The Hidden (42 page)

I grip the lapels of his soldier’s uniform and pull him to me.

“But were we followed? Is there any chance at all that we were followed?”

“The jail will have alerted the police. The Mamur Zapt, the head of Secret Police, will be rounding up his entire force at this minute. That is why we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“I need identity papers, the ones given to me at Kerdassa. I don’t have them anymore. They were lost. What am I going to do?”

“It’s all right,” Alexandre says. “I have another set for you.”

I nod. Alexandre continues. “The woman whose house we are in now has some Western clothes and shoes you can wear as disguise. We are going to board the early-morning boat,
La Princesse,
which is bound for Marseille. Once we are in France, we will be safer, though we will have to disappear for a while. I have arranged for us to live out the next few months in a hideout in the mountains near Perpignan.”

“Thank you my love, thank you, for everything,” I say.

Alexandre nods. “I love you, Hezba,” he says. “I will always love you. You are my hero and my love, and I want us to be together forever. I want to look after you. I will do whatever I can. What we have been through together has made me sure of this. And I want to protect you from harm so that you never have to experience violence or abuse ever again.”

I close my eyes and sigh.

“I heard you say to your men you will return. Do you mean it, Alexandre?”

He looks at me sadly. “I am going to return, Hezba, yes. I can’t leave my men. We have to see this revolution through to its conclusion, but after that, I will return to you in France. I will always come back to you. And one day, we will return together to Egypt, to a better Egypt. But we must not talk about that now. We have to get changed. The boat leaves in one hour from the port. We must be quick.”

“I was privileged, Alexandre,” I remind him. “I could have done more for our people.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t talk anymore. He kisses me and leaves. The woman enters the room carrying my disguise. She helps me dress, powders my face, combs my hair, adjusts my hat and the buckle on my shoes, gives me a suitcase to carry and a little handbag for my papers.

Alexandre comes in next. He is dressed in a cream suit with a waistcoat beneath the jacket. He is wearing spats, the type Virginie’s husband wears, and a hat, and he is cleanly shaven. He no longer looks like the desert nomad he wants to be. He is the French aristocrat of his heritage, the man he really is but would never admit to being.

Alexandre nods for the woman to leave and we are alone again. He smiles at me and takes me in his arms.

“You are my French wife, Hezba,” he says, getting into the role that we are about to play, a husband and wife returning to France after a short holiday. He kisses me on the mouth. I feel strange and light-headed. The low-waisted jacket fits me snugly and I think again about the child growing inside me, Alexandre’s child, for I know it is his child, of this I am as certain as the dawn of a new day. I so want to tell him about our child but I know, right now, I cannot. The time is not proper and correct yet. My journal is snug against my skin. My identity papers are in my handbag. My heart is firmly in the future. I
am no longer Hezba al-Shezira, wife of the murdered statesman. I am Madame Alexandrine Chevalier, wife of Pierre Chevalier, returning to Marseille and then continuing on to Perpignan.

“Are you ready?” he asks me.

I nod. I have never been more ready than I am now. My whole life before this moment seems to have vanished in a dreamy haze. I am a woman on the threshold of my own future. I think of the school I am going to open. I am going to be like Virginie, teaching girls so that they can become the next leaders of Egypt. In twenty years these young women will be running businesses, heading up political parties, building their own wealth so they are protected from the oppression of poverty. I think of my marriage to Alexandre and the birth of my baby. I think of a world that is better than this, of a place where women can live free of the shackles men and religion place around their necks. I want my daughter to be raised without a religion, to grow up free, allowed to live the life she desires without fear. I see this. This is what I want more than anything. We say good-bye to the woman. Alexandre takes her hand in his and bows with gratitude. She smiles at him kindly. There is a carriage waiting outside to take us to the port. The driver nods at us as we mount. Dawn streaks the sky. The streets are deserted. How different Alexandria is from Cairo. I can smell the scent of the Mediterranean on the soft breeze that blows in from the sea.

I pull my cloche hat down over my eyes and huddle into myself, not wanting to be seen. Alexandre holds my hand and says nothing. He is scanning the streets as we set off. I know his heart is beating wildly, just as mine is.

The driver tries to make conversation with us, but Alexandre pretends he does not understand Arabic. The driver then changes to French, and Alexandre knows he has to answer him.

“To the port?” he says, and Alexandre nods. A jolt thunders through me. What a strange question, I think to myself. Surely the driver must
have known where he was supposed to be taking us. Alexandre flashes me a look, a warning that he too suspects something.

“Are you sure, Sayyid? Which boat are you catching?”

Alexandre tells him that we are scheduled to leave on
La Princesse
bound for Marseille. He glances at me again and pats his jacket. I know what he has in there—a revolver. The driver picks up the pace and we feel the swift movement of the carriage under us.

Alexandre leans forward and says to the driver, “This is not the way to the port, my man. What do you think you are playing at?”

The driver pretends not to hear, and this makes Alexandre angry. He leans forward farther and grabs the driver by the neck. The horses pull against the reins. I can see the perspiration on Alexandre’s cheeks, the straining of his temples as he wrestles the driver of our arabieh. He sideswipes the driver and kicks him out of the moving carriage. Then he grabs the reins and begins driving himself.

“Now to the port,” he says, and I hold on to the seats for grim life. When we arrive, we see that the ship is in the port. Among the crowds milling around the embarkation area we see police and throngs of soldiers.

“What are we going to do?” I whisper, clutching at his arm. “We can’t do this. An entire army is waiting for us.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Aimee waited until Rose had gone to bed that night. She stood behind the door of her bedroom, listening to the sounds of Rachid’s moaning fading away. She heard Rose visit the bathroom and then finally retire for the night. What she had to do couldn’t wait. She didn’t want to worry Rose any further by telling her what she was going to do or where she was going.

She went and sat on the bed for a while in the moonlight and looked at the dressing gown she had put on after her bath. Then she got up and, as quietly as she could, she opened the door to the wardrobe in her bedroom and found some clothes to wear. There was a pair of Saiza’s black trousers. She put them on. They were far too big for her, so she grabbed a belt. She threw on a thin beige sweater, slipped on some boots, and cloaked herself in a dark shawl. She folded the piece of paper with Gad Mahmoud’s address on it and put it in her pocket along with some money she’d found in Saiza’s purse.

Ready, she thought, bracing herself for what she had to do. She opened the bedroom door quietly and crept across the dark landing to Saiza’s bedroom, opened the door, and slipped inside.

She didn’t dare turn on the light for fear of being caught. She knew Saiza kept her gun in a secret velvet-lined compartment of her
jewellery and makeup box. She saw the box on the dressing table. “Forgive me, dear auntie,” she murmured to herself.

With the gun in her pocket, Aimee crept downstairs, out the front door, through the gates, and onto the street. She pulled her black shawl over her head, wound it around her neck, and started to walk.

In the distance she could see a hazy cloud of smoke billowing out from the direction of the Abdin Palace. But she wasn’t going to the palace. She was going to pay Gad Mahmoud a visit in Shubra.

She found a cab and instructed the driver to take her to the address in the letter. She was soon standing in front of Mahmoud’s house. It was a strange place that looked like a Swiss chalet, near the Church of St. Anthony that she knew well, bordered by a small garden filled with wild shrubs and plants. She stood for a moment, clutching the letter, drops of nervous perspiration from her hands smudging the ink.

Aimee recalled Saiza’s words to her in the letter.

I could never find it in my heart, my darling Aimee, to tell you who your real father was. You were brought up as an al-Shezira to avoid any possible repercussions or gossip. I have tried to keep so many things from you, my dear, because I wanted to protect you. Your maman was a wilful child. There seemed no point in revealing the scandal of her life. As for the journal, it was something I had wanted to destroy, but after a lot of soul-searching, I decided to let you have it when you got much, much older, after you had married. This you know. What more can I tell you?

She’d read on.

The details of my innocent brand of deception are something that must be discussed in person, Aimee. It is for this reason that I am writing you this letter, first. I want to tell you how sorry I am. The pain and suffering must be truly unbearable. Not only are you having to cope with the death of your dear Azi, but you now know the scandal surrounding your birth and the truly horrible events that followed. Go and see Gad Mahmoud. He is a kind man. He might—and I say, might—know where your real father is. I can only hope that perhaps your father, Monsieur Anton, is dead, because I don’t suppose he can be any use to you now.

She had to be brave. If the Mahmoud mentioned in Saiza’s letter was Issawi’s Mahmoud, she had her gun. She was no longer afraid.

She adjusted her scarf, pulling it down farther over her forehead and covering her mouth, so that only her eyes could be seen, and knocked on the door. It was a long time before a manservant opened the door. He had a surprised look on his face.

“I have come to see Sayyid Mahmoud,” she said.

The manservant was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. He looked at his wristwatch.

“It is two in the morning, Sayyida,” he said. “I am not sure the Sayyid is awake.”

“Please, it’s urgent.”

The manservant showed her into a small sitting room, lined wall to wall with books. He put on a lamp in the corner and asked Aimee to sit down. Photographs stood in frames on a small oak desk. While she waited, Aimee studied them closely. She saw a pretty woman with a small child and then in another, three young men with broad smiles on their faces.

Suddenly Aimee felt panic-stricken. She had been crazy to come. What if this Mahmoud was the same Mahmoud who had tried to kill her? She fingered her gun and waited, her heart beating wildly in her chest. A man entered, adjusting the cord of his dressing gown, squinting in the low light of the little sitting room. He was portly with age, his face intelligent and open. His complexion was as black as ink.

“Sayyida?” the man said. “I am Gad Mahmoud. Is something the matter? How can I help you?”

Aimee sighed and blinked with gratitude. Gad Mahmoud! It was a fairly common Egyptian name! And yet she had been so certain of the possibility of it being Farouk’s Mahmoud that she had practically convinced herself of the fact, but it wasn’t. Thank God, it wasn’t! She wanted to cry with relief. Instead she stepped forward, removed her headscarf, and smiled weakly.

“Sayyid Mahmoud?” she said. “My aunt Saiza, a very distant cousin of yours, sent me to see you.”

A frown clouded his face, and he went to sit opposite her in a low armchair.

“I see. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure, even at such a late hour. I’ve just been listening to the news on the radio. There was a bomb. Half of the palace is destroyed. It’s terrible. They’re saying a hundred people are dead, but they are still counting the bodies.”

Aimee bit her lip. “I know. I saw the smoke on my way here tonight.”

Mahmoud clasped his hands together and said, “It’s also been reported that the Abdin Quarter is on fire. The Military Police are in charge now. The king is safe. Apparently he had been called away for a moment just before the bomb went off. There’s been a massive roundup of the suspects. Quite a few perished in the bomb blast. And one was murdered in cold blood, a man called
Omar bin Mohammod, alias Fabio Littoni, along with two of his sidekicks. One of the ringleaders is still missing, but he too is presumed dead.”

Aimee put her face in her hands and breathed deeply, fighting back tears. Mahmoud moved forward and asked, “Are you all right, Sayyida? Sorry. I don’t think I caught your name? Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee? Whisky?

She wiped her eyes and tilted her head so that she faced him with a composed expression.

“Please call me Aimee, Sayyid,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I’m sorry—I—my aunt passed away yesterday. I’m sorry for disturbing you like this. That is why I am here.”

The man’s mouth dropped. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“I’m so terribly sorry. I had no idea.”

“I have only just heard the news myself. I’m deeply shocked. I can hardly believe it.”

Aimee went on. “She had a fall and did not recover. She wrote me a letter before she died, advising me to come and visit you. She said you might be able to help me.”

Mahmoud, evidently confused, shook his head, his features twisting sadly.

“I only just returned from the Sudan, Sayyida,” he said. “I really am so terribly sorry. How did it happen?”

“She tripped and fell down some stairs, and, well, she was not young. She had a weak heart. The fall was bad. Her heart gave way, and there was massive damage to the brain.”