The Map of Love

by Ahdaf Soueif

  We had supper à deux at Madame Rushdi’s afterwards. She is very clever and speaks both Arabic and Turkish and I mean to learn a great deal from her. As we were having coffee a servant appeared and whispered to Madame, whereupon she told me that her husband had arrived and was asking whether he could be received. Is that not charming? Upon my giving my assent, the servant disappeared and the Pasha came in shortly afterwards. He is quite elderly, but most charming and courteous and quite approving of my plans to learn Arabic and know all I could of Egypt. He said I could not have chosen a better teacher than Layla Hanim al-Baroudi. I laughed and said I could not claim the wisdom of the choice for it was Fate that had chosen for me, and he replied, ‘Ah! What better guide than Fate?’ So there we are.

  I have been to Layla’s home twice now. It is very beautifully furnished in the French style — but, to my mind, the old house in the Arab style is both more beautiful and more naturally suited to the climate here. I went there a few days ago and was introduced to Layla’s mother, Zeinab Hanim al-Ghamrawi, a good-looking, dignified lady of perhaps sixty. She was very kind and welcoming, but we did not have much conversation, as she does not speak French and my Arabic is as yet limited to greetings and expressions of politesse. But it was charming to watch her with her grandson. Layla complains that she spoils him terribly but I cannot see that the child is any the worse for it. He takes being with adults as completely natural and comes and goes as he pleases while his nanny sits in a corner and calls him to her from time to time to wipe his face or straighten his shirt or — more often — merely to give him a kiss. I observed her blowing in his ear and when I asked Layla she said, ‘Oh, she thinks that will blow away any evil spirits!’

  You will gather that I am having a most pleasant time. I still see my friends at the Agency but these new experiences of being ‘in’ Egyptian life, as it were, are — for the moment — of more interest to me. Perhaps merely because of their novelty. I wonder whether, if one of my new friends were to visit us in England, they would find us as interesting or as pleasant.

  I have not received any letters from you for a long time. Pray do write and tell me all your news for I fear you may be forgetting your loving friend,

  20 April

  Today is the first day of the Moslem year 1319. There is still no word. I know he is in Cairo for this much I managed to learn from his sister. What can I — what must I believe? I go over our conversations. I reread my own journal. A friendship grew — of that I am in no doubt. And certainly after our conversation in the garden of the monastery I no longer felt my presence burdensome to him. He did not seek me out, it is true, but he cared for my welfare — but then he would have cared for the welfare of any stranger thrown into his care. We did not have another conversation like it — but then circumstances can hardly be said to have permitted such an occurrence.

  I go over our farewell at the edge of the desert as — clad once more in my black veils — I waited for the boat that was to take me back to Suez. He merely waited silently at my side. He spoke to Sabir and to Mutlaq, instructing them, I imagine, on the continued need for caution until we should arrive at his house in Cairo. And then, as the boat drew near, I heard him say, ‘It has been a pleasure travelling with you, Lady Anna.’ He did not wait for my reply but turned and mounted and rode — at a gallop — back into the desert.

  I did not question but that I would see him again. I thought that he would call. I waited for a note. Layla and Zeinab Hanim are most welcoming and friendly but they do not speak of him except naturally, in passing.

  MY BROTHER TOOK ANNA INTO the Sinai. She saw the desert and lived its life and visited the Monastery of St Catherine and climbed Jabal Moussa and her thirst for adventure was watered and she returned safely to my father’s house here in Cairo. How happy I was to see her — and how happy she was to see me! She told me about her journey and I felt then in her mentioning of his name and her praise of him that my brother had left a good impression on her spirit — and I would almost say more.

  When I met Abeih Sharif after his return I asked about the journey and all he said was, ‘It ended safely, al-hamdu-l-Illah.’ I tried to lead him on a little and asked, ‘And was Lady Anna a good rider?’ ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Was she any trouble?’ ‘No, not at all.’ I told him she had recounted to me the story of the trip and that she had praised him for the care with which he had looked after her — and he said nothing. But I noticed, as the days went by, that he seemed more abstracted and restless than usual. And when my mother came, back from Minya she noticed it too.

  And it happened that I was sitting with him and I mentioned that I had taken Anna to visit Nur al-Huda Hanim and that Madame Hussein Rushdi was there and what a pleasant time we had all had together and how happy Hussein Basha’s marriage seemed to be, and he looked at me sharply and said, ‘Madame Hussein Rushdi is a Frenchwoman. There’s a difference.’

  So I asked innocently, ‘A difference between what?’

  ‘A Frenchwoman and Englishwoman — in our circumstances,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but you always said we should judge people as individuals,’ I said, ‘not as examples of a culture or a race.’

  ‘So one should go with one’s own feet looking for trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘I think in this case,’ I laughed, ‘trouble has come looking for you.’

  ‘Thank you, my sister,’ was all he said.

  Cairo

  21 April, 1901

  Dear Caroline,

  I received with joy yours of the 7th. I had heard from Sir Charles about poor Bron Herbert losing his leg in the Boer War and now yours with news of Miss Herbert joining the Theosophists and going off to live in California — how odd that two such things should happen in such a short space of time in one family! Do you think, perhaps, that one might have led to the other? I wish you were here and we could sit and converse with one another for I have so many new impressions now, but so vague that they seem to resist being rendered solid on paper. But I suppose it is too late in the year for it to be practicable for you to come to Egypt — even if you were willing.

  The weather is starting to heat up now, although it is not yet anything like the heat I have heard described. I am making a study of the trees and plants — I saw a hoopoe flitting around on the polo ground at the Club at Ghezirah the other day. I am enclosing a drawing I did of him for you.

  Cairo

  24 April 1901

  Dear Caroline,

  I am just returned from the strangest party and wanted immediately to tell you about it. It is a kind of Salon, literary and political, held by a Princess Nazli Fadhil at her palace from time to time. She is the niece (I think) of Muhammad Ali himself and indeed is (again I think) quite old — in age but not at all in spirit.

  Normally women are not admitted to her Salon, but I expressed such curiosity when I heard of it that Eugénie (Madame Rushdi) persuaded her husband to ask the Princess’s permission for me to attend. Permission duly granted, I accompanied Hussein Pasha there tonight.

  There were maybe ten gentlemen there, Hussein Pasha and a Mr Amin being the only Egyptians. Our own Mr Young was there (he recounted a most amusing story that Mabel Caitland had told him. It appears that while shopping for some necessities at Hanods on her last visit to London she had fallen into conversation with an American lady tourist. After a while the lady, understanding that her new acquaintance did not live permanently in London, asked where she was from. ‘From Egypt,’ said Miss Caitland. ‘Why, isn’t that wonderful,’ the American lady said, ‘and you not black at all!’) and also Mr Barrington, two French, two Italians, a German and a Russian. I see you frown, but since the Princess was there it was not improper, surely? She is an extraordinary lady: she wore a skirt and blouse in European fashion, her hair was coloured exceeding black, she smoked incessantly and spoke in a husky drawl in French, English, Turkish and Italian (using Arabic only to speak to the maids). She was amused by me, I think, and insisted on referring to me as ‘la
petite veuve’ and ‘la veuvette’. The talk flew wildly from Feminism to the Cinématographe (of which apparently there are regular performances in Cairo and Alexandria) to the naiveté of Americans to the Boxer Rebellion to the interpretation of dreams to Karl Marx to the most recent discovery of Egyptian mummies — and heaven knows what else. And all the while the champagne corks were popping. Suddenly she calls in one of her maids (they are all dressed in the most sumptuous silk robes) and gives an order and without further ado a small ensemble is gathered of musicians with various instruments, of which the only one at all familiar to me was the lute — but the most important one of all was a kind of drum, held under the arm and played with the fingers and palms of both hands. Another order and one of the maids — an exceedingly beautiful girl — moves to the middle of the room and starts performing an Oriental Dance. I will spare you the description but I found it a most fascinating mixture. The Egyptian gentlemen looked faintly bored, the British faintly embarrassed, but the others were very animated and the Russian and the German, not content with clapping, must needs get up and join the girl. It was a wonderful sight to see the two big bearlike men try to imitate the sinuous twists and turns of the sequined dancer.

  The dance over, more champagne is called for, and cups of Turkish coffee and Italian liqueurs, and everybody goes quiet for a while when suddenly the Princess cries, ‘Look at the little veuvette, how happy she looks! Won’t one of you Englishmen of the red blood snap her up before she falls for one of our handsome young Egyptian Nationalists with the dark eyes and the mustachios?’ And beneath the laughter I felt a certain discomfort in the room. I am sure she knew what she was doing for she looked most wickedly amused.

  I doubt I shall be going back there, for Madame Rushdi can only ask it of her husband once and I doubt I shall find another sponsor. And besides, I do not think I could befriends with the Princess — or rather I do not think she could be friends with me — I am a little too ordinary for her, I fear. Now you, my dear Caroline, would be another matter entirely —

  Cairo

  25 April 1901

  Dear Sir Charles,

  I am so glad to receive yours of the 18th and to learn that our friends spoke well of me to you. Although I do think Sir Hedworth Lambton’s comments were more flattering than I deserve.

  I am amazed that you say you had a long conversation with him about Urabi and that he had seen him three years ago in Ceylon. When we dined here he made no mention whatsoever of that — which is not strange in itself, but you would not have thought he knew him or had any Nationalist sympathies at all.

  Perhaps it is not so strange. I certainly find it most difficult to speak of my Egyptian friends to my English ones here. When I mentioned having been to the Opera with Madame Rushdi, Lord Cromer went quite stiff with disapproval and Harry Boyle took me aside afterwards and said to me ‘You know she has turned Mohammedan?’ as though that placed her outside the boundaries of polite society.

  I have tried — since what they know they seem to know from hearsay only — to tell them about my experience. And they appear to listen but then resume their conversation as though I had not spoken. I tried — when two ladies were commiserating on the dreariness of having to go to yet another of their Harem visits — to tell them of the ladies I have met and they simply seemed annoyed, as though the women here were tiresome enough being in the Harem and would only be doubly tiresome by seeking to get out of it!

  My dear Sir Charles, I understand so much more now of what I used to hear you say. I have started to believe that what we are doing is denying that Egyptians have a ‘consciousness of themselves’ — indeed that was what Mr Young said in that scene by the Pyramids I transcribed for you many months ago — and that by doing so we settle any qualms of conscience as to our right to be here. So long as we believe that they are like pets or small children, we can remain here to ‘guide them’ and help them ‘develop’. But if we see that they are as fully conscious of themselves and their place in the world as we are, why then the honourable thing is to pack up and go — retaining perhaps an advisory role in economic matters — which I think the Egyptians themselves would wish.

  It is all quite confusing — and, if not confusing, terrible. I wish you could be here and I could share my thoughts and experiences with you in a more immediate manner. I know it would benefit me greatly and I am sure would provide you with some interest. For the moment, though, I have to be content to be your faraway daughter,

  30 April

  I am grown less and less comfortable with my British friends. Mr M and Mr W both hold sympathetic opinions, indeed the former said only yesterday that we were ‘emasculating’ the Egyptian upper classes to ensure they would be unfit to rule. He then begged my pardon — he had not meant to use such strong words. Mrs Butcher continues to be my friend but I cannot speak even to her of what I feel. For Lord Cromer, I tried to interest him in what my Egyptian friends desire for the education of women and he said that if I knew Egypt better I would know that the religious leaders would never agree to women being encouraged out of their lowly status, and he would not hear another word.

  At the mention of Cromer’s name Layla’s face grew hard and when I pressed her she said, ‘Lord Cromer is a patriot and he serves his country well. We understand that. Only he should not pretend that he is serving Egypt.’

  2 May

  The days pass, and the happiness I felt in the Sinai has shrunk and compacted itself into a knot of misery lodged underneath my heart. Every morning I wake to its heaviness weighing me down and then the thought: he has not written. He has not called. I believe I know now that he will not.

  5 May

  They say the heat of the summer is soon to be upon us and I am thinking of returning to England. I have grown to love Layla dearly and little Ahmad also. I am also fond of the other ladies I have met through her. But English society is no longer so pleasant to me — apart from that of James, who continues to be my good friend and urged me just the other day to ‘Buck up, old girl’. But I cannot seem to shake off this restless unhappiness. I have told myself that I imagined a feeling that did not exist. That for him I was nothing more that an eccentric Englishwoman to whom he was obliged to be courteous while she was in his care. That he does not give a thought for me.

  Yet I cannot stop looking for him every time I am in the street, or hoping to see him every time I visit his sister, or expecting to find a note every time I come back to the Hotel Perhaps the only way to make an end of all this is to place myself far away in England. To go home.

  A knock on the door. A letter is delivered. Anna breaks open the seal:

  Cairo

  5 May

  Madame,

  I understand from my sister that your present intention is to travel; to return to England.

  I have decided, after long consideration, to write to you. We have travelled together, and I hope we have become friends sufficiently to — my dear Lady Anna, let me dispense with attempts to be clever or discreet. I am in love with you. There. It is said. For many, many years I have believed it was my fate never to say these words. A long time ago I had hoped, as all young men hope — no, I had more than hoped, I had confidently expected to be overtaken by those feelings I had read so much about. It never happened. And now it has.

  I have tried to convince myself it is an illusion. I do not really know you — perhaps can never really know you. I have told myself it is the foolishness of a man seeing his old age draw near, and afraid, afraid to have missed that which poets would have us believe is the most transforming of experiences — is the essence of life itself. But I do not believe that this is merely my fear or my fantasy fastening itself on you; it is you. You yourself, Anna, with your violet eyes, your slender wrists, your way of sitting absolutely still and listening and watching with your head held high, your frank look, your fearless questioning, the notes of your voice, the grace of your movements — but I forget myself.

  I have — you may have noticed �
�� since we came back from our journey, avoided seeing you. I will not tell you with what difficulty and at what cost. There has not been a moment when my heart has not whispered of your whereabouts: she is visiting your sister, go to her; ride past Shepheard’s Hotel, she may be sitting on the terrace; it is Sunday, ride past the Mu’allaqah. I have resisted and would have resisted still, but that my sister came to see me. And she has led me to believe that perhaps a word from me — a letter, such as this one — would not be unwelcome.

  My dearest Anna, for this you are whether you will or no, I am most sensible — I am sure you know this — of all the circumstances, all the considerations that are at work against us. I say ‘us’ before I even get your response! This will bear out whatever you may have heard of my supposed arrogance. But believe me, dear, sweet Anna, you would not find me arrogant or proud or impatient if I could truly call myself yours

  Sharif al-Baroudi

  PS I will ask the bearer of this letter not to wait for a reply. This is to give you time to consider your answer. I will be waiting.

  And there is the hushed moment, not quite understanding, not quite believing, the hurried glance through the paper once again, the wave of joy so powerful it shakes the heart like grief, the rush to the window, the turning back:

  ‘Emily, Emily, run and see if that messenger is still there.’

  But he is not there. True to his orders, he has gone, and now there is nothing but to pace the floor and wait for the morning, to fold the letter, then open it and read it once again, and again, and again.