The Hidden (33 page)

“Yes,” I say, “I must go far away.”

She reaches into her dress for some scissors and a comb. Crouching behind me, she combs my hair. Then she starts to cut. Huge chunks of my hair fall to the floor. My hair slopes into my neck and curves around my jaw. After a while, I am given a mirror. I look so different. I look like a European, not an Egyptian. I look fashionable and foreign. I give the woman back her mirror and thank her. She bows and goes to fetch something else. She returns with a tailored suit and some leather shoes with a little heel. She holds them up for me to see. She mutters to herself, saying she thinks it will fit me. The suit is a dull cream colour, low waisted, calf-length. It looks expensive.

“This is what you will wear tomorrow, Sayyida. A carriage will come for you at dawn, to take you along the desert road to the Delta. From there you and Sayyid Anton will take a train to Alexandria.”

She hands me a paper packet and I open it. I pull out some identity papers. I study the photograph of the woman. She looks a lot like me. She has the same-shaped face and a similarly shaped mouth, and her hair is cut in a similar style. The name says Madame Alexandrine Chevalier, wife of Monsieur Pierre Chevalier, resident of Collioure, France.

I hand the identification papers back to the woman and tell her to look after them for me until tomorrow.

“You don’t have to worry, Sayyida,” she says. “Tomorrow you will be transformed and will blend easily with other tourists sojourning in Egypt. Tonight, though, you must rest and prepare yourself for your trip. I will take you to dine with the others.”

She leads me to another house across the small central square. It is full of Alexandre’s men, who welcome me and ask me to sit on the cushions next to my lover. I know now that I must speak out and ask them what news they have of my palace in Cairo. I must know before I leave tomorrow. I am aching with sadness at the thought of Papa and my sisters, but once I am safely abroad, I will send for them. They will see reason. They will see that it is the only solution.

The meal is laid out before us on the floor. I am invited to pick out what I want, but I have lost my appetite. The nausea I have felt for days has come over me again. Instead I ask for a drink and am given sherbet.

I feel Alexandre’s men’s eyes on me. Inside I tremble. I should feel at one with these people. This is all I have ever wanted, to be a part of change, to witness it happening around me, but they appear so rough and so unaware of the destruction being levelled all around us. It is the women of this country who will bring about change. I must start my school as soon as I can, and educate my girls so change is possible. Change, progress, equality for all has to come with a feminine blessing and direction. Education and freedom for women, a stamping out of
poverty, men and women working side by side for the sake of progress and real Egyptian independence.

At last I muster the courage to speak. “Is there any more news of the British Army coming after us?”

Aalim flashes me a look of contempt. Then he says, “The British are too busy at Minya. They will come to Kerdassa, but by the time they arrive there, we will have rejoined our brothers in Cairo.”

“Don’t you fear being captured there?” I challenge him.

He turns his head and spits on the ground, and I recoil a little. “No one will be picked up,” he says. “We were shrouded and unrecognisable when we moved in on al-Shezira’s palace at Minya. The Rebel Corps is clever. You doubt us, Sayyida?”

Alexandre reaches over and puts his hand on mine to calm me. He can see the rage starting to boil over in me. If I were a man, I would challenge him, stand up to him. As a woman, I can only speak my mind, and even that is frowned upon.

CHAPTER FORTY

As Aimee was being locked up by Issawi’s henchmen, Littoni was in the cellar at the back of the al-Ghawri Mosque near the Sharia al-Azhar. He dislodged a brick in the wall, reached in and pulled out a tube of paper tied up with string. Then he slumped down on the floor near one of the lamps and unfurled the paper tube, smoothing out the sheets on his knees.

The pages were a map of the Abdin Palace. Four of the surrounding mosques were pinpointed on it. Pencilled-in blocks showed the respective sectors. The map also identified the leaders of the sectors and the exact time that these sectors would march into action once Tashi set the ball rolling. Everything lay on Tashi’s shoulders. But once the trophy containing the bomb was handed to Issawi, Tashi had left the premises, and the bomb had been detonated, all the sectors would storm the palace and the revolution would begin. Littoni heard a noise. He sprung up, his heart pounding wildly in his throat, and rolled the maps up. The door opened, and Tashi and Hamid appeared. They were wearing long robes tied with a sash at the front and loose hip-length jalabas. Their heads were wound with cloth. They looked like ordinary Muslims on their way to pray at the local mosque.

“You’re late,” Littoni snarled. “What the hell have you been doing?”

Tashi patted him on the arm and smiled.

“Relax, my friend. Everything’s ready.”

“You have the bomb?”

Littoni felt as though he were on fire. He imagined that his sectors were on tenterhooks too, watching, waiting.

“The car’s ready,” Tashi smiled, patting his waist. “The bomb’s been assembled. It’s small but powerful. It will fit well inside the trophy, our little gift to Issawi. The security men at the palace know what’s going on. They’re loyal sector men and are anxious for the revolution to start.”

“You’re sure it will do the job?” Littoni said.

“It’s powerful enough to destroy half the palace and anybody in its path,” Tashi said.

“You were not followed?” Littoni asked frowning.

This time it was Hamid’s turn to answer. “No, we covered our tracks.”

Littoni gripped the roll of paper he was holding and furrowed his brow. He spat on the floor and said, “Still no sign of Farouk. I should have gotten rid of him myself and not left it to that prostitute. I radioed to two of our men from the Abbassiya sector to go and check out his apartment, but no one has seen him.”

Tashi said, “Forget about Farouk. He’s not important right now. We’re ready; that’s all that matters. The muezzins delivered the signal that the sectors need to get into their places. The evening call to prayer was delivered twice instead of once. Our men are prepared. They were expecting that signal. The time has come, Littoni. What, have you gotten cold feet?”

“Shut up,” Littoni snarled. He unfurled the map, held it up, and stabbed it with his finger. “Do our figures tally with the plan?” he demanded.

Tashi and Hamid peered at the map.

“Fifty men from the al-Qal’ah end. A hundred men from the al-Ahzar end. Two hundred and fifty from the Ezbehieh end. The rest from the Opera Square end. Yes,” Tashi said, “they’re all in place. The men from Khalili, Muski, and Bulac make up the majority. The other sectors from Old Cairo, Bab al-Khalq, and Zamalek will follow later, adding another five hundred men.”

“Where is the car? Where are your uniforms?” Littoni demanded.

“The car is on Sharia Abdin near my cousin’s camel holding. It is out of sight and ready,” Tashi said.

“And your uniforms,” Littoni repeated impatiently.

“At my cousin’s house. We must go. We have the invitations. Papadopolous did a good job. You must take your place too, Littoni.”

“I’m leading in with the Ezbekieh sector,” Littoni said.

“What if Farouk shows up?” Hamid asked.

Littoni’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re all armed. Shoot him—if I don’t shoot him first.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Kerdassa, September 16, 1919

Aalim stands up and comes over to me. I fear he is going to hit me. Alexandre moves forward to block him.

“You waste your time with such a woman, Anton,” he cries out. “She is a troublemaker and has done nothing except hinder our plans. If it were not for her, we could have all gone to Cairo to help our brothers with the revolution. As it is, we are stuck in this half-baked village until dawn, all because you want to see her safely to France.”

Alexandre grabs Aalim by the shoulders and slams him against the wall.

“You are as stupid as you are ignorant, Aalim. Hezba is the people’s hero. She should be honoured, not ridiculed by you, a common rebel with no future.

“Without her money we would not have been able to buy the weapons we needed. Have you given any money for weapons? No, you haven’t. Hezba is risking her life to support our group.”

“Is it my fault that I wasn’t born into wealth like the little princess?” Aalim says. “No, it isn’t. If I had money, I would give it. I don’t have money. I have been ruined by the princess’s husband. If anything, she owes us. She is repaying her husband’s debt to us. We owe her nothing, not one thing. We should kill her, actually. That would be an appropriate fate for her—to preserve the honour of men. Women like her—who think they’re equal to men. We’re the brains and the power behind this revolution. She’s a sidekick, and she’s getting in our way. She is nothing to this revolution. A woman—Anton—you just don’t see, do you. We’re the fighters, the leaders…”

“Stop talking or I will kill you,” Alexandre shouts, but I move forward and grab his arm.

“Stop it! You are both being ridiculous—I’m on your side. I want what you want. Don’t waste your energy fighting over me. Tell me, is my papa alive?”

Aalim spits at me. He is rubbing his throat and gathering up his things to leave.

“He is still alive, Sayyida Sultan,” he says mockingly, “but by an inch of his life. Your beloved papa has had his hand in the coffers of the country’s wealth for far too long. If I were leader of the Nationalists, I would have shot him long ago.”

“No,” I shout. “No.” Don’t you dare speak about my father like that. He has not done you any wrong. His crimes are nothing compared to the crimes of my dead husband. Al-Shezira crushed people like you. My papa has an honest heart.”

“The people will win in the end, Sayyida,” Aalim continues. “The pashas and the sultan and the heads of state and the corrupt politicians and all the others like them will be forced to realise that justice lies in the earth and soil of this land. The fellahin will rule once more. We will take over the running of this country and turn it around so that it belongs once again to the people.”

I listen to what he says. He is as passionate as I am, but he is ignoring one simple fact, simply because he thinks I am inferior to him, a mere woman.

“Al-Shezira was your enemy and mine, and now he is gone and I am the one who made that happen. You dare accuse me of being of the same mind as my father, the sultan. I am his daughter, Sayyid, but I am one of your kind. Yet you dare accuse me because of my sex. You think me lesser than you simply because I am a woman. You did not kill al-Shezira. I did. I am the one who is brave. I am the one who should lead you all. I am the one who people will remember. Al-Qahire should be run by women. You men are not leaders.”

I gather up my robes and run through the main streets of the village where I find a group of women sitting outside their house, rocking their children to sleep. I am frantic. I beg them for help.

“A horse, please, give me a horse, please I must have a horse to take me to Cairo.”

A little boy takes me by the hand, and I run with him to the back of the village. Alexandre is running behind me. I do not stop for him. I must go to Papa. The little boy pulls at his horse’s reins, and I climb on. I kick the horse’s flank with my heels and gallop away. I will return, but first I need to see my papa. “Thank you,” I shout to the boy, my robes trailing behind me in the wind. “Tell the Sayyid I will return. I won’t be gone long.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexandre skidding to a halt and staring after me in frustration because the boy has the only horse and he cannot follow me.

I feel free as a bird. Under the stars, out in the desert I kick the horse harder so that it gallops as fast as it is able along the desert road. I will keep to my word and return. I have courage now. I feel as though something is born again inside me. I have to see my papa.

I follow the familiar desert road back to Cairo. It is well trodden, and the going is easy. I will be there before long. But soon I begin to shudder hot and cold as I realise the danger I have put myself in and how foolish I have been to act so impulsively.

I am a wanted woman. I am a murderer. I will be caught and made to pay for my crimes. But what if I am clever? What if I manage to avoid the authorities? Alexandre must be right when he says that the armed forces are too busy trying to get control of the streets that are crumbling under the chaos of Nationalist violence.

Within the hour I am in Cairo. I hear gunshots and shouting as I approach my old neighbourhood. Smoke is rising from the buildings. The riots continue. It is too late. I cannot go back now. I need to see my father. I must have courage and continue on.

I abandon my horse as close to my palace as I dare on a surprisingly quiet street. I hear breaking glass nearby. I hide in the alcove of a building and readjust my robes. Then I see a lone soldier coming towards me. He is staggering. I suspect he is drunk. He is mumbling to himself in English—a British soldier. I walk up to him and stand before him. He stops in front of me. I pull my robes over my mouth so that he can see only my eyes. I speak to him slowly and seductively in Arabic. I am sure he doesn’t understand what I am saying. Perhaps he has not been in Cairo very long.

I reach for his hand and he smiles lecherously. I know now that he understands what I am offering him. I pull him into the dark alcove
and lift up my robes so that he can see the exposed flesh above my breasts. He reaches forward and I step back, pretending to laugh.