The Hidden (9 page)

“He did not want me after Ibrahim was born,” I said.

“Your baby died, Hezba. You pushed your husband away.”

I did not want to have this conversation with my father. I could not bear the way he talked to me now, as though I were nothing to him, as though our association was simply one of business or fortune.

“Al-Shezira is not content with having four wives, Papa. He has taken another.”

“And you are jealous of the attention he pays them?”

“No,” I said, “No.”

But Papa went on. “It is true, the pasha al-Shezira and his new favourite, the beautiful Iqbal, make a handsome couple, and their children are fine examples of nobility, but that is no reason to think you are not held in equal regard, my child.”

“I want a divorce, Papa. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

I could see Papa’s face harden. I knew I had insulted him. Immediately I regretted saying such a thing.

“I want all my children to be happy, Hezba,” he said sternly. “I am certain that you don’t know your own mind. You are a young woman, and your mother is right to say you are impetuous. You have a responsibility as my daughter to behave properly. Divorce is out of the question. I won’t hear of this happening. I have heard many things about you, things that are reported to me—”

“Who tells you things?” I was getting angry now. I could feel a tingling of rage rippling up my spine, making me feel hot, then cold.

“Habrid.”

“Habrid thinks it is proper to thrash me with a rolled-up sheet.”

He looked aghast.

“I did not order him to do that.”

“He follows Maman’s orders.”

“Well, that is all right then. He is just following orders.”

“I will be happy if you let me divorce al-Shezira, Papa.”

“It is not that simple, Hezba,” Papa said irritably. “You want to take the easy way out of everything. I am your father. I cannot allow a divorce to take place on your whim.”

“But, Papa—”

He put his hand up to silence me.

“I don’t want to say another word on the subject. Al-Shezira and I have decided that you are to return to take up your position as his wife, as soon as possible. Now you may go.”

I stood there, tears veiling my eyes. Papa looked away. He could not hold my gaze. He fumbled with some papers on his desk and turned a key in one of the drawers.

I left his library and returned to my apartment.

CHAPTER NINE

The poetry-book launch was over. Aimee had just been dropped off and walked purposefully along the dark haret to her home. Pulling her shawl closer, she pushed open the iron gate to the courtyard and started up the stone steps. All she could think about was that man Farouk, studying her intently, hardly taking his eyes off her for a moment. The evening has passed pleasantly enough, but she didn’t like the way his eyes had searched her face and travelled suggestively over her body, examining her every curve in an almost-predatory way.

And he’d given her his card. Would she ever have the courage to telephone him?

The moon lit the way. At the top of the steps, Aimee noticed that the front door was ajar. What on earth? Her heart expanded in fright, and for a moment she thought she felt a cold clammy hand clutch at her throat. She swung around in a panic. Nobody. At the bottom of the steps she saw Samir’s little black cat padding silently along the rough stones in the moonlight.

She stood back against the wall for a moment, unsure what to do. Then she kicked open the door with her foot and reached for a light switch in the hall, calling out, “Hello, anyone there?” There was no reply. She slipped into the hall and reached for a lone golf club—one of Azi’s—that had been left propped up behind the front
door for some reason. She picked it up and swung it back over her shoulder, then tiptoed farther into the house.

The sitting room, the bedroom, and the small dayroom were now splashed with shadows from the light in the hall. “Hello?” Aimee shouted again. Her heart thundered in her ears, and her body turned to ice. She was shocked at what she saw. Papers were strewn everywhere. The lamp in the corner had been knocked over. The desk gaped open, and her furniture had been pushed to one side. Shattered glass glittered on the floor, shards from the framed photo of her mother. She gathered up the photograph and picked her way across the glass. Then she went to her bedroom, sliding along the wall of the hallway, stiff with fear.

The bedroom was in disarray. The mattress lay on its side against the wall. The armoire doors had been flung open. Suitcases and clothes were splayed across the floor. Her hand flew to her mouth. Shivering, Aimee sank down to the floor and gathered up Azi’s suit in her arms. She fumbled around in it, looking for his revolver. Gone. Stolen.

She jumped up and raced into the hall, still clutching the photograph of her mother tightly. Standing out on the landing at the top of the stone steps, her eyes darting wildly, she scrutinised the shadows. There was a man. She identified the silhouette of his squat, hatless body as he moved silently towards the iron gate. She shouted after him and flew down the stone steps, waving the golf club high above her head. Then she poked her head around the iron gate. She wasn’t losing her mind. It was indeed a man, racing along the haret to Sharia Suleyman Pasha. Soon he was lost in the throngs of late-night revellers.

Aimee bolted the iron gate and flew up the stairs to phone the police. She paused for a moment at the threshold, listening to the sound of her own heavy breathing. Fear squeezed every muscle. She
could not stay here alone. Sophie had gone on to another party at Shepheard’s after her driver had dropped Aimee off at her place, so there would be no point in calling her at the Continental. She thought of Farouk and remembered the card he had given her. It seemed logical to try him, especially since he had insisted that he was at her service if she ever needed help of any kind. She reached for her handbag and picked out the card with Farouk’s telephone number on it. It was very late. It was quite possible he would not be there. She dialled Farouk’s number with a shaking hand.

“Yes?” a voice answered.

“Monsieur Farouk?”

“Who is this?” said the voice.

“Madame Ibrahim. We met at the book launch tonight.”

“Madame?” said Farouk. Aimee heard the surprise in his voice and the softening of his tone.

“I need your help, Monsieur.” Aimee had trouble steadying her nerve-rattled voice. She clutched the telephone receiver, trembling.

“Are you in trouble, Madame?” Farouk said.

“My house has been broken into. I’m all alone here.”

She sensed Farouk stiffen on the other end of the line.

“I’ll come right away. What is your address?”

She gave it to him.

“Thank you,” she said.

Aimee replaced the receiver, took up the golf club, and tiptoed through her house again, straining for any sound. She tiptoed over the glass shards and knelt down to pick up stray bits of paper. Her mother’s journal lay on the floor by the sofa. Aimee grabbed it and examined it. It didn’t appear to be damaged. She slipped the photograph from the damaged frame into it and went to the dayroom near the balcony. She knelt down by the skirting board and pulled back a small section of carpet, lifting a tiny piece of floorboard that
opened to a cavernous hole. Extracting the photograph of the mysterious woman and the typed document she’d found in her mother’s journal, she put the journal down there in their place.

Then she replaced the small piece of floorboard, laid the carpet across it, tucked it back in place against the skirting board, and stood up. She put the photograph of the woman on the mantelpiece and hid the encoded letter behind it as a reminder to ask Farouk about them if the opportunity arose. She returned to the top of the stone steps by the front door to await Farouk.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 21, 1919

Two days have passed since my meeting with Papa. Two days of utter misery, during which time I have felt so alone and so bitterly despised by my parents. But this nagging unhappiness starts to disappear when one of the lower eunuchs, a little boy called Karim, comes to tell me the wonderful news that my husband has been detained. I bend down and kiss him, and I swear he reddens with embarrassment, his little chubby cheeks aflame. How funny he is, how adorable, and now I am bursting with happiness because my God has allowed me two more days of freedom.

I ask to go and see Maman, and with a lowered head and suitably demure expression, I ask her why my husband has been detained. She is reclining on her cushions with a little tray of pastries by her side. One of her eunuchs is grooming her hair. She looks at me curiously, and I can tell from her face that she is pleased, that she thinks I’m changing and will honour the wishes of the sultan, my father. Her prayers have been answered after all.

She says, “The pasha and his family are attending to a sick relative, but they are anxious to get to the Sarai. Your husband has sent word that he is waiting impatiently for the day when he can see you.”

Though I shudder in horror inwardly, I reply as respectfully and deceitfully as I can that I too am waiting for that day, and I wait with a light and happy disposition.

She smiles at me.

“So, child, you have changed your mind about the kind al-Shezira. He is a good man, is he not? You have lived here long enough. The Minya palace will welcome you with open arms. They want to forget the past and the pain you have caused them.”

“I know, Maman,” I say quietly, with downcast eyes. “It is for the best.”

Maman looks at me again strangely. Her eyes are screwed up in confusion. As her eunuch placidly pulls a comb through her hair, I notice he looks up at me and then away when he catches my eye.

“I must go now, Maman. Madame Virginie will arrive soon, and I must prepare for my lessons with her.” I kiss her and leave, looking forward to my lessons and news of my lover. Papa wants me to read the old Arab masters, but I am interested only in the new literature coming from France. I take guidance from my teacher, Virginie. I love her with all my heart. She is a kind and gentle soul who only wants the best for the palace girls. She wants us to learn, to be educated and informed. “Education is the foundation of life,” she says, shaking her finger when we are inattentive, her eyes smiling mischievously.

I am grateful to Papa for ignoring my mother and engaging her as my tutor. Papa has been known to be on my side when it suits him. It breaks my heart to deceive him, but I can’t stop now.

CHAPTER TEN

The minutes dripped by slowly. Aimee ran down the stone steps, unlocked the iron gate, and ran back up the steps so she’d have a good vantage point with her golf club at the ready in case the man decided to return. She stood shivering with fear by her front door in the moonlight, not wanting to go back inside. The mess scared her, the destruction, the madness of the attack. Whoever had broken in had obviously been searching for something, but apart from the pistol, nothing appeared to have been taken.

The paralysing realisation that the burglar could be involved with Azi’s killer or
was
in fact Azi’s killer sickened her. If only Farouk would arrive. Then she saw him push open the iron gate. He paused for a moment and looked up at her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Aimee nodded. “Come up and see for yourself.”

As he started to walk up the steps, he glanced at her. How frail she looked, white as death. Her large glistening green eyes, flashing in the moonlight, made him shudder. She reminded him of young girls he used to meet on his travels to northern India, when he was a young man—girls with pale skin and green eyes who would smile provocatively at him. Aimee stepped aside, and Farouk pushed open the front door.

“In there,” she said.

Farouk switched on the light. The damage was considerable. Knife slashes gouged great holes in the sofa. A vase of flowers had been knocked over, and the stems lay on the floor. Water trickled off a small table.

His heart beat strangely. He swallowed and turned to face her.

“Do you have any whisky?”

“Yes, over there.” Aimee pointed to a decanter on a silver tray.

Farouk went over and poured her a drink. “Here, drink this,” he said, handing her the glass.

Aimee sipped the whisky gratefully, enjoying the sensation of the warm liquid as it slid down her throat. She had begun to shake and could hardly hold the glass. Farouk slipped off his jacket and slid it around her shoulders. Taking the glass from her hand, he set it down, then pulled her over to one of the armchairs that had been left untouched.

“Sit down,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. Cupping her hands in his, he rubbed them gently to warm her up.

“Now tell me what happened.”

Aimee looked into his eyes, examined the curl of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrows, the jutting line of his jaw. She saw kindness and tenderness in his face, and for a moment she felt comforted and eternally grateful for having met him. But still, he was a stranger.

“Sophie’s dragoman drove us back. I was dropped off on the Sharia Suleyman Pasha about half an hour ago. I came upstairs and found this, exactly as you see it.”

“You saw nobody, heard nothing?”

“I saw someone downstairs lurking in the shadows, a man with a stocky build, but he disappeared before I could run after him.”

Farouk looked back around the room.

“I must ring the police,” Aimee said resolutely.

“No, not yet. Let me have a look around. Whoever did this might have left behind some sort of clue. Was anything taken?”

Aimee stood up. “My husband owned a revolver. He kept it hidden in a suitcase in the bedroom. That was stolen.”

Farouk didn’t say anything. He walked into the bedroom and surveyed the damage. As he heaved the mattress back onto the bed frame, something grabbed his attention—a cigarette butt. He picked it up and examined it, sniffing the tobacco. It was a Kyriazi Freres, Littoni’s favourite cigarette. He put the butt in his pocket and returned to the sitting room. Aimee looked at him hopefully.