The Hidden (25 page)

“You remember the dwarf and the crowds cheering?”

“Yes, yes. I think so.”

“And you remember that intoxicating smell? Opium?”

“Yes, yes.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette for her. She took it, and he steadied her hand as he lit it for her. She was shaking.

“I suppose you will tell me in your own time what you were doing dancing at the el-G.”

She searched his face. “Why were you there?”

He lit another cigarette for himself and shot her a look. It was the reaction he had expected.

“A friend of mine warned me that Mahmoud was planning on breaking into my houseboat tonight,” he said. “I got on Mahmoud and his gang’s bad side last year. I didn’t know then whether your husband was being targeted by them or not. But recently I’ve become surer of it. If my sources are correct, Mahmoud is planning something just as final for me.”

Something over by the mosque caught Farouk’s attention, and he stopped speaking. He straightened up, looking startled for a moment, and then a wide smile spread over his face.

“He’s getting into a car. It looks like he’s heading in the direction of Shubra with a few of his men. It appears he’s given up. None of them have been near my place.”

Aimee didn’t say anything. Farouk finished his cigarette and threw the butt out of the window. Then he reached for her, slid his hand inside the trench coat, and pulled her to him. He could not hold himself back, and she did not stop him. His mouth, scented and warm, on hers, made her long for him, and all barriers slipped away, dissolving until there was nothing between them. But he pulled back and held her to him in a more restrained fashion, inhaling the scent of her hair.

“You’ll tell me why you were at the club, won’t you?” he said.

“Fatima,” she said.

Farouk disengaged himself from her and pushed her hair tenderly out of her eyes. Then he started the engine and drove the car towards his houseboat. They got out of the car and walked together towards the mooring. The velvet milky darkness of dawn felt cool and soft against their skin. Farouk pulled her face to his, moistening her mouth with a second tender embrace.

“Don’t go to the el-G again, Madame Ibrahim,” he said. “Mahmoud is a dangerous man. If he finds out you’re spying on him or on Fatima, he’ll kill you.”

Aimee bit her lip. “Did Mahmoud kill my husband, Monsieur Farouk?”

Farouk wanted to tell her. He hated lying to her. At first the lies had come easily, but back then she had meant nothing to him. She had simply been the wife of a man he despised.

He pulled her to him without answering. There was nothing he could say at that moment. He felt her eyes burning holes in him, but he stayed quiet. They reached the steps of his boathouse, and he looked back at her angel face and reed green eyes glittering in the
soft dawn light as he helped her navigate the steps. He saw it again, that look of victory, and suddenly he felt afraid. He was losing his mind. He had met women like her before, angels masquerading as spies whose intelligent strategizing outmanoeuvred the cleverest of men. He put his hand in the curve of Aimee’s back and ushered her down the tiny steps of his houseboat to the cabin below.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, September 8, 1919

We arrived at the Minya palace earlier today, and it turns out it is just as luxurious as the Cairo palace. My first glimpse of it was from behind my long black traditional burkha. The metal fastening holding the whole contraption together is a constant irritation.

Al-Shezira insisted that I be dressed in full traditional Turkish harem clothes beneath my dull black veil in preparation for my installation in my quarters. Once we had arrived, I was unveiled and paraded in front of the Minya palace harem women in my brightly coloured silk robes. Then I was introduced to everyone.

The White Palace—as it is commonly known because of its ivory stone—is on the banks of the Nile. Pleasantly positioned on the eastside, my private rooms are on the top floor and overlook the water. A small stairwell leads to a roof garden. I have been told that the roof garden is mine alone. Because of my nervous disposition and the concern for my sanity, I am to be given special permission to use it privately for as long as I want. I have fine views of the Corniche and can see families promenading in the evenings. Al-Shezira’s home is not so much a palace as a large mansion surrounded by small harets leading in all directions. The nearby streets are lush with palms and wide like the image I have of Parisian boulevards.

My servants Anisah and Rachid have rooms not far from mine. I have a bell rope, as I did in Cairo and can call for them anytime. The decoration of my rooms is fairly pleasing. Instead of my cushions, I have a large, low bed, raised only slightly off the floor. The mashrabiyya is as intricate and as delicate as that of the Cairo palace.

I have Persian carpets, silver bowls, and vases, a little anteroom where I can lie on a couch and read literature especially chosen for me by my husband. I have the services of a lute player—a eunuch boy—who comes to play for me whenever I want. I can eat in my room—I have only to ring for Rachid and he will bring me sweet pastries, little delicacies, fatta, the very best Ethiopian coffee, chocolate, sherbet, very sweet tea, whatever I choose.

The harem is ruled by al-Shezira’s aging sister as his mother is dead. She has already visited me and told me the palace routine.

I am allowed one excursion a week, in the company of the other harem women, perhaps to the theatre or to participate in a local moulid, and I am allowed to take a promenade on the Corniche once a day, as long as I am chaperoned.

Prayer time is strictly supervised. I will not be allowed to pray alone in my room, so there will be no room for deceit. Prayers are conducted in the grand hall of the harem to the voice of the mosque’s muezzin.

There are to be no lessons of any kind. I am yet to be allocated a night, once a week, to spend with my husband. The night chosen for me will allow me to express my love for my husband. I will be stripped of all body hair, oiled, and perfumed and taken to him. He in turn will have a duty to satisfy me and make me happy, so that I can return to my rooms the following morning, a balanced and serene wife.

Umm Iswis, my husband’s sister, has also advised me to have a child as quickly as possible. In fact she has ordered her brother to pay me special attention until I am with child again.

“It will not do for one of the wives of the Minya palace pasha to be without a child. It is not normal. You must have a child right away. Then you must have another, preferably one a year until your husband is furnished with as many as six or seven sons from the belly of the sultan’s daughter.”

I have everything I could possibly want, but I want none of it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sophie had seen Aimee’s disgusting display and watched in horror as her dear friend made a total fool of herself in front of crowds of leering men. Sophie had clung to her seat, shooting hateful glances at Sebastian as he had clapped and laughed. He evidently found Aimee’s dancing on stage highly amusing, but it was clear to Sophie that Aimee had lost her mind.

“It’s not funny,” Sophie yelled. And then that horrible man had climbed on stage and scooped Aimee up in his arms, taking her backstage. Sophie knew that these dancers were expected to seduce a man and earn big money for the brothel madame, the woman who Aimee had said had been her husband’s lover. In an effort to find Aimee before it was too late, Sophie had run to the headwaiter and had shaken him by the shoulders.

“Take me backstage. That’s my friend who was dancing up there. She’s not well. I must rescue her.”

The headwaiter chewed his lip and smiled smugly. “It’s out of the question. Your friend is a new dancer at the club. No one is allowed backstage except for the girls and the men who have paid for them.”

Sebastian tried to calm her. “Sophie, come on. Leave it. Your friend obviously knows what she’s doing. Let’s go.”

Sophie flashed him a look of contempt. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I’m going to find Youssef. I’m going to get her myself.”

Running outside to find Youssef, who was waiting for her in a nearby street, she saw that man hauling an unconscious Aimee into his car. She shouted out, but he was already pulling away.

“Follow him,” she ordered Youssef, and jumped in.

Sophie clutched the leather seats anxiously, peering in the darkness at the car in front of them. The man in the car ahead scared her, and she didn’t know what she was going to do. When his car slowed down, she ordered Youssef to slow down too and then told him to park unobserved a little way off.

“It’s okay, Youssef. Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

A half hour later, the car remained there, not moving. From a distance Sophie saw Aimee moving inside the car and a man reaching for her gently. They were talking. Aimee didn’t look concerned or worried. They seemed to be having an amicable conversation. She wondered if it would be better to wait. Then their car started and they drove off towards the Nile. Sophie ordered Youssef to follow them. They parked away in a shadowy spot, almost out of sight. Sophie was watching them like a hawk. She leaned over the front seat and watched them get out of the car. Sophie reached to open her own car door but stopped. Where was he taking her? They were walking towards the houseboats, and she saw them go down the steps of one. She didn’t know if she should follow them now. A few seconds passed, then minutes.

“Wait here, Youssef.” said Sophie, slipping out of their car. She sprinted across the pavement, slid down onto the houseboat deck, and peered through the window.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, September 9, 1919

Virginie arrives from Cairo to visit me. I am allowed to walk with her along the Corniche. I am escorted to her by one of the general household servants, a young boy.

Virginie is waiting for me by a row of arabiehs that line the Corniche waiting to take tourists on little excursions. She stands stroking the horses, looking delightful in a fitted sand-coloured jacket over an ankle-length skirt and black boots. She is wearing a smart new hat.

I approach her, and she realises it is me beneath the veil. Her face lights up, and she holds out her arms to embrace me.

“My dear friend, I am so happy to see you,” she says.

I am glad I am veiled, because I do not want her to see me cry.

“Dear Virginie,” I say softly with a lump in my throat, “I am so glad you have come.”

I push my veil away slightly for a moment to study her face properly. I love her shimmering eyes, her soft downy eyebrows, and the curve of her mouth. Then I let my veil fall back into place.

“And your brother? Is he coming too?”

Viriginie takes my arm and leads me away towards the Corniche. The servant assigned to chaperone me stands back and watches us closely, but he does not try to follow us. We watch the feluccas and dahabiehs sailing with the gentle currents of the river. We see tourists aboard. Egyptian children are cleaning their shoes and cooling them with large palm leaves.

“Yes,” she says. “But I am scared for you, Hezba. I am scared for your future if you continue this affair with him.”

“I can’t stop, Virginie. I don’t know much, but I know I can’t stop this.”

“My dear Hezba,” she says, “my brother loves you, but your worlds are too different. His mission is a political one. Are you so sure you want to be part of a revolution?”

I lean on her arm, feeling very tired all of a sudden. “Virginie, we are all part of it whether we like it or not. My papa is involved because he is supporting the British. I am involved because I am a part of a world that accepts the old traditions that are crippling Egypt. You are a teacher. You educate people. You are helping things to change, Virginie. Why can’t I?”

Virginie pats my arm and then embraces me, telling me to be brave.

“There are terrible times ahead, Hezba,” she says. “I am thinking of returning to France, and I am trying to persuade my husband to come too. The Nationalists continue to riot and burn buildings. My brother says he will not leave while the Nationalists are fighting for a better Egypt. He says he has to stay and fight. Forget Alexandre, Hezba. Come to France with me.”

I lower my head. I can’t leave Alexandre.
“Will Alexandre come soon?
I will feel better if I can see him.”

Virginie rubs my arm to calm me down. “Yes, he’s on his way, but your father is in trouble, Hezba. He’s being targeted as an aide to the British, as you know. The Nationalists see violence as the only way to force change. They won’t be satisfied until Egypt is independent of all British involvement. They are tired of living as servants in their own country. You know that. Things are not safe for your father at the moment. You must write to your father and try to make him see sense. Try to persuade him to leave Egypt for a while with his family. Go to Switzerland, London, France, anywhere but here.”

“My father is stubborn,” I say. “He’s a patriot, but he does not see things clearly. He does not hate the British. He will never leave Egypt, and he will never listen to me.”

“Then we must wait and see what happens. It is in the hands of Almighty God,” she says, hugging me. “I’ll pray for you every night, I promise.”

We part and I am escorted back to the palace.

When we arrive, I ask Anisah to make arrangements for me to meet with my father who will arrive in Minya soon on government business.

“I cannot do that, Hezba,” Anisah tells me. “He is busy with his government duties.”

Anisah does not give me any more information. I feel desperate that I am waiting, waiting for something to happen and no one will talk to me about the things that matter.