The Hidden (26 page)

“Eat this, Sayyida,” Rachid says, passing me a plate of fruits. “You cannot live on pastries alone. You don’t look well.”

“Come and listen to the musicians tonight in the grand hall, Sayyida,” Anisah says.

“You will be measured for new robes, Sayyida,” Rachid says.

“Your husband wants you to wear clothes tailored to suit his palace.”

I sigh. They talk too much, and they order me around. It is ridiculous to be talking about clothes when Cairo is on fire and our palace is in danger.

“The other women want your company at the baths,” Rachid says. “You must go and spend some time with them.”

Then Anisah says, “Al-Shezira has sent you this little book to read, a story about a wife’s devotion to her family. It is about how the wife longed to have five wonderful little babies and how after the fifth baby boy was born, she planted a little garden for her children and watched the trees and the flowers grow, just as her children grew. It is a lovely story.”

I stare at her in disbelief. Rachid and Anisah have had their minds stolen from them. This is all a conspiracy, to make me feel as though I too am losing my mind.

But still I go and listen to the musicians in the Great Hall. Then a fortune-teller comes to the harem to entertain the women. I ask Rachid to arrange a private sitting with her in my rooms.

I am the last to be seen. The fortune-teller sits me down in front of her and takes out a pack of elaborately painted cards. She asks my name, how old I am, and the year of my birth. I tell her I am not sure but think I was born in 1902.

She looks into my eyes and strokes my face gently. I do not like the feel of her fingers. They feel rough and smell of dirt. She tells me I am unhappy, and I nod.

She pulls a card from the pack and sighs. The card has a picture on it of a naked man and woman, entwined like snakes. Behind them, the sky is dark and stormy.

“This card is called the Lovers,” she says in a husky voice. “You are in love with someone other than your husband.”

She takes another card from the pack. This time the card shows a tower and a bolt of lightning. “Great distress and change,” she says.

The next card shows a man on a white horse.

“A stranger is coming,” she says, “and he will bring you much luck and happiness.”

I don’t say anything.

The next card has some gold coins falling to the red earth.

“Luck, wealth, and happiness,” she says.

Finally, I say to her, “Tell me who you really are. Have you been sent to me?”

She looks around the room to check that we are alone. “Yes,” she says. “I have a message for you.” She pauses. “But first,” she says, “tell me which night do you spend with your husband?”

“Monday.”

“Before the moon rises on this Monday—before you perform your wifely duties—take one last look at your husband’s face.”

And she presses something cold and hard into my hand. I stare at it in shock. It is a revolver. The fortune-teller looks around nervously.

“Hide it away, Sayyida,” she says. “It is ready to use. Your Sayyid wanted me to give it to you.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Then I roll some money into her palm, sit back on my heels, and close my eyes gratefully. When I open them again, she is gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Aimee stood on her balcony thinking about Farouk, Sophie, and the el-G. The look on Sophie’s face when she had opened the door to the boathouse haunted her. She had been in Farouk’s arms when Sophie had burst through the door, her face ashen at the sight of them together.

Aimee clung to the balcony railing, watching people going about their business. The morning air was soft and silky, but the heat was building. Farouk had held her close, had told her to leave Cairo, had told her she was in grave danger. The reason? Mahmoud and his gang would probably choose to dispose of her as they had disposed of her husband. She had considered his words but knew she would not leave. She was an Egyptian, Cairo was her home, and no war, no dark underworld would make her leave now. She was a woman who would do things her own way, though only a few days ago, she’d felt adrift in this city. Her pride in her heritage was growing. Something was happening to her, and she knew that deep inside her the spirit of her mother was stirring—and with it a determination to stand tall and face whatever the future had in store. Going to the el-G had been a stupid mistake, but she’d read something on Fatima’s face when she’d been with her, a hardness. Fatima was a woman without conscience, Aimee was sure of that, from their brief exchange, a woman who was a slave to money who’d do
anything—even seduce another woman’s husband—if the price was right.

She shuddered at the memory of Farouk’s brief and tender kiss on the houseboat. She had allowed him to kiss her, his lips soft against hers, for a matter of seconds, but she had pulled away, standing back to study his face for a clue, for something. She felt torn, drawn to him but very, very wary. As he had reached for her again, cupping her face in his hands, wanting more, Sophie had burst through the door.

She tried to push Sophie out of her mind and focus on what was in front of her. Her neighbourhood entranced her. Booksellers sat on mats alongside kilim sellers, women tended vegetable stalls, and emaciated children ran laughing through narrow harets. Aimee’s mind swirled. Though she was still adrift, she couldn’t ignore the growing feelings she had for this place of her birth. Neither an outside observer nor a real insider, she was living on the fringes of this hypnotic world, unable to understand any of it. She couldn’t help but wonder how her life would have been different if Azi had not been murdered, if her mother were still alive.

Sophie had left the houseboat as abruptly as she had entered it. Aimee had tried to run after her, but Farouk had pulled her back. Then he’d driven her home as dawn was breaking, leaving her there alone at her request. Though the taint of the break-in still lingered, it was her home. She could not stay away forever. He had wanted to stay with her, until Hakim, Aunt Saiza’s driver, arrived to take her to Saiza’s house, but she had insisted that he leave. She needed some time to herself to think things through, so she had run a bath. Lying in her bathtub, in her little house, she had quivered with the memory of him. She saw Farouk’s face, felt his hands stroking her own, the look of longing in his eyes. As she gripped her balcony railing, she knew that something was about to happen—something
dark and unspeakable—but she couldn’t make any sense of it. The “thing,” whatever it was, was a living shadow with no discernible shapes.

In her mind, she pictured Farouk’s houseboat, the bookshelves crammed with volumes of literature in French, Arabic, Italian, even Urdu. She could smell the raw oak aroma of the floors and the window frames. She could see the little bedroom with its low bed where they had sat talking. She’d also seen a briefcase with a strange insignia and envelopes on a small desk with unfamiliar names scribbled on them.

Farouk’s houseboat seemed so cosy and lived in, with its bookshelves and furniture. It didn’t seem like the type of place a man would go to hide out from a pack of assassins. He had his house on Gezira Island. He seemed to live openly. Any group who wanted him dead would be able to find him. None of it added up. Aimee thought about the drama of their desert arrest and their conversation in the trench on their way back to Cairo. Mahmoud, Farouk had suggested to her,
was
the Group of the X. This Group had murdered Azi because Azi was, according to this Group, working with the Germans, trading secrets. Fatima was involved with the X. The name Issawi came to her. She’d heard Farouk mention him, but she didn’t know who this Issawi was. If this Mahmoud was after Farouk, why didn’t he go to the police? He seemed to be against the idea of any authority getting involved in the tracking down of murderers. So he must have something to hide. Aimee didn’t trust him. He seemed so protective of her, and that in itself concerned her. Why would he want to help her? She was nothing to him, not part of his circle in any way. He said he had met Azi, was aware of him, but Aimee got the impression Farouk held some sort of strange grudge against him. He spoke with raw hatred when he mentioned the privileged circles that Azi was supposed to have moved in. And then
there was the coded letter that had fallen out of her mother’s diary, with the photo of Fatima. She had given him the letter with the strange code, but nothing more had been said about it. She made a mental note to ask him about the letter, but then she realised that they had made no plans to meet again.

She returned to her bedroom to change. She put on a pair of trousers and a blouse, rolled her hair in a tight bun, stroked the soft leather cover of her mother’s diary, and thought for a moment.

The telephone rang. The sun was streaming in through half-opened shutters, and the heat hung low in the room. Aimee picked up the phone. It was Sophie. Aimee heard her friend say her name feebly, painfully. Then there was silence. She could hear Sophie breathing into the receiver.

Finally, she spoke. “I don’t know what to say. I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

“Sophie, it’s all right. I’m all right. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“You know nothing about this man, Aimee. And now you’re involved with him?”

“Yes,” Aimee said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be, but I am. In some strange way, I am.”

“But what will people say? Your aunt?”

“I don’t care,” she said, swallowing the heavy lump in her throat. “I don’t care what people think.”

“But he’s old, Aimee, at least twice your age. What on earth do you see in him?”

Aimee sighed impatiently. Sophie couldn’t possibly understand. The truth was that she hardly knew herself. “I don’t know, but I can’t let go now. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I need you to try to understand.”

“But Azi?”

“Azi was involved with a prostitute.”

Aimee sensed Sophie shiver against the receiver. When her friend spoke again, Aimee could hear the disgust in her voice.

“I don’t think you really know what you’re doing, but I’m so worried, Aimee. You’re my best friend. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. It might be safer if we were to both go to England and wait out this war. What do you think?”

“I can’t leave, Sophie. I’ve got to find out what happened to Azi. I have this feeling that something terrible is about to happen, but I’m not scared. I won’t know any peace until I know what happened. He loved me. I loved him. I can’t just walk away. It would kill me.”

“Aimee—”

“Please, Soph, I think this man Farouk can lead me to Azi’s killers. I have to—I don’t expect you to understand, but please—don’t say any more. I’ll telephone you soon, I promise. Please don’t worry about me.”

Saiza greeted Aimee warmly outside her home in the suburb of Medinet Nasr. Aimee loved Saiza’s house, a magnificent villa the colour of butter with a charming garden planted with English trees and shrubs. The garden was where she’d originally told her aunt she was going to marry Azi. She remembered how happy she’d felt that day, how full of hope she’d been for the future. And now?

The Saiza who greeted her with open arms at the front door looked plump and healthy, very different from the person who had disappeared to Alexandria for a rest cure many weeks before.

“I’ve missed you, Auntie.” She wanted to tell her aunt about everything that had happened, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to worry her.

“Have you, my dear? You must tell me everything. I have so much more energy now. The doctor in Alexandria gave me a clean bill of health, but he said I mustn’t burden myself too much. I must not attend so many of my club meetings. The women’s groups will have to do without me for some time, but I can entertain a little, so I shan’t be too bored.”

“Auntie?” Aimee said nervously. “Professor Langham at the university gave me something that belonged to Azi.”

Saiza was quiet for a moment. She peered at her niece curiously. “What, dear?”

“A diary, my mother’s diary.”

Saiza’s face seemed to collapse into itself. She hung her head, chewing her lip as she examined the floor. “Oh, Aimee, I am sorry, so sorry.”

“Why did Azi have it, Aunt? Did you give it to him? Why did he lock it away?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t give it to him, darling child. He must have taken it. It must have been that day he came to see me, not long before the accident. We were in my sitting room together, talking, and the diary was on my desk. I was going through my things and planned to put it in a very safe place. I remember being distracted by something and left the room for a few minutes. Azi was sitting there drinking tea. When I came back, he said he had to leave. I didn’t even notice that he’d taken it, and then my dear—I forgot about it. Oh dear, I am so forgetful these days.” She shook her head again and looked away, as though embarrassed. “Oh dear, why would he take it? I shouldn’t be angry with the dead, but I am upset. Have you read it, dear Aimee?”

“Some of it,” Aimee replied.

“Oh dear, my poor sweet girl. I’m so sorry. I will explain everything, I promise, but first there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Who, Aunt?”

“Come with me.”

Saiza linked her arm through Aimee’s and led her through the house to the small garden at the back. They walked to an old rattan couch in a shady spot beneath the trees. The sun was beating down hard, and Aimee was glad of the palms’ shade. Once they’d sat down, Saiza peered back towards the house, evidently waiting for the guest to arrive. She heard a sound, a shuffling, and then the sound of Rose—her auntie’s housemaid—talking to a stranger, slowly, soothingly, softly.

A man was being led slowly through the sitting room towards the garden. He was holding on to Rose’s arm, and she was guiding him between the furniture. Aimee did not recognise him. He had a plump, smooth face and thin, scruffy greying hair. He was slightly stooped and walked like a very old man, but as the light caught his features, she saw he was probably only in his forties. He was dressed in a loose white jalaba over white trousers. On his feet he wore scuffed scandals. He held on to a white walking cane in one hand. In the other, he carried a little book with a black cover and a silver spine.