The Hidden (8 page)

He found himself in a dark narrow hallway. He stood for a moment to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. The hallway
smelt faintly musty, as though the place had been shut up on a hot day. Once his eyes had adjusted to the slatted moonlight dappling the room, he saw the double doors leading to the living room. He entered and scanned the furniture. He walked over to the desk and gave the desktop a yank, dragging down the foldaway lip. Inside he saw partitions for correspondence, envelopes. He flicked on a light and began pulling drawers out, searching, searching. Nothing. He spotted a small clutch of letters tied up with string and scanned them. No good. Wrenching open more drawers, he discovered a flat parcel tied up with string. He grabbed it and opened it. A notebook fell out. He flipped through it, held it upside down, and shook it. Nothing.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He ventured into the bedroom and lifted up the mattress, pushing it off the bed frame onto the floor. He wanted to find something there, a box with secret papers, but there was nothing. He flung open the doors of an armoire, found a suitcase, jacked it open, extracted a man’s suit, fumbled in the pockets, and pulled back a sheath of fabric hiding a revolver. Seeing that it was loaded, he slipped it in his pocket and stood up. His eyes darted around manically, his mouth was parched, and the sound of his heart was vibrating and crashing against his eardrum. He was running out of time. There must be a safe, a vault. He padded over the kilims, treading carefully in an effort to locate an uneven floorboard, something that would indicate a hiding place for secret papers. He went to the farthest corner of the house. Huge windows overlooked Sharia Suleyman Pasha. From the window, he saw a smart-looking car draw up and two women get out. A blond woman with ringlets looked up at the window and pointed. He drew back from the window, not wanting her to see him. The other, a dark-haired girl with pale skin, shook her head and kissed her friend four times on the cheek. Was she the girl? Already home from
Achmed’s party? Littoni slipped invisibly through the darkness and hid in the shadows of the courtyard to wait for her.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 19, 1919

Papa is here. He has summoned his Fire to his library. I can’t wait to see him. He has been away too long. I am not sure how long he is in Cairo, but I must not waste another moment. I must go to him. Fire is the affectionate name he has for me. I used to sit on his knee, curl up in his lap, pull his moustache, and tickle his nose. Papa loved to stroke my face back then. As a young child, barely older than four, I remember him remarking how hot my forehead and cheeks were. Since then he has always called me Fire. Oh Papa.

I walk through the long corridors of the harem towards the salamlik and my father’s quarters. As I walk, I am transported back in time. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the five-year-old who is held down by her nurse and her eunuchs and her mother while she is circumcised and made pure, who screams in pain, who doesn’t understand why she is being mutilated. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the six-year-old who plays hide-and-seek with the other children of the palace. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the seven-year-old who is separated from her dear brother, Omar, and sent to live in the harem because that is the way of our people. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the eight-year-old who sings the suras of the Qur’an while Maman scolds me. “You should not sing them, child. Recite them with heart, not in a flippant voice full of light and joy. Be serious for once. Have some respect for the Prophet.”

I am the Fire of the Sarai with a voice that can be heard through the marble corridors, the great dining rooms, the bathhouse, the stables. I am the Fire who begs Papa for riding lessons and a horse, who promises to be a good girl forever. I am the Fire of the Sarai, the ten-year-old
child who puts her arm around Papa’s shoulders and kisses him on the cheek, who dances and runs from room to room, who hides little poems under her maman’s pillow, wanting her love so badly, who writes verses about the sun and the moon and the silvery light that falls on the trees in the palace gardens at night.

I am the Fire of the Sarai, the young girl whose body is no longer hers, whose blood starts to flow, who is scrubbed of womanly impurities, who is stripped of all her body hair, who is perfumed and veiled. I am the Fire of the Sarai who is married as soon as she is old enough to be opened up, so she can bear children.

I shiver when I remember all these things, my girlhood taken from me. And now I have to face my destiny as a woman, a life segregated from the world when I want to be part of it. If you were a living thing, journal, flesh and blood, you would pray for me. My rendezvous with Monsieur Alexandre seems like a dream. He has asked me to go to the desert to be part of the Rebel Corps, but how can I if I am sent away? This is why Papa has called me to his study, to tell me the details and to prepare me for what is to come.

In front of me is the door to Papa’s library. I knock and open the door. It is a warm, welcoming room. I know every locked bookshelf, every floor tile, every chaise and leather tome intimately. I spend a lot of time here when Papa is away, just whiling away the hours, happy to be among knowledge and books. Papa does not like me lingering here, but he encourages me to take whatever volumes I want for my studies. He is sitting in his armchair near the window. I must make sure my eyes don’t wander as he speaks to me.

“Fire,” he says.

“Yes, Papa?”

“You know the time has come, don’t you, to be a wife again to your husband.”

My eyes become wet with tears.

“Papa?”

“You have not lived as your husband’s wife for nearly six years.”

I purse my lips and swallow. This is so difficult for me. To look at the face of the man I love, my father, and know that in my heart I am betraying him. I remain silent.

“Why don’t you answer me, Hezba daughter? You must know it’s your destiny to be a good wife to your husband and to have a child. Why do you insist on being so difficult? Why do you not rush to prepare yourself for his coming?”

“Papa, I—I don’t know how to answer you.”

“If you cannot talk to me, talk to your mother.”

“Maman won’t listen to me. She thinks I am impulsive. She thinks I have ideas that are too grand. She is not interested in anything I have to say.”

Papa cocks his head at me. “That is not true, Hezba daughter. Your mother wants what is best for you. She wants you to have a good life. She does not want the whole of Cairo to be talking about you. She does not want you to shame the name of the sultan. Nor do I. You know you are my favourite daughter, Hezba child, but I will not tolerate this behaviour for a moment longer.”

I stand before him and feel nothing but shame burning through me. I want to burst into tears, but I do not dare. Papa hates shows like that. It would upset him further. I decide to try and remain composed and wait for the awful news, which I know deep in my heart he is going to tell me, that al-Shezira will be here soon, and I will be robbed of my chance to go to Alexandre’s rendezvous in the desert.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Farouk didn’t stay long at Achmed’s literary launch. Ibrahim’s wife did not want to talk to him; that much was obvious. As he’d listened to speeches and the readings, and flicked through the book of poetry
Monument,
he had studied the girl’s demeanour, her facial expressions, the way she held herself in public, trying to get an idea of what type of person she was. No ordinary girl, he had concluded. Something of an aloof character, poised, holding herself well in her grief. There was nothing more he could do tonight. If he had tried too hard to befriend her, she might have gotten suspicious. Besides, he was only doing what Littoni had suggested to put him off guard.

He took a taxi to Jewel’s dead brother’s apartment in Abbassiya. Farouk found the building and let himself in through a dull brown door. Before closing the door, he swung round and shot a look at a cluster of children playing in the corridor. The door to their apartment was open, and a woman was moving between the apartment and the corridor, checking on the children. It was late. He could not imagine why they were up at this hour. Maybe the heat was keeping them up. He counted seven of them, and they were all eyeing him curiously. Seeing him, the woman gathered the children impatiently to her and ushered them back into her apartment.

He closed the door gently. The place was still furnished. Dust sheets had been thrown over the sofas, chairs, and tables. The air
was musty and stale, and it was clear that no window had been opened in weeks. A family of dead cockroaches lay huddled by the doors to the balcony. He stood and listened, eyes darting in all directions. This building was occupied by hundreds of poor Egyptian families, who would take no notice of the comings and goings of his group. He knew that the
Liberation
offices in Bulac were being watched. The group had to keep moving fast to confuse onlookers. His houseboat was too public and his private mansion was out of bounds, a private place that few, if any, knew about. In the gloom, he fingered the dust sheets. A smile spread across his face, and his eyes twinkled darkly.

There was a knock at the front door, and it opened quietly. It was Mitwali, a tall, lean well-dressed youth of eighteen with thick black hair, a hooked nose, and wide-set eyes that pierced the gloom eagerly. Mitwali bowed at Farouk.

“You weren’t followed?”

Mitwali shook his head.

“What do you think?”

Mitwali was smiling. “Perfect. Far enough away, anonymous enough.”

“Exactly,” Farouk said. “You understand what is required of you, Mitwali?”

Mitwali grinned nervously, his eyes searching Farouk’s face as he wondered what exactly he was thinking. He dug in his jacket pocket for a cigarette.

“I’m at your service, Sayyid. For the money you are offering me, I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

“And Ali Khaldun? Is he reliable? Can he be trusted?” Farouk asked.

Mitwali watched Farouk closely.

“He’s my brother. He is loyal to me. He needs the money too. He will send the money back to his wife and children in his village, Mit Abul-Kum. He hasn’t seen them for months, but when it’s all over, he wants to return there and try to start a school for the little ones.”

Farouk bit his lip. These young men were so easily bought; the girl too. He’d searched long and hard for them. They were simple country people, young boys. He’d secretly checked them out and knew everything was in order.

“You must be ready as soon as you hear from my group,” Farouk said.

Mitwali nodded.

“You must not talk to anyone about what you are doing,” Farouk went on. “And I have to warn you, I will know if you have spoken out—and the repercussions will be devastating for you and your family. But if you follow my instructions, you will be paid well and you will be safe.”

“We’ll be ready, Sayyid Farouk,” Mitwali said.

“You will be given suitable gear and provided with an appropriate vehicle. You simply have to bring the man here to this address. Then you’ll be required to help me transport some boxes out of Cairo into the desert. For this, obviously you will need another disguise and another vehicle. This will be organised for you.”

Mitwali nodded eagerly.

Farouk stared at him for a moment. “You’re the right sort for this job,” he said.

Mitwali nodded, his eyes widening.

“It will be an honour,” he said.

“You feel strongly about this man Issawi, don’t you, Mitwali. It’s not just about the money, is it?”

Mitwali shook his head.

“My father, an honest, hardworking fellahin, was wrongly arrested for stealing government money, some years ago. His taxes were so high, he could hardly afford to feed his family. He worked sixteen-hour days in his cotton fields in the Delta, and the rent on his land kept going up. He was harassed constantly by this Issawi, who owned the land. Eventually he was tried and convicted based on nothing but lies. Issawi had put himself in charge of the Council of Fellahins at the time. My father was innocent. Issawi ruined our family, our business. My mother never recovered, and Ali, my brother, still has trouble sleeping. My father’s a shattered man. When I told my brother about this job, it was the first time I’ve seen him smile in a long time. We lost our livelihood, our business, our identity, our dignity; we—”

“Don’t say another word, boy,” Farouk said, patting Mitwali’s arm. “You are no different from the thousands this man has destroyed.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 19, 1919

I was right, painfully right. Papa will not be swayed. How depressed I am that I have lost my power over him.

His message was clear.

“We allowed you a period of grace,” he said, “but you cannot still be in the depths of depression. After six years your husband wants you back. Don’t you want to be a good wife, have children, live in happiness, without worries, without the label of being an abandoned wife?”

I decided to speak boldly. “You made a mistake when you and Maman chose al-Shezira for me.”

It was hard to say these words, because I was defying my father when I uttered them. My voice trembled. I felt like some lowly servant about to be beaten by his master.

Papa thought for a few moments and then he said, “The union of the al-Shezira family and ours is a good one. Think of the wealth that will be passed down to your children.”

I don’t care for wealth or our family line, but I said nothing about that.

“My husband is a violent man, Papa.”

Papa eyed me icily for a moment. His handsome face flashed with what must have been a myriad of feelings. I don’t suppose he knew how to answer me.

“Are you sure you do not provoke him? He has waited a long time for you. First there was your depression. The doctors advised that we allow you to stay here in Cairo until you returned to better spirits and became happier. We were delighted when you took your husband back into your arms again for a brief time and he gave you a child.”