Authors: Ahdaf Soueif
The Map of Love (7 page)
‘Mother?’ Isabel is sitting upright now. Jasmine sounded like herself again: chatty, regretful, resigned. But — an affair? Her mother had had an affair? When? Who? Had her father known? She looks at the dimmed eyes, the cropped white hair.
‘Did my father — did Jonathan know?’ she asks.
‘Such a sweet man!’ Jasmine shakes her head. ‘Such a sweet, sweet man! And so terribly in love with me.’ Shakily, she pushes herself up out of her armchair, pushes her feet into pink slippers. ‘I have to go now.’
‘Mother,’ says Isabel, sitting up straight, afraid to reach out and catch hold of a frail arm, afraid to hold on to her, ‘Mother, when was this? Who was he? Did Daddy know?’
A faded copy of the old, bright smile is turned on Isabel. ‘Goodbye,’ Jasmine says. ‘It’s been so pleasant talking to you.’
Do you not know that Egypt is a copy of heaven and the temple of the whole world?
Egyptian scribe, c. 1400
BC
By an odd — and, I hope, propitious — chance, we have arrived at Alexandria on the same day as the new Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church — a church which has its seat in this city. A Mr James Barrington, who hoarded as soon as we had docked and introduced himself as having been commissioned to meet me and bring me to Cairo safely (a courtesy for which I have to thank Sir Charles’s letters to the Agency), kindly suggested that I might like to witness the celebrations, and the formalities of disembarkation duly dispatched, we soon found ourselves in a funny little carriage, not unlike a phaeton, with our luggage following behind and Mr Barrington perched on the box with the driver, with whom he appeared to converse most cheerfully. The two somewhat indifferent horses seemed to know their way, and responded only with a toss of their decorated heads to the occasional flick of the whip, delivered in almost desultory fashion and
—
I felt — more for form’s sake than from any true necessity. In this manner we arrived at a tea-house (rather more in the, Viennese style, I’m afraid, than the Oriental) and, the two carriages having been told to wait (I later saw our driver standing by his horse’s head and most tenderly feeding him some green stuff which Mr Barrington tells me is known as ‘bersim’ and is similar to our clover), we settled ourselves at a window table, ordered tea and English cake (which turned out to be a plain but perfectly well-made sandcake), and waited for the parades.
I observed that there were a great many decorations about: flags and strips of gaily coloured cloth and banners — to say
nothing of the red and white rosettes decorating the carriage horses’ heads and harnesses — and upon enquiring whether it was the custom to deck out the town so profusely for a Christian occasion, I learned that the Khedive (having returned from Europe) is spending the rest of his summer at Ras el-Tin Palace here in Alexandria, and His Highness having attained his twenty-sixth year three days previously, the town has been so decked out to honour him, the new Patriarch merely benefiting — as it were — from the coincidence of dates. It was a most interesting and picturesque procession that accompanied him (the Patriarch) from the Port to his Cathedral with much costume and carriages and horses and uniforms, and I could not but wonder what Emily made of it all — but she kept her usual stolid stance, moving her chair a little distance from the table we were sharing and turning it to an angle away from us. Later, when we were installed in our Pension, I made a small attempt to explain to her the oddity of Egypt’s position, the country having won its independence in all but name from the Ottoman Sultan some sixty years ago though still nominally a part of his Empire, and now being ruled by the British through their Agency, and she said, ‘To be sure, ma’am, three rulers instead of one, that’s very odd.’ In any case, she is bustlingly happy for this is a very decent Pension, belonging to a Greek widow lady who, Mr Barrington assures me, is perfectly respectable but has been left to make her own (and her little girl’s) way in the world, her husband having died in some tragic circumstance which he seemed unwilling to expand upon and I cannot as yet ascertain.
I have a bedroom and a sitting room, both looking out to the sea, and both tolerably well furnished although a little dark and ponderous for my taste. Nothing would please the landlady but she must give me the grandest room with the ‘letto matrimoniale’, in which she clearly invests much pride. I said that, my condition being in one essential respect similar to hers, I would not have much use for it, but she was determined. It is a rather hideous affair, all brass knobs and foliage, but very firm and clean and well fortified by curtains and hangings and draperies against any mosquito or — what I find the thought of infinitely more
alarming — the flying cockroaches that Captain Bourke so kindly warned me were a standard feature of life in Africa. However, I fancy I am not really in Africa yet, for certainly this place, from what I have seen so far, seems to have more of the Europe of the Mediterranean in it than anything else, and were it not for the costume of the native Arabs and the signs in their language, you might fancy yourself in some Greek or Italian town.
I must not run on any longer, dear Caroline, but I have so many impressions of this, my first day here, and none of them as yet anything like what I had — through my own reading or through the reports of others — been led to expect that I cannot, it seems, quite feel I have captured the day on paper, and so put down my pen.
I have just read this letter once before consigning it to the post and find that I have mentioned Mr James Barrington four times (this is the fifth!) and knowing my dear friend as I do, and being sensible that her wishes for my happiness may steer her thoughts along a particular course, I take the occasion to state here that the gentleman, though certainly a gentleman (Winchester and Cambridge) and an entertaining guide, is extremely young, no more than twenty-four or five years of age, and though he may in time prove a fine friend, that is all that you must now hope for your etc. etc.
And so Anna arrives in Egypt and this, it seems, is her first letter; a little self-conscious perhaps, a little aware of the genre —
Letters from Egypt, A Nile Voyage, More Letters from Egypt.
I assume that what I have is a copy of the letter she sent to Caroline. Perhaps she was thinking of a future publication. In any case, I forgive her the mannered approach as she feels her way into my home. What else does she know — yet? And I am glad that she has broken away — that the brown leather journal is put gently aside. She did not draw a thick line under the last entry. She did not tear out and use any of the remaining pages. I flick through them, half expecting a note — a comment from later years on that early grief. But there is nothing. She simply left them blank.
I find myself curious, as I would have been with a foreign friend coming to visit: wondering what she will make of Egypt, how much she will see —
really
see. And I wish I were there to welcome her, take her in, show her around. Show her around? I, who have placed myself more or less under house arrest, moving from my living room to my bedroom to the kitchen — avoiding my children’s rooms. Angry with the city — with the country — to which I had returned to find so much had changed.
Now I find myself once again in the thick of traffic, of bureaucracy and procedure, as I try to see for myself the country that Anna came to. I try to reimagine it, to re-create it for Isabel. In the glass and concrete edifice that now houses the newspaper (though the letters spelling out its name still stand on top of the ruined, gracious building that used to be its home) I go through the archives of
al-Ahram
, cranking the blurred microfilm through the reader while three women in bonnets with crochet trimmings watch me from behind one desk.
I find that pride of place, on 29 September 1900, is given to the arrival the day before of the new archbishop, Fotios, to his patriarchal seat in Alexandria. The article mentions the welcoming speeches delivered to the Archbishop while still on board his ship in the harbour and details the procession which carried him through the streets of Alexandria: the Cavalry, the Patriarchal Ceremonial Carriage, the Carriages of the Bishops and the Clerics, the Consuls of the Powers and the Foreign Nations, the People of Official Rank, the Lower Ranks of Clerics, the Leaders of the Orthodox Community and Representatives of the Community from the Regions of Egypt, Representatives of the Associations and Brotherhoods, the Learned Sheikhs of al-Azhar, Men of Letters, Professionals, Financiers and Merchants … all these passed in pageant in front of the teashop where a young widow fresh from England sat with her maid and the consular attaché, while her luggage waited in a hired carriage round the corner and the driver held a fistful of barsim to his
horse’s munching mouth and raised his head to watch the notables go by.
Alexandria
29 September 1900
Dear Sir Charles
,
You have been much in my thoughts (that is to say much more than the usual much!) since the cry was heard and we all hurried on deck to peer into the horizon and make out that low-lying grey-blue shore you first saw in such unfortunate circumstances eighteen years ago.
We, however, sailed peaceably into the harbour, and I was met straight away by a young gentleman by the name of James Barrington, who had been detailed by Lord Cromer himself to find me and offer me every assistance. I know I have to thank your letters for this and I am most grateful for your kindness, for not only was the transition from ship to land achieved quite without pain, but my guide pointing out that the Court, the Government and all the Consuls — in short everybody — was still in Alexandria for the end of summer, I agreed to stay in this city for a while and see the sights. And, lest you imagine I am no longer the daughter you know but am grown fond of Society and Show, I will assure you that I felt that by insisting on continuing immediately to Cairo I would cause some inconvenience to Mr Barrington and to such others — as yet unknown — who feel it their duty to assist and chaperone an unprotected female in a strange land.
We are, therefore, lodged in the Pension Miramar, in the care of an excellent respectable Greek widow lady with a young child: a pretty little girl of about four who has taken to Emily and is constantly chattering to her in Greek, and begging her, with the most winning gestures, to dress her hair in braids and bows — a service which Emily is glad to render, since she does not consider she does enough of it where it would be most proper!
I wrote of our arrival yesterday to Caroline Bourke, and since I am sure you will be given an account of my letter, I will not say more, save that today further Jubilations were in evidence on the
streets as His Highness the Khedive has been blessed with the arrival of a new baby Princess.
Alexandria seems, on the face of it, a rather jolly place and today I ventured out for a short walk on my own along the seafront, within sight of the Pension. I could see no trace of your famous ‘bombardment’ and — receiving nothing but smiles and kind looks from the Natives and doffed boaters from the Europeans — was hard put to imagine scenes of fanatical wickedness. But I am yet new to this place and know nothing of it save what can be seen by the most superficial eye.
Mr Barrington says that as I am in Alexandria I must see the sights: Pompei’s Pillar, the Mohammedan Cemetery, the Museum and the Catacombs — he is arranging some expeditions to these. He mentioned that Alexandria had boasted two fine Cleopatra’s Needles and commented on the oddity of Egypt’s rulers giving them away — one to us and the other to the Americans. Then he said that he supposed if they had not given them away they would have been taken in any case, and muttered something about ‘Budge and Morgan’? He knows a great deal about the country and cares for it very much, I think. It appears he is an excellent speaker of the native Arabic and I count myself most fortunate in having him for my guide and interpreter.
My thoughts turn often towards you, my dearest friend and parent. How I wish I could have prevailed upon you to undertake this journey with me! I have, however, the comfort of knowing that I am here with your encouragement and blessing — indeed, I would not have gone without — and that the purpose for which we decided I should travel is even now being achieved; for I am better in health and spirits than I have been for a long time. You must tell Mr Winthrop that. Poor man, what a hard time he has had with us these last eighteen months! I will search out the herbs he mentioned when I find my way to the souks of Cairo — although Alexandria must have souks too, for all that it looks so like a European city, but I doubt I shall have the time to find them; besides, I imagine he will want them as fresh as possible.
Dearest Sir Charles, I am rambling, but that is because I miss your company and our conversations. When you are next on the Embankment, pray look at Cleopatra’s Needle and remember me in the land of Tuthmosis III. May it please God that you remain well and that I find you so when I return — and that you will be pleased to welcome back your loving daughter …
Sir Charles stays in his rooms on Mount Street. The house he had left to his son and his son’s bride stands empty. The gardener comes in once a week to keep the flowers in order.
And Anna starts another journal; a handsome, thick volume in dark green with a navy spine:
28 September
My thoughts tonight keep turning to my dear Edward, for four years ago he made this very journey and saw the same shore that I have seen today and disembarked at the very port. The waves breaking against the sea wall beneath my window are not the waves he listened to, but their sound cannot be too dissimilar and I find myself wondering, as I sit here in the shadow of my great bed, whether we would have shared it, had we come here together — whether being thrown together in travel might not have broken down some of that reserve that featured so large in our marriage — and so immovably. Idle thoughts …