The Map of Love (26 page)
Authors: Ahdaf Soueif
‘There have been clashes,’ he says, ‘between the people and the police. This new law will tear the place apart. The lands on the other side of the village. They tried to turn the people out but they won’t go. The men brought out their weapons and the world caught fire.’
‘Ya Satir ya Rabb,’ Amal breathes. And then, ‘What do you think is going to happen,
Am Abu el-Maati?’
‘Only God knows, ya Sett Hanim. But these are treacherous times and people are got at from all sides. Some of the landowners know God. Yusuf Bey el-Qommos, the headmaster of the boys’ school, has already said he won’t raise his rents. Two others have agreed to meetings with the fallaheen to decide on a gradual raising over a few years. But others have hard heads —’
‘But the government has said they’ll compensate the fallaheen: give them other lands.’
‘Desert lands, ya Sett Hanim. Without water, without money to get them started. Where will they get new farmland? Is the government — I ask His forgiveness — going to create fields?’
Fields and more fields on either side of the road. From where they are it looks as if the whole world were green. But from higher up, from a hill — if there were a hill in this flat country
or from a pyramid (one of the many that two thousand years ago lined this route from Thebes to Memphis, from the Delta to the Cataract) or from an aeroplane today, you would be able to see how narrow the strip of green was, how closely it clung to the winding river. The river like a lifeline thrown across the desert, the villages and towns hanging on to it, clustering together, glancing over their shoulders at the desert always behind them. Appeasing it, finally, by making it the dwelling of their dead.
Amal and Isabel, three months into their friendship, drive back to Cairo in companionable silence. Since they are heading away from the Said they are waved through the barricades with just a cursory glance inside the car. They drive without stopping. The car behaves impeccably.
Amal is thinking of the village and her promise to ‘speak to the government’. But she is also thinking of the table under the window, of Anna’s journals. She is impatient to get back to Anna, to go with her into the Sinai.
Isabel is planning her return to New York, her meeting with Omar. She is telling him in her head about her plan to make a film of Anna’s story. She is wondering if she can get Tawasi into the film. She tries to recognise the town where the car was mended, Beni Mazar, and then the spot where it broke down.
‘That man who helped us,’ she says, ‘he really wouldn’t take your money, would he?’ Every time she’d seen that pantomime before, money had in fact ended up changing hands.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Amal smiles. ‘He said, what would the foreign lady think if he took money for helping women stranded on the road?’
‘The foreign lady would think he was smart. He looked like he could use some cash. It’s a miracle
his
car didn’t break down.’
‘Ah, well,’ Amal said, ‘we have to put our trust in miracles sometimes.’
… and eased the putting off
These troublesome disguises which we wear.
John Milton
15 March 1901
A fire is lit, and the saddle from one of the horses placed near it for Anna to sit on. A few metres away the men move around settling the animals, putting up a tent, preparing food. When she looks at them, dark figures against the dark night, Anna always knows which one he is.
‘Happy now? My lady happy now?’
Anna raises a warning finger to her lips as she looks up at Sabir’s smiling face. ‘No “lady”,’ she whispers, shaking her head, reminding him.
He waves his hand dismissively. ‘They no English,’ he says, then again: ‘You happy now?’
‘Yes,’ says Anna, ‘very happy.’
‘Sahara,’ he says. ‘Tent, camels, fire …’ The sweep of his arm takes in the universe. ‘English people, they like tent,’ he says. ‘Tent very good.’
‘Yes,’ says Anna. She points up to the sky. ‘Stars too.’
‘Keteer star,’ Sabir says, ‘star yama. Not one, two. Much. Too much star.’
I
am in the desert: in the desert of Sinai. And no reading of guidebooks or travellers’ accounts, not even the stretch of desert I saw at Ghizeh, could have prepared me for this. I will not even attempt at this moment to write down my thoughts and feelings, for they are too confused. It is a vastness which I have never before experienced — the land, the sea and the sky, all stretching
unbroken and united. And our little band of men and beasts ambling through it all.
I am writing this in the tent which has been so thoughtfully provided for my comfort — although I am envious of the men sleeping outside under the stars. I asked Sharif Pasha if it would not become too cold later when the fire goes out, and he showed me the cloaks they wrap themselves in at night. These are made of wool, with a lining of brown fleece, and indeed felt wonderfully warm. For myself I am handsomely provided for with a beautiful Persian rug, a large cushion of striped silk on which to sleep and some blankets of the finest wool. I also have a tallow candle in a lantern, and my saddlebags and writing-box were carried into the tent. A copper pot full of water was placed at the back of my tent and I was given to understand by Sabir, who grows more cheerful by the hour, that that portion of desert behind my tent was to be considered my personal domain for the night.
Tonight, as we conversed by the light of the fire, I noticed for the first time how good-looking Sabir is. He is the dark, burnt brown that I understand betokens a Nubian. His features are delicate, his eyes as large and soft as those of a fawn and his whole aspect is one of delicacy and gentleness. He is bedded down across my door and when I looked surprised he said with a broad smile, ‘When wolf come, he find me first.’ I have been sorely tempted to lift the flap and step over him and go outside, but I have withstood the temptation for I believe it would not be considered correct. I have, however, peeped out and there, far, far away, was a sky of black velvet with stars so plentifully strewn across it that if more had come they would have been hard put to find an empty space. And below, all was blackness, except for the flickering glow cast by the dying fire. I picked out the figures of four men sleeping, with nothing between them and the whole universe but a length of sheepskin.
I hardly trust myself to write about him. I do not know what I should write about him.
I will start from the beginning: in the courtyard of that magical house, with Ahmad on his knee, I understood that I was to meet him at the point where we would begin our journey into Sinai. I
was to travel with one of his men — Mutlaq, a man he trusts absolutely. And even though we had decided that I was to travel in Sinai as a Frenchman, there was still the vexed question of the guise I was to adopt to get to Sinai.
‘The problem is the train,’ Layla explained. ‘If you travel as an Englishman, you will have to travel first class and alone. There will be attempts to draw you into conversation, and that will be dangerous. If you travel as an Arab, you will sit in second class with Mutlaq. But people will be close enough to look at you and see that you are not an Arab, and they will be curious. So, on the train you will travel as an Egyptian woman — Mutlaq’s sister. That way you will be completely covered up. You arrive at Suez, you cross the Canal and on the other side my brother meets you. You take off your outer dress, put on your kufiyya and voilà: you are an Arab man. Here, let us try the clothes.’
‘Ça vous va très bien,’ Layla says. ‘Everything you put on suits you so well.’ She steps back and surveys Anna. ‘What shall we do about your hair?’
‘Shall I braid it?’
‘Yes; sit down, I’ll do it for you.’
Layla brushes Anna’s hair and pulls it into a tight braid at the back of her head.
‘Now,’ she says, ‘this — this is your kufiyya. You can wear it with or without the ’uqal, this cord, but it does help to keep it on your head. You wear it loose down your shoulders like this. Now look.’
Anna gazes into the mirror and a fair, surprised-looking young Arab gazes back at her.
Layla smiles at her in the mirror. ‘All the girls will fall in love with you.’
‘What girls?’ Anna smiles back. ‘We are going into the desert.’
‘Oh, there are girls in the desert too. Look: you can throw the ends — one or both — round your neck like this. You can also wrap the ends round your face and tie them at the back like this. This is for protection from the wind or the sand if
there’s a storm. But if you’re just sitting with people you must never cover your face because it looks as if you are trying to hide. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ says Anna trying the different styles.
‘Some men fling it back,’ says Layla, ‘like that, or fold the sides on top of their heads, like this. But don’t do that because, look —’
Anna looks into the mirror. ‘I look like a woman.’
‘Yes. I think, perhaps, mostly wear it across, hiding your neck and a bit of your chin.’
‘Yes.’
‘And, you know, I think you should keep your riding boots and socks. Otherwise your feet give you away.’
‘I do wish you were coming.’
‘Next time,’ Layla laughs, ‘when Ahmad is bigger.’ Suddenly she looks serious. ‘You’re not worried, are you?’
‘Worried?’
‘Because Abeih Sharif would never let anything happen to you.’
‘You know, Layla, I feel I’ve disturbed — I mean, he normally would …’
‘He offered to take you.’
‘Yes, but he felt responsible, and —’
‘Anna, listen. Do you want to go?’
‘Oh, yes!’
‘Then go. And enjoy it. It will be wonderful. And remember: constantly put cream on your face and hands. The desert air is very dry.’
And even though she has left her shirts and trousers folded on what she now thought of as her divan, and even though, in one of her canvas saddlebags, Layla has tucked away a small silk parcel: ‘in case you get tired of men’s dress’, Anna hesitates at the door of the haramlek.
‘I will see you again?’
‘But naturally.’ Layla smiles. She holds out her arms and the two women embrace. ‘When you return, I shall be here to welcome you.’
A closed carriage at the door and I climbed in wearing the loose white clothing of an Arab, covered by the flowing black outer garment of an Egyptian woman of the city. My head and face were most thoroughly veiled, and my kufiyya and ugal were in the black cloth bag I carried. Sabir came inside the carriage with me for fear that if he sat on the box outside someone should see him and recognise him. He climbed into the carriage with his eyes averted and his head held low, muttering apologies and ‘la hawla wala quwwata ilia b-Illah’. He sat in the furthest corner from me and muttered all the way to the station. But Layla tells me he would not go ahead with her brother nor yet stay in their house to await my return but was unshakable in that he had vowed to his master that he would not let me out of his sight and would fulfil his vow or perish.
In the station I walked slightly apart from the men as Layla had instructed me, but Mutlaq, like a mother, has eyes in the back of his head, and if I paused he paused and if I walked he walked, so the distance between us remained constant, and that without his once turning round or looking at me directly.
As we walked into the great hall of the station, a train was whistling, getting ready to leave. I glanced at Mutlaq.
‘Iskindiriyya,’ he said under his breath.
The doors were being slammed shut and people were hurrying along the platform. We walked across the hall and suddenly there was a great bustle and we and many other people were pushed aside as porters hurried by, clearing a path. And as Mutlaq put out a hand to steady me I almost thought I should have died of fright for there, inches from my face, were Lord and Lady Chelsea, Lady Wolverton and Lady St Oswald together with the Honourable Sir Hedworth Lambton — whom I had dined with recently and whom I have met many times across Sir Charles’s dinner table. It was a most curious sensation; they passed so close that I could smell Lady St Oswald’s cologne and if I had put out my hand I could have plucked at the sleeve of her brown travelling coat. I felt at once the fear of being discovered and the strangeness of their sweeping by me without acknowledgement — but the oddest thing of all was that I suddenly saw
them as bright, exotic creatures, walking in a kind of magical space, oblivious to all around them; at ease, chattering to each other as though they were out for a stroll in the park, while the people, pushed aside, watched and waited for them to pass.
There was another man with them, and later, when I had leisure to reflect, I surmised it must be Mr Wilfrid Blunt, for his hair, his eyes and his carriage fit well with the descriptions I have heard of him. I had been wishing to meet him these five months and now he walked past me — and I was invisible.
Still, it is a most liberating thing, this veil. While I was wearing it, I could look wherever I wanted and nobody could look back at me. Nobody could find out who I was. I was one of many black-clad harem in the station and on the train and could have traded places with several of them and no one been the wiser.
We arrived at Suez and made immediately for the Canal, which we crossed in a comfortable boat. Mutlaq, as usual, making all the arrangements, myself following meekly and Sabir following not so meekly, and as we stepped out on the far bank and the boatman had turned the nose of his craft back towards Suez, I heard the sound of clattering hooves and looked to see Sharif Pasha cantering towards us on a fine chestnut Arab.
‘Dépêchez-vous alors, if you are going to transform yourself,’ he said by way of greeting. He swung off his horse and the three men stood forming a screen with their backs to me and I, grasping what was required, peeled off my black woman’s garment and veil, unrolled my kufiyya, secured it on my head with the ugal and by the time the curt question came, I was able to answer ‘Yes’ while rolling up the black garments. And when the three men stood aside, an observer would have seen a fourth man in Arab clothes coming out from among them and bending over the saddlebags on the ground to put away a small, black bundle.
I write ‘I looked to see Sharif Pasha cantering …’ but in reality it was only when he drew near, spoke and dismounted that I believed it was he. He was dressed as I was, in the robe and cloak of the desert Arab — but he also had two carbines strapped to his back. The outfit became him so utterly that it was only with difficulty that I could imagine him back in his European city
clothes, and he, seeing the little glances I kept throwing to convince myself that it was truly he, frowned slightly and said nothing.
A shot in the air produced two more men on camel-back leading camels and horses. Four of the camels were made to kneel down in the sand and Sharif Pasha asked me to watch closely the movement of the camel that rose when Mutlaq was mounted. ‘Will you be able to do this?’ he asked, and on my answer he bade me go to a particular one of the animals, put my foot in the stirrup and mount while he held the reins — and with a loud groan and a great rocking motion the beast rose to its front legs first and then its hind legs, each movement being accomplished in two halves as it unfolded itself first to kneel and then to stand.
When all was organised and we set forth, we were six men on six camels, two more being led with provisions and saddlebags, while the Arabs, a chestnut and a white mare, were led unburdened.
We ambled along, allowing the camels to set their own comfortable pace. Riding a camel is different from riding a horse in that it is more undulating, but when you learn the rhythm it is pleasant and the broad saddle with the stout handle at the front is comfortable. I found that Sabir and I were the only ones to ride with stirrups.
We rode mostly in silence, but he (Sharif Pasha) did inform me that the two men who came with him were members of a tribe with whom he has a connection and they are to stay with us for the whole of the expedition. Tomorrow night when we make camp it will be as the guests of their chief.
We rode through the afternoon and the evening, and it was as though the desert had cast a spell of silence over us all, man and beast. It was as though on this, our first day, only a matter of profound importance should warrant the breaking of this great silence, a silence underlined by the gentle roar of the sea as it washed against the rough shore.
We rode on, and we stopped only twice. Once when we made camp for the night. The other earlier: when the sun set beyond the Gulf of Suez, making clear to me whence came the name the
‘Red’ Sea; for the setting sun brought out the red and black of the ore in the mountains and the sea reflected it all back. All the reds, and yellow and orange and purple, were in that wonderful landscape, and as it faded and the colours all round us melted more and more into gentleness, I thought there should be some act — some formal recognition of this daily magnificence. Even as the thought formed itself in my mind, we came to a halt as though by agreement. The animals knelt, the men dismounted and turned towards the South-East. One voice was lifted: ‘Allahu Akbar’, and they prayed silently together. I walked around behind them and observed the sea, and the darkening of the waters that just moments earlier had been so silvery and flecked with light, and I too offered up a prayer — and the prayer that sprang to my silent lips was for peace of mind and peace of heart, for it seemed that more than ever now they were within my reach.
