by Rasha Adly
Yasmine sat transfixed. “What a strange man.”
“One time,” Andrea said, “an Azharite imam brought his daughter with him to the annual celebration of the flooding of the Nile. She caught Napoleon’s eye. She was lovely, dark-skinned and slender. Some people say there was something about her that looked a bit like Josephine. Napoleon found an excuse to get close to her and inhale her scent, and he liked her perfume. He decided that this was the one. The father was fine with it, and he gave the affair his blessing, knowing it would be good for him—the man had dreams too, you understand, and it was Napoleon who would make them come true. Bonaparte got attached to her, and they called her ‘the general’s Egyptian girl.’ He asked to see her from time to time, but no one knows what went on between them.”
“But I read,” Yasmine interjected, “that he was having an affair with one of the officers’ wives at the time?”
“There were three hundred women on the ship,” Andrea said, “at least, the ones officially allowed on the boat to cook, clean, sew, and nurse the sick. Apart from these, there were strict orders that no woman be allowed on board. Still,” he half-smiled, “several of the officers’ wives and girlfriends disguised themselves as soldiers and officers and got on the boat. The wife of General Fauré was one of them—a beautiful woman named Pauline, blond-haired and blue-eyed, irresistible in her husband’s military uniform. Napoleon saw her at a soirée and was surprised to see one of his generals’ wives in Egypt. He decided to discipline her and her husband, but she flirted with him and pleaded with him to forgive them, and he forgave her because he was attracted to her. He never let anything stand in his way when he wanted something, no matter what it cost: he sent her husband off to battle to get him out of the way. During a party hosted by General Dupuy, the governor of Cairo, some coffee spilled on her dress and she went upstairs to change. Napoleon offered to accompany her and they disappeared for quite some time. After that, she moved to a house close to his in the neighborhood of Ezbekiya, and he had her brought to see him from time to time. He didn’t even try to be secretive about it, as though he wanted Josephine to find out. Pauline’s husband divorced her and Napoleon made her a promise of marriage.”
“Did he marry her?”
“Of course not,” replied Andrea. “He even left the country without telling her or anyone, in secret, and left General Kléber to rule in his stead. Bonaparte and Kléber had been sworn enemies: now everyone to whom Napoleon had been close was on the list of persona non grata. Pauline was at the head of that list. When she learned that Napoleon was gone, she went to Kléber and asked him for permission to return to France. He agreed immediately, not to please her but to embarrass Napoleon, since Kléber knew she was not a woman who forgave easily. When she arrived in France, she tried to see Napoleon, but he avoided her and wouldn’t see her. He gave her a hefty sum and a house outside of Paris to be rid of her pestering.” He smiled. “Later, she married a man from the East who had been a commander in the Ottoman army, and spent her life painting and writing novels. As she grew older, she became eccentric, wearing men’s clothes and smoking a pipe. She died in 1869 at ninety, fifty years after Napoleon’s death. But she never forgot their affair, and talked about it until the day she died.”
“That’s not unusual,” Yasmine mused. “Love is like that.”
“Well, even if she loved him, her feelings weren’t returned,” said Andrea. “When he left, he took a slave called Rostom with him instead of her.”
“Rostom?”
“Yes. Come. I want to show you a painting of him in one of the exhibition halls.”
Soon, Yasmine stood transfixed before the painting of a handsome middle-aged man, attired in the French style with an Arab turban upon his head. “He was originally from Georgia,” said Andrea, “and he was bought from Constantinople by a Mamluk prince and ended up in Cairo. He was freed and made part of the Mamluk cavalry. After the French Campaign forced the Mamluks to flee, he went to work for Imam al-Bakri in Cairo. Al-Bakri made a gift of him to Napoleon. He served the general for fifteen years, traveling with him all over the world. He was his secret-keeper, personal guardian, and secretary. He always wore that Oriental turban and walked at the head of every procession. He even wore it to Napoleon’s coronation. Look, there he is in this painting of the coronation. Napoleon always liked to be seen in his company because his presence reminded everyone of his conquest of Egypt. The Parisians took a liking to him and would go out just to catch a glimpse of him at the emperor’s twice-daily parade in the morning and at sunset. Napoleon would sit in his closed carriage drawn by several horses and surrounded by eight mounted guards glaring at everyone in sight, dressed in embroidered uniforms and sporting Damascene swords decorated with jewels. Rostom would lead the procession on a proud Arabian horse, displaying the muscles in his arms and back, a great white turban of glossy silk around his head. When the procession went by, people would yell, ‘Rostom! Rostom!’ and forget to call out for Napoleon.”
A secretary came in, telling Andrea he was needed. He left, gesturing to the paintings. “I’ll leave you with these for a moment.”
Cairo: August 1799
Grief and mourning lay over Sheikh al-Bakri’s house like a shroud. Zeinab had fallen ill and was lying in bed, too weak to stand. She had stopped eating and speaking, and no one knew why. Fatima knew that the fortune-teller’s prophecy was coming true: here was her daughter at death’s door. All the prescriptions and cures of the physicians and the spice merchants had failed, and the prayers and talismans of the holy men had come to naught.
When Zeinab had come home after her meeting with Alton, tears flowed silently from her eyes. Her mother asked, “What happened?” She had not been able to tell her that she was head over heels in love with a man—a Frenchman who painted the people in the streets like those her mother called “maniacs,” and that he had loved her in return, perhaps the only one who had truly loved her in this life, so much that her name had been on his lips as he lay dying.
She could not stop thinking of him since their last moment together, as if her memory would only hold his image as he lay dying. A few days later, Rostom told her, “It’s over. He’s dead.” The words had struck her like a thunderbolt: she hadn’t known that words could have the power to do this, to turn to flames that destroyed her hopes like wildfire; to strike like a bullet at the heart, to maim like an errant arrow. She had never let go of his letter, the one that only said I love you, and her grief only increased.
*
Before he secretly left for France, Napoleon sent for her. Had he missed her, or did he only want to say goodbye? In any case, they sent word that she was ill and could not leave her bed; but he was unconvinced, and sent Rostom to bring her to him, even if she were ill, sitting in his room waiting for her. There was a knock at the door and he smiled, thinking it was her: but his brow knitted to see that it was Pauline. He nodded. “You seem to be waiting for someone,” she said.
He looked away without answering.
“All right. But let me tell you something. The girl you’re waiting for came here a few days ago. What a pity, it wasn’t you she asked after. She came looking for another man.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“The painter, Alton,” she sneered. “Poor girl, her voice was shaking so with love when she said his name!”
His eyes blazed. “Alton? But how? How could he dare?” Jealousy swept him, but not jealousy over her; it was over his own self. A girl whom he had invited into his room was his private property, and no one else had any right to look at her. He burst out of his room, yelling at his private secretary like a madman, “Go and bring me the painter Alton at once!”
His secretary informed him that he had died a few days ago in quarantine after contracting the plague. The man had barely finished speaking when Rostom hurried in. “I found Zeinab very ill. I would have carried her and brought her here, but they said it might be the plague, so I didn’t bring her. I feared she might
infect you.”
“The plague?” whispered Napoleon. He burst into frenzied pacing as was his habit when deeply disturbed, his heels clicking on the floor. He would not get his revenge on the couple; Alton had been snatched away by death, and she was well on her way to it.
A few days later, Napoleon returned to France in secret, only informing his most trusted generals. He set off by boat at dawn one day, without anyone knowing that the man who had come filled with hopes and dreams of becoming king of the Orient was on board, slinking away after these dreams had foundered on the shores of reality. He had lost his battles, his soldiers were dead, and there was no longer any reason to stay.
After Napoleon’s departure, rumors flew that Zeinab had fallen ill because her lover had abandoned her and left without her. Neither she, nor her mother and father, nor any other member of her family, was able to escape the whispers and winks of the neighbors. Napoleon had discarded their daughter and taken Rostom, his faithful servant, with him instead.
26
She walked through the exhibition halls until she came to a glass case that contained two skulls, one marked “Suleiman al-Halabi, criminal,” and the other “Kléber, hero.” She smiled wryly. Had Suleiman al-Halabi, who assassinated Kléber, really been a criminal? He had rid the Egyptians of a dark and dismal fate, and as a result been executed in the most horrific way: the khazouq, impalement with a metal spear. She was seized with the sudden urge to break the glass and swap the placards, so that each would be in its proper place.
The sound of his footsteps behind her brought her out of her thoughts. “I got a phone call about the painting,” he said. “The tests are being run. The results will be out in two days at most.”
“That’s good news,” she said, “but I have to go now. Thank you for your time.”
He bent over her hand to kiss it. “You are welcome at any time.”
She was starving, so she went to a nearby restaurant and sat at a table for one, watching the people go by. She saw a pair of lovers kissing, undeterred by the noise and the passersby. There was no reason the sight should make her think of him. Her thoughts came and went. Where was he now, she wondered? Was he with her? What were they doing?
But why should she give in to her thoughts? Why shouldn’t she dial his number and put an end to her musings? She had missed his voice and the sight of his face. She decided to Skype him so that she could see him; but there was no reply. She called his phone, but it was off. She was overcome with conflicting emotions: jealousy, worry, unhappiness. But she did not want these feelings to ruin her pleasure at being in her favorite city.
She paid the check and went for a walk along the Seine, to experience everything she loved about Paris: to breathe its air, to embrace its history, to inhale the perfume of its elegance. The Turkish author Orhan Pamuk tells us that every city has its voice, and the voice of Paris is the whine of the Metro. To her, the voice of Paris was the echo of history.
The more time passed, bringing her closer to her meeting with her father, the more nervous she felt. She could just not go, and change her hotel for another. But she did want to see him. She was eager to see how he looked after all these years, and where life had taken him since he had packed his things and left, never to return. He had not abandoned them; in fact, he had been adamant about taking the girls with him. It was Yasmine and Shaza who had refused to go and live with him. They preferred to stay with their grandmother, who had stood up to him like a lion, refusing to allow him to take them away. He had not been in a position to insist on his right to raise them, and so he had quietly left.
She arrived at the Café du Monde exactly on time, and looked at the tables, wondering if she could see him. She would surely recognize him, no matter how much he had changed. He was her father.
He was not waiting for her. She sat, eyes moving between the revolving door of the café and the wall clock. She ordered a café au lait and browsed on her phone to calm her nerves.
The hands on the clock read 8:15 when the revolving door finally regurgitated him. She saw him looking around, searching for her. Would he recognize her after all this time? She had changed completely now; she had been just a little girl with her hair in braids when he had left, and today she was a woman.
It only took him a few seconds to recognize her. He headed for her table, his steps weak. His hair was shot through with white: his face was sagging and his eyelids drooped. He wore a brown woolen coat and black oxfords, still elegantly dressed after all these years. The closer he came to her table, the faster her heart beat until she thought it would burst right out of her chest. He stood there looking at her for a few moments, his face morphing into a succession of expressions—astonishment, bewilderment, joy, anxiety—like a man who has been looking for something and at last has found it.
She found herself rising from her seat to embrace him. His eyes filled with tears and he stroked her hair, whispering her name over and over sorrowfully.
They sat there for a long time. They spoke for a long time about the affairs of her life and his. She noticed that his hand was trembling so hard that he ended up spilling his coffee down his jacket. “Have you seen a doctor about that?” she asked.
“Yes, several. They said my nerves have a severe inflammation brought on by stress and worry and, uh, unhappiness.” He tried for a smile. “Oh, it’s much better now. I couldn’t walk properly or drive or write. I couldn’t work for some time; I kept changing jobs and moving from place to place. It’s why I settled here.”
“Did you ever think of coming home to Egypt?”
His face filled with sorrow and pain. “Often,” he admitted. “But at the last minute I always changed my mind. I can’t set foot in that country again. Everywhere there are memories. Even the way the air smells stirs up memories I’m not strong enough to resist. You can see I’m not built for endurance any more.” Then he asked her about her own affairs and her sister’s, how they had been living, and she told him everything.
They fell into a silence that seemed to last a long time. Each of them seemed to disconnect and lose themselves in their own thoughts; the place had quieted down and the hubbub around them had subsided. Weakly, he quavered, “I don’t want to go into details. But I want you to know that I never loved another woman.” He added, “I believe you’re mature enough to know that passing fancies have nothing to do with love. Your mother wasn’t just my wife. She had my heart.”
Your passing fancy, she wanted to scream at him, made a woman kill herself. But what good would it do?
They shook hands goodbye. Each of them opened their umbrella and took shelter underneath it, then went their separate ways.
27
After today, she definitely needed a rest. She had been tired to start with, and her meeting with her father had pushed her from fatigue into exhaustion.
The hotel lobby was crowded with tour groups, both arriving and departing. She slipped her card into the door and when it swung open, the room smelled strongly of a wonderful perfume. She went straight into the bathroom for a hot shower—just what she needed before she went to sleep. She reached for the robe and found that there were two of them, one pink and the other white. What if he were here with her, sharing this comfortable room? The soft light, the paintings on the walls, the comfy armchairs, the gauzy curtain over the window fluttering to reveal the Eiffel Tower lit by night—everything about it
was romantic.
After her shower, she flung herself down on the bed and started flipping through the TV channels. She found her favorite song by Dalida, “Nostalgia,” playing, so she turned up the volume and sang along. Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door. She turned down the sound. Oh, no, she thought, I must have disturbed someone with the noise. She raised her voice without getting out of bed. “Who
is it?”
No one answered. She got out of bed and stood by the door. “I said, who is it?”
There was still no answer. She opened the door a crack. Through the
narrow opening, she saw a bouquet of flowers. She flung the door open to find him standing there.
Her heart nearly stopped to see him. He looked even more handsome in a winter coat and black sneakers, a purple scarf around his neck. Was it really him standing there or was she imagining it? Could her incessant thoughts of him since her arrival in Paris have summoned him here? When we want some things and wish for them sincerely, they can come true—and here he was before her in the flesh, with his subtly handsome features and slim build. She cast every caution to the wind, took leave of what remained of her senses, and threw herself into his arms.
He held her tightly and kissed her hair and face, his lips seeking out hers. She wished she could stop time and keep this moment forever. It was the most wonderful surprise. At last they drew apart, and he smiled at her as he shrugged his way out of his coat and scarf. He sat on the chair by the window. The curtain rippled, revealing more of the view. He looked at her. Her hair was still wet, her face innocent and fresh without makeup, like a flower when it first blossoms. She perched on the arm of his chair. He pulled her hand to him and buried it between both of his own, then pulled her into his lap. She leaned her head against his chest. He was so close that she could hear the beating of his heart.
