The Hidden (5 page)

And Habrid’s cruelty cannot stop me from dreaming. For the moment I have to be content with the brief moments Alexandre and I are able to share together. While I dream, I wait impatiently for Alexandre’s return to Cairo. And while I wait, I try to celebrate moulids with my harem sisters with the appropriate enthusiasm, and bribe my servants to sneak me out to a zaar. I love the zaars, where we women can be rid of our tormenters and all our troubles exorcised by the drums and the lutes of the wandering peddlers and musicians. When the women become possessed by the spirits of the desert, their true natures are allowed free reign. But in reality, I have become jittery with nerves and depression and a desire to cause trouble. It is almost as if I am living two lives: the sedate, grateful harem life, and my true inner life, wild and free.

I know that tomorrow night there is a zaar in Shubra. One of the peddler women who came to the palace a few days ago told me about it. I pretended not to be interested, because we all know those peddler women are Cairo’s secret messengers—if the face of the daughter of the sultan reveals even the smallest taint of emotion, the whole of Cairo will know. I don’t trust these peddler women. They have an intimate network of friends whom they confide in. Thanks to them, every love affair, every betrayal, every sordid piece of information, is silently blowing in through the harem mashrabiyya and over the terraces of the mansions and palaces. Often they exaggerate and lie.

On the subject of gossip, I know of three notable women who are entertaining men in their salons while their husbands in the ministries are tying up the remaining threads of the war. I envy them their courage. One woman, an elderly European lady, employs little Egyptian boys to look after her. She is very wealthy and can afford to live in the greatest luxury. Her boys are kept in apartments of their own. They live
like we girls live in our harems. They must tally to her every wish, and rumour has it that she makes use of them on different nights of the week, taking her pick according to her mood and her desire. I have heard she is often seen around Cairo, goes to the theatre by herself, strolls along the Corniche, is seen with the British ladies at the women’s clubs, and takes walks around Gezira Island all by herself. This woman has the armour of old age. I believe she is about sixty years old. She is Austrian, I think, and was married to an Egyptian who is now dead. She owns one of the newspapers in Cairo that is dedicated to Egyptian women, and she has a small staff of women somewhere who produce it.

I envy her freedom so much. I don’t envy her her boys, because that would be wrong, but I do envy her the freedom to be herself, to work, to make a difference to the lives of those around her. I want a life like that for myself. How can I make a difference to the world when I am caged in a harem and repeatedly told to be quiet and not to think? I cannot stop thinking. However, this Austrian lady must be proof that things are changing. Alexandre knows men who are challenging the age-old laws of Islam through scientific and academic enquiry. There is hope. There has to be hope.

How wonderful to be able to live like a man, to walk among them as a woman, unveiled, with simply a hat on and a pair of gloves and a lovely fashionable dress showing off feminine curves. How wonderful to be able to take tea at the Shepheard’s Hotel and mix with all the influential and well-connected socialites that come to Cairo. For the time being, I content myself with my friend, Virginie. She is wonderful, a constant source of support and inspiration to me. I know she will take me to Shubra, to this zaar. She is allowed to accompany me on occasional excursions to the souks and salons, but only when Papa gives me permission.

I will watch tomorrow night, but I do not plan to dance. I will watch the exorcism of the poor young girls. I will watch them denounced
as fit for nothing, possessed by the evil jinn, and watch them dance in a trancelike state in a dark room lit only by candles. I will watch the evil spirits that pollute their bodies vanish forever as they dance and twirl and throw themselves around the room. And I will not join them. To join them would be to admit that I am not pure. And I will admit no such thing. My thoughts are my own.

CHAPTER FIVE

Shrouded in trailing black robes, seventeen-year-old Nemmat Shanti stood on the corner near Ali’s Café, waiting impatiently for Farouk to arrive. She held her chador over her mouth, her black, heavily kohled eyes scanning the crowds. Beneath her chador, she wore an exquisitely jewelled costume of Persian silk, a bodice over her pert little breasts, and voluminous trousers over her perfumed body. It was very late, hot, and sultry, and her chador was chafing her. She longed to remove it and lie with her master, Abbas, smoking cigarettes on the balcony of his Shubra apartment. But as it was, she had to wait for the newspaperman. She was glad Mehmed Abbas looked upon her so favourably. She was young and energetic and moved with a dancer’s sensuality. Abbas was richer, she was sure, than the newspaperman, the man she called Monsieur Farouk, richer than any man she knew. Though she knew Abbas would take care of her, she still had a duty to her mother and herself to amass as much money as she could. She didn’t trust her madame, the owner of the el-G, or the clients who frequented the place. The only sure thing in her life was Abbas. As long as she satisfied him, she knew his money would continue to flow in her direction.

Nemmat studied the faces of the soldiers as they lingered on the street corners talking, the men at Ali’s clustered around tables, smoking, the other café owners standing outside and wondering
whether to close up shop for the night. Still she waited. How she hated waiting, hated standing on this corner, hated being stared at by the people who passed. The looks they flashed at her made her squirm. Women were usually escorted by a male relative and rushed from place to place. A woman shrouded, standing alone, was not a common sight in these parts.

Her impatience at being kept waiting made her ball her free fist under her chador. This Monsieur Farouk would make her late for Abbas if he didn’t turn up soon—which would make Abbas angry. Once the Monsieur had arrived, Nemmat would head straight to Abbas’s apartment. If she wasn’t late, Abbas would have a full two hours with her, before he went home to his wife—and Nemmat didn’t like to disappoint him. If Monsieur Farouk did not appear soon, she would leave. She was also anxious because she did not want to risk anyone from the nightclub, the el-G, seeing her talking to Farouk. Word would get back to her madame in no time. And then her madame would question her, thinking she was soliciting more business for herself on the streets, and for that she would be in trouble.

She thought about Farouk. When at the el-G, he always lurked in the shadows of the bar, observing everything around him, and kept his distance from the other customers. When he had requested her services in one of the back rooms of the club, instead of expecting her to fulfil her usual fleshly duties, he had asked her to help him find an apartment, for temporary use, in one of Cairo’s seedier suburbs. Nemmat had often wondered why he had asked her. Did he know something of her background? She hadn’t said much at that one meeting in the back room of the club, but she had agreed to help him.

While she waited for him, Nemmat distracted herself with thoughts of magnificently furnished apartments, adoring servants,
and grand trips abroad to London and America. She had Abbas in the palm of her hand. The newspaper monsieur, she wasn’t so sure. He had treated her gently the night he had asked her for help, and spoke to her in a soft voice, but it was clear that he was a hard-edged character, not to be trusted. Like all the men who went to the el-G, he probably wore a mask. Their real selves were invisible. She didn’t know him at all, but she knew his type. And then she saw him.

He had spotted her and was walking towards her. It was clear that he did not want to be seen talking to her and he knew he had to be quick.

“Jewel?”

Nemmat nodded at the sound of her code name. He took a wad of notes out of his pocket and slipped them into Nemmat’s outstretched hand.

“Is it all arranged?”

“Yes,” she said, sliding her hand from under her chador to reveal a bunch of keys. “Here are the keys. You can take the flat any time you like. No one will disturb you, but you only have possession for seven days. You must return the keys to me after that or pay double the fee.”

Farouk took them from her and let his eyes wander over her veiled features. He was right; she was cunning. She had already asked for too much money. Farouk knew the price of those run-down apartments. He could have taken his chances with any of them, but the risk was too high. Jewel would keep her pretty mouth shut, and if the price was higher, so be it.

“You’re a hard businesswoman,” Farouk said bitterly.

“I know what my dead brother’s flat is worth,” Nemmat replied impatiently. “But don’t forget, the price doubles if you take longer than seven days—”

Farouk put his hand up to silence her. “Seven days is all we need.”

“You are very confident.”

“We’re ready,” Farouk said firmly.

“Have you set a date?”

“Yes. You’ll get all the details in twenty-four hours, timing, location, your new identity papers for entry to the club. This man Issawi loves beautiful women. You must simply play your part—seduce him, spike his drink, lure him away from the Oxford, and escort him in the car that’s sent for you to this apartment. Once you’ve gotten him there, there will be nothing more for you to do. When you receive the exact instructions, you must memorise everything. Nothing can be written down. Do you understand?”

Nemmat nodded. “Yes, but I need the money you promised.”

“You’ll get your money when you deliver him to the apartment,” Farouk said sternly.

“But you promised half up front.”

Farouk examined her carefully.

“There’s been a change of plan,” he said. “One of my men has advised me against it. Complete the delivery to Abbassiya without a hitch and you get it all. We can’t take any risks. This operation must not fail.”

Nemmat eyed him coolly.

“Who else is involved in this operation?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you that, but don’t worry. You have nothing to fear. As long as you memorise your instructions and follow them exactly, you will receive your money and be promised a safe passage to Alexandria. Nothing more will be asked of you.”

“What if I am followed?” Nemmat asked.

Farouk paused for a moment, staring at her suspiciously, and then said, “Mademoiselle, for the price you have asked, I am convinced you will move heaven and earth not to be followed.”

She nodded slowly, searching his eyes.

“And you’ll be ready when you are given the dates?”

Nemmat nodded again.

And in the blink of an eye, Farouk was gone.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 23, 1919

It is early and deliciously quiet. I had to start writing by the light of a candle, but it is already growing lighter. There is pink in the sky, between the lattices of the mashrabiyya, far out on the horizon. The sun will be up soon. The muezzins will call us to prayer.

I write to release the burden of guilt in me. I feel guilty because I know I cause Papa such distress. He doesn’t know what to do with me. I am not the person he would wish me to be, quiet and serene and unquestioning. I also hate myself because I am a hypocrite. I pray, but I do not say the words in my head, and the words that issue from my lips are uttered without sincerity. My nightclothes are sticking to me, and my head is heavy as I write. I can hardly see the pages of my journal because my eyes hurt. Rachid is dozing in the corner, curled up like a baby on his cushions. Last night Rachid gave me a little calming powder to dab on my tongue. I had become quite hysterical at the news that al-Shezira is travelling with his party to Cairo to get me. I don’t know when he will be here. It might be days or it might be weeks. Nothing more has been said about my being charged with the crime of disobedience against my husband, but that doesn’t mean this ruling won’t be passed. I imagine it’s only a matter of time.

Rachid tried to calm me down last night. He laid me on my cushions and held me close, gently muffling my sobs with the palm of his hand so that Habrid, walking the corridors, would not summon my maman’s eunuch.

And then when I became calmer, he stared into my eyes and told me how afraid he too was of the future, of my going to Minya, of the possibility of him not being allowed to escort me.

He told me he loved me, and I told him I loved him. He is like my brother. I felt so bad that I cause him so much distress. And yet, despite that, despite my wilful ways, he is so loyal to me. If only things were different. If only I could take Rachid with me to live freely. He would not be my servant. He would be my friend, my confidant, as he is now. I would give him everything I could to repay him for his kindness to me. Though he is not that much older than I am, he has been with me since I was a very young girl. He was bought into slavery as a child and we became friends. I could never let anyone know this because it would be considered a shameful thing for a mistress to befriend her eunuch. I look at him every now and again as I write. He is sleeping so peacefully, but his cheeks are wet with tears. As he dreams, he is in torment. My rooms are now full of soft light, delicate and dreamy. When al-Shezira comes back, I suspect Rachid is right in predicting we will be prized apart. Rumour is going around the palace that my husband has the most terrible fate in store for me as punishment for my waywardness and my depression. His pride has been wounded and al-Shezira is a proud man. I see my sisters whispering when I walk past them in the corridors of the harem. I wish for some terrible accident, some disaster to befall him, a train wreck, the onset of some illness, food poisoning, anything.

Minya must no longer be amusing him, so he has turned his attention to me. Why, I wonder, when he has other wives to amuse him? It’s because of Papa and their alliance, I am sure. I lived with him in his Cairo mansion only briefly when I was first married, but then I became
ill, so Papa allowed me to return to the palace of my birth in our district of Cairo. After that, al-Shezira abandoned his Cairo mansion and returned to Minya with the rest of his wives. Al-Shezira’s insistence that I return with him to Minya is political bargaining with Papa, and I am the currency.