The Map of Love

by Ahdaf Soueif

  Mr S, small and thin and sallow, and HB, large and ruddy, seem to agree on all things; each picks up where the other leaves off. HB holds that the people who matter in Egypt are the fellaheen and for them the British have brought nothing but good. You can see him in the drawing with his drooping moustache, his untidy jacket, and his dog Toti, who goes with him everywhere but is so old that he has to be carried. You see the white and blue striped bonnet on Toti’s head to protect him from the sun? HB put it on him most solicitously and fed him morsels from the picnic. Meanwhile he describes how the Lord abolished the corvé, the courbash and the bastinado and how the fellah can now stand up to the Pasha and say, ‘You cannot whip me for I shall tell the English.’ Mr Barrington looks doubtful at this, but he is very gentle and not given to contradicting people — particularly people with strong opinions. You can see, I hope, the gentleness (I would not call it exactly weakness) of his face — and indeed his stance — in my drawing. He wears a suit of fine linen and an elegant cravat in pale lavender. It is he who insists on extracting a portion of food from the picnic and hands it to his manservant Sabir, who he has assured me is utterly devoted and loyal (and indeed they seem to have a regard for each other that I have not seen in other members of the Agency and their servants), to share among the waiting natives. HB concludes that the effendis are not real Egyptians and their opinions can therefore be safely neglected. Mr S, however, will go further: there is no such thing as an Egyptian, he avows: it is only the Copts who can lay claim to being descendants of the Ancients, and they are few and without influence. For all the Mohammedans, they are Arabs and are to be found in Egypt through relatively recent historical circumstance. Mrs Butcher remonstrates: the Ancient Egyptians, she believes, were of so definite, so vivid a character that traces of that character cannot be completely lost to the Egyptians of today. Mrs Butcher’s gentleness of manner rather hoodwinks those who do not know her well and Mr S cuts across her with ‘Not lost, ma’am, degraded. Completely degraded.’ That is a term which I have often heard used to describe the Egyptian character. It is supported by a disquisition (which Mr S now proceeds to set forth) on their subscribing to a system of Baksheesh, their propensity to falsehood, their ability to bend with the wind. Even the Khedive exhibits these traits — and that is why Lord Cromer will not deal with him. Mr Rodd comes to the defence of His Highness, who, he pleads, being educated in Austria and ascending the Throne at eighteen, had princely notions beyond his station and found the heavy hand of the Lord hard to bear. And yet I wonder whether it is possible for a conquering ruler to truly see into the character of the people whom he rules. How well, in fact, I found myself wondering, do I know Emily? We are both English, we have shared a life for some twenty years, and she is free to give me one month’s notice and find another job. Yet I look at her keeping her distance and pinching herself to a little space on the rug, and I imagine her transported into a small cottage somewhere — a cottage that is hers, with an independent livelihood, however small, and perhaps her own children around her, and I fancy I see her bloom and open into more vivid life — but I digress again.

  Mr Y, who is an Historian, expressed the view that the Egyptians do indeed have a National Character, but that they are not yet aware of it. He called on the movement of Urabi Pasha (which I have so often heard you discuss) as proof of that incipient character — but that was somewhat too metaphysical for HB, who held forth quite fervently about the economic reforms Lord Cromer’s administration has effected: the cotton yield, the sanitation, the trains running on time. But I was distracted by the thought that his clothes seemed to get more and more crumpled — by their own agency, as it were, though he was engaged in nothing more strenuous than eating his lunch. Mrs Butcher — neat as a new pin — suggested that while material progress was, naturally, to be commended, our administration could be reproached for having ignored the spiritual life of the nation we govern. This was a signal for Mr Willcocks, who deplored how little was being done for education and said he did not believe we intended to leave Egypt when we had finished reforming her — or we would be doing more to educate the people that they might be able to govern themselves. He spoke with a clear conscience since as an engineer he is engaged in a task that is of benefit to the country and intends to leave when it is done, but both HB and Mr S held that it would take generations before the Natives were fit to rule themselves as they had neither integrity nor moral fibre, being too long accustomed to foreign rule — and if foreign rule was their lot, then British rule was surely to be preferred to that of the French or the Germans, who would surely have been here if we were not. On this last, I fancy you would agree. Mr Y, holding a strip of smoked ham to the nose of Toti, who showed not the slightest interest in it, said mildly that we would have to go one day and that if we did not do so of our own accord, Egypt would do it for us. And Mr Barrington, lying back and placing his hat over his face and his arms under his head, said, ‘George would have us think that we are a dream only: a figment of Egypt’s imagination.’

  Egypt, mother of civilisation, dreaming herself through the centuries. Dreaming us all, her children: those who stay and work for her and complain of her, and those who leave and yearn for her and blame her with bitterness for driving them away. And I, in my room, home after half my life has gone by, I read what Anna wrote to her father-in-law a hundred years ago, and I see the English party, lunching by the Pyramid, their Egyptian servants keeping their Egyptian petitioners at bay. I record what she has written, and I prepare my explanatory notes for Isabel, and I am torn. I like Mr Young, I imagine him dark-haired and with a hint of the ironical about his face, and I want to say to him, ‘But we knew very well that we’re Egyptians. Urabi Basha — at the bottom of his petition for a representative government, a petition which so (unwarrantedly) startled your bond-holders for their money that your Liberal government saw fit to send in Sir Beauchamp Seymour with his ships and Sir Garnet Wolseley with his troops to ‘suppress a military revolt’ — Urabi Basha signed himself: “Ahmad Urabi, the Egyptian”.’ ‘Ah,’ he would say, ‘but he only meant as distinct from the Turks who were getting all the top jobs in the army.’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘no, he demanded a Constitution. He was speaking for us all.’ And Harry Boyle, big and bluff and definite, would declare I was talking nonsense. ‘Are you speaking for the fellah,’ he would say, ‘you with your city ways and your foreign languages? The fellah doesn’t give a damn about a Constitution. He wants to till his land in peace and make a living. The man in the street wants a decent place to live and money to feed his children. Is that what he’s getting now?’

  Each week brings fresh news of land expropriations, of great national industries and service companies sold off to foreign investors, of Iraqi children dying and Palestinian homes demolished, fresh news of gun battles in Upper Egypt, of the names of more urban intellectuals added to the Jamaat’s hit lists, of defiant young men in cages holding open Qur’ans in their hands, of raids and torture and executions. And next door but one, Algeria daily throws up her terrible examples; and when people — people like Isabel — put the question, we say no, that can’t happen here, and when they ask why, we can only say: because this is Egypt.

  10 March

  And now I have a strange confession to make: I used to sit and listen to Sir Charles tell the story of the Bombardment and the Occupation. I used to finger the objects he had brought back with him: the silver filigree coffee-cup holder with its cup of almost transparent white porcelain, the fragment of wooden lattice work, brittle and dulled with age, the soft white velvet shawl ending in a silken fringe — I can see and feel them still. I would read the accounts of travellers; the letters of Lady Duff Gordon lay by my bed for several months. And imperceptibly, a conviction must have grown in my mind that if a creature of such little significance as myself can be said to have a destiny, that destiny bore, somehow, a connection to Egypt. I cannot claim that the thought formed itself in my mind with any clarity, but I know that when the conversati
on at the dinner table or in the drawing room turned to this country, my interest would quicken and I would listen with more than my usual attention. And when, during the illness of my dear Edward, and ordered by Mr Winthrop to take the air for an hour each day, my feet led me to the South Kensington Museum and I found those wonderful paintings by Frederick Lewis, I had, I believe, some sense of divine ordination. For it seemed as though those paintings had been placed there to cheer me and give me succour. As though they were there to remind me of Our Lord’s bounty and to say to me that the world can yet be a place full of light and life and colour. And when the day came and it was deemed proper that I should travel — with the hope that distance and time and fresh and novel sights would restore me to that healthy appetite without which we are incapable of being sensible to the wonderful gift of life — it seemed the most natural thing in the world that my thoughts would turn to Egypt.

  And yet — I sit here in my room at Shepheard’s Hotel possessed by the strangest feeling that still I am not in Egypt. I have sat on the Pyramid plateau and my eyes have wandered from the lucid blue of the sky through the blanched yellow of the desert to the dark, promising green of the fields. I have marvelled at the lines between blue and yellow and then again between yellow and green — lines drawn as though by design. I have climbed the Pyramids and danced at the Khedive’s Ball. I have visited the Bazaar and the Churches and the Mosques and witnessed the processions of the Religious Orders and played croquet at the Club at Ghezirah. I know a few words of the language and I can mark many streets by the houses of people with whom I am now acquainted, but there is something at the heart of it all which eludes me — something — an intimation of which I felt in the paintings, the conversations in England, and which, now that I am here, seems far, far from my grasp.

  10

  They said the stolen one was hidden

  Inside a fortress grey and strong

  They said the nights were monsters. Monsters,

  And in every corner danger lurked.

  Sabreen, 1997

  Cairo, May 1997

  And with that the big green journal falls silent. Or, more accurately, the next entry is dated 23 May 1901. With mounting anxiety I search through the papers, through the letters; she cannot vanish like this, disappear from my view for seventy-four days. I go back to the trunk. Is there something I have missed? And yet, why should I expect the story to be complete? Across a century and across two continents, this trunk has found me. I had not known of its existence. I had not known I had a cousin. What had I known? Nothing. The bare facts. That Lady Anna had a daughter who had married a Frenchman named Chirol. That Chirol was not keen on his wife’s Egyptian connection and so, when Anna died and when Layla, my grandmother, died, the two branches of our family were severed. I had not even known that Isabel existed. And now here she is, in Cairo. And in love — although she has not said so — with my brother. When we sit and talk on my balcony we are — if I let myself be fanciful — soothing the wounds of our ancestors. But I still want the story. I empty the trunk, carefully, slowly, item by item, and there, among the tissue paper, the fabrics, the glass, is a small blue book. A prayer book, I had thought, and put it to one side. Now I try to draw it out of its leather case but it will not come out. Patience, I tell myself, patience. Under the light of the desk lamp I see the keyhole, cunningly disguised in the embossed gold decoration, and instantly I reach out for the locket lying on my dressing table and press its spring and Anna’s mother smiles out at me. I ease the small key from the belly of the locket’s concave lid.

  12 March at 5.15 p.m.

  My thoughts run mainly on my friends at the Agency and how I should prevent any word of this episode ever reaching their ears. As to consciousness of danger, I can truthfully say I have had none, nor do I have any now. Any fear I might feel is conjured up more by the imagined visage of Lord Cromer than by the actual circumstances in which I find myself I know that he will blame Mr Barrington most severely for encouraging my foolishness, and will probably insist on his dismissing poor Sabir and that will make him most unhappy. Sabir will also be deprived of both his protector and his income. I am determined not to let this happen. For myself, the thought that holds most tenor for me now is to become known in London as ‘that Lady Anna Winterbourne who was abducted by the Arabs’. Even now I can see a mama bending into her daughter’s ear as I pass them on my way to the Park or the Museum, the child ceasing from play and following me with wondering eyes —

  I had thought to start this journal in circumstances varying to a degree from those of my ordinary days — to what degree, however, I had no way of knowing, nor could I have foretold —

  I set out today, as I have set out before — my plans were more ambitious, it is true, but it was not the scope of their ambition that proved their undoing. For we had not yet ventured into the desert but were barely out of the old religious quarter of Azhar and heading North and East towards the tombs of the Mamelukes when we were set upon, dragged off our horses, bundled into a closed carriage and brought here at a canter.

  I write ‘here’, but I do not know where ‘here’ is. I know we are roughly twenty minutes’ ride from the old Quarter, but I could not say in which direction, for the curtains were drawn close and two young Egyptian men sat facing me.

  I do not know if it was they who so man-handled us off our mounts, for there was much commotion and a cloth was thrown over my head and I was only able to remove it when we were secure in the carriage. These youths could not have been far into their twenties, perhaps younger, and were remarkably similar in appearance, both being of slight build and pale complexion, with dark eyes and well-trimmed moustaches. I wondered if they might be brothers. One seemed more agitated than the other and repeatedly pushed aside the curtains by a fraction to peep cautiously outside. Sabir, who from the first has been a most conscientious, though unwilling, companion — and who would not leave my side for a moment even though, I think, the young men offered him his freedom — remonstrated with them constantly, and through his stream of Arabic I made out several times the word ‘el-Lord’, to which they responded with sardonic smiles.

  Their first action, upon our being seated in the carriage, was to draw out clean white handkerchiefs from their breast pockets and mop their faces and their brows. Eventually one, the slightly older and more composed of the two, delivered an address to me in perfect French in which he assured me that they were neither robbers nor brigands, that their actions were prompted by political motives, and that my person, possessions and horses were safe and would be returned to me as soon as their demands were met by the Egyptian Government. I, being anxious both to conceal my true identity — or at least my feminine identity — and to preserve the dignity of the British Gentleman I was pretending to be, sat bolt upright, kept my eyes straight ahead and uttered not a word.

  I imagine he thought I could not understand him. It was a pity for I was most curious; it was, after all, the first time I have ever been spoken to by one of the ‘effendis’ — and I do see Mr Boyle’s point: these young men seem quite different from the Arab servants and donkey-boys one is used to dealing with. They are more like the gentlemen I observed at the Khedive’s Ball, but younger and not so grand — only I do not know that they should be considered less Egyptian for that; they spoke to Sabir in the native Arabic and they did not seem to have any difficulty understanding one another. It was a great pity that I was not able to converse with them, and find out the nature of their grievance, and how they thought this wild action would bring them closer to redress. Is this event the reason I felt Fate draw me to Egypt? How odd it would be if — through me — the Egyptians got their longed-for Constitution. But I am not important enough, nor will this affair reach that proportion, for I do believe that once they have found out that I am a woman and a mere visitor, they will send me on my way with courtly apologies.

  I look at my last sentence and try to fathom what basis I have for this belief. At the Agency certainly th
ey do not believe an Englishwoman should go about unchaperoned. But I have never heard of any harm befalling a lady travelling alone — and I cannot help feeling that the letters of Lady Duff Gordon give a truer glimpse into the Native mind than do all the speeches of the gentlemen of Chancery.

  And yet, I had thought it safer to go abroad as a man — I would attract less attention. I had heard of a young lady who had got herself up as a syce and run barefoot before the cavalry drag to a fancy-dress ball at Ghezirah. And how this same lady decided to ride across the desert to Suez, and Lord Cromer, hearing of this, and sending a party of coast-guards on camels to pursue her, had received a report that the only person they had found was a youth on horseback. And though I did not fancy running barefoot in the streets of Cairo, dressing as a man to go on an expedition did not seem so outlandish — it is said that Lady Anne Blunt does it and other ladies besides. And I had prevailed upon James Barrington to give up his trusted Sabir to me for a few days —

  For the moment, though, I sit on a wooden bench with my valise at my side and a small spirit-lamp for light. If one could live on grain and seeds alone I believe I could survive in this vaulted room for the best part of a decade.

  We alighted from the carriage in a vast walled courtyard. I heard clangings and rattlings, a great door in a wall swung open and I was hurried in, a hand at my arm just above the elbow. I caught a glimpse of a pleasant inner courtyard opening to my left but I was turned right into a smaller, paved yard and thence into this room, which seemed to be one of many ranged around that yard. It is a middling high room, built of stone, with slit windows high up near the vaulted roof and a stone-flagged floor, and the most part of it is taken up with wheat and grain, tied into hessian sacks and piled to the height of a man.