by Rasha Adly
*
The streets were bedecked with decorations. The French put up a giant flagpole in the middle of Ezbekiya Lake, hoisting flags and a mock Arc de Triomphe, next to which was a long marquee emblazoned with the words “La Ilaha Illa Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah”—there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His prophet—the Islamic declaration of faith. In the center of the square was an obelisk with a pyramid-shaped top, about seventy meters high. Emblazoned on one of its sides were the words, “République Française.” On the other side was “Ousting the Mamluks.”
Three gunshots heralded the start of the celebrations, followed by more pops and bangs. Napoleon Bonaparte himself stood tall among the people to give a speech. His soldiers and officers cheered when he came to the line, “The eyes of the world are upon us.” On that day in particular, it was impossible to believe that these people joking and laughing and celebrating with the Egyptian populace were the French soldiers who had killed and been killed, mere days ago, to take Cairo. French tricornes mingled with Arabian turbans, and snatches of French and Arabic conversation rang out and intermingled. Banqueting tables were laid out, bearing a combination of Egyptian and European dishes. After the great banquet, when everyone had eaten, the horse racing commenced. When evening came, everyone’s eyes were on the sky, where the French had fired several joyous shots and burned gunpowder to create fireworks, lighting up the heavens in an enthralling spectacle.
Zeinab was invited to the private party that Napoleon was giving at his palace for the occasion. The invitation arrived early in the morning with one of his guards, who knocked twice on the door and waited politely until the slave opened it for him. In refined French, he asked her for Mademoiselle Zeinab al-Bakri. The serving girl gawked. He presented the invitation, smiled and left, leaving her still rooted to the spot, staring after him.
Having only understood ‘Zeinab’ out of all he had said, the slave realized that the missive was for her. The message was written in graceful handwriting on expensive paper, and signed by Napoleon Bonaparte. The invitation did not include her father, not even mentioning him, although he had gone to offer his congratulations along with a number of Azharite imams and the members of the Diwan, and several high-ranking Copts and Levantines. Earlier, they had put on their cashmere turbans and taken out their best mounts to listen dutifully to the speech of the French bishop, who had stood under the giant flagpole and sermonized and sought to inspire them with courage, talking at them in French.
At sunset, the celebration for the common people drew to a close, and Napoleon and his retinue made ready for the private party, to which Zeinab had been invited. Sheikh al-Bakri was not upset that the invitation did not include him: he had no objections to his daughter going alone to a party to celebrate with the French community. On the contrary, he was filled with pride that out of all the men and women in all of Egypt, she had been invited.
When evening came, Zeinab prepared herself with the help of Seada, the grooming lady who helped women get ready for special occasions and weddings. She sent Maliha out to fetch her, and in an hour she arrived with a wicker basket containing her supplies: henna powder, rough loofahs, pumice stone, kohl, rouge, powder, musk and ambergris, and combs and hairpins. Zeinab took her straight to her room: there was no need to bathe or depilate her, for she had had her slave already do it—the woman had been surprised to be asked to remove the hair on Zeinab’s arms and legs, for girls never did that until the Henna Night, the night before their wedding day. Zeinab had made the excuse that her body hair was so thick that the new clothes would reveal it, making her look ugly, whereas she wanted to be at her prettiest and every bit the equal of the foreign women.
It was not only the serving woman who was astonished at Zeinab’s request; Seada the grooming expert also found it odd that Zeinab wanted her to pluck her eyebrows. No virgin girl had ever dared make such a request: plucking was reserved solely for married women. Still, she pulled her tweezers out of her basket and started to pluck the girl’s brows, chattering incessantly. Zeinab laughed at her way of pronouncing her z as an s. “The people,” Seada said, “are growing resentful at the Western laws that the Franks are imposing.” She plucked a few stray hairs from the center. “Every day they issue a decree stranger than the one before it. Isn’t it enough for them that we have to sweep the streets every day and splash them with water and light the oil lamps over the gates of our houses? The worst of it is these papers they’re having us make out when each new child is born or when someone dies. Even traveling abroad, you have to get a paper for that too, if you can believe it! The newest fad is to take down a list of the people living in every house, and their names and ages to boot. And they’ve imposed strict penalties against mocking any French soldiers wounded or vanquished in any battle. Oh, and get this—they even ordered us to hang out our washing in the sun and air out our houses well, so as to stop the spread of the plague. . . .”
“Seada, enough of that. This isn’t the time for this kind of talk. I’m getting ready to go to dinner in honor of the emperor, and you’re talking about laws and taxes and plagues? What do I care about that?”
“True,” Seada said bitterly, “what do you care?”
She looked like a princess, a creature neither of the East nor of the West. Her crowning glory, her hair, she had plaited into two braids wrapped around her head and then concealed beneath a large hat decorated with fur and feathers. Everyone in the household came to look at her: her father, her mother, her brothers of all ages, and all the slaves and servants. They all looked at her and wondered, “Who is she?”
Her father approached her, saying, “Subhan Allah, you are so lovely! What a change in you!” Meanwhile, her mother stood observing her, eyes full of sorrow and anxiety, saying nothing. But when Zeinab was just about to go out, she approached her and took her by the hand, and whispered in her ear.
“Safeguard your honor. Don’t let anyone touch you or approach you. Don’t let anyone go too far when they speak to you. Those people are devils incarnate. Don’t forget that Bonaparte, for all he seems gentle, gives the order to have four or five people beheaded every single day, not to mention the ones he has thrown into the Citadel dungeons, never to be heard from again. Are they alive, or did he get rid of them and throw them in the river? Look how many bodies come floating up to the surface in burlap sacks day after day. Don’t trust him. Beware of him.”
Then she put her hand on Zeinab’s head and murmured blessings and recited verses from the Qur’an.
Zeinab listened to her mother’s advice and nodded in silent acquiescence. She knew that any further discussions with her mother would lead to a fight, and she wanted nothing to ruin her happiness this evening.
Bonaparte’s carriage was due any minute, coming especially to take her to the ball. As usual, the coachman drove at top speed, heedless of the whirlwinds of dust his horses kicked up behind him, rattling to a stop outside the door. He rang the bell of his carriage to let Zeinab know he had arrived. That evening, Zeinab was the center of attention not only for her family, but for everyone in their street, if not their entire neighborhood. All the men and boys thronged the street to see her, and the women and girls clustered behind the meshrabiyeh to watch her enviously, one thing on their lips: “Look at Zeinab, Sheikh al-Bakri’s daughter! Look what she’s done to herself!”
“How can her father allow her to go out with her face unveiled, wearing see-through clothing?” they whispered.
Zeinab had always worn a long, wide veil that fell to the ground and covered her face; she did not catch anyone’s eye, concealed as she was beneath mountains of fabric. But the women of the neighborhood always made much of her beauty, and it was every young man’s dream to see the face of Zeinab, Sheikh al-Bakri’s daughter. Today, the dream of the men and boys of the neighborhood had come true, and here Zeinab was, her face on display. The women with their matronly busts under their black gallabiyas and their veils covering their heads stood whispering, some twisting thei
r lips in disapproval and others beating their breasts in shock and dismay. But who could dare to stand in the way of Sheikh al-Bakri’s daughter on her way to a ball given by Bonaparte himself on the French day of celebration?
The carriage arrived. A few meters away, Napoleon’s palace was bathed in light, and the sound of music wafted outside. With a nervous tread, Zeinab walked down the path that led into the palace. She remembered her mother’s words about those who had been drowned, and suddenly her ears were filled with the screams of the people thrown into the darkened dungeons. Louder and louder, she heard the murmurs of those trying to get out of the sacks before they were thrown in the river, and she saw the heads of the traitors mounted day after day on pikes at the Zuweila Gate to the city. Fear and apprehension coursed through her; she tripped on a marble step and would have fallen, if a strong hand from behind had not caught her. “Thank you,” she said, looking back to offer her gratitude to whoever it was. She recognized him. When the French officer had barred her way, this was the man who had stood up to him, rebuked him, and cleared the path for her to pass. Again he had saved her, as though it was her fate to be rescued by him.
He was handsome, that was undeniable. It was hard to tell his age or origins: he seemed to be in his early thirties, a Frenchman perhaps, or an Italian, or a Greek. “I would have fallen for sure,” she smiled, feeling proud at her command of French and the fact that she could communicate in that language. Where would she have been, she thought, if she couldn’t speak French? What language would she have used to thank him? How grateful she felt to Monsieur Paradis, her tutor! If it wasn’t for him, she would never have managed it.
He gave her a friendly smile, then went on his way. The major-domo met her and looked at her for a moment; then he bowed. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”
It was like stepping into another world, a world she had never thought to experience or be a part of. All the men were in tuxedos, and as for the women, it was a positive competition of elegance and beauty. Some had come with the Campaign, and some were part of the larger French community already living in Cairo and Alexandria, which had incidentally been the reason for the campaign on Egypt—if the ruler Murad Bey had not subjected that community to great injustices, their mayor would not have written a letter of complaint to the French Consul, who in turn wrote to Napoleon urging him to send a campaign to keep the Mamluks in line and tempting him to come and invade these bountiful lands.
Turks, Armenians, Levantines, everyone who was anyone, merchants and consuls, Zeinab could see them all here at the celebration. Streamers decorated the walls and hung down from the ceilings, an orchestra played Western music, and servants moved around bearing trays of crystal glasses filled with liquor. For a moment, she felt lost among this great crowd: she knew no one, and no one knew her, and she did not know who she was. She was no longer the simple Egyptian girl with skin the color of Nile silt, and yet she bore no resemblance to the French women, but stopped somewhere in the middle, where it was difficult to take a step forward or backward. In such a position, questions start to come up: Who am I? What do I want? Who brought me here? Do I really belong here? Although she finally had the look she dreamed of, and acquired a good deal of French which allowed her to move forward in this new world she had entered, she felt no joy or pride. Something was missing. Perhaps she had lost her own self.
Bonaparte was standing among a group of commanders of his army, in full regalia as he was most of the time, never seeming to take off his uniform. The major-domo led her to him so that she might congratulate him on the anniversary of victory. Reluctantly, she followed the man, who stopped directly in front of Bonaparte. The general saw her and nodded for her to introduce herself. She managed to choke out in low tones, “Zeinab al-Bakri.”
Bonaparte’s eyes raked over her in a flash, astonishment filling his face. Then he burst into uproarious laughter. “Is it possible? Look at you! You’re completely changed!” He laughed again, as the men around him fixed her with curious glances. On his right was Caffarelli, one of the leaders of the Campaign, who was also known as a painter. Napoleon turned to him. “Look at this beauty, Caffarelli! What would you think about painting her?”
Caffarelli laughed, rocking on his wooden leg, but his features did not soften. “It would be an honor for me to paint such loveliness,” he said, “but I only paint the victories of Napoleon Bonaparte.” He raised his glass to the general, adding, “I am no longer entranced by women’s faces. But wait!” He pointed at someone else standing nearby. In a moment, the man Caffarelli had pointed to came over. Her heart filled with gladness to recognize her savior of earlier. He bowed to Napoleon and congratulated him. “This is Alton. He is an accomplished artist. He came with the rest of the Campaign, and his job is to document important matters. There is nothing more important, I believe, than painting such authentic Egyptian features.”
Napoleon nodded approval. Caffarelli touched her cheek with his fingertips. “What do you think of this face? Isn’t it worth painting? Don’t these features have the right to be documented in a painting that will survive across generations, across time, a constant reminder that such loveliness once existed?”
Alton looked directly into Zeinab’s eyes. Her heart beat faster and she felt herself flush. He was scrutinizing her, taking in every detail, as though weighing the man’s words. Finally he said quietly, “Definitely this face is worth painting. The moment I set eyes on her, I was certain that she was not French, despite her clothing and her language. Her deeply Oriental features proclaim her true identity.” He looked at her directly again and she felt as though his gaze pierced through to her core. More lightly, he said, “I think you would be lovelier in your Oriental clothing.”
Napoleon smiled at Alton, downing his glass in one gulp, then commanded the major-domo to take Zeinab to Madame Pauline and her lady friends. He took her to a group of women standing in a corner of the atrium, approaching one of them and whispering in her ear. The woman smiled a welcome at Zeinab, taking her in from head to toe. And with that, she stepped into the closed circle of the aristocracy, and she might as well not have been there. For more than half an hour, she said not a word. She made no attempt to cut into their conversation, for what would she have had to say? The women were all talking about the deplorable state of the country, the even more deplorable state of the Egyptians, the unbearable heat, the mosquitoes and flies and insects everywhere, the dirty streets, the disgusting odors. “If Bonaparte had not issued his edict,” one woman said, “I do believe we would all have suffocated from the stench!”
Another woman spoke up in a high, squeaky voice. She wore a puffy dress and a hat adorned with several feathers, each a different color, giving her the air of a parrot. “The Egyptians care for nothing but sleeping, eating, and reproducing,” she exclaimed. The women tittered along with her. A waiter passed with a tray and they plucked glasses of wine and liquor from it. He offered it to Zeinab and she hesitated: should she reach for a glass or not? But if she did not, she would be the laughingstock of these brainless women. Besides, hadn’t she dreamed of being like the women at these parties? To dress like them, to dance like them, and even to drink like them? And now that her dream had come true, what was keeping her from reaching out and taking a glass?
She took a sip; it was sharp and bitter. She was forced to swallow it, but realized she wouldn’t be able to drink any more, and pretended to be drinking and enjoying it. The women’s talk had turned to another topic: Paris and the gossip of those who lived there. She lost interest and stood there, hardly listening to the conversation about people of whom she knew nothing; what did she care about the doings of Mademoiselle So-and-So and the misadventures of Madame Such-and-Such?
Looking around, she caught a glimpse of Napoleon deep in conversation with Muallim Yaacoub, the leader of the Coptic community. So the rumors must be true: Yaacoub was completely on the side of Napoleon, he and the Copts were at his command, and he had offered the services of several young Copt
s in the service of the Campaign!
She took a few steps away from the women; nobody noticed her departure. She was of no consequence to them. Alton came up to her, took her by the hand, and led her into the courtyard in the rear.
The courtyard was redolent with privet and night-blooming jasmine, the perfume blowing around with the cool summer breeze. They stopped under a large oak three that hid them from prying eyes. “But tell me,” he said, “what’s your name?”
“Zeinab.”
“Zeinab,” he repeated. “Zeinab. . . . What does it mean?”
She did not know what her name meant. She shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know. What’s yours?”
“Alton.” He paused, then answered a slew of questions she had never asked. “I’m twenty-eight. I studied painting at art school in Paris. I came with the Campaign to draw and paint everything strange and unusual that my eyes fell upon, and you are the most beautiful, exotic thing I have ever seen.” The French she had learned was insufficient to keep up with this gentleman who spoke in a rush, so she tried to pick up a word here and there to understand what he was saying. “But forgive my asking: why are you here?”
She repeated the question to herself. “Why am I here. . . . ?” Then she remembered. “Because Napoleon wants it.”
He scoffed, thinking, What does Napoleon see in this innocent little girl, who knows nothing whatsoever of life? She has none of the skills of any of Napoleon’s lovers; besides, he prefers women who are older than him. Or maybe he likes that she’s different.
The major-domo announced that dinner was served. Bonaparte led the way, sitting at the head of the long table that seemed endless. He gave a short speech of welcome to the guests and raised his glass, “To France!”
She sat next to Alton; he was her lodestar in this strange place, and without him she would have remained lost. Having him with her made her feel safe. She marveled at the table setting, the likes of which she had never seen before. At every seat was a plate, knives and forks of pure silver, and a white napkin with embroidered edges.
