The Map of Love (40 page)

‘Father.’

His father does not look up and Sharif Basha speaks louder:

‘Father.’ When he has his attention he continues, ‘I am thinking of getting married.’

A pleasant smile crosses the old man’s face but he says nothing.

‘Father. What do you say?’

‘ “Marriage is half of religion”,’ his father quotes.

‘To an Englishwoman,’ Sharif Basha says.

The smile vanishes from his father’s face and he looks down again.

‘I am thinking of getting married to an Englishwoman. What do you say?’

The old man, still looking at his prayer beads, quotes, almost in a whisper, ‘ “And we have created you of nations and of tribes that ye may get to know one another. The most honoured among you in the eyes of God are those who fear Him most.” ’

Sharif Basha regards his father sadly. Eventually he speaks: ‘Then I shall consider that I have your blessing.’

He finds his mother in the kitchen with two maids. She is selecting the fruit to go into the bowls which stand ready at her side.

‘Ahlan ya habibi!’ She holds out her arms. She hugs him and he bends to kiss her forehead.

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Al-hamdu-l-Illah.’

‘Then I shall peel you an orange. Smell.’ She holds out a smooth, shining orange. ‘The last of the season. From Yafa. A present from Shukri Bey.’ She takes his arm to lead him out of the kitchen. ‘Shall we sit here? It’s not too hot yet,’ she says, leading him to the covered loggia where he sat that first morning with Anna and Layla.

‘Kheir ya habibi,’ she says, when they have sat down. ‘You look tired and the world is still morning?’

‘I’ve just been to see my father. He seems in good health.’

‘Al-hamdu-l-Illah,’ she sighs.

After a pause, Sharif Basha says, ‘What does he think about all day?’

‘Who knows? He recites the Qur
an.’

‘Does he know you?’

‘I think so. He smiles when I go in.’

Sharif Basha makes an impatient movement and his mother continues:

‘You have to clear your heart towards him. He is your father. And if he has been unjust to anyone, he has been unjust to himself more.’

‘Every time I think of what he has done to you —’

‘He has done nothing to me. He was kind and good to me for twenty-six years and then this catastrophe came to us —’

‘He could have handled it differently.’

His mother shakes her head. ‘What could have happened? We could have been exiled. He could have been (may evil stay far) killed. He could have been in prison for years. You with all your philosophy — can you not see that? Once the revolution was defeated, all of life had to change.’

‘My heart does not forgive him.’

‘Because you feel he shamed you. My son, “God asks of no one except what he can give”. God forgives, and you cannot? Your uncle has brought us honour enough. And you, you have lived an upright life. I know it has been hard on you, but you have borne it and you have made a name and a reputation — even in these difficult times. Don’t carry bad feelings in your heart towards your father.’

Yes, he had made a name and a reputation. But he had always felt that he held himself in abeyance, as though he were negotiating a narrow mountain pass and the day would come when a road, previously unseen, would open before him. He looked at his mother, good-looking still at sixty, her skin smooth and her eyes deep and clear. She had been forty-two when his father had gone into his cloister.

‘It cannot have been easy for you,’ he attempts. ‘You were young —’

A smile of sudden mischief lights up Zeinab Hanim’s eyes. ‘What are you trying to say? That I could have married? When I had a son who was a tall, broad man with mustachios? Oh, what shame!’ She laughs. ‘Ya Sidi, I had Layla and I had
you and my family. I had what was ordained for me of this world and more. And as for you who are so anxious about me — look at yourself! You are happy with yourself like this? No son to call you father, no daughter to sit on your knee? Who is going —’

‘Mother —’

‘I know, I know.’ She holds up her hands. ‘A subject we are forbidden to open. But if you are concerned for me, it is more fitting that you should be concerned for yourself. Who is going to look for you when you grow old? All your friends are married —’

‘This is what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘What?’ Zeinab Hanim’s eyes open wide and she leans forward and puts her hand on her son’s knee. ‘By the Prophet? You have come to talk to me about marriage? What should I do? Ring out a zaghruda? I have even forgotten what the sound is like. Who, ya habibi? Who do you want and I shall go right now and ask for her —’

‘Listen to me, Mother.’ As his mother’s happiness burst forth, Sharif Basha looked more and more troubled. ‘Listen to me well. I need your opinion and your advice. My thoughts have gone to someone — but the matter is full of problems.’

‘Problems? What problems? Every problem has a solution.’ Zeinab Hanim sits back, her eyes still wide and fixed on her son.

‘She — you know her. I am thinking of Lady Anna.’

‘Lady Anna? The Englishwoman?’

He nods, watching her.

She lowers her eyes and lets out a long breath. When she lifts them to his they are full of concern. ‘You don’t have enough problems already?’

‘I told you.’

‘She is English.’

‘I know.’

‘And she is the one you want?’

‘It would seem so.’ He smiles.

‘You have the pick of the girls of Egypt. Any one of them would wish for you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t know them.’

‘You get to know them during the betrothal and —’

‘I am too old for that. And besides, we have had this conversation a hundred times, a thousand times —’

‘Yes, ya habibi, I know, I know. But an Englishwoman …’

Sharif Basha stands up and paces the small distance to the wall and back. ‘I go round and round in the same circle. I wish she were Egyptian, French — anything but English. Then I think of her and I end up thinking, very well, so she is English, there we are, does this mean it is impossible, it cannot work? I don’t know. What I know is that she has entered my heart and she refuses to leave.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head, sits down and leans back in his chair. But she would probably accept him. And maybe for the wrong reasons. She saw distance and pride in his demeanour and she would imagine what she wished underneath. And she was brave enough and lonely enough to fly in the face of her Establishment. Perhaps even to take pleasure in defying it —

‘Ya habibi. You look so tired.’

‘It is nothing.’

‘Well, there is the “love” you have been waiting for. But you had to go and love an Englishwoman.’

‘Mother, have mercy. Where would I have met an Egyptian woman to love her? Yes, I see them at family occasions, but to sit with one and talk to her — can this happen? Layla was lucky that Husni is her cousin. I have not been so fortunate.’

‘Khalas, khalas. Don’t upset yourself. You love her and you want her. May God do what brings good.’

‘Shall I speak to her?’

‘Do you know who her people are? Her father, her mother — ‘

‘Yes. Her parents are dead.’

‘She was married before.’

‘Yes. She is a widow.’

‘And you accept that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then speak to her with God’s blessing.’

‘She might refuse me, of course, and then all the problems will be solved.’

Refuse her son, the Basha? Zeinab Hanim knows that the monkey, in his mother’s eyes, is a gazelle, but this is not a mother’s fondness; the whole world would agree that her son is a fine man, a true man who fills his clothes. But then, an Englishwoman to marry an Egyptian — even a Basha like him? And it is true, if she will not have him there will be no problems. And now that his thoughts have turned towards marriage, maybe —

‘Wait. Don’t go yet.’ Zeinab Hanim puts a restraining hand on his arm as he moves to stand up. ‘Let’s drink a cup of coffee together while I think a little.’ She calls out and orders the coffee and they sit in silence till it comes.

‘Listen, my son,’ she says, after the first sip. ‘As you know, I have met the lady. Of course we could not speak together, but Layla also has spoken to me of her. She is beautiful, and she seems good and straight. But the problems for her will be even more than the problems for you.’

‘Is that what you see?’

‘Yes.’ Zeinab Hanim nods. ‘For her, her whole life will change. Her people will be angry with her. And the British here will shun her. And even if they soften, it will be difficult for her, as your wife, to visit them or receive visits from them. She will be torn off from her own people. Even her language she will not be able to use —’

Sharif Basha pushes back his chair but his mother holds on to his hand.

‘If she feels for you as you feel for her, she will throw away the world and come to you. But if you take her —’ Zeinab Hanim holds her son’s hand firmly in both her own — ‘you will be everything to her. If you make her unhappy, who will she go to? No mother, no sister, no friend. Nobody. It means if she angers you, you forgive her. If she crosses you, you make
it up with her. And whatever the English do, you will never burden her with the guilt of her country. She will be not only your wife and the mother of your children — Insha
Allah — but she will be your guest and a stranger under your protection and if you are unjust to her God will never forgive you.’

Sharif Basha’s eyes are moist as he presses his mother’s hand to his lips. When he releases her she picks up his coffee cup and turns it upside down on its saucer, tilting it slightly to allow the excess liquid to trickle away.

‘Back to the old superstitions?’ Sharif Basha says, but he smiles at his mother.

‘Mabrouka!’ Zeinab Hanim calls, and when her old Ethiopian maid appears she motions her to sit. ‘Come and read the cup for the Basha!’

Mabrouka settles cross-legged on the floor. She tilts the cup and peeps into it, then closes it down again. ‘Not yet,’ she says and smiles up. ‘It’s been a long time, ya Sharif Basha.’

‘I shall let you do it this once only for my mother’s sake.’ He smiles back. Mabrouka had been a gift to al-Ghamrawi Bey and he had given her to his daughter. She had been with Zeinab Hanim since they were both girls. She had been married twice but had never had children and when the anti-slavery laws came in she had shrugged them off and stayed just the same. She wore all her savings in gold on her arms and her neck and when he was small she had always matched his mother piastre for piastre in his tips for the Eid. Now she righted the cup and held it thoughtfully in her hand.

‘Kheir ya Mabrouka,’ Zeinab Hanim says.

‘I see a path. A narrow path. It goes up and it goes down. A difficult path. I see a figure — it’s a man, with a slight, slender body, and he is wearing a hat. Not a tarbush or a ‘imma; a hat. But his intentions are sound. And he is waiting for you, ya Basha. You have got something he wants —’ Zeinab Hanim smiles at her son and he raises his eyebrows. ‘I see the path ending in a clear space. A clear space with a lot of light. Allah! A lot of light and joy. And I see a small — a child, it is a child coming towards you. Look!’ She holds out the cup to Sharif
Basha who glances at it and starts straightening his jacket and reaching for his tarbush.

‘Do you see the child?’ Mabrouka insists.

‘The truth is I do not,’ he says.

‘There!’ She turns the cup towards Zeinab Hanim. ‘There! A child running towards the Basha.’

‘And then?’ Zeinab Hanim says.

‘I don’t know,’ Mabrouka says. ‘I can’t see after that. It is all white. You didn’t swirl the cup properly, ya Setti, before you upturned it.’

1 May, 1901

‘Ya Abeih, I will always be your little sister, but now I am asking your permission to speak to you frankly.’ Layla stands in his study. She has thrown off her cloak and is dressed in a beautiful costume of dark pink and blue.

‘Good, you may speak. But do you have to remain standing in the middle of the room like this?’ Sharif Basha motions towards the sofa.

‘No.’ Layla shakes her head. ‘I prefer to stand. I want to talk to you about Lady Anna.’