The Map of Love

by Ahdaf Soueif

  ‘Tawasi,’ I say. ‘Some soldiers came to the village today and collected the men. I have come to see what can be done for them.’

  ‘And what is your concern with this affair?’ the man asks.

  I turn to him; he has pale grey eyes and he is looking me up and down. I do not know what he is, is he Police or Army or Intelligence? Is he superior to the Mamur? He has to be, to cut in like this.

  ‘Tawasi is on my land,’ I say, ‘and the fallaheen are my responsibility. The women came to my house and asked for my help.’

  ‘We have a state of emergency,’ the Mamur says.

  ‘Because of Luxor?’

  ‘Yes, because of Luxor. They killed sixty people there. Tourists.’

  ‘And what has Tawasi to do with Luxor? These are a peaceable people —’

  ‘We have to collect all suspects,’ he says and I hear a trace of weariness in his voice.

  ‘But why should people in Tawasi be suspects?’ I press. ‘These are people living and seeing after their work. You collect them from their houses at night —’

  ‘Everybody is a suspect.’ Pale-eyes speaks again.

  ‘So you’ll collect all the men of Egypt?’

  I watch him flush.

  ‘And the hareem too if we have to,’ he says.

  ‘Ya-fandim —’ I turn again to the Mamur — ‘have any of these people done anything to arouse suspicion? Have you found anything in any of their homes —’

  ‘I told you: we have a state of emergency.’

  I am silent for a moment, then I try again: ‘How long will you keep them?’

  ‘Nobody knows. It depends.’

  I turn completely towards the Mamur. I will him to look up and meet my eyes.

  ‘Your Excellency the Mamur,’ I say, ‘among the people you are holding there are some old men. Respectable sheikhs. Why would you want these? Let them go and the village will calm down and tomorrow God will do what is right for everybody. And your favour will hang around all our necks.’

  ‘Nobody will leave tonight,’ Pale-eyes says. ‘Tomorrow they will be interrogated and after that we shall see.’

  I look at the Mamur but his face is closed. ‘You heard what the Basha said,’ he says.

  As I stand I feel the tears well up behind my eyes and I am so angry that I point at the notice hanging on the wall above their heads. ‘You see this?’ I say — it reads “The Police in the Service of the People” — ‘I think it would be more honest if you removed it.’

  I drive away from the clearing but I am weeping at the wheel. I know what the men will be going through and the women know it too. They are all crying softly. I see the rope around Am Abu el-Ma neck, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth into the fine wrinkles of his chin. I wince at the blow that lands on his face, on the back of his neck: ‘ya kalb ya ibn el-kalb — I have to, have to stop myself imagining worse —

  Back at the house Khadra decides to stay with me. It is ten o’clock. I call Tareq Atiyya and his wife or one of his daughters answers me.

  ‘Good evening,’ I say, ‘I am Amal al-Ghamrawi. May I speak to Tareq Bey?’

  He comes on the line: ‘Amal! Hello! You’ve seen the disaster at Luxor?’

  ‘Tareq,’ I say and I start to cry.

  ‘The Governor,’ I say when I’ve finished explaining. ‘He can get them out?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ll call him in the morning.’

  ‘But they’ll be in there all night’

  ‘Listen. I know what you’re thinking but nothing is going to happen to them tonight. The police have other jobs in hand and these are small fry. Believe me. We’ll get them out tomorrow.’

  I send Khadra to the village. ‘Tell the women I’ve spoken to Cairo and insha Allah tomorrow good will happen. Stay there and don’t let anyone get rash. Tomorrow, before sunset, if the men are not back I’ll be there to bring you news.’

  How can I sleep? How can I work? Anna’s world seems a world away. Or does it? I mess about on the Net getting details and versions of the killings at Luxor. I phone Deena in Cairo and she tells me they have news of several villages suffering like Tawasi. ‘We can take up the case,’ she says, ‘but pulling strings is faster. Let me know what happens.’ I hope the men are asleep. Small fry, wretched and cold, but asleep. I send e-mail to my brother and he phones me.

  ‘Atiyya will get them out,’ he says, ‘he seems to know what he’s doing —’

  ‘It’s so wrong,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, of course it is,’ he says. ‘But you’re doing everything you can.’

  ‘They wouldn’t listen to me,’ I say. ‘If you’d been here they would have listened to you.’

  ‘I’ll come over if it’ll make you happy,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘no.’ What would he do? He probably could not even do what Tareq is doing. He’s lived abroad all his life. He doesn’t have the connections. ‘No,’ I say again, ‘I’m just being — you know how I am.’ I lighten my voice: ‘Tell me what’s happening with Isabel.’

  ‘I’ve told her,’ he says.

  ‘What? About her mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She was stunned, I guess. She thinks of Jasmine as old, you know. It mainly made her see how old I am.’

  ‘You’re not old. You were massively younger than Jasmine.’

  ‘Well, but, it put me in that generation.’

  ‘Did she ask if I knew?’

  ‘Yes. I said I’d only told you very recently. Anyway, she’s argued herself around it now. She’s decided that it’s further proof that she and I were meant to happen.’

  ‘So it’s like you got it wrong the first time around.’

  ‘Yeah. I was in too much of a hurry. I didn’t realise my real mate hadn’t been born yet.’ The familiar laugh is back in his voice. I decide not to ask if he no longer thinks he might be her father.

  ‘Will you come over soon?’ I ask.

  ‘As soon as I can,’ he says, then adds, ‘There’s nothing stopping you getting on a plane, you know.’

  I walk through the empty house. I go out on the veranda where I had sat with Am Abu el-Maati and I look out across the fields towards the village, missing — tonight — seventeen men. I end up in Isabel’s room in front of the portrait of my great-uncle Sharif Basha al-Baroudi. ‘You see? You see, ya Sharif Basha?’ I say, and the tears well up once more into my eyes. And his dark eyes look back at me and behind them lie el-Tel el-Kebir and Umm Durman and Denshwai and it seems to me that he does indeed see and I want — oh, how I want to be in his arms —

  18 November 1997

  At eleven there is a knock on my door. I open and Tareq Atiyya is there.

  ‘What’s this?’ I say. ‘You’ve come yourself?’

  ‘I thought it would be better. I am going to the markaz. Do you want to come?’

  At the markaz we find that the message from the Governor has already filtered through the several necessary layers.

  ‘We will finish our procedures and the men will be sent home,’ the Mamur says. He looks even more haggard and drawn than he had last night. ‘So we do not need to hold you up,’ he says.

  ‘There’s no holding up,’ Tareq says easily. ‘We shall drink a cup of coffee with you till the procedures are finished.’

  The Mamur rings for coffee.

  From the car we count seventeen men climbing into the police box. There are no ropes round their necks, but their galabiyyas are torn and bloodied and their heads are bowed. My chest is tight with tears and anger as we follow the box all the way to Tawasi.

  ‘Khalas. Nothing will happen now,’ Tareq says as he veers away from the road and on to the track leading to the house. He follows me in and when I start to say ‘I’ll make you some tea’, the great lump in my chest dissolves and I hold on to a chair and weep. After a moment he comes over and gathers me into his arms, and against his chest I give way to my pain as he holds me and strokes my head an
d pats my back.

  ‘It’s over now,’ he says. ‘Khalas. They’re home and no one will come near them again.’

  ‘But why did it have to happen? How could it happen?’

  ‘The emergency laws. Luxor —’

  ‘But these are people who have nothing to do with anything —’

  ‘They’re home now.’

  ‘And they were beaten. Did you see what they looked like?’

  ‘They’re home now, ya Amal.’

  ‘And the other people?’

  ‘What other people?’

  ‘The people in the other villages. The ones whom no one got out.’

  ‘Are you going to mend the universe? What you could do, you did.’

  ‘All I did was call you. You did everything.’

  ‘Khalas, it’s over.’

  ‘What would I have done without you? What if I didn’t know you? If I hadn’t been able to call you —’

  ‘Yes but you do and you can.’

  ‘And you drove all the way. You must have set out at five —’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Ya Tareq, I don’t know what to say to you —’

  ‘Nothing. Here, let me look at your face. You do this to yourself? Go splash your face with cold water. Do you have any cognac?’ ‘Cognac?’ I start to laugh. Cigarettes with Am Abu el-Maati and cognac with Tareq Atiyya. Here in Tawasi.

  ‘What’s so funny about cognac?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I splutter and rush into the bathroom, where, washing my face, I start to cry again. I hear myself make small sobbing sounds like a child. I stand up straight and breathe deeply, in, out, in, out. I stare out of the window. I make myself think of his wife answering me on the telephone.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, he says, ‘You look terribly pale. Did you not sleep last night?’

  ‘Not much,’ I say.

  I make tea and take it into the hall. With the glass in his hand, he looks around. ‘How many years is it since I’ve been here?’

  ‘Don’t even try to count,’ I say.

  ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he says. ‘You shall never grow old.’ In the face of my silence he continues: ‘It’s true. I’ve told you before. You grow more beautiful each time I see you.’ He smiles, puts down his glass and leans back in his chair comfortably, his legs stretched out. ‘I wish I could have seen you last night at the markaz, telling them off.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I must have been comic.’

  ‘You must have been magnificent —’

  As I stand, he reaches up and catches my arm above the elbow. He pulls me down, his eyes look questioningly into mine for a moment, then his mouth is on my mouth and his hand is tight in my hair. When I can breathe, I whisper ‘My back’, and he pulls me down to kneel on the floor while he bends over me, his kisses on my face, his hands cupping my head. ‘Amal,’ he breathes, ‘Amal —’

  I hear the knock on the door and scramble to my feet. Khadra and Rayissa are there, beaming, carrying two large trays covered with white napkins: ‘That you both might have lunch.’ They smile.

  ‘May your bounty be increased,’ I say. ‘We’ll have it on the veranda in the sun.’

  They lay the food on the table, stealing glances at him.

  ‘Are the men all right?’ he asks.

  ‘EI-hamdu-l-Illah,’ Khadra says. ‘And the village rejoices and kisses your hands.’

  The women cover their smiling mouths with the edges of their tarhas and ask, ‘Will you be needing us now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘stay awhile.’ And they vanish into the kitchen.

  ‘You coward,’ Tareq says, and I shrug.

  ‘Perhaps it’s best,’ he says. ‘This is the Said, after all. My, this is a festive lunch.’

  At the door he says, ‘I’ll stay at my place tonight and leave for Cairo in the morning. You have my mobile number?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod.

  ‘And the first thing you do — right now — is get some sleep. Before you try to do any work or anything.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And Amal, you can’t hide in Tawasi for ever.’

  As he drives off, the women join me at the door.

  ‘The Basha has his eye on you, ya Sett Amal,’ Khadra says.

  Abd el-Nasser abolished titles,’ I say. She tosses her head.

  ‘A Basha is a Basha with a title or without. And this one has his eye on you.’

  ‘What are you saying? I’m an old woman,’ I say.

  ‘Lies! You are like the moon and any man would lose his mind over you.’

  ‘I’ve known him for a hundred years,’ I say.

  ‘ “The near one is more deserving than the stranger”,’ she says.

  ‘And he’s married,’ I say.

  ‘So what?’ Ray essa says. ‘A man has a right to four.’

  We watch his car disappearing into the distance.

  ‘So I would marry a married man?’ I ask.

  ‘And why not? Since he has the means and will make you live and keep you happy? This is a Basha, ya Sett Amal, and he wants you. Look at him — the live image of Rushdi Abaza

  ‘So I steal a man from his hareem? I destroy her life?’

  ‘And why should her life be destroyed? She’s in her house and you are in yours. And if she doesn’t like it she can say so and she has her children and her apartment and her alimony. And he doesn’t look like a miser.’

  ‘And when your husband comes and tells you he’s taken another wife, you won’t change your words?’

  ‘I’d slit his throat and drink his blood,’ Rayissa laughs.

  ‘The clever woman looks after her husband,’ Khadra says, ‘fences him in.’

  ‘Thank you very much for the lunch,’ I say. ‘May your hands be saved. I’m going to rest now, and later I will come to the village, to greet Am Abu el-Maati and the others.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait till tomorrow, ya Sett Amal?’ Khadra says. ‘Today the village will be upside down —’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘It’s better,’ Rayissa agrees.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, ‘I’ll come tomorrow. And now I’ll go and sleep for a while.’

  ‘Happy dreams,’ they call out after me, giggling.

  I dream I am holding on to Sharif Basha al-Baroudi. I kiss his face, his eyes, his shoulders. I lie by him on the great bed in my grandmother’s room and I sob with relief at having found him. He holds me and lets me kiss him, slightly amused at my passion. ‘Thank God you are not my father,’ I say over and over. Against his chest I feel I have come home.

  I wake up embarrassed. Sad to be alone. I walk through the rooms of the empty house. In the village, the men are in their homes. Tareq Atiyya is in his house, a few kilometres away. But it is not him I want. I stand in front of Anna’s painting, I look in on her garden and watch Sharif Basha as, with his back to me, he plots out a sheltering garden for his child. I school myself to work and open Anna’s papers. Anna, my friend, who wrote all this down for me and now writes of Abu el-’Ela, my favourite bridge, the bridge they are tearing down even as I read:

  Cairo

  15 October 1909

  Dear Sir Charles,

  Today is the first day of the Eid and there are festivities all round. We have just come back from seeing the wonderful new bridge at Bulaq. It is a most amazing construction, designed by Monsieur Eiffel and built in Chicago and then transported here to lie across the Nile at the other end of the island from Ismail Bridge and form a link between the new quarter of Ghezirah and the old Port area of Bulaq. They say it is 200 tons of iron, but it is so intricate and airy that it seems as light as a bridge in a fairy tale. All of Cairo is turning out to see it and — as is usual now whenever there is agathering of people — cries of ‘Vive l’Egypte’ and ‘Vive l’independence’ are to be heard and it is all most exhilarating.

  We have been following the news of Dingra’s trial for the assassination of Sir Curzon Wyllie; the papers printed his statements in c
ourt and before his execution and there is no one here who speaks a word against him. Al-Liwa came out on the morning of his execution with an eulogy which has already earned it an official warning, and a whole spate of fair to middling poems about him have started to appear. From this you may judge the strength of feeling there is against Britain. The Government has seen fit to reissue the 1881 decrees to muzzle the Press so that publications, theatre performances, reviews and public meetings have become subject to criminal law without appeal. Any student taking part in demonstrations, writing articles or giving news to the Press is to be expelled. Our Friday ladies’ classes at the University have been suspended and we have news that Gorst is preparing a White paper that will permit him to deport people without trial. All this is causing great commotion and public protests. My husband has written an article about these measures which I have sent — in English — to James Barrington and I pray that you take the matter up with your friends in Parliament.

  Our friend Muhammad Farid Bey (Mustafa Kamel’s successor at the Hizb al-Watani) is much pleased with the events of the Egyptian National Congress and his meeting with Keir Hardie. We have hopes that Labour may prove more sympathetic to Egypt’s aspirations than the Liberals have so far proved. Farid Bey has caused great uproar by revealing, in al-Liwa, the plans to extend the Suez Canal lease by sixty years. It lends strength to suspicions that the Government has misspent a substantial portion of the Reserve Fund and seeks to recoup its losses by selling the lease of the Canal for four million pounds payable over four years. A meeting of several Notables of the Assembly was convened at our house two nights ago and they are determined to fight this measure.

  We entertained an American gentleman by the name of Benjamin Gordon at Hilmiyya last week. He is visiting here with a view to writing a book about the Jews in Egypt and Palestine and had a letter of introduction from Sharif Basha’s old friend Maître Démange in Paris. My husband introduced him separately to Cattaoui Basha, the head of the Jewish community in Cairo, and to Benzion Bey and other prominent Jewish notables. Then we had him and his wife to dinner at Hilmiyya.

  I found when I spoke to him of our fears regarding Palestine that Cattaoui Basha and the others had all expressed similar sentiments, fearing that the settlers’ activities are bound to cause a rift between the Jews on the one hand and the Christians and Moslems on the other. We furnished him with details concerning the activities of Mr Rupin in the Palestine Office in Jaffa (which is really a colonial office organising the purchase of land which from the day of its purchase is never to be allowed to pass into non-Jewish hands), of Dr Jacobson, who is now the permanent Zionist Representative in Istanbul, and of the transfer to Beirut of Ali Ekrem Bey, the Mutasarrif of Jerusalem, and many other matters. I am not sure, however, whether he has a clear difference in his mind between Jewish families emigrating to live in Palestine as subjects of the Ottoman State, and colonising settlers retaining allegiance to their countries of origin. We are sending him to Shukri Bey in Nazareth and hope that what he sees there, on the land itself, may bring matters home to him.