The Map of Love

by Ahdaf Soueif

  ‘Don’t you find him well, the name of God protect him?’ she asks anxiously.

  ‘Praise be to God,’ the other answers.

  ‘And now, Sett …’ She turns to Isabel.

  ‘Isabel,’ says Isabel.

  ‘Sett Isabel has come —’

  ‘I — Perhaps I shouldn’t have —’ Isabel begins uncomfortably but Umm Aya interrupts:

  ‘Why shouldn’t? “And enter the houses by their doors” ’, she quotes; ‘you entered by the door and we gave you welcome.’

  ‘But still, maybe …’ She makes to stand but the woman in the blue robes turns towards her with a smile of great sweetness.

  ‘You bring us good company,’ she says. ‘Stay in comfort. The house is your house.’

  ‘Do us the honour,’ Umm Aya says, wiping the mouth of a bottle with her sleeve and offering it to Isabel. Isabel takes it and Umm Aya gives the other bottle to Sheikh’Isa. ‘Drink, my darling, in happiness and health,’ she says.

  The woman in blue is by the door. ‘I leave you in good health,’ she says and vanishes into the sunlit courtyard.

  Umm Aya sits on the other settle. ‘So, tell us now, my darling,’ she says, ‘where did you learn Arabic?’

  And Amal has made up her mind. When Anna’s story is finished she will close down her flat and move to Tawasi. Not for ever, but for a while. If she has any responsibility now, it is to her land and to the people on it. There is so much there that she can do, so much she can give, so much she can learn. If only she can sort out the business with the list; she cannot ask the fallaheen for a list of names — and she cannot reopen the school without it. As she approaches the end of University Bridge the statue of Nahdet Masr rises before her: the statue at whose feet they had gathered in the days of the demonstrations. When, after the war of ‘67, their whole generation had seemed to sense what that defeat would do to them, how it would stretch its ill shadow over all the years of their lives, and they had spilled into the streets to try to ward it off. In ‘68 when it had seemed that the young would conquer the world and they, the students of Egypt, would be among the conquerors. They had taken Nahdet Masr as their symbol: a fallaha, one hand on the head of a sphinx, rousing him from sleep, the other putting aside her veil; a statue at once ancient and modern, made of the pink granite of Aswan. Designed by Mahmoud Mukhtar, the first graduate of the School of Fine Art, and funded by a great collection to which government and people had contributed. Well, it still stands and the renaissance must surely come. If she can open up the school she’ll whitewash the walls and put bright posters up on them. She’ll record the children’s songs and learn to make bread. She’ll find some old man who still has an Aragoz and a Sanduq el-Dunya — and a storyteller. There must still be storytellers around —

  As she waits at the traffic lights she becomes aware of somebody looking at her and glances up. From the high window of the police van next to her, a young man stares intently. His beard is thick and black, his dark eyes are intense, his hands grip the iron bars of the window. Amal averts her eyes and then looks straight ahead. But she feels ashamed. Ashamed that she should be free, here in her car, free to drive wherever she wishes, while this young man is caged like an animal. Whose country is it? That is what it amounts to now. The light turns green and she accelerates forward. She had cried when she told Omar over the phone about the men she had seen, tied together and huddled in the roadside kiosk, when she had told him the stories the fallaheen had told her.

  ‘It’s an ugly world,’ he’d said, ‘On the whole.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be like this,’ she’d said. And that is what she will hold on to. What’s twenty years, fifty years, in the life of Egypt? As long as some of us hold on and do what we can. And what she can do is go and live on the land. She cannot do anything about the sale of the national industries, about the deals and the corruption and the hopelessness and brutality that drive young men to grow their beards and try to shoot and bomb their way into a long-gone past. But she has a piece of land and people who depend on it. She can hold that together. She can learn the land and tell its stories. And perhaps her sons will visit her. It’s been such a long time since they’ve been to Minya. Perhaps one of them will pick up the phone and say, ‘Mama, I’m coming to stay with you for a while.’ Then she can show him the school and the clinic. Introduce him to the people; ‘Masha Allah!’ they will say, ‘How he’s grown, may God preserve him for you.’ She can sit with him on the veranda and listen to his stories. And if he stays long enough, she can show him Anna’s story. And as they sit together in the dusk they will feel the presence of Anna and Sharif al-Baroudi and Layla and Zeinab Hanim and all their ancestors and perhaps sense — however dimly — the pattern of the weave that places them at this moment of history on this spot of land.

  ‘Look at this,’ Umm Aya says, ‘and this.’ Bringing out folds of cloth, unfurling them and throwing them over Isabel’s knees.

  ‘They are beautiful,’ Isabel murmurs, holding them up to what little light there is and wondering if Umm Aya wants her to buy something. ‘Is there enough light in here for his work?’

  ‘My hands need no light,’ Sheikh Isa says.

  ‘His heart gives him enough light, the name of God bless him,’ Umm Aya says. ‘Tell us, Sett Isabel, are you staying in Egypt long?’

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ Isabel says, putting the fabric down.

  ‘But you will come back.’

  Isabel is not sure if that was a question. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But I have to go home and see my mother. She’s not well.’

  ‘May God set your heart at ease and you come back comforted, inshaAllah. And you’re not married?’

  ‘No. I was married but we divorced. Without children,’ Isabel adds, knowing enough now to anticipate the question.

  ‘God will compensate your patience, ya habibti.’

  ‘Insha Allah,’ Isabel says, and she must have blushed for Umm Aya smiles and says:

  ‘But your mind is occupied with someone.’

  And Isabel, before she can think, says, ‘Yes.’ And then to her own surprise she says, ‘But I don’t know his feelings.’

  ‘His feelings?’ Umm Aya draws in a breath ‘What can his feelings be? Can someone be desired by the moon and say no?’

  Isabel smiles, shrugs.

  ‘It’s certain that he wants you,’ Umm Aya says, ‘if he is a man. It could be that he wants you and there’s a reason making him not speak.’

  ‘I intend to speak to him,’ Isabel says. ‘This time.’

  ‘Speaking is no good, ya habibti. Ask one with experience and don’t ask the physician. Talk goes forward and backward and each understands it as he desires.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You adorn yourself and scent yourself and sit with him in a comfortable way — and you are a woman and you know the rest —’

  ’El-Asr,’ Sheikh Isa says as the call to prayers floats into the room.

  ‘I have to go.’ Isabel moves towards the sheikh. He holds out his hands and she places hers in them.

  ‘Go, my daughter,’ he says, holding her hands between his own, ‘go. May God light your path, and give you that which you hold in your heart and compensate your patience with all good.’

  Isabel turns to see Umm Aya zipping up the holdall.

  ‘Don’t forget your things,’ Umm Aya says, ‘and let your heart guide you.’

  And once again Isabel is enveloped in the smell of orange blossom.

  19

  Only believe and thou shalt see.

  J. S. B. Monsell, 1865

  6 May 1901

  I am to be married.

  I look at the words and I can hardly believe them — and yet it is true. I am to be married in just over two weeks. And if Sharif Basha were to have his way we should be married Tomorrow, but he wishes the ceremony to be performed by his friend Sheikh Muhammad Abdu, who is at present in Istanbul, so we shall wait for his return.

  Anna puts down h
er pen. She looks out of her window, but the men sipping their sundowners on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel, the Egyptian boys and the passers-by on the street beyond reflect nothing of what is going on in her heart and mind. She crosses the room and examines her own face in the mirror. Something must show there, and indeed there is a flush on her cheeks and her eyes seem to shine with a deeper colour. She puts her hand to her face …

  I went, as he requested, to his mother’s house, and upon being admitted made my way to the great entrance hall. He was there, in the formal city dress I had first seen him in, his back to me, his hands joined behind it, his prayer beads working between the fingers of his right hand. As I came through the door he turned, and every aspect of him — the eyebrows almost joined above the dark, now troubled eyes, the thick, black hair invaded by white at his temples, the straight set of his shoulders, the way he held his head — every detail I had painted in my heart over the last five weeks held true, and my heart grew so agitated that I stopped and stood still in the doorway. For a moment, when he turned and saw me, he appeared taken aback, but it was just for a moment and he instantly collected himself and strode forward.

  ‘Lady Anna,’ he said and took my hands. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘it is just these —’ The movement of his head indicated my dress. And of course, from the time I had been abducted into his house, he had only ever seen me in men’s clothes, or in his old dressing gown, or in the loose silken shift his sister had given me; never in the normal dress of a European woman. He stood and looked at me, my hands still in his grasp, as though he needed to ascertain that I was indeed the same person he remembered, the person to whom he had written his letter. I suppose I must have looked uncomfortable, for presently he said again, ‘Forgive me. I am overcome with …’ He did not complete his sentence but then said, ‘Come. Shall we sit down?’

  I sat down on a divan and he sat next to me but immediately stood up again and positioned himself in front of me. When I glanced up he was looking at me intently, and a smile came into his eyes.

  ‘You are as beautiful as I remember you,’ he said.

  ‘But a little different,’ I replied.

  He made a slight assenting movement. ‘But it is still you, yes?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ I said, and after a pause, ‘My desert clothes can still be found —’

  ‘That will not be necessary. ‘ He laughed. ‘I must get used to these. Oh, Anna —‘ with a gesture of impatience, turning away — ‘I want to have done with words. ‘ He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘But. There are the arrangements we have to make —’

  ‘Arrangements?’ I asked.

  ‘For the marriage.’

  My heart made one sudden bound, and then all was stillness. His face darkened.

  ‘You —’ He looked at me intently. ‘Have I misunderstood? My letter, I thought was clear. And this morning I received your note —’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes.’ And now my heart beat so hard and my blood rushed about so that I thought I would surely faint.

  ‘You have gone pale.’

  His voice was quiet — I would say curt. And I felt he was somehow retreating, moving away, although he yet stood in front of me. And I knew that I wanted him, I wanted him back with me. And I knew that it was paramount that he should not misunderstand me now.

  ‘Monsieur,’ I said, above the beating of my heart, ‘you do me honour and I am indeed happy to accept your offer.’

  There was a silence and I made myself speak again:

  ‘If I seem strange it is just that I thought it would take a little more time — a few days perhaps — before we came to the point …’

  I looked up: he still glowered. I held out my hand. ‘Sharif Basha,’ I said gently.

  He took my hand and I drew him to sit down close to me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, looking down at our hands. ‘Yes. I should very much like to marry you.’

  ‘You have to be sure,’ he said, my hand gripped tight in his. ‘You have to be completely, absolutely sure. You will be giving up so much —

  ‘I am sure,’ I said. And I was.

  I heard him breathe out and then with his other hand he touched my face, feeling its contours as though to learn it. He fingered what loose curls he could find of my hair and I — I was lost to everything except his nearness and his touch. But when I thought he must surely kiss me, he moved away. On my new-released hand the rings I was wearing had made dents in the sides of my fingers. I studied these as he paced the floor.

  ‘If Muhammad Abdu were here we could be married tomorrow,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘It has to be him?’ I asked and felt myself blush for I had not intended my words to sound so forward, and indeed I saw his face — so dark and impatient a moment before — light up with a wicked smile: ‘So, so? A few days my lady wanted to come to the point? But yes. No one else would dare do it. And it would not be right to ask. He has the authority —’

  At that moment, with cries of ‘Lalu! Lalu!’ little Ahmad came bursting into the room and his uncle turned to scoop him up into his arms. ‘Et alors,’ he said when Ahmad had finished hugging him, and then he said something in Arabic in which I caught the sound of my name and Ahmad, released on to the floor, came running up to kiss me and as I held him Layla ran in beaming, so that soon I was being embraced by both mother and child.

  ‘Mabrouk ya Anna, alf mabrouk,’ she cried and went to hug her brother. ‘Mabrouk ya Abeih!’ I saw the tears of joy in her eyes. ‘When?’ she cried. ‘When will it be?’

  ‘We were just saying —‘ Sharif Basha said.

  Layla seemed to understand immediately and her joy was replaced by a worried look. ‘You must be careful, both of you,’ she said. ‘Very careful. No one must know until it is done.’

  I believe it was only then that I saw the true import of the step I was taking. It did not make me think again, no, not for one second. But alongside my new happiness an unease too was in that moment born, for I saw that I could not perhaps expect my friends to share in my joy. Sir Charles and Caroline, James Barrington and Mrs Butcher — I cannot believe I will be estranged from them for ever, yet at the best something different will colour our relations. I thought of the scandal it had caused three weeks ago when a German lady had dined at Shepheard’s with a gentleman who looked Egyptian and how the waiter — a Greek — had presented the gentleman (who turned out to be a cousin of the Khedive) with a fez full of salad with the compliments of the management. And then I thought of Lord Cromer and the Agency and a cold sliver of fear entered my heart — although not for myself.

  ‘Anna,’ he said, ‘we will follow every proper procedure. But I think we should contract an Egyptian marriage first, and then have it ratified at the Agency.’

  ‘An Egyptian marriage is enough for me,’ I said.

  ‘Lady Anna,’ he said and smiled, ‘Lady Anna who is never afraid. No, we will do it correctly. But meanwhile a bitter note came into his voice — ‘meanwhile I am sorry that I cannot take you out and court you properly. There is nowhere for us to go.’

  ‘You will have to court me later, monsieur,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, I shall wait.’

  We went upstairs, where Zeinab Hanim kissed me most tenderly — indeed she kissed us both, with tears on her cheeks, and Mabrouka, her Ethiopian maid, clapped her hands so that her heavy bracelets jangled, but Sharif Basha stopped her in mid-zaghruda with a stern ‘Not now. When it is all done.’ But then he patted her shoulder and dropped a kindly kiss upon her head, for I understand she has been like a second mother to him all his life.

  ‘As for my father,’ he said, ‘you can see him when we are married.’

  Looking up from Anna’s journal I am, for a moment, surprised to find myself in my own bedroom, her trunk standing neatly by the wall, my bed, the top sheet folded back, waiting for me to ease myself in. I had been so utterly in that scene, in the hall of the old house, in my great-grandmother’s haramlek. My heart had beaten in time with Anna’s, m
y lips had wanted her lover’s kiss. I shake myself free and get up to walk in the flat, to stand on the balcony, to look down at the street and bring myself back to the present. Who else has read this journal? And when they read it, did they too feel that it spoke to them? For the sense of Anna speaking to me — writing it down for me — is so powerful that I find myself speaking to her in my head. At night, in my dreams, I sit with her and we speak as friends and sisters.

  In the kitchen I pour myself a cold glass of water from the fridge and pick up a cucumber which I bite into as I go back to the bedroom. Isabel is gone. All her things, the clothes she would not need, the big holdall with her camera and all her lenses, the books and tapes she has acquired, they are all here, stored in the boys’ room. And she is somewhere over the Atlantic headed back for Jasmine and my brother. I have to speak to him. I have to talk to him straight. About her. I do not know what to make of her story of the shrine in the old house. Isabel is a practical, sensible woman. She is also romantic and full of feeling, but she is not mad. Not UFOs and alien abductions. Yet she was certain that she had pushed open a door and entered the shrine. She had sat there drinking Seven-Up and, by her account, conversing with a strange sheikh, a cheery serving-woman and a woman dressed like a Madonna in a painting.

  We had gone back to the house next day and of course the door to the shrine was locked. Locked and padlocked and covered in cobwebs as it had been before. We went round to the front of the mosque. The tomb was covered by the usual green cloth and, yes, there were candles, but there are candles in many shrines. Beyond the iron screen the rest of the place was too dark for us to make out anything. I called the caretaker and told him we wanted to see the sheikh.

  ‘Here’s the sheikh,’ he said, pointing at the tomb.

  ‘No, the other sheikh,’ I said. ‘The one who lives inside.’

  ‘Ah! El-sheikh el-mestakhabbi? There isn’t one right now,’ he said. ‘The old one died and they haven’t brought a new one in his place yet.’