The Hidden (27 page)

“Here he is,” Saiza said. She stood up and helped Rose guide him to the couch where she and Aimee sat. Aimee stood up and stared at him. He was obviously blind. His eyes were vague, milky splotches in sunken sockets. He was muttering to himself as he lowered himself, guided by the two women, into his seat. She could understand the words, a strange mixture of Arabic and French.

“Daughter,” he said, “Daughter.”

Saiza pulled Aimee closer to her and whispered, “Sit down next to him, my dear.”

And then she spoke to her housekeeper. “Bring us the tea now, would you, Rose?”

Aimee sat down next to the man. She could not take her eyes off him. The man reached for Aimee’s hand, tentatively at first. When he found it, he put it in his lap, and the tears began to flow.

“Aimee dear,” Saiza said. “I want you to meet a great friend of your maman. This is Hezba’s devoted friend and former servant, Rachid.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, September 10, 1919

Monday, Monday, Monday. I can’t get that day out of my mind. I am like a restless child waiting for Monday.

Every day I go through the same interminable routine. I rise from my bed at five. I wash, I pray, I am brought breakfast, I am dressed for the day, I sit on my balcony, I smoke, I eat, I dream, I pray, I walk around my room, I am invited to sit with the other women, I go to the bathhouse, I pray, I am veiled, I walk out for some air, I eat, I wash, I pray, I listen to some of the women sing in the privacy of our apartments, I sit on the balcony and smoke, I wash, I pray, and then I retire to my rooms and lie in the moonlight. Is this all women should expect from life? Really? And what about men? They are off planning military action, learning languages, heading up governments, making money, owning property. Meanwhile I am being attired so I look good for my husband when inside I want to be running a government, building free schools for children, helping women start businesses, and forging a society in which opportunities are there for all, and nobody is scared of a master. I must calm myself.

Turning to sadder news, I hear that Maman has taken a turn for the worse. But she is not interested in hearing news of her Minya daughter, so how can I summon the desire to see her—when I know my presence would probably make her feel worse?

The lack of news from Cairo is horrible. I long to return and march the streets in protest. I would not be afraid. All I can do is lie here and listen to the gentle movement of the Nile as it flows through my land. Tears stream down my cheeks. I find myself missing al-Qahire. I longed to be free of the palace, but that prison has been replaced by another set of walls. In Cairo, I had my friend and my teacher. Now I miss the silly little Bathna, one of my many half sisters. My heart bleeds for simple joys, the companionship of Saiza and Nawal, and I weep for the pleasures I used to enjoy in Cairo, my lessons with Virginie, the hammam, the sight of Papa, despite his usual coolness with me. Last night Rachid looked so different. He has changed. It is not my imagination. He is sadder, no longer my friend and confidant. I think he is tired of his life and is depressed. Everything is changing so fast. The life we knew is fading away. Life now is violence with rioting in the streets of Cairo, the gunning down of ordinary Egyptians by the British. I want progress and change, but I don’t want innocent people to die. Rachid is my only friend in the Minya palace. In Cairo, it seemed he would do anything for me. Now in Minya, he seems distracted, as though his mind is on other things. We don’t talk like we used to. I hear a knock on the door. It is a girl called Nara.

“Sayyida Hezba,” she says, “you are summoned to the rooms of your husband. He has some important news to tell you. Can you come right away?”

At first I am nervous. It is unusual for my husband to call for me like this without my getting perfumed and dressed for him beforehand. Besides, it is not his day to meet with me. I thrust my bare feet into my harem slippers and throw my gold silk wrap over my shoulders and my hair. We walk through the harem until we reach the entry to the main reception hall. From there we are escorted by one of the general servants to the salamlik, the general area of the palace, and then through to the men’s quarters, From here we walk to al-Shezira’s private suites. I am
surprised to see my husband looking very distressed. He tells Nara to stay and does not even invite us into his rooms. We stand at the door.

“You have had a telegram, Hezba wife,” he says. “Your mother is very ill. The palace in Cairo insists that you return there for a few days to be with her. You must go immediately. Veil yourself. I have already ordered a horse-and-trap to take you to the station and that your things be packed. You will be accompanied by Anisah and one of my eunuchs. Be sure to return as soon as you can.”

But I am too late. By the time I arrive at the Grande Sarai and am escorted to my mother’s rooms, my maman, Zehra Sultan Hanim, is dead. I throw myself on her, burying my face in her still-warm flesh. There must still be life in her. My body trembles with sadness. I kiss her sullen face and wiry grey-black hair. She was a beauty, once, so beautiful, Papa could not resist her. My tears spill all over Maman. I hate myself for not being the girl she wanted me to be.

Suddenly I feel strong arms pulling me away from her. I hardly have the strength to look around to see who is wrenching me away, but out of the corner of my eye I see it is Habrid and one of the lower eunuchs.

“Have respect for the dead,” Habrid says bitterly. “You are to return immediately to Minya. Your husband wants you with him.”

I cry out that I must be allowed to attend my mother’s funeral, but Habrid says he is just following his master’s orders. I ask to see Papa, but I am told he is too busy. My heart is breaking. Monday, Monday, Monday, please come.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Rachid squeezed Aimee’s hand. It felt hot and large around hers. Tears rolled down his plump face, sliding into the corners of his mouth. Saiza and Rachid and Aimee sat quietly for a moment in the stillness of the afternoon. A timid breeze rustled the leaves. Aimee breathed slowly, staring at him in disbelief. Could it really be him? The Rachid her maman had loved so much?

“Hezba child,” Rachid muttered. Aimee let him take her face in his hands. While he patted her face, Aimee studied him closely—his perfect teeth, the sunken sockets that looked out of place on features still relatively unmarked by time, his huge hands and gnarled arms, the same arms that had once comforted her mother.

“This is little Aimee, Rachid. Nur al-Shezira,” Saiza said quietly in his ear. “Hezba’s baby all grown up.”

“Child, child,” he sobbed gently, putting his face in his hands to muffle his tears. Rose arrived with tea. She put down the tray and stared at the man solemnly. Saiza shook her head and put her arm around Rachid’s shaking shoulders to comfort him.

“Rachid is the last of them,” Saiza said almost to herself.

“They will soon all be forgotten,” she continued. “No one will remember all those poor scarred eunuchs. Poor Rachid.”

“What happened to him, Aunt? Where did you find him?”

Saiza’s face clouded, and she squeezed Rachid’s shoulder again before lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper. “He came to me quite by accident. It is God’s way, I suppose. A friend of mine said she knew of an old eunuch who was being looked after by a family in Helwan. The eunuch was ill and quite useless, having been blind for some time. Though he was usually quite eloquent and lively, he fell into black depressions from time to time during which he would speak to nobody. The family had found him begging on the street, and had taken pity on him as one would a dog.

“I suspect the family originally wanted him to help them, like a houseboy. He appeared to be good with his hands and could mend things, be useful, despite being blind. But then as I said, he would get terribly depressed and start to rant and rave, chanting the name of my dear beloved sister, Hezba. That was when my friend wrote to me. Could it be the same person, she asked? I did not know. While I was in Alexandria, I had Hakim visit him to verify the story. And it was all true. He was once in the employ of the sultan, my father. Though I didn’t know him well back then, I recognised him as soon as I saw him. The whole harem knew how close Rachid and Hezba were, but nobody took much notice. Each girl had her own eunuch to attend to her needs.”

Aimee listened with her head bowed. Rachid had not released her hand. He held it softly, squeezing it tenderly at regular intervals as though he had been given new life.

“I have brought Rachid here,” Saiza went on, “to live with us, though between you and me, I don’t think he is well. He cannot tell me what has happened to him since he lost his sight. Perhaps you had better talk to him, dear—you might be able to get something out of him—but first let him show you his little book of snaps. He carries his book with him everywhere. He owns almost nothing else.
He has memorised the pictures, so even with his sight gone, he can tell you who is who.

“Rose and I will leave you two alone so you can have a little talk. Try to get him to open up, dear; I want him to be happy here. He arrived only a few days ago. That was why I was in such a hurry to get home to Cairo. He seems so depressed, so bottled up.”

Saiza whispered a few words of comfort to Rachid, kissed his face, and left. Aimee put her hand on his book and tried to take it from him, but he hung on fast, just as she had clung possessively to her maman’s diary when she had first discovered it.

“Show me the pictures, Rachid,” she said quietly. “I never knew Maman. It would make me so happy if I could just have a little look. You can trust me. You can guide my hand and turn the pages if you like.”

She kissed him softly on the cheek, and he smiled and opened it. Aimee swallowed nervously. She had only ever seen one picture of her mother. She had always wanted to be a part of her mother’s life and now, the faces in the sepia-toned prints stared up at her. The photos contained unfamiliar faces, dreams never confided, warmth and laughter she would never experience.

Her mother’s hatred of al-Shezira, Aimee’s own father, had shocked her at first. But in the few days she had been reading the diary, she’d let the hatred flow over her, not allowing it to consume her.

One photograph showed a little girl standing beside a fountain. She had bright eyes, a wide smile, and an air of confidence. Another showed the same girl, older, in a loose calico dress, hair unadorned, holding a smaller child in her arms, a distant cousin, Rachid assured her. In another, the same girl was dressed in a wedding gown, half veiled and smiling, flanked by an elderly man and a woman in ceremonial dress.

“Tell me, Rachid,” she said quietly. “Are they all of my mother?”

He spoke slowly at first, timidly as though it took all his energy. “Yes,” he said, and then suddenly the words came, like a torrent. “This photograph,” he said, jabbing the book bitterly, “this is the day she married her husband. She was miserable that day. You would never guess it, from the look on her face, but she was clever, my Hezba; she could fool people.”

“Who are the people on either side of her?”

“They are her parents, Ali Sultan and Hezba’s mother, Zehra. The photograph was taken after the signing of the documents. After sitting for the portrait, she was delivered to her husband. She was only eleven years old when the photograph was taken. You can see she is still a child. I thought I would be sent away to work for the men of the palace that day, but I was allowed to continue as her servant because I was docile. I was a good servant. I did not make trouble, and I thank the Almighty I was allowed to stay with her.”

“You weren’t fond of your master, Rachid. You felt as strongly about him as Maman did, didn’t you? Aunt Saiza told me my father, al-Shezira, was a kind man, but that is not what Hezba thought, is it? She hated him, didn’t she? It’s all in her diary.”

Rachid thrust his head to the heavens and sighed, his eyes wet and searching.

“Your aunt has not told you, Hezba child?” he said. “Very likely, she does not know the truth herself, but still—”

He paused for a moment, trying to muster the courage.

“Khalil al-Shezira was one of the most hated men in Cairo. All those years ago, when the poor peasants were trying to eke out a living, when Egypt was trembling like a frightened dog, he was destroying their trade and working their children into the ground and swindling them mercilessly. He was hated even more than the English officials who made the laws and punished any man who
dared to question their authority. He was an evil man. I am glad he has gone. You have no al-Shezira in you, thank the Almighty, Hezba child. You were at least spared that.”

Aimee lifted her head, gripping Rachid’s hand tightly.

“What do you mean, Rachid? What are you talking about?”

Rachid’s voice cracked and he turned to her. His heavy eyelids crinkled at the edges, his smokey, dull complexion flushed a little.

“Al-Shezira was not your father, Hezba child,” he said, as though he had not heard her question. “Listen to what I am saying. Brace yourself for the truth.”

Aimee stared at him in shock. A sickly gasp caught in her throat. Surely he was wrong? Surely he did not know what he was saying?

“That’s ridiculous,” she said disbelievingly. “Al-Shezira was my father. That is the truth.”

Tears sliding down his face, Rachid started to rock backwards and forwards like a madman.

“The Frenchman with the look of an Arab was your father, child. Hezba confided that to me. She told me everything. I believe I was the only person she told about the identity of her baby’s father. She might have told Saiza, but she certainly did not want anyone else to know. Imagine the scandal that would have ensued. I’m sure Alexandre himself didn’t even know he was the father. It’s possible Hezba wouldn’t have told him. She was ashamed of bringing yet more scandal upon her family. As much as she wanted to be free, the bonds of tradition were wrapped tightly around her.”