by Rasha Adly
He clenched his fist hard. His voice changed and became harder. She trembled in fear of him. It was the first time she had seen him like this. Half-turning, he noticed the fear on her face, and approached her, sitting next to her. With the back of his hand, he lightly touched her cheek. “Fear not,” he whispered. “You are a descendant of Cleopatra. Shall a woman descended from Cleopatra know fear, when her ancestor made the greatest and most powerful men slaves to her love, her beauty, and her flirtations? With her brilliance, she made the greatest man in history offer her his reign on a silver platter.” He smiled. “Cleopatra vanquished Antony with the power of her beauty and charm, which is a power before which the greatest of military schemes and the most modern war machines all fall useless.” His voice seemed to fill with passion as he said, “Can you do to me what your ancestor did to Antony? She made him fall in love with her. Do you know that she used to dance for him?”
He took her hand and drew her up slowly. “Come. Dance for me as Cleopatra danced for Antony.”
Zeinab, who had no idea who Cleopatra or Antony were, nor any clue what this man was talking about, slowly took off her shawl and wrapped it around her waist as the belly dancers did. Then she swayed to the tunes of a melody she conjured from memory in her own head. She raised her arms aloft, then brought them down; she took a step forward, and another back, then swayed her slender hips and thin body; then she spun, and spun, and spun.
“Stop!”
He approached her. He undid her braids and spread out her black hair over her shoulders and back. It was like a shawl all around her. Then he undid the ties of her dress. It slipped off her onto the floor, leaving her in only her shift. “Don’t tie up your hair,” he said. “I like it like this, down your back. Go on,” he said, taking his seat back on the chair, putting his feet up on the table in front of him. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her.
She pointed her toes a little and shook her shoulders and hips as she swayed. She turned in circles and her hair swirled around with her, images and faces chasing each other in her imagination. The look of sorrow and reproach in her mother’s eyes; the worry in Alton’s eyes; the pride in her father’s eyes; the prying eyes of the neighbors, their fingers all pointing at her, and their mutterings tearing her virtue apart. “Look at the debauched daughter of Sheikh al-Bakri, look what she does!”
Time passed and she began to tire, beads of sweat gleaming on her golden skin. She did not stop. She whirled and whirled, the faces in her imagination whirling along with her. The whispers grew louder and louder in her ears. Unable to stand them any more, she raised her hands to her ears with a cry, then flung herself down on the bed.
When she awoke, she was alone in the room, darkened but for the dim glow of a single candle. It was a while before she could remember where she was. She hurriedly yanked on her dress, fixed her hair, and put her shawl back around her shoulders. When she made to go out, she found Rostom outside, guarding her. He examined her with narrowed eyes, like a fox, seemingly seeking out traces of Bonaparte on her body. But all he saw was a frightened, confused, flustered little girl. “The general left,” he said. “He gave orders that we were not to wake you or disturb your sleep.”
She tried to remember details of what had happened. She remembered being exhausted and flinging herself down on the bed. Clearly, once the show was over, Napoleon had left the room to see to his own affairs, letting her sleep undisturbed.
In the entrance hall, several men were sitting with the woman who had opened the door, who was now looking at her with envy and disdain. The men ignored her, engrossed in their own conversation, except for one whose expression betrayed astonishment and curiosity.
She burst out of the palace, running through the garden. Alton—for it had been he—caught up with her, reaching out to catch her by the shoulder, whispering, “Zeinab! Zeinab!”
Rostom stood at the gateway to the garden watching what happened. Although she tried to smile, he only saw unshed tears and grief in her eyes. “Meet me at five o’clock in the same place, in the garden,” he said. She merely nodded; she had no voice to answer him. Questions crowded insistently in her mind: why did she feel such a strong distaste for Napoleon now, when a few days ago she had been in transports of joy because he had chosen her above everyone? Why did she feel so shamed and disgraced? No, it was not only because of Alton and her feelings toward him; she was now aware that she was committing a crime against herself, her religion, and her society. The last of these would never forgive her.
She asked the carter to take her to Harat al-Qassaseen, the Dressmaker’s Alley. There, she knocked on the door of Auntie Tafida, who made her clothes. The woman welcomed her warmly, although her eyes held the question, What brings you here? Tafida cleared a space for her to sit down among the piles of fabric and thread, and insisted on serving her lunch—which was strange, because Tafida was known for being tight-fisted. “No, thank you,” Zeinab excused herself, “I’m really not hungry. Have you finished the dress you’re making for me yet?”
The woman slyly eyed the French gown Zeinab was wearing, crafted in taffeta and organza. “And will you really wear that gallabiya made of cotton,” she said, “after these gowns? I know you’re a fine lady now who only wears the clothing of the Franks! I hear you speak their language and act like them.”
Why should Zeinab even try to defend herself? It was the truth. She wore their clothing, but did she really act like them? She let the woman chatter on as she pleased, and when she finished, she asked her for a glass of water. The woman waddled off, and quickly and with some sleight of hand, Zeinab stole the scissors the woman used for cutting fabric and concealed them beneath her clothing.
The woman arrived with a brass cup. She waited until Zeinab had slaked her thirst and then asked, “Do you think you could ask the general to give my son Hassan a job? I heard that the men who become soldiers earn a good salary and that’s besides the generous gifts.”
Zeinab left, now knowing the source of this woman’s uncharacteristic generosity, and also knowing that there was not a single household in the land of Egypt that did not know of her dalliance with the general. It was enough that it was known by this gossip of a seamstress who knew everyone and went into everyone’s household.
It was still early for her meeting with Alton. She didn’t want to go home; she didn’t need her mother’s interrogation. The strange thing was that her mother blamed her, knowing full well that it was General Bonaparte who had taken a shine to Zeinab, and it was by his imperial command that she went, something no one could refuse. To say no to the general was to be imprisoned in a dark dungeon or even killed.
Zeinab sat underneath the trailing branches of the willow that hid her from prying eyes. She unbound her hair and began to cut it off, weeping quietly. Lock after lock of hair fell off, until it barely covered her neck. She collected her shorn locks and bundled them up into her shawl. She embraced the shawl, curled up into herself around it, and wept.
She didn’t see him arrive; he found her lying on the bench. With a start, shamefacedly straightening up, she stammered, “How long have you been here?”
“Zeinab! What have you done to your hair?”
He approached her and pulled her into an embrace, patting her back comfortingly. “Calm yourself, my dear. Why all this?”
“I got rid of it so Bonaparte wouldn’t touch it again. I hate when he touches me. I hate the way people look at me, and their gossiping about me.” She choked. “He told me to wear my hair loose always because he prefers it so. So I got rid of it. Maybe he won’t want to see me again.”
With deep suspicion, Alton asked, “Did he . . . do anything to you?”
“No. On the contrary. Today he was a different person. He told me about his unhappy childhood, then asked me to dance for him. He left me all alone. But I’m afraid he will want more from me, and I won’t be able to say no.”
He patted her small shoulder. “That man doesn’t like to be opposed. With what you’ve
done, he will only grow more attached to you.”
They fell silent for a while.
“What do you plan to do?” she asked. “Will you stay in Egypt or go home to your own country?”
Her question surprised him. “I . . . haven’t decided,” he said. “But I can’t live in a country whose people hate me with such a passion.” He sighed. “To them, I am nothing but a French invader, here to kill innocents. They will never believe anything else of me, even if I tell them that my being here is all a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” Zeinab whispered. “It was fate that sent you here, to me.”
He enfolded her hand in both of his. It calmed her and filled her with a sense of peace.
“But who was that woman you were sitting with in the hallway?”
“It was Madame Pauline Fauré. She is beautiful, but arrogant.” Sensing that she was jealous, Alton added, “But you are the loveliest woman in the world in the eyes of my heart.”
20
Madame Pauline Fauré, Yasmine read, had been an attractive Italian woman, the wife of Lt. Fauré, with blue eyes and blond hair, who had disguised herself in her husband’s military attire so as to come with him to Egypt: there were no women allowed on Napoleon’s campaign ships, except for a few seamstresses and cooks. This was depicted in a painting entitled “The Scientists of the Expedition” of a number of men, Napoleon in the center of their little group, and a woman among them. Was the artist in this painting, she wondered? She had found no trace of this artist, not even a self-portrait. She searched the names of the Campaign artists who had visited Egypt, but the long list of names held no Alton Germain among them. She found this unsettling: was he really one of the Campaign artists? His paintings documenting the French Campaign, its battles, and the Egyptian street did not constitute incontrovertible evidence that he had come to Egypt with the Campaign; there were many Orientalists and indeed artists who had created paintings of the Orient without ever having visited there. But then again, the painting of Zeinab and the date it had been created strongly suggested the artist’s presence in Egypt at that time.
Before shutting down, she scanned her email: the only thing of note was an invitation to a conference held by the Association for Art History in France. I’ll have to email them back and tell them I’m too busy, she thought.
As she was driving to work, a sudden impulse took hold of her. She turned in the opposite direction, heading for the headquarters of the French Campaign, Beit al-Sinnari, the place where Alton had lived when he was in Egypt. The secretary-general of the Institute had told her in her last visit that the painting had not been among the items damaged in the fire; indeed, it had not even been in the Institute, and the storehouse keeper had told her the same thing. The documents she had perused the day before had told her that the painting had come to the Conservation Department with the paintings damaged in the fire at the Institute, even though the damage to the painting had not been caused by the fire, but by improper storage. All the information led to a new theory: the painting had never left Beit al-Sinnari. It had been painted there and then hidden in a place where no one could find it. When the collection had been moved to the Institute’s new location, it had remained in its hiding place, and when the Institute had caught fire, the collection had found its way back to Beit al-Sinnari, and somehow, at that point, the painting had been found, making everyone think that it was part of the Institute’s collection. They had then sent it to be conserved.
“Welcome back,” said the security guard who had first met her at Beit al-Sinnari a few days ago.
“I’d like to meet the curator of Beit al-Sinnari’s collection,” she said.
The man led her to a long corridor ending in an office. After several knocks on the door, a weak voice quavered from behind the solid wood, “Come in!”
Although the sun was shining brilliantly outdoors, the place was dark and damp. “Good morning,” the man cheerily greeted her. His face was so lined and wrinkled that she could not properly tell his age. He was sitting at a desk surrounded by a huge collection of large, ancient volumes, and peered at her from behind thick spectacles. “Welcome, I’m sure. Are you from a newspaper?”
“No, I’m not. I’m conserving a portrait that was damaged in the fire at the Scientific Institute, and was moved here with the Institute’s collection, then was sent to my university’s conservation department—that’s where I come in—but what was strange about it was that the director of the Institute said it wasn’t part of their collection, and in fact no one seems to have ever seen it before.” She went on, “So, I suspect that this work may never have left this location, not since it was occupied by the scientists of the French
Campaign.”
“Well,” he said, “this house was, indeed, their base of operations. I’ve been in charge here for a long time, and I know pretty much everything about it. Which painting are you talking about?”
“It’s a painting of a girl in a striped gallabiya, with her hair in two braids.” His eyes narrowed and he appeared lost in thought. “Wait,” she said, “I’ll show it to you.” She held out her iPad so that he could see it clearly.
He peered at it for a time, then shook his head. “No. I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “it was in storage and just wasn’t noticed.”
He shrugged. “It’s very possible. There’s something strange about this house. The spirits of everyone who has lived here before inhabit it.”
“How so?”
The man reached under the wooden desk at which he sat, taking out a tray with coffee-making paraphernalia on it: a small butane stove, a jar of coffee, and another of sugar. He began to prepare coffee slowly and carefully, as though everything in the outside world had ceased to matter as long as he was making coffee. “I’ll make us coffee,” he said, “and we can talk.” Without asking her how she took her coffee, he spooned it in and stirred it slowly and patiently with a long gilt-handled spoon. It was only seconds before the delicious aroma of coffee spread through the room, clearly firing up his memory and preparing him to tell his tale.
“This house,” he explained, “was built by Ibrahim Katkhudha, whom they called Ibrahim al-Sinnari, in a reference to his home town of Sinnar in the region of Dunqula in Sudan. He was a Berber who left his city and came to Cairo after first living in Mansura. He had worked as a night watchman in that city, and learned how to read and write. He read a great many books of magic and astrology, until he became quite the authority and acquired a bit of fame. He went to Upper Egypt after that, and worked with Mustafa Bey al-Kabir. By then, he had learned Turkish and was famous and rich as well. After that, he came to Cairo and built this house. They say it was one of the most attractive houses of the era. To tell the truth, it is still worthy of that reputation today. They say that he went to Alexandria to attend an important meeting held by an Ottoman prince called Hussein Pasha and a group of the most important Mamluks, on the seventeenth of the Islamic month of Jamadi al-Akhar, in 1801, and they were all murdered.”
“So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that he was murdered in 1801, after the French Campaign left Egypt.” She rubbed her chin. “How did it come about that the Campaign took his house as a base of operations?”
“It is said,” he replied, “that he was thrown out of his house by order of the French, who took it over; there are rumors that he escaped to Upper Egypt with the other Mamluks.” He took a deep draft of his coffee. “What do you expect of a historic house whose owner used to be an astrologer and a fortune teller, and carried out his experiments here?” He smiled. “I promise you, when I’m in here I find myself living in another world, a different one—the world of the Unseen. I often see Ibrahim al-Sinnari, who owned the house, a man with black skin and broad shoulders, in his white gallabiya and his turban upon his head, with a long string of ninety-nine prayer beads, wearing yellow slippers curled up at the toes, walking slowly around the house, looking left and right
as though he’s checking up on the place and making sure it’s all right, or looking for something. Sometimes he ignores me, and other times he smiles at me and keeps right on going.” He shook his head. “I also see the members of the French Campaign walking around, in their foreign suits and chattering in French. One of them has one leg and walks with a crutch. There’s a blue-eyed, blond woman with them, her hair down her back, wearing clothing so diaphanous that it makes me feel ashamed—I have to look down and say ‘Cover yourself, woman!’ and all she does is give me a coy laugh and then she goes on her way.”
