The Mistress of Nothing (27 page)

I gave the wife of Hekekyan Bey the name of the pension; I knew I was taking a risk giving her this information, but there was no choice, it was the same risk I took coming here in the first place. I got up to leave, refusing lunch so that I could get back to Abdullah. At the gate, Hekekyan Bey’s wife said, “You have not hired a carriage?” and I could hear the surprise in her voice and, with it, her reappraisal of my situation. A donkey was summoned, along with a boy to lead it along the track. As we trotted back to Cairo I felt my confidence in Hekekyan Bey slip away: too much time would elapse before his return to Egypt and any introductions he might consent to give me. I would need to do something else in the meantime.

AT THE SUGGESTION OF UMM MAHMOUD, THE NEXT DAY I MADE MY
way to one of the new hotels that had opened; every season Cairo saw a bigger influx of tourists from a greater range of society, and new hotels had begun to open all over the city. Not all were as venerable as Shepheard’s, and the hotel in which I found myself employment was not venerable at all, only a few shallow steps in status above Umm Mahmoud’s humble pension. I was hired by the Italian owner, Roberto Magni, a carpetbagger who had struck on the excellent idea of separating tourists and their money by providing them with not-very-clean rooms. He was pleased to find himself an English-speaking employee, and from the first day onward I was engaged to do all manner of tasks, from scrubbing floors to dealing with the English-speaking clientele. Mr. Magni wanted me to board at the hotel so I would be able to work longer hours; I had no intention of telling him about Abdullah and so refused. But I was a rare enough beast, with my English and my Arabic, that he decided to hang on to me anyway.

The wages were low, and after paying Umm Mahmoud to care for Abdullah as well as paying for our room and meals, I earned nothing extra, although the work meant that I no longer had to continue spending the money Lady Duff Gordon had given me for my passage to England. I was unused to managing money—my Lady had always paid all my expenses—but I learned quickly. Though the work was lowly, I was immeasurably relieved to discover that, in some quarters, I was considered employable; I slept better at night now, kept awake only by Abdullah, and waking with him was sweet.

After a few days at the hotel I realized that the new breed of tourist was nothing like I had ever met before, not even in Luxor, where, it seemed, a great chunk of humanity had floated past on the Nile tour. News of Egypt’s belle époque had spread throughout Europe and tourists came anticipating access to dancing girls and exotic harems full of naked houris and found themselves instead in a medieval city where the layer of European-style sophistication was wafer thin, where only peasant women were not kept secluded, out of sight. The hotel had its own bar and it was peopled with adventurers, men who already were, or were about to be, disappointed. Missing the female companionship I had found aboard the steamer, I did my best to steer clear of them, though I was not entirely successful, given my role as chief English-speaker.

One night one of the men followed me back to Umm Mahmoud’s pension. As I made my way through the streets, I felt him behind me, and all the warnings I had ever had about being alone in a city at night rushed up to overtake me. At the entrance to the pension I opened the door with the intention of slipping through and locking it behind me, but to my horror he caught the door before I could close it and strong-armed his way in, trying but failing to grab me. I ran past him up the stairs to get to my room, where I knew that Umm Mahmoud would have put Abdullah down to sleep for the night: if I can just get to my room, I thought, and bolt the door. But the man caught up with me as I reached the landing and, though I regretted it deeply a moment later, I did not shout out for fear of waking and scandalizing the old woman and her husband. The man bundled me into my room and shut the door.

I thought I would die. I thought he would kill me. In the darkness of the room I could hear him breathing, I could smell his rancid breath, his clothes stinking of alcohol and cheap tobacco. I held my ground as he came towards me. His hands were at my throat.

And then, I fought. In silence. Without waking the baby, without making any noise at all apart from the scuffling of feet, the tearing of fabric, the
whump-whump
as I used my fists. I was furious, absolutely stone-cold furious, not just with this man, but with everything and everyone—with Lady Duff Gordon for expelling me from her household, with Omar for allowing me to leave, with Hekekyan Bey for not being there when I went to see him, with Roberto Magni and his ghastly hotel—and I let all my anger out as I pushed and hit and scratched and tore, until I shoved the surprised and bloodied man out the door.

I woke up Abdullah and held him to my breast as though I hoped he would protect me, not the other way around.

THE MORNING AFTER THE MAN FROM ROBERTO MAGNI’S HOTEL ATTACKED
me, I rose from where I had lain all night in my new dress, now soiled with blood, torn and beyond repair, and went about my business as though nothing had happened, as though my baby and I had passed the night in equal peace. I washed and dressed myself gingerly, grateful for once for the high collar of my brown muslin as it served to hide the bruises on my neck. As I dressed, I examined my life coldly. I knew that until I could speak to Hekekyan Bey about a new position, I would have to keep working for Mr. Roberto Magni, whether the man from last night was still staying at the hotel or not. I knew that I could not rely on Umm Mahmoud to care for Abdullah indefinitely, no matter how much the kind old lady professed to adore him. I knew I had to hang on to the small sum of money I had left, in case of emergencies, of which, all things considered, there were bound to be a few. I knew that if anything untoward happened to Abdullah, I would die.

And so, as I dressed that morning, I made my decision.

It was all very well making plans; it was all very well finding employment and making my way through the city. But it was not enough. Lady Duff Gordon would have laughed if she could see me: begging at the door of Hekekyan Bey; preyed upon by the kind of man I had spent my life avoiding; placing myself and worse, much worse, placing my baby in harm’s way.

I looked at myself in the stained and cracked little mirror that hung above my bed. I had nothing left. I had no choice. I would give up my child to my husband’s other wife.

MABROUKA WAS DIFFERENT FROM WHAT I EXPECTED; SHE WAS
taller and stronger-looking somehow. She was much younger than I had anticipated, at least a decade younger than me, if not more, though she had been Omar’s wife for over three years already. When he described to me how she lived—brought up cloistered in her father’s house, betrothed to Omar before they had ever met, and now living in his father’s house with as little as possible to do with the outside world, the society of men—I imagined she would be tiny and timid, with a voice so quiet everyone would have to strain to hear it. But she was not like that at all.

Omar’s parents welcomed me fulsomely, calling me “daughter” as soon as they realized who I was. I had gone with what I thought was great resolve; I knew what I had to do, and I had to do it for Abdullah. But to be called “daughter” because I was Omar’s wife, to see Abdullah taken up and celebrated as a beloved grandchild by both Omar’s mother and father, made me understand, yet again, the harshness of my situation. From the moment I arrived I had difficulty controlling myself. I was there to give up my son to these people, and they were treating me with such kindness. It could not have been anything other than very strange for them—a woman whom they had never met, to whom they had no connection, not a Muslim, not an Egyptian, turning up on their doorstep with their son’s baby—but they treated me as if it was all perfectly natural, as though they’d always known Omar would take a second wife and that it would be someone as old, odd, and alien as me.

“When are you leaving Egypt?” Omar’s mother asked.

“Oh,” I said, at a loss.

“Omar’s message was that you must return to England.”

“Yes, but I—” I hesitated. “I no longer need to go.”

“You are staying in Cairo?” Omar’s father asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I have a new position.”

“This is good!” he declared, smiling broadly. Then the servant interrupted us with tea.

Omar’s father’s house was cool and fragrant and well ordered; the rooms I was shown into were comfortable and very clean, with low divans and large cushions lining the walls, well-beaten carpets on the floors, mirrors and candles and incense and flowers, the worn old walls painted warm oranges and yellows, windows shuttered against the sun, the central courtyard cool with its blue-tiled well and its little fountain. It took a while for Mabrouka to appear, and the pleasure of watching Omar’s mother and father—who kept insisting that I call them “mother,” umm, and “father,”
ab
—play with Abdullah almost made me forget about her. She entered the room quietly, and Omar’s mother rose to introduce us, and Mabrouka said, “Welcome.” She was carrying her little girl, Yasmina, and I could not look away from the child, she was so like Abdullah, so like my son, Abdullah, and their father, Omar. The child came as a shock to me, in fact the whole family was a shock to me; all thoughts of them had been crowded out of my head by my circumstances since Abdullah’s birth. But here they were, here we were, and I was giving Abdullah to them just as Lady Duff Gordon had decreed.

Mabrouka did not speak beyond greeting me; in that she conformed to my expectations, but the look she gave me was so direct, and so piercing, that I was taken aback, though I had no idea whatsoever what that look might mean. How did she view me? Was I her rival? Second wives are less and less common in Egypt now, though still permitted by law, but so far I had failed to comply with virtually every social custom to do with marriage. I could not afford to dwell on these thoughts, so I began to talk about Abdullah—his routines, his needs, what kind of tricks I used to keep him happy—and with that my resolve collapsed even further as I felt the time to hand over my baby approaching. I stood, unable to recall the niceties of Egyptian leave-taking.

“I must go,” I said, bluntly.

Omar’s family looked at me, but again, I had no idea what they were thinking. “Please,” said Omar’s mother, “stay a little longer. You must eat.”

I shook my head quickly and knew I was being impolite but before I could stop them, tears began to spill from my eyes. “May I come to visit him, from time to time?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Omar’s father, and he looked as bewildered and dismayed as I felt. “You are our daughter now. This is your home.”

I looked at him, and I looked once more at Abdullah, who was mesmerized by a trinket his grandmother had given him. How I longed to stay in that house, to reside with Omar’s family like a good Egyptian wife, to find a way to make our strange situation benefit us all. But I had already disobeyed Lady Duff Gordon and misled my husband by not leaving for England, and I knew the repercussions for Omar once my Lady discovered the truth could be harsh. So I gave Abdullah another kiss and a cuddle, and I handed him to Mabrouka, my husband’s other wife. And I walked away.

I went back to work for Roberto Magni that day, and he was pleased when I agreed to do the extra hours he asked of me. There was no sign of the man from the night before. When I returned to the pension late that evening, Umm Mahmoud had already retired; she had been very upset that morning when I told her that Abdullah was going. And now I’d have to tell her that I’d be leaving myself; money was too tight to continue living in one cheap hotel while working in another. I went into my room and lay down on my bed and my battered body ached, not from the bruises I had sustained, but from losing my child. “He is safe,” I whispered, “he is safe and well cared for, with his family who will show him their love. He is safe. He is safe.” But these words did not reassure me. These words did nothing to assuage my grief.

I USED TO GO AND STAND OUTSIDE OMAR’S FATHER’S HOUSE, AT ODD
times, when I could slip out from beneath the gaze of Roberto Magni. I’d stand by the corner where I was sure no one inside that house could see me, and I’d listen and watch and wait. What I was listening and watching and waiting for, I had no idea—a sign of some kind, of my baby and his welfare. Once I saw the servant emerge with an empty bag, on her way to market. Once I saw Omar’s father come out: I froze with panic—I didn’t want to be seen; I longed for him to see me—but he went in the other direction. I noticed he walked with a stoop, as though his back was tired and sore, and this, of itself, made me cry. I was always crying, all day and all night; my eyes leaked tears, my breasts leaked Abdullah’s milk, I was damp with sorrow and self-pity. I knew it was the best I could do: I needed to work; Abdullah needed a family.

IT WASN’T DIFFICULT TO HATE LADY DUFF GORDON. IT WASN’T DIFFICULT
to blame her for what had happened to me. I hated her beautifully: my hatred was polished and hard and shiny and, truth be told, at times it sustained me. I sometimes wondered where she was: had she left Luxor yet, to travel to Cairo and on to Europe as planned? How was her health? Travel always made her weak, prone to infection and illness. Was Omar caring for her properly?