The Girl with Braided Hair

by Rasha Adly

  Zeinab rounded on her. In the same language, she shot back, “I don’t see anything wrong with taking it off. And my father has nothing to do with it. It’s my decision to make.”

  Everyone at the table was stunned, not just by her clothes, but by the fact that she could not only understand French, but speak it as well. “The owner has taken great pains to arrange this place just like the casinos of Paris,” Madame Angele said, trying to change the subject. “Look! He even set aside a sitting room for the literary salon, in addition to the ballroom and the dining hall! Why, it’s just as though I were in Paris!”

  “Yes,” another lady nodded, “especially with the most famous musicians in Paris playing in the band.”

  At around eight in the evening, Napoleon came in, surrounded by his guards and a group of senior generals. The French national anthem was played and everyone stood, applauding and cheering. Napoleon greeted everyone and walked around, looking at the place. Fireworks were set off, lighting up the sky. Afterward, Napoleon went to sit at the table reserved for the emperor and his officers, who had quite abandoned their military decorum and were joking and laughing uproariously, bursting into impromptu song and dance.

  “Look at the two beauties on either side of Napoleon!” one of the women at their table said. “The one on the right is the wife of General Verdi, she’s Italian, that’s why she has black hair and dark skin. The blond on his left is Pauline, the wife of a naval officer.”

  “Lucky man,” laughed another woman, “with a blond on one side and a brunette on the other!”

  “There are rumors about him and Pauline,” said a third. “They even say he sent her husband off on a military mission in a faraway land so that he could clear the path for their affair.”

  “Don’t believe the rumors, my dear,” said the first woman. “Since Napoleon arrived, they’ve been flying fast and thick, they never stop. The most absurd and low rumor was that he’s taken up with a girl from Egypt, and a commoner at that! Imagine! The rumormongers are so stupid as to put it about that he could possibly fancy an Egyptian girl. It just goes to show you, my dear: people will say anything.”

  “What?” said her friend. “An Egyptian girl catch Napoleon’s eye? And him having an affair with her? What half-wit started that rumor?”

  “You mean what half-wit would believe it,” the first woman laughed.

  Zeinab pondered their words. It was true: what naïve soul would believe such a thing? She looked around, eyes roving over the guests until she spotted him, standing in a corner of the hall. He was dressed smartly, not in uniform this time, but in a formal tuxedo. If only he would see her! But he was engrossed in conversation with another man, and then disappeared from her sight. In a few moments, she spotted him sitting at Napoleon’s table.

  When dinner was over, she decided to go home. “But it’s still early!” Madame Angele remonstrated. “It’s only ten-thirty!”

  “I think it’s time to go home,” Zeinab replied. She said her goodbyes and left.

  The women watched her go, walking gracefully on her high heels, picking up her skirts on both sides as the French women did, until she was out of sight.

  Outside, the air in the garden was cooler, the evening breeze wafting great breaths of night-blooming jasmine. The loud music from inside was softer out here. In the corners stood a number of people who had tired of the noise and strain of the party, while pairs of lovers sheltered beneath the branches.

  “Zeinab?”

  She knew that voice; she had been expecting it. She looked behind her, and there he was. He hurried to her and took her hand in his. “I saw you leaving. I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

  “Why not? Because the party is exclusive?”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean that. But I didn’t think this kind of event would be to your taste.”

  “On the contrary, it’s fun. But I don’t like the people who come here. They’re conceited and naïve. All they care about is gossiping and spreading rumors.”

  “There’s the bourgeoisie for you,” he shrugged. “It’s the same everywhere, Paris just the same as Egypt. I’ve never been too fond of that milieu. I try to avoid them, with their gossip and scandals.”

  He looked at her face for a long time, then gestured to the sky. “Look at that star. You shine like a star, too.”

  She smiled. “I have to go.”

  “Wait,” he said. “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tomorrow they’re sending up a hot-air balloon,” he told her, “and everyone’s coming out to see it. It’s going to be a little before noon. I’ll meet you in the square.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He watched her until she was out of sight.

  Outside Dar Ghivel, the music wafted through the narrow streets and alleyways, disturbing the rest of the poor neighbors who asked in perplexity what on earth was going on in there.

  Cairo: November 1798

  The French had announced the bizarre experiment a few days ago: a balloon that flew via hot air. Rumors flew thick and fast among the Egyptians that the French were going to release a giant airborne ship that could travel from one place to another. Starting early in the morning, everyone took to the streets to watch the unprecedented event. The women were muttering prayers and invocations. The men lifted their hands up to the sky, praying to the Lord to let this day pass without disaster. Only the children were darting around in delight, cheering excitedly.

  At noon, the square was completely full. All eyes were on the sky, awaiting the passage of this strange object, this ship that the French had said could travel from one country to another, and from one place to another, at lightning speed.

  That day, she picked out a gown of fine mousseline, made for her by the French seamstress. It was simple and elegant. She covered her head with a light silk shawl, lined her eyes with kohl, and painted her lips in a soft pink shade. Her friends came by to pick her up, but Halima told them she was too ill to come and couldn’t get out of bed. She waited until they had gone, and went out, accompanied by Halima.

  The square was bursting with people. She would never find him in the middle of this crowd. She looked toward the podium, hoping he might be near there; but there was just Napoleon, surrounded by his generals and by imams of whom all she could see was their great turbans, each one different, like great domes above their heads. She knew them by sight: Sheikh Sharkawi, who had a thick white beard and wore a round green turban; Sheikh Mahdi with his white turban; her father, Sheikh al-Bakri, most prominent in his big black turban; only Sheikh Fayumi had not opted for an imposing turban, and wrapped his head instead in a simple cashmere scarf.

  The balloon surged into the air, rising to a height of 250 feet. Everyone’s necks craned to watch it. Cries and applause rang out: it was deafening. Suddenly, a gentle hand tapped her shoulder. She turned and found him there, with his hazel eyes and sparse mustache covering thin lips, a lock of his silky hair falling into his forehead. Joy, anxiousness, and awe overcame her all at once. “Alton!” she blurted.

  He smiled, and life was sweet and joyous once more. No one noticed when he took her by the hand and led her away from the crowd, still cheering for the balloon.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him.

  He kept walking without answering. With difficulty, they worked their way out of the press of bodies, everyone standing mesmerized at what was happening in the sky, no one noticing that Sheikh al-Bakri’s daughter was leaving the square with a foreign man.

  They walked down twisting alleyways and narrow lanes, street after street and alley after alley, until they reached the garden of willow and myrtle in Ezbekiya Square. In the center was a large, splashing fountain of Damascene tiles, while all around were blossoming trees bearing flowers of every conceivable shape and description, their perfume wafting over the two of them. There were meandering gravel paths punctuated by benches to sit on, and on a bench hidden beneath the branches of a mighty
oak, they sat.

  “I have never seen such a beautiful place,” he confessed. “I come here daily to be alone under this tree. It helps me collect my thoughts while taking fresh air. It refreshes me and helps me go on.”

  “True,” she sighed, “it seems the most beautiful place in Egypt. That’s why I call it,” she continued in Arabic, “Hadiqat al-sifsaf wa-l-aas li-man arad al-hazz wa-l-i’tinas.”

  He did not understand her Arabic phrase, so she tried to use all the French at her disposal to translate for him. Finally understanding it as “the garden of willows and flowers for companionship and peaceful hours,” he took off his hat and placed it next to him. She picked it up and put it on, smiling like a child at play. “How do I look?”

  He gazed into her eyes. “Beautiful.”

  “Why did you come to Cairo,” Zeinab asked him, “when you’re not a soldier or an officer?”

  “I came by military decree as part of the Arts and Sciences Committee,” he explained. “It has 151 members, all the best French scientists and artists. At first I was enthusiastic about coming here: any artist’s dream was to visit the Orient. The reason for coming here, they told us, was to discover the Orient.” He sighed. “None of us knew we were on our way to a military campaign. Even the soldiers themselves didn’t know. The Campaign was a closely guarded secret, even from the ones who were to be doing the fighting.” She nodded, listening intently. “If you could have seen the machines we brought over on the ships—printing presses, magnifying glasses, containers for liquids, special solutions, paper and inks—you would not have suspected for a minute that these ships were on their way to a military campaign, but rather to discover a new world.” He sighed. “The day we set sail from the port of Toulon, then and only then, did we learn we were on our way to a military campaign. When we cast off, we saw them: all manner and shape of war machines. It was then that I took my leave of all my dreams to paint the Orient: for how could I depict the facets and landmarks of a country, with its people terrified and terrorized, and hating us? What’s more, when we arrived, I was shocked to see the reality. I had not thought it was that bad. Unfortunately, the only thing the Mamluks cared about was getting rich, and they plundered your country and left it in a deplorable condition: streets unpaved, refuse everywhere, endemic diseases running rampant, poverty and hunger, and the populace stripped of all agency and power.”

  He rose from his seat and began pacing in a tight circle, then looked at her. “You, for instance. Tell me what you do in life. A girl your age: how does she occupy her time and what is she preparing for her future?”

  “Nothing important,” she said helplessly, “nothing worth mentioning, anyway. Girls in our country are made only for marriage and doing what our husbands say. Ever since we’re born, mothers prepare daughters to be wives and mothers. We’re taught how to cook and keep house, then we wait at home to get married. As you can see, we’re not allowed to leave the house unless it’s with a guardian— a eunuch or a female slave or a parent—and that’s only to go shopping or to the public baths. It’s the only outing for women here. Life, for us, is a long list of ‘don’ts.’ Don’t show your face, don’t do this, don’t do that—it never ends.” She fell silent for a while; her expression changed. Unhappily, she went on, “And because I broke these rules, because I went out with my face uncovered wearing the clothes of the Franks, and because the emperor’s carriage was waiting for me outside the door to my house, looks of derision follow me wherever I go, and I know that every tongue is wagging about me. If it were not for my father’s high position and his closeness to Napoleon, I know their anger would have found vent in my direction. But they don’t dare.” She sighed. “I hear them talking about me. When I approach, they trip over their words and go quiet in a hurry.”

  She spoke in a low, choked voice, as though she could see some fate awaiting her. “Do you know that the women they think are impure are stoned and thrown into jail? They wake up to find their doorsteps smeared with tar and red wax, and insults and curses scrawled on their walls. As for prostitutes, they put them on a mule with scabies, and parade them around the streets, and everyone comes out to look at them and throw stones and garbage at them.”

  “But I thought,” he interjected, “that this profession was permitted and licensed, and even taxed? Why so much disgust against prostitutes then, when they bring money into the state’s coffers?”

  “Yes, they’re allowed to practice,” Zeinab said, “but only in specific quarters and designated places. A woman who practices it outside these places is immediately punished. And in any case, those women are outcasts from society.”

  He was silent, anger and sorrow warring in his face. “But tell me, what happened in Bonaparte’s room?”

  She blushed and started to play with one of her braids, tying it into a knot. “Nothing.”

  A gust of wind sprang up, scattering dead leaves everywhere. He looked her straight in the eye, full of suspicion and disbelief. In low tones, she went on. “He told me to come in and sit next to him on the bed. Then he undid my braids one by one. When he was done, he spread out my hair over my back, patted me on the shoulder, and told me that I was much prettier that way.”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. He told me to go.”

  He smiled wryly. “He is indeed an extraordinary man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as far as I know, he is passionately in love with Josephine.”

  “Who is Josephine?”

  “His wife, to whom he is forever writing love letters, even while he’s making campaign plans. He’s forever scribbling with pen on paper, telling her how much he loves her.”

  “Really?”

  Alton’s voice dropped as he put his hat back on his head. “Beware of him, Zeinab. You’d better not accept his invitation another time.”

  His eyes embraced her. Why is he asking this of me? she asked herself. Is he jealous? Could he have fallen in love with me? He had found a place in her affections since the first time she had seen him: it was a strange sensation in her budding heart, a feeling she had never had before toward any man.

  She bolted to her feet, jolting out of her dream. “I’m late. I must go,” she said in a rush, wrapping her silken scarf over her face in preparation to leave.

  “Wait.” He lifted the scarf. “When will I see you again?”

  “I truly don’t know.”

  “Not tomorrow, then, but the day after, we’ll meet here at the same time.”

  The mighty oak shaded them with its low-hanging branches, reaching almost to the ground, shielding them from prying eyes, guarding their secret—the secret each of them was concealing from the other. He drew nearer and with little more than a breath, dropped a kiss on her cheek, which blushed shyly. He let her veil fall once more, and his eyes followed her as she ran quickly away.

  He did not leave that spot. He sat on the wooden bench, wondering what was this girl’s secret, to capture the heart of everyone who laid eyes on her. What was so attractive about her? Was it the innocence and spontaneity that radiated from her? Her thick brows, shading wide, dark eyes, filled with wonderment like a little girl just discovering the world around her? Or her voice, like a babbling brook? Perhaps it was all of these.

  All the way home, he walked with one question in mind: What does Napoleon want with her? Had the great man tired of experienced and expert beauties, and was now hankering after an innocent flower, scarcely more than a bud and not yet in bloom? He was known to have a penchant for women older than himself; had it morphed into a complex that he wished to dispel? And her braids . . . what on earth had possessed the man to undo her hair? Was he proceeding, step by step, preparing her for his ultimate goal? And the girl’s father? How could he be positively propelling her into such a fate, knowing that his religion, not to mention his society’s customs and traditions, looked upon it as a sin? Could he be truly abandoning her to her fate in his lust for power and position?

  He wal
ked all the way home, filled with questions and finding no satisfactory answer, and so he began to paint.

  13

  Cairo: Winter 2012

  She left the lab with a handful of information. The mysterious girl had given Yasmine her name as a calling card. “Zeinab, Zeinab, who are you?” she murmured, as she went down the stairs. She had made up her mind: every ounce of the art historian she was, every particle of her energy, every piece of information she possessed, and every research tool in her arsenal would be devoted to finding out the identity of the unknown Zeinab.

  Back home, she sat at her laptop, a giant art history reference book open on the table next to her. ‘The key to art history research,’ it had been drilled into her, ‘is the date it was painted.’ This would open every door to her, and without it she would find out nothing. According to the report, the portrait was painted in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century—the date of the French Campaign in Egypt. This was the first spark of light to illuminate the dark tunnel, so far, of her research.

  The information she had to go on was that the artist was a professional and not an amateur, and his technique of mixing color confirmed it. She entered several search queries on blending colors with sand and sea salt and waited for the results. Finding several specialized sites, she finally ascertained that this method of painting was only used by a limited number of French painters in the mid-eighteenth century. She rearranged her query and repeated her search: the painter she was searching for must have been in Egypt during the French Campaign. A professional painter, who might have been part of the Campaign itself.

  This was as much information as she could come up with, after searching and cross-referencing several search engines. She woke up exhausted the next day. Her only consolation was that with the information on the French Campaign, she had caught the first thread of the answer.