The Hidden (21 page)

He jumped up and waved the truck down, flinging out his hand to reach for her when he saw it slowing down for them. He opened the truck door and peered in. The driver was a white man. He looked European. He jerked his head, indicating that Farouk should get in.

“Thank you,” he said, helping Aimee to climb in and sliding in beside her.

“You going to Cairo?” the driver asked in French.

“Yes, do you have any water?” The man produced a tin flask, and Aimee drank thirstily.

The driver put the truck in gear and moved off.

Nobody spoke as the truck gathered speed. Every now and again, Farouk squeezed Aimee’s hand and smiled weakly, but she could see tiny lines furrowing his brow.

Suddenly the driver slowed to a stop and steered the truck off the road.

Farouk stiffened. “What are you doing?”

The driver didn’t answer. He was looking in his rearview mirror and smiling. Farouk turned around and saw three army trucks. Though they were still a long way off, they were coming their way.

“What’s going on?” Aimee asked, her voice constricting. The driver reached down beside his seat, picked up a revolver, swung round in his seat, and pointed it squarely at Aimee.

“It seems your friends Hilali and Gamal are a little upset that you left so soon,” he said with a laugh. “Well, not to worry, they’ll be here in a minute.”

In a flash, Farouk grabbed the driver’s hand and forced it back hard against the inside of the door. Overpowering him after a brief struggle, Farouk made the driver release the revolver. Then he reached over, opened the driver’s seat, and kicked him out onto the gravelly sand.

“Hang on!” Farouk yelled as the truck screeched back onto the tarmac. Even with the truck’s accelerator pressed to the floor, the army trucks were gaining on them. He heard gunshots and turned to see the man he recognised as Hilali reaching out of his window with a machine gun. A hail of bullets whizzed through the air. As their truck careened along, Aimee rifled through the glove box and slid her hands under her seat. She didn’t even know what she was looking for—some weapons, perhaps, anything to help immobilise their assailants.

She climbed over the seat into the back, throwing herself flat so she was out of sight. She found a box and wrenched it open.

“There’s something here,” she shouted at Farouk, trying to make herself heard above the sound of the engine. “Grenades!”

“Let me see,” Farouk said. “Pass one over.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said. She didn’t want to touch them.

“Just do it,” Farouk shouted. Sensing the urgency in his voice, she gingerly picked one out and passed it to Farouk who’d reached his arm back over the seat and was waiting for her to put it in his hand.

“Perfect,” he said. “How many are there?”

“Six,” she said.

“Haul them over to the front.”

As Aimee climbed back over, Farouk released the pin of the grenade with his teeth.

“Hold the steering wheel for me,” he said. Aimee leaned across him and took the wheel while he threw the grenade out the window into the path of the oncoming army trucks.

They heard an explosion and saw the army trucks swerve off the desert road, collide, and come to a halt.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 25, 1919

“Nawal,” I say, “help me with Saiza.” I pull the bell rope and a moment later, two of Saiza’s eunuchs appear, wiping crumbs from their mouths. “Hurry, help your mistress. Her child is coming now.”

They support Saiza under her arms and gently position her on the chair, lifting her red silken robes up and fanning her legs wide, while the poor girl leans forward, clutching at their arms and biting back screams. I squat down and crouch at her feet, massaging her horribly swollen calves. The birthing maids arrive with bowls of water and large pieces of muslin cloth. Saiza reaches for my arm. Her eyes are shut. She pants and moans and pushes hard. From between her legs, a tiny head appears, and then the entire body slips out. Another child in the dynasty of the sultan has been born.

“It is here, your baby is here, bismallah, bismallah,” I cry. And Saiza smiles, tears welling up in her eyes. The eunuchs holding the baby announce, “A boy, mistress, a boy, as God willed. A boy.”

The baby is taken and washed and handed to the wet nurse, and Saiza is carried to her chaise. “Come to me, my sisters,” Saiza says, and reaches for Nawal and me with arms outstretched.

We all hug one another, kissing Saiza on each cheek. Just then, the double doors of her rooms are thrown open and two eunuchs appear, calling my name.

“Al-Shezira Hanim,” one of them says.

“The master is ready for you. You must come immediately.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Aimee decided to return to the el-G that night. She wanted to check out the club again and get more information on the comings and goings of Ibrahim’s Fatima and her cronies. She’d spent a few hours at the Continental Hotel with Sophie after Farouk had dropped her off there. Farouk had said little when they’d said their good-byes on the steps of the hotel. He’d reached out to take her hand as she’d climbed the steps, his expression twisted, yearning, but she didn’t take it. She’d simply turned away and walked up the steps to the safety of Sophie’s suites.

A couple of hours later, Youssef, Sophie’s driver, drove her and Sophie back to her house. It was dark when they arrived. Nervous about going in alone, she asked Youssef and Sophie to accompany her.

“Amina’s been here.” She sighed with relief when she turned on the light. Her housekeeper had put everything more or less back in its place. Apart from the knife gouges in the upholstery, the place looked almost as it had before.

“Look, Aimee, a letter for you and a wire.” Sophie picked up an envelope from the sideboard in the hallway and handed it to Aimee. She ripped it open and scanned the contents quickly, reading them out loud.

“Amina has gone away to her eldest daughter’s for a while. She’s asked me to telephone her at this number. She wants to know I’m all right.”

Then she opened the telegram and smiled.

“It’s from Saiza, my aunt. She’ll be back in Cairo tomorrow afternoon. She’ll expect me at her place at around three o’clock. That’s wonderful news.”

A warm glow flushed through her; then her eyebrows knotted as she wondered whether to tell Saiza about her ordeal in the desert. Saiza would become hysterical, and march her to the police, or, worse, send her away to England to wait out the war, leaving her with a thousand unanswered questions.

She would tell her one day but not quite yet.

At the Sharia Khulud on the edges of the el-Birka district, near the maze of narrow Wassa harets, the crowds were thinning. It was past midnight. Aimee gripped the seat of the car and peered into the gloom.

“Over there, I see it,” she said.

Sophie had not seen her friend like this before. Aimee looked different. The heart-shaped charm of her face had melted away. Her mouth had become a thin line, her eyes darted anxiously in all directions, and a feverish glow heightened the colour of her cheekbones.

“Where?” Sophie said.

Youssef slowed down and muttered to himself.

“What’s going on?” Sophie leaned forward and pulled herself up between the driver and passenger seats so that she could see the road ahead. Progress was hindered by two men and a donkey. The two men were shouting at each other and throwing punches.

“Oh my God,” Sophie said, “it’s Sebastian.”

Aimee looked at her.

“Who?”

“Monsieur Sebastian, my uncle’s friend.” A tall blond man in a dark suit grabbed the other man, an Egyptian, by the lapels and was forcing him violently towards the wall of a nearby house. Sophie pushed open the door, jumped out, then exclaimed, “Youssef, stop them!” Youssef got out of the car and walked quickly over to the two men, followed by Sophie. Sebastian looked back, saw Sophie, and then let go of the Egyptian. Sophie pulled at Sebastian’s arm and motioned him to the car. The Egyptian, who had been mauled, brushed himself off, adjusted his tie, and walked away.

“Your friend will go with you to the el-G,” Youssef said, smiling as Sebastian got into the front passenger seat. “Everyone is friends now.”

Sebastian nodded a greeting at Aimee and smiled at Sophie. Sophie introduced them. “Sorry about that,” Sebastian said. “That lowlife tried to pick my pocket.”

“What are you doing in el-Birka?”

“I was on my way home,” he said. “Thought I’d walk off my dinner. What are you doing here?”

Sophie blushed and smirked. “My friend is dragging me along to some horrible club. Come with us?” Sebastian agreed. Youssef found the entrance to the club and turned the car into a small haret, darkened by towering buildings with beautiful mashrabiyya. Women and girls lingered along the walls waiting for customers. Aimee opened the car door and got out.

“Take Monsieur Sebastian,” Aimee said. “I will follow you in afterwards. Pretend you are married and you want to spice up your love life. Don’t let the doorman intimidate you. I will see you in there.”

“Aimee!” Sophie cried out, but Aimee was gone.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 25, 1919

Picture the anger twisting my features at the eunuch’s announcement.

“Can’t you see that my sister has just given birth? She needs me. Tell my husband I have more important things to attend to here.”

Another of the eunuchs walks towards me. I put my hand up to stop him coming nearer. Then I bend down at Saiza’s side once more and whisper, “You have a son, Saiza, how wonderful. We will be celebrating for weeks.” And then the chanting begins. “God is great, a boy, God is great.”

As the servants sing, the wet nurse starts to feed Saiza’s babe. I look back at the door. The eunuch approaches me once again, and the other follows. I am escorted away by force. We walk silently through the corridors of the harem, down the marble staircase, the one that leads out to the gardens, and then to one of the dress rooms, where Rachid and Tindoui are waiting for me.

Al-Shezira’s eunuchs stand guard outside as Rachid and Tindoui strip me naked. First they check my body for feminine body hair. Seeing that not a hair is visible, they rub oil of frangipani and lime all over my body. I close my eyes and feel the rough rhythmic movement of their hands, massaging the oil deep into my skin, around my knees, my stomach, my thighs, my feet, my fingertips, my neck, and my breasts.

Then Rachid unties my hair and combs it vigorously, with long hard strokes. My head hurts as he pulls. I know he is angry, that rage bursts from every fibre of his being. He hates al-Shezira as much as I do because he sees what I suffer. I want to look at him, but I do not dare for fear of what message I might see on his face.

Tindoui wraps a gold and red bodice around me and ties it up at the back, while Rachid arranges my hair and paints my face. Then Tindoui dresses me in a long purple and gold silk robe that falls to the ground and, cupping my feet in his hands, he gently slips them into narrow harem slippers. Then my arms are decorated with bracelets of rubies, emeralds, and Ethiopian gold, bracelet after bracelet, around and around my arms from wrist to shoulder. My hair is arranged in a simple braid down my back and decorated with gold silk ribbons, then tied up on top of my head. Tindoui adds a simple silver headdress to frame my face. Finally, Rachid dabs gold powder on my cheeks and my eyes and henna on my lips. Tilting my chin towards him, I open my eyes slightly. I can see the tears on Rachid’s cheeks and his mouth set bitterly. He is resigned to what is coming, the end of our lifelong friendship.

My life is over, I say to myself, trying not to imagine al-Shezira’s gnarled hands on my body and the rough scent of him as the large carcass of his body lies heavy on top of me.

When I am ready, Tindoui and Rachid deliver me to al-Shezira’s men, and I am escorted to my husband’s apartments. I walk slowly, wanting to delay the inevitable. As I walk, I recall myself as a little girl and feel as though I am looking in on the life of another. The eunuchs do not hurry me. Habrid, walking with al-Shezira’s servants, does not say anything.

In my daydream, I sit on Papa’s knee. Papa scoops me up in his arms and kisses me repeatedly. I giggle and laugh. I run like the wind alongside my mother in the gardens of the palace.

I look up at the sky, at the birds. I want to be a whisper, a breeze, free like the wind. In the palace of the sultan, I find adventure. My nurse scolds me for being too noisy. I wear boyish pants and little slippers, and my hair is wild, just like my eyes. I play with everyone. I flirt girlishly with Papa. They all love me. They will do anything for me. The harem celebrates that Fire has become a woman. I am eleven years
old. I am given my own apartments in the harem of the sultan. I am not allowed to run anymore. I am allowed to see Papa only by appointment. I am to walk slowly, with dignity. I am to speak quietly, not with girlish happiness, but with womanly serenity. I am not allowed to run barefoot in the sand on the beach at Alexandria. I am not allowed to walk about unveiled. And then halfway through my eleventh year, I am married, and my life is signed away by the wakil who legalised my marriage to al-Shezira in my absence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After dark, Nemmat made her way to the Café al-Qal’ah near Bab al-Khalq. The night was hot and sultry. The café, in reality a hashish parlour, was off-limits to women. But tonight she was no longer simply a brothel girl, she had become invaluable, indispensable. Behind her chador, she held power in the palm of her hand. She pulled her chador closer and inhaled deeply. The sensation of power was rare, intoxicating, and she savoured it like a sweet elixir.

She was expected to enter around the back. The front entrance was brightly lit, and she was bound to attract attention if she slid between the rough wooden tables where men were playing games of tawlah, which typically served as a front for the pastime of hashish smoking.