by Rasha Adly
22
She spent a long time looking at the painting of the licorice-drink seller that she had printed out from the site. The man practically burst from the page, as though he was standing before her in one of the narrow alleyways of the city. There were a few itinerant salesmen sitting around here and there, while the man smiled broadly at his female customer. A closer look at her face and Yasmine was sure it was her. Although all that was visible was the side of her face, it was her, reaching out a graceful hand to take a brass cup from the vendor. It was her hand, her long, slim fingers. “It’s her in all his paintings,” she whispered. But what was the secret that meant that she appeared, as the main figure in all his work, again and again and again? She was an ordinary girl, not all that different from any other girl. Had there been something between them? And where had he met her? Had he met her by chance in the street and taken a liking to the way she looked, and drawn her? Perhaps he had asked her to model for him, and she had said yes. But how would her family have let their daughter model for an artist, and sit before him for hours while he painted her—those families that would not even let their daughters go out with their faces unveiled?
Her head was awhirl with questions, and she was suddenly nervous and confused. Perhaps a walk by the Nile would help her get her thoughts in order. She put on her running shoes, put her hair up and her headphones in, then went out.
With her favorite songs playing, she walked through the streets until she reached Abul-Feda Street. She crossed over to the side directly overlooking the Nile. A chilly breeze wafted in her face, refreshing her. There wasn’t much traffic in the streets at that hour. She walked the length of the street, and toward the end, she found Sherif’s car. It was parked outside a restaurant called Sequoia—his favorite place. She decided to go in and surprise him.
The restaurant was quite empty, unusually for that hour. She looked over at the table where they usually sat. Sure enough, there he was. She went straight over to him, without noticing that there was a woman sitting opposite him, obscured by a hulking man sitting in the seat between her and Yasmine. She didn’t see her until she was right in front of their table. Opening her mouth, she blurted, “Hello.”
His mouth fell open and he exclaimed, “Hello! What a surprise!”
“I was taking a walk,” she said, “and I saw your car. I thought you’d be here.”
He introduced them. “Dr. Yasmine, Nirmine.” The girl shook Yasmine’s hand with a faint smile. “You must sit down. . . .”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said, “I was just taking a quick walk. I have work I need to get back to.”
“Sit,” he said commandingly. “Ten minutes won’t make a difference.”
The girl remained absolutely expressionless except for her lukewarm smile. With a quick glance at her, Yasmine ascertained that she was attractive, but not beautiful: olive-skinned with a mane of loose, dark curly hair, she wore jeans and a white shirt, a woolen jacket and brightly colored scarf. It was clear that she was deliberately ignoring Yasmine: she kept her eyes glued to her phone, pretending to be absorbed in it.
“Are you all ready to go?” he asked her. “To France?”
“Yes,” she said.
The three of them sat at love’s wintry table, giving off waves of jealousy and insecurity that heated the chill air, watching one another with tentative glances. But no one can tell what goes on inside another person. The girl’s perfume was overpowering, insistently pushing itself into the spaces between them. Some perfumes are premeditated; some perfumes pass by fleetingly with the breeze; yet others are barely there, a scent one tries in vain to catch. Yasmine’s name, which means jasmine, was enough to bring its scent with her: had her name infused her with a passion for everything natural and things from the earth? The scent of petrichor, the aroma of tea, orange blossoms, seaweed. . . .
In a casual tone, the girl asked her, “Where are you going?”
“Paris.”
With more enthusiasm, she responded, “Paris! Oh, you’re lucky. I love Paris. Are you shopping or sightseeing?”
“Neither. I’m going to an art conference.”
The girl looked astonished. “But Chanel’s summer collection is coming out next week! You must go to the show, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
Yasmine gave a half smile while Sherif took up the thread of the conversation. “Dr. Yasmine is a professor of art history. She spends her time going to conferences, researching historic paintings. She’s not interested in things like that.”
“Says who?” Yasmine responded. “I always find time to have fun, just like you do.” She pushed her chair back. “I really do need to go. It’s been good catching up.”
“What’s your hurry? Stay a while.”
She waved goodbye and left without answering. She strode purposefully to the exit, then once she was through the door, she broke into a run.
She ran, her rage propelling her forward. The meeting had not lasted longer than thirty minutes, but it had her incensed. If they had had a normal relationship, she would have had the right to upbraid him, to reproach him, to yell at him. But she could do none of it, and the very fact of it filled her with resentment and unhappiness. Now she knew for a fact that there was no room in her heart, her mind, her soul for anyone but him, for anything but her love of him. From the girl’s curious glances, filled with jealousy, Yasmine could tell that she was in a relationship with Sherif, and not just an intern in his office as he had said. An attractive girl in her early twenties, clearly infatuated with him, devoting all her time and attention to him. What would he see in Yasmine, preoccupied with the ghosts of the dead, caring only for her research?
As usual on the nights before she was traveling somewhere, she couldn’t sleep. It was even harder to get any rest because she had an early morning flight; she ended up not sleeping at all. It was not only travel jitters, though: the jealousy tearing her apart was what made it impossible to get any rest.
She gave her grandmother a big hug goodbye, and gave the nurse her instructions. She was employed by an office that provided elder care. Yasmine taped a list of her grandmother’s forbidden foods to the refrigerator so it would be always in the woman’s sight.
She wrapped the painting carefully up, then placed it into her hand luggage. A few days ago, she had made a request of the head of the conservation department to take the painting with her to Paris to continue her conservation work there, claiming that the damage required more experience and state-of-the-art equipment than was available in Egypt. He had agreed at once, and given her a permit to take it out of the country. She left, dragging her carry-on behind her, a wool coat over her arm. The weather forecast had told her that there would be snow waiting for her in Paris.
In the taxi on the way to the airport, her phone rang. It was Sherif, telling her that he was on his way to drive her to the airport. “No need. I’m already on my way.”
“I’ll meet you at the airport, then,” he insisted.
His phone call dissipated some of the clouds that had gathered around the walls of her heart since she had seen him sitting with the girl. But the question that preoccupied her, for which she could find no answer, was: Why was he doing this? Was this love, or just friendship? Or did he have some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility for Yasmine? He had often told her he felt like he needed to take care of her.
He was waiting for her at the departures terminal, smartly dressed as usual. A broad smile broke over his face when he caught sight of her. He suggested they have a coffee at the airport Starbucks. “Why did you come?” she asked as soon as they were seated. “Don’t you have to be at work?”
She was trying to get him to relinquish his closely guarded reserve and hear him say that he would cancel any plans for her, or that he was here because he was going to miss her. But he disappointed her as usual. Instead he asked her, “Where are you staying in Paris?”
“The Paris View Hotel.”
“How long are you
staying?”
“I’m not sure yet. It all depends on how much information I can find.”
“All for this man you’re thinking about day and night?”
She laughed. “Yes, well. At least that man was here 250 years ago and isn’t around any more.”
He took her meaning, but ignored it. He looked at his watch. “You need to go now. It’s getting close to boarding.” He patted her on the back. “Take care of yourself.” He saw her to security and left.
She looked behind her once she was through security. He was still standing behind the barrier. She waved at him and went on her way.
23
Paris: Winter 2012
The captain announced that the flight was about to land at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. “The temperature in Paris is -3 degrees Celsius,” the announcement went on, confirming what awaited her there.
When she stepped out of the airport, chill winds almost blew her off her feet. She did up her coat tightly and took a taxi from the rank, giving the driver the address of the old hotel. She had chosen it because it was convenient for getting to the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Élysées, and the Louvre, and was in the center of the places she loved best in the city. The receptionist at the hotel welcomed her. She told him her name and he found her booking on the computer, nodding, “Yes, here’s your reservation.” She signed a few papers and he handed her the room key card and wished her a pleasant stay.
Although she was tired and in desperate need of a hot bath and a nap, she could not wait. She took the painting out of the bag and went immediately to the Académie des Beaux-Arts to meet Professor Charles Stefan.
The taxi dropped her at the gate of the Académie, one of the oldest in the world, founded by Louis XIII in 1648 out of a love for art. Most of France’s best-known artists and the most famous painters and sculptors in the world had passed through its doors, and it had also been where Yasmine had studied for her doctoral degree.
The minute she set foot in the place, the same sensation stole over her that she had felt the first time she had walked into the place long ago: the history and grandeur of the building made you feel taller, prouder, as if you yourself had become part of it.
She went straight to the office of Charles Stefan, who had been her supervisor. He had praised her enthusiasm and hardworking nature and always encouraged her and been generous with his assistance. She had sent him an email a few days ago telling him that she was visiting Paris for the conference, and would be dropping by for his help on an important matter.
“Yasmine!” he welcomed her warmly. “How have you been? How are things in Egypt? How’s work?”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping you could help me with,” she said, getting straight to the point.
She launched into a detailed history of everything that had happened since she had found the painting, right up to the moment of her sitting there in his office. He heard her out, listening carefully and paying close attention. “But a work of such stature as you describe,” he said, “how could it have remained neglected for so long without anyone noticing it? And to be allowed to fall into such decay?” He leaned forward. “How could an artist of such significance, with such talent and skill—and one of the Campaign artists if your suspicions are correct—go without a single mention in the books, volumes, and histories of art? It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s another thing,” she said. “The names of the artists of the Campaign are all listed in a document that I have seen and examined myself. His name isn’t among them.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps he signed a different name on his paintings? That makes about as much sense as anything.”
“Where are the other paintings you think are his?”
He opened his laptop and she showed him the pictures. “This is the site of the French Association for Art History. We can pay them a visit and meet whoever posted the artist’s paintings on the site in person.”
She had infected him with her enthusiasm. Immediately, he put on his coat and they went out together. She couldn’t help a sly smile: her expectations had proved correct. Her professor was passionate about his subject and enthusiastic about getting to the bottom of a mystery, which was why he had been the first person whose help she had thought of enlisting in Paris. She sent up a small prayer of thanks that the years had not dimmed the fire of his zeal. “We can go on foot, it’s walking distance,” he said. “It’s only ten minutes. It would take longer to drive there because we’d have to take main roads, which will be clogged with rush-hour traffic at this hour. We’d arrive after closing time.”
She did not argue, although she was not exactly keen on walking any distance in this weather: the wind was chilly and the rain was pelting down. He sheltered her under his big black umbrella: although he was over sixty, he walked with vigor, and she had a hard time keeping up.
He led her through a series of narrow, crooked streets, finally coming to a stop outside a small building surrounded with a wrought-iron fence and thick bushes. “Here we are.”
The iron gate creaked as they pushed it aside, the sound serving as a de facto doorbell that summoned the security guard. They asked him for the director, and were informed that the man was in his office. They ascended the marble steps leading into the building. The steps gave way to a large entrance hall with a reception desk. “The director’s office is at the end of the corridor on the first floor,” the receptionist told them.
The director welcomed the professor warmly, but looked doubtfully at Yasmine. He was in his mid-sixties, with thick white hair and sharp features. “Mademoiselle Yasmine is a professor of art history,” Stefan introduced her. “I was her doctoral supervisor, many years ago now. She was always one of my best students, so hardworking. I advised her when she left never to stop researching, and she has clearly heeded my instructions. She is here today doing detective work.”
The office was warm, returning the feeling to her limbs. She took off her coat. The man smiled and invited her to explain further, as if to ask, ‘What business is this of mine?’
“After the Egyptian Scientific Institute burned down,” she began, “the works damaged in the fire were brought to us to oversee their conservation. One of these was a portrait that dates back to the French Campaign in Egypt. An internet search led me to your site, where there are several paintings by an artist named Alton Germain. He is most probably the artist who painted the portrait. The issue is, though, that his name is not listed among the Campaign artists. There’s no information listed about him either.”
In a robotic voice that made Yasmine feel uncomfortable, the man said, “Mademoiselle, in 1798 orders were issued to the Minister of the Interior to form a committee of the most talented architects, scientists, and artists, and sources indicate that the Campaign went to Egypt with over 160 scientists, artists and inventors. The official websites definitely do not list them all.” He went on, “The more famous names, such as the chemist Pilote, the mathematician Gaspard Monge and Claude Louis, Nicola, Jacques-Pierre, Simone Gerard, an architect who designed palaces and highways, Vivien Denon, a soldier and an artist, Jean-Marie Joseph and François Michel, the inventors and pilots of the hot-air balloon, who went to Sinai on a scientific expedition to develop the system of transporting the ancient obelisks that would later be moved to Paris, and we cannot forget Jean-François Champollion, the scientist who unlocked the symbols of the Rosetta Stone. Those were the most famous, and therefore the ones mentioned in the history books for their towering achievements. But what is certain is that there are many others whom the
books do not mention.”
The man was overcome by a violent fit of coughing. “Excuse me.” He went over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase against one wall, pulling out a great volume. He opened it and flipped through the pages. “Look here,” he said, “it says, for example, that the head of the artists was Rigo, and the head of the design department was Denon Cacita Pierre, and the head of the sculptors was Fouquet Gusticas. The
sources mention the heads of the various departments, but they do not list everyone who was working there.”
With difficulty, Yasmine managed to get a word in. “I’ll show you his paintings.”
She pulled out her iPad and opened the paintings she had saved, handing it to him so that he could see them. He took off his reading glasses and put on another pair of spectacles, slowly looking them over. After a few moments of examining them, he said confidently, “These paintings are from the pages of The Description of Egypt.”
“But I’ve read it carefully. They’re not in there.”
He handed back her device, responding unwillingly, “The Description of Egypt is a vast collection of the research that was conducted in Egypt during the French Army’s expedition. It is in twenty-three volumes. After the expedition arrived in Egypt, the Minister of the Interior gave orders that eight of its members were to take on the task of collecting and publishing the research. The first edition was published in 1809, the original imperial edition. Between 1809 and 1830, new editions were issued in different forms. Eighty artists and four hundred coordinators and revisers were appointed to supervise the monumental task of reissuing these new editions. Over the years, a number of paintings and entries were deleted from the original edition. Some of these were reprinted; others were excluded by imperial command.”
“Imperial command?” Yasmine repeated.
“Yes. Some artists and scientists were kept out of the volume and their names expunged.” He nodded. “They were completely forgotten. It was not only the scientific expedition that received this treatment; there are also several military leaders who are never mentioned. The reason may be that they voiced opinions that were unpopular or challenged the beliefs of the army, or ran counter to Napoleon’s policies, or opposed his campaign in Egypt and the Levant.”
