The Hidden (15 page)

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Kerdassa, August 23, 1919

I take off my soldier’s cap but do not smile or speak. I just study the expressions on the men’s faces. Fear, contempt, and disbelief ripple over their features in quick succession. The one with the greasy hair bows, and then a smile edges onto his face. He turns to speak to his partisans.

“I have been told this woman is here to give us money.”

“Who has told you?” another asks.

“Anton,” he says, and the other men start to laugh. “Anton does not need her money. It is a ruse, a trick.”

Despite feeling very scared, I shout, “I am not here to amuse you, Sayyids.” Then I tell Mustafa to wait outside for me.

“But, Sayyida, it is forbidden,” he says.

“Do it,” I shout.

Mustafa reluctantly goes.

For a moment I stand silently. I am cold. The room I find myself in is dirty and uninviting. I am used to more comfortable surroundings. I am anxious to find Alexandre.

He is the reason I am here. Handing money over to the Rebel Corps is the least of my concerns at this moment. The greasy-haired man speaks.

“Are you aware of all the complications you face supporting our group?”

“I am prepared for anything that comes my way.”

His companions, a seedy lot, salaciously take in every inch of my body and my ridiculous garb.

The man goes on. “Let me introduce you to my fellow Rebel Corps members, Umar and Aalim.”

“But Hassan, a woman?” asks Aalim.

I look this Sayyid Aalim in the eye, squirming inside, hating the filth of his face, the wispy moustache, the way he wrings his hands impatiently, and his eyes screwed up in disbelief at the sight of a woman, dressed in a soldier’s uniform.

“Anton’s obviously got something in mind. If he wants this woman’s money, I know he’ll have a use for it,” the greasy-haired man says.

“Where is Monsieur Anton?” I ask, impatient to see him, wanting to fold myself in his arms and call him Alexandre. Just then, a woman enters the hut. She is carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups, and a little pot of sugar. She glances at me and then looks again, affronted by what she sees. I don’t think she believes what she sees. It is impossible, I can almost hear her telling herself. Then she approaches me and pinches my arm very hard. I cry out and pull back. The men laugh out loud, and the woman bows in front of them, swearing she has never seen anything so unusual. She moans with outrage and runs out of the hut. All three men have tears streaming down their cheeks as they reach for their coffee cups, loading them with spoonfuls of sugar.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Aimee got out of the taxi, timidly climbed the steps of the Zamalek house, and knocked on the door. It was opened by a young boy, barely older than fifteen. She forced a weak smile. The boy bowed his head and asked, “Madame?”

She spoke softly, suddenly embarrassed that she had agreed to stay at Farouk’s house.

“I am Madame Abdullah Ibrahim. Your master has invited me to stay here.”

The boy bowed again. “I am Gigis, Madame, Sayyid Farouk’s housekeeper. I am at your service. The master telephoned. Please come in,” he said, watching her silently as he stepped back to let her through the door.

Glancing around the vast entry hall, she ascertained that Farouk had excellent taste. She could see a living room with elegant carved wingback chairs, delicate little tables, lamps lighting the way, and an exquisite painting by Casson, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“This is a beautiful house, Gigis. Has your master lived here long?”

“I think so, though I have not been with him that long myself. From what I have gathered, the house belonged to his sister, Madame. When she died, she left it to him. The lady of the house
used to live here a long time ago with her husband. There were no children to pass it on to, so she left it to her brother.”

Aimee stood for a moment, admiring the ornate ceilings, the elaborately carved archways, and the curls and crests of the plasterwork.

“My master instructed me to put you in one of the rooms upstairs,” he said. “I have made up the bed and put out everything you need, but of course, if you should require anything else, please ring for me. There’s a bell rope by the bed that connects to my rooms. I’ll come at once.”

Gigis led the way up the central staircase to the first floor. The house was so quiet that Aimee could hear the soft rustle of the trees in the garden. From the first landing she could see that the French doors were open in the dining room, the curtains swaying in the breeze. A surge of curiosity flooded through her. She inhaled the scent of flowers, felt the cool touch of the marble banister under her fingers as she walked in the low light of the corridors leading to the sleeping quarters. What was she doing here, in a stranger’s house, when she could have gone to stay with Sophie at the Continental?

Why was Farouk being so kind? He was an old man and she was unsure of him. She knew so little of men or of life. What should she do? She wondered whether she should leave and go find Sophie. Something was stopping her, though. She’d shut down after Azi’s death, but now she was starting to feel a little different—her curiosity about Farouk was drawing her out of herself again.

This was the house of a man who belonged to a more civilised world than the one he and his fellow journalists wrote about in their newspaper. This was clearly a man who enjoyed the good things in life. However, Gigis had not said when the sister had died. The entire house could be a tribute to her and her taste and not reflect Farouk’s aesthetics at all. And it was true that there was something
feminine about the house, something vulnerable. Gigis opened a door at the far end of the corridor and stood aside, waiting for Aimee.

“In here, Madame.”

Aimee slipped past him into the room, uncertain what to expect. She knew that this Monsieur Farouk was being kind by letting her stay here tonight. She feared once again that she had been a little too bold in accepting his invitation. After all, he had held her hand in the cab, and his touch, his warmth, had sent fiery little shivers down her spine, softening every grief-stricken emotion that had occupied her mind and her body since Azi’s death. She felt lonely and scared. There was no one to hold her. His gentleness was making her feel alive, when before, in the days after Azi’s murder, she had felt dead. She didn’t know what she wanted from this Monsieur Farouk, but for the time being, was it wrong to be glad of his kindness? He made her feel she was not alone.

And he had told her he would come to her later. That he had something else to do first. Was he trying to protect her? If so, from what? Aimee walked to the French doors on the far side of the room and stepped out onto the balcony, dappled with moonlight. Gigis followed her.

“I will bring you some tea, Madame. It is late. I am sure you will want to sleep. There are fresh towels on the chair and fresh water in the jug.”

Aimee swung around.

“Did Sayyid Farouk say what time he would be returning, Gigis?”

“No, Madame,” Gigis replied, backing towards the door. “Now, I’ll get you your tea.”

Aimee thanked him and heard him shut the door; then she looked out at the garden below, letting her gaze rest on the trees,
the little fountain, the terrace. After a few moments she turned and went back inside. She stood still in the softly lit room, hardly daring to breathe, listening to she didn’t know what exactly—the ticktock of the bedside clock, the cawing of the night birds, the shout of a youth walking home from a club—but the house itself was silent, deathly silent.

How magnificent the room was. It was beautifully decorated, with a large four-poster bed, a writing desk, a large packing trunk, and a wardrobe. It seemed set in another time, as though twenty years had been wiped away with the flick of a hand.

How much did Farouk really know about Fatima? If she could stay awake until he returned, she would question him further. She went to the writing desk and pulled open the little drawer. She wanted information. Anything. An old ticket stub, a notebook, a matchbox, a pamphlet from somewhere. Anything that might help her piece together who he really was.

All she knew was that he was the editor of the newspaper the
Liberation,
that he lived in this grand old mansion in Zamalek, and that he wanted to help her find out who had murdered her husband.

Could she simply ask him directly why he wanted to help her? Somehow she doubted she would get an honest answer. And the woman at the club? Why did Azi have that photograph in his possession? Every time she went looking for answers, she only came upon more questions. No one could shed any light on why the man she loved had been brutally murdered in the desert near Ismailia. Little clues as to Azi’s secret political inclinations could not possibly be linked to his death. Azi Ibrahim was a teacher, a professor who loved his academic life and who had loved his wife. A chill ran down Aimee’s spine. Was it possible Azi was not all that he had appeared? She thought back to the early days of their love affair and their
marriage, trying to find a clue, something he’d said, some reason for a momentary absence from home, but there was nothing. He’d loved her. She saw his face in her mind, the way his black eyes glittered with happiness when he bent over to kiss her.

Aimee brought herself back to the present. The writing desk was depressingly empty of anything worth noting. It held a sheath of white paper with the address of the Zamalek house emblazoned on the top left-hand corner and some ink pens; that was all.

She flung open the wardrobe and parted the clothes, examining them; a woman’s ball gown in pale blue, a suit, a top hat, and a small pale pink vanity case on a shelf above the clothes. Aimee reached for the vanity case, pulled it down, and unsnapped the lock.

Inside it she found some letters, wrapped up with black satin ribbon. She studied the handwriting, the slant of it, but in the gloom she could not make out much. Suddenly she heard the sound of Gigis, padding along the corridor. Startled, she jumped up, snapped the vanity case shut, and slid it into place on the top shelf of the wardrobe.

With her heart thudding, she arranged herself on the edge of the bed and smiled innocently as Gigis knocked on the door, nudged it open with his shoulder, and brought in the tea.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Kerdassa, August 23, 1919

At Kerdassa, I find I am losing my patience.

“Where is Monsieur Alexandre Anton?” I demand once more. “I must speak with him.”

“He is anxious to see you. He has been waiting for this money you talk about,” says Hassan.

I nod and my thoughts turn to Papa. My father, I have heard from Maman’s conversation with other women, is much favoured by the British. His good work in the provinces has been observed and celebrated by Hussein Kamel, the former sultan of our beloved al-Qahire, and now here I am in the desert, handing over his money to the Rebel Corps.

I hate myself for betraying Papa. It is a thought that never goes away, and I don’t know what I have become. Is it simply a matter of love, a desire for a new life, and a new way of living? Am I really so desperate for a new way of life that I am willing to go behind my own father’s back? None of this is about what I want for myself. I want to be part of the change that is sweeping through my country. I want women to be able to serve a purpose, not merely be a decoration for the pleasure of men. I want to educate girls and young boys. I want to help others, those whose lives have been blighted by oppression and poverty, through terrible circumstance, through no fault of their own. Two of the men get up, bow to me, and smile disrespectfully. Then they leave. I feel glad for a very brief moment that my palace does not allow me much contact with men. As they walk out, I think of my dear brother Omar and my father and my childhood; of the pointless war that has just ended; of Turkey, my mother’s homeland; of Maman’s life as a servant girl in the house of the sultan, her marriage to my father, and her elevation to her position of sultana today. In terms of wealth, I am a privileged woman, so I must do what I can to make things better for others in the future. If my money can help others, then so be it.

Hassan turns to me. “Anton has asked that I take you to his house so you can speak privately. Follow me.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was half past three in the morning by the time Farouk arrived at Littoni’s place. He pushed through the tiny haret at the back of the Café Malta to a door hidden by a jacaranda tree. Anger slithered through him, pent-up but ready to burst out at the slightest provocation.

It was highly likely that Littoni was there, and Farouk wanted to surprise him so that he didn’t have time to get on the defensive. He circled the doorknob with his hand, turned it quietly, then slipped into a tiny alcove leading to three doors. He stood still, holding his breath, listening.

Farouk heard the shuffling of papers and saw a light coming from under one of the doors. He moved towards it. There was no time to lose and no nice way of saying what he had to say.

“Farouk?” Littoni gasped, looking up from the desk, where he sat hunched over several maps spread out on the table. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Farouk reached over and grabbed Littoni by the lapels, pulling him violently from his seat.

“What in the name of Allah did you do that for, Littoni? She’s going to the police. She’s going to report the burglary to the police.”

Littoni gulped back breathless splutters, his eyes bulging in their sockets, his hands splaying for something to grasp onto.

Farouk threw him back against the wall. Littoni closed his eyes as his body collided with it.

“Well?” Farouk spat, ramming his face up close to Littoni’s. “The girl’s house? You weren’t very clever, were you?”

Littoni struggled to catch his breath.