The Map of Love (35 page)

‘When did you arrive?’ Sharif Basha asks.

‘Just now, an hour ago. And they told me you were here and they were expecting you for dinner. We had better go. They are all waiting for you.’

‘How’s everything with you?’ Sharif Basha asks, as the two men mount and set off together at an easy pace.

‘Well, well, all well. Apart from the usual problems. You should come and visit us. It’s been a long time.’

‘It is the same problem everywhere.’ Shukri Bey al-
Asali is fairer-skinned than his Egyptian cousins. His hair is a lighter brown and he wears it in a slightly longer style. But like Sharif Basha, like Mustafa Bey, he has the air of confidence and gallantry that comes from being assured since birth of the love of his womenfolk. Some years later — in 1915 — the Turks will hang him for his part in the Arab Revolution. But now, in
April 1901, he sits at the dinner table of his aunt’s house in Tawasi and says, ‘The Turks are weak and cannot protect us against Europe. But they are our rulers and we are only allowed to protect ourselves through them. Here, they could not protect Egypt against the British. With us, they cannot protect us against the Zionists.’

‘But
Abd el-Hamid has stood up to them so far?’ Mustafa Bey al-Ghamrawi says, taking the plate that Jalila Hanim, his wife, has handed to him.

‘So far. But they tempt his court with money. Huge sums. They want to imitate Cecil Rhodes. When he was given the charter to colonise the Zambesi, they asked the Kaiser to give them a German charter to colonise Palestine.’ Shukri Bey reaches for the jug of water. He fills the glass of his aunt sitting next to him, then his own.

‘But what about the people?’ Jalila Hanim asks. ‘The people on the land. What happens to them?’

‘Exactly.’ Shukri Bey looks at his aunt. ‘And they have been told, the Zionists. Abraham Shlomo Bey travelled to their congress and told them, in case they had not noticed, that 650,000 Arabs — Muslims, Christians and Jews — have lived for centuries on the land they propose to colonise. So they sent a special commission to investigate. And the commission went back and said the same thing, so they put the report in a drawer and forgot about it.’

‘But you have restrictions in place, have you not? They can only come in on pilgrimage for three months, hand in their passports and all that?’ Sharif Basha says.

‘Yes. For twenty years we’ve had restrictions. But they get around them. Governors who enforce them — like Tevfik Bey — don’t last long. And the Powers, and the United States, are constantly sending their ambassadors to object to this “discrimination” —’

‘But the settlers are not from the Powers or the United States?’

‘No. They’re coming from Russia, Rumania, some from Germany —’

‘So what’s the interest of the United States in this?’

Shukri Bey shrugs. ‘My guess is as good as yours. Pressure from influential people. Dislike of Turkey —’

‘Turkey has to be got rid of. For all of us,’ Sharif Basha says. ‘It has had its day.’

Zeinab Hanim looks at her son anxiously. Her brother smiles at her. ‘Don’t worry, sister.
Abd el-Hamid has no spies here.’

‘I’m going to talk to people,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘in Cairo and Alexandria. I shall meet Rafiq Bey el-
Azm and others with family ties in Palestine. Whip up some public opinion. And I shall speak to the newspapers —’

‘Al-Ahram
has already printed several letters,’ Mustafa Bey says, ‘describing how the settlers plough the common grazing land and confiscate livestock they find there —’

‘They have a variety of ways,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘all aiming to possess the land and make life uncomfortable for the fallaheen. I might try to meet Cromer — I know you hate him, but Britain is the most powerful of the Powers. If they get her backing, the matter will be practically finished.’

‘Enough. Enough politics,’ Zeinab Hanim says, before her son can speak. ‘Our whole life is politics. Tell us about our people. Your children — may God preserve them for you — and their mother. How are they all?’

Cairo, 12 April 1901

Sharif Basha puts aside his papers.

‘Have the ‘Isha prayers been called?’ he asks Mirghani, and when the man says yes he asks him to prepare his horses; he will be going out after he has prayed.

He drives through Darb el-Gamamiz and out into the open space of Midan
Abdin. A glance at the palace — but Efendeena must be home in Qubba by now. He resists the impulse to veer into Shari
Abdin, which would lead him eventually to Shepheard’s Hotel. Instead, he drives up Shari
al-Bustan.

The Club Muhammad
Ali is ablaze with lights. The
doorman steps forward to greet him: ‘You’ve absented yourself from us, ya Basha.’

‘I was away. Who’s here tonight?’

‘Everybody, ya Basha: Mustafa Fahmi Basha, Boutros Basha, and Hussein Basha Rushdi. Milton Bey and Prince Gamil Tusun are in the dining room. Prince Ahmad Fuad and Prince Yusuf Kamal are in the billiard room. And —’ dropping his voice — ‘Mr Boyle arrived ten minutes ago.’

Sharif Basha looks in on the main lounge, he greets Mustafa Fahmi, Boutros Ghali and Hussein Rushdi but does not sit down. He notes Harry Boyle sitting nearby with a newspaper. Boyle makes a habit of dropping in for half an hour every few days.