, I’ll see to it. Now, let me take you to the dressing room. Tindoui is waiting for you there.”

Once again, I am escorted to the dressing room. After being washed and made beautiful, I walk as before to al-Shezira’s apartment.

“Here she is,” al-Shezira says as I am pushed inside the door.

I am alarmed to see a group of about twenty girls—some of whom are harem girls from the palace, others whose faces are unknown to me—sitting crossed-legged on the floor in two rows, their heads covered with sheaves of silk, their hands crossed in their laps.

Seated on the far side of the room, my husband smiles when he sees me. I stand frozen in my silk and my jewels, my hair free and wild around my hips, my feet bare except for the heavy anklets that jangle as I walk.

“Stand in the middle of the room, Wife,” al-Shezira says.

I walk to the middle of the room and stop.

“I have something I want to show you, Wife,” al-Shezira says.

From each corner, eunuchs appear and lunge at me with rough hands. My clothes are ripped from me, my jewels go flying, my hair is pulled, my skin is clawed, the powder and paint on my face are smudged.

I scream. What is happening?

“Stop,” I cry out. “How dare you defile me?”

Al-Shezira laughs and some of the girls snigger. Finally, the eunuchs pull back. I stand naked, my hair in disarray, my mouth bleeding, my clothes strewn around the room.

Then al-Shezira speaks.

“Look at this wife,” he says, speaking not to me but to the group of giggling girls seated on the floor. “Be careful that you don’t become like her, fat, dull, and ugly, so ugly that no one wants her, not even her husband.”

I listen in disbelief. I look at his bulbous face and the slow unintelligent slope of his skull. A rage is surging within me, but I can do nothing. He stands up and walks over to a pretty girl sitting on the floor. I assume she is a Minya girl. He reaches for her and pulls her up. He leads her over to his cushions, sits down, and lays her down across his lap. He strokes her naked belly. Then, pushing the silk off her head, he strokes her face. Finally, he pushes his hand inside her bodice and then down the front of her skirt. She giggles with delight.

I stand naked, shaking with anger. My limbs are giving way, and my head swims. Al-Shezira does not even notice me. He lays his new
piece of flesh on a little mattress beside his cushions. He disentangles himself from his robes and lies down on top of her, brazenly entering her while the harem girls hang their heads, stifling nervous giggles.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Aimee’s act was moments away. She hurriedly applied a little gold dust to her cheeks. Then she raised her thin arms above her head and tried to move her hips. There was no way she was going to convince Fatima. The men would laugh at her, and Fatima would get wise to her in seconds.

She had surely lost her mind. She removed her clothes and slipped into the red stocking sheath. It clung to her body like a glove. She pulled the long black gloves off the table and slipped them on. They reached past her elbows, with little ivory buttons holding them in place.

She scanned the room, taking in the cracked ceilings, the rough wooden floors, the antique armoires, the heavy velvet drapes. As she tiptoed barefoot out of the room, a plump old woman sidled up to her and took her hand.

“If you are Amina Khalil, then come with me,” the woman said. Her hand felt rough and cold like parchment. Beyond the long corridor, she saw the lights of the stage and the sequinned curtains. Aimee watched a young girl, probably no more than thirteen, swirling, entranced, on the platform. She was wearing a jewelled bodice and loose trousers, and her arms were decorated with silver bracelets.

In the wings on the other side of the stage, Aimee spotted another woman whom she was certain she had seen somewhere before. She peered out at the audience, sizing up the faces of the men through the cigarette haze.

“You’re on next,” the old woman said, sliding onto a small stool as the music faded out.

Aimee held her breath. The sound of a flute was heard, and then a hush came over the room. She could not think. She thought she would faint. She didn’t know what she was doing. The sound of tablas started up, followed by lutes, then pipes.

The old woman gave her a shove onto the stage. She was overwhelmed by that same unpleasant oily smell, which reminded her of the caravansarais and kiosks in the seedier parts of town, places she’d walked past with Azi when they’d explored the city together She was fairly certain it was opium, an odour so strange her head started to swim.

She moved slowly at first. Then gradually, swaying in time to the music, her movements became more vigorous. She tried to remember the steps of the flamenco dancers who had fascinated her as a young girl. She stamped her bare feet and stretched her arms high over her head, arching her body as she danced. Then a face loomed out of the cigarette haze. It was a good-looking face, the face of a man she knew. Farouk!

She kept dancing. She danced and danced, her body tightening with each breath, the thick, heavy scent sending her reeling. She saw Sophie and Sebastian. Sophie was staring at her in horror, her mouth open. Aimee continued, unable to stop. The face of Sophie’s friend dissolved into the blur, and she saw Farouk again. He had left his seat and was pushing chairs and tables out of the way, but Aimee kept dancing to the throbbing music.

She was dancing for Azi, not for Fatima, dancing in her sheath of a dress that clung to her pale flesh, her tiny feet stamping away on the dusty, dirty floorboards, which were spiked with shards of glass from broken bottles. Swirling to the pounding, hypnotic music; she crouched and twirled until she was almost naked, pulling at the thin sheath of fabric that covered her thin body. Still she did not stop. The audience had broken into a frenzy. Farouk pushed them back, leapt onto the stage, and encircled her waist.

“Get off the stage,” the men shouted. “She has not yet chosen. You can’t just take her. You filthy bastard.”

Farouk had wrenched off his jacket, was wrapping it around her, scooping her up in his arms. The dwarf pulled at Farouk, grabbing at him, biting the backs of his legs, but with one swift kick, Farouk sent the dwarf flying off the stage.

The audience roared with laughter. Aimee heard Farouk shouting, but she didn’t understand what he was saying. The room was a cacophony of music, laughter, clapping, and yelling. Farouk’s eyes were black and wide and hungry. The time had come for her to earn her commission.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 30, 1919

Rachid smuggles Alexandre into my apartment just before dawn. My lover comes dressed in a floor-sweeping chador, like a woman. When he arrives, he throws off his robes and gathers me to him hungrily, burying his face in my neck.

After lighting candles on a low table in the corner of the room, Rachid leaves us. He will stand guard outside my rooms, in case Habrid decides to pay me a visit. Anyone who tries to enter will be told I am still suffering with women’s business, although this is not true.

Alexandre and I have only two hours together, but it is enough to restore my faith in love.

He says, “Rachid told me that you will arrive at the Minya palace in five days, Hezba. You are stopping for some time at Beni Suef with some close friends of your husband’s. This is enough time for me to rally my men. I know the Minya palace and the streets around it. I know people there. I will find you.”

“Rachid will bring you to me,” I say. “I am certain I will have my own apartment. I have a reputation. They will want to keep me apart from the other women.”

“You must be prepared,” he continues. “I will draw some of the servants at Minya into my confidence. Behave quietly and do not draw attention to yourself. Do not let al-Shezira get suspicious in any way. Wait for the signal.”

Alexandre holds my hands and kisses my fingertips and then takes me over to my cushions. Clasping my hands around my lover’s neck, I taste the pleasure of a real man.

I try to take in what Alexandre is saying—that he and his men are going to seek revenge for the injustices inflicted on their people by my husband. He has told me that the Rebel Corps will take control of the Council of Fellahin, allowing the fellahin to run their businesses for profit once more. He has told me that I will be free of al-Shezira before too long. I don’t know how it is going to happen, but I am excited. I let myself imagine living in Paris or London and starting a school there. When all the violence is over, I will return to my beloved country.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, “for loving me, for understanding.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Hezba. Al-Shezira is an easy target for us. You mustn’t be afraid. You must think of your freedom, of our life together, of a free Egypt, of the school you want to start. You
want to be part of a better future for Egypt? You will be, but things have to change, and we’re going to make that change happen.”

“With you?”

“Yes, we must continue our fight first. The Rebel Corps has work to do. There are too many rich landowners who must pay for their crimes. Then we can free our country.”

“I am scared for Egypt,” I say, “There is violence everywhere. The men are rioting. Women are protesting on the streets. I am scared, Alexandre.”

Alexandre embraces me, and I savour the warmth and urgency of his kiss. I want to tell him of the night I was raped, but I say nothing. We must not make any noise. The women of the harem are sleeping.

We lie together for a little while, flesh against flesh, with a sheaf of silk over us until I see the first glimmer of light and Rachid comes to us to tell us that Alexandre must leave. We have had so little time together, just two hours.

“Habrid has been given orders to wake you, Hezba,” he says. “It won’t be long before he is knocking on your door, Sayyida.”

Alexandre gathers me up in his arms one last time.

“Hezba,” he whispers, “don’t lose courage. We will soon be together.”

After prayers, I am escorted to Maman’s rooms to say good-bye to her. She is ill again. I must listen to her as she warns me not to be a bad wife. Then I am fully veiled and escorted to the four arabiehs waiting for us outside the gates of the palace.

I do all this blindly, with the taste of my lover still on my lips. My inner thighs are still burning from his touch, and his mouth on my breasts has left a mark I wear like a badge.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Darkness enveloped Aimee as she came to. The smell of old leather and the familiarly pungent Kyriazi Freres tobacco made her nose twitch with recognition. She thought she heard a voice, low and tender and rich with age, like a seductive whisper, against her ear, but she could not be sure to whom it belonged at first. She opened her eyes and looked around, but had no idea where she was. As she got her bearings, she realised that she was curled up on the front seat of a car, covered by a man’s trench coat. The heavy satin lining slid over her naked arms. Her head felt swollen and numb and thick.

She scrambled up, blinking, trying to focus. Farouk was next to her in the driver’s seat. The car was parked on the banks of the Nile. She could see feluccas tacking across the river in the moonlight. Up ahead she recognised the Sinan Pasha Mosque, its cool white stone shimmering under the stars.

“God, it’s you. How—what? What’s going on? Where are we?” Aimee asked huskily, rubbing her head.

“You look ill,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel strange,” she said. “What happened? How did I get here?”

“Sssh.” Farouk turned and put his finger on her mouth to silence her. He squinted in the darkness and pointed at a group of men huddled near the entry to the mosque. Farouk told her in a low
voice that the men had the houseboats along the Nile under close guard. What he didn’t tell her was that they were Issawi’s men and they were watching the comings and goings along the banks of the river.

Aimee followed his gaze to the men by the mosque.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Mahmoud’s men. They’re checking me out. They have their eye on that houseboat over there.”

Aimee studied the scene more closely. All she could see was a throng of men lingering around the entry to the mosque.

“Why? Who does that houseboat belong to?”

“I use it,” Farouk said.

“What for?”

“As a place to compile my reports,” he said.

Aimee sat up straight and pulled the coat over her.

“What am I doing here with you in this car?” she asked him.

Farouk lit a cigarette. “I rescued you. You were dancing at the el-G. A new job?” he added sarcastically. She didn’t answer him, instead sinking back against the seat and huddling inside the trench coat. Then she remembered the red dress. Peeling back the coat, she saw that she was wearing the lilac dress she’d borrowed from Sophie. Had he stripped her of her el-G clothes and somehow gotten her dressed?

“How did I get back into this? I was dancing. I had the red dress on—I remember that much.”

Farouk wound down the window and flicked ash out. “I collected your things. The old woman took you into a small room and helped you dress. You don’t remember that? She told me you were very sick. Fatima was nowhere to be seen. I waited for you. Then I carried you out through the side door. I wrapped you up in my coat
and settled you down on the backseat of the car. I had to follow someone.”

“Who?”

“Gad Mahmoud. I’m on his hit list.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’ve done him wrong. He’s crazy, a thug.”

She chewed her lip, her cheeks burning. She tried to remember the old woman, removing the red sheath, putting on her own clothes, but she couldn’t.