The Girl with Braided Hair

by Rasha Adly

  “It’s the whole system,” he said.

  Sitting at a table on the glass-fronted second floor, they had a wonderful view out to the whole of the garden. The waiter laid the menus on the table and left them alone together. Sherif reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a cardboard box with the Celine logo on it. He handed it to her.

  She smiled cautiously as she took it from him. “What’s this?”

  “I read that the wizards who make perfumes invented a way to imitate the scent of the earth after rain. I know you love the way it smells. It’s a limited edition, made out of rare ingredients.”

  Her eyes shone with joy. She took it out of the box and spritzed her wrist. She inhaled deeply. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I don’t want to shock you,” he said, “but did you know that this smell is caused by a type of bacteria that lives in the soil, and becomes more active after rain?”

  “Nature is strange,” she breathed. “It’s a miracle of creation. Bacteria living in the soil and producing the most wonderful scent?”

  “Yes. You feel the whole world is full of that smell after rain. But to get it into a perfume, that took time and effort and science, just for a few bottles.” He chuckled.

  “I love it,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s talk seriously,” he said. “This game of cat and mouse we’ve been playing has me beat. . . .”

  The waiter arrived with their orders and she pretended to be absorbed in her food, a sudden shyness flooding her.

  “Hasn’t it been long enough?” he prodded her. “Say something. For once in your life, just one time, say something.”

  “What can I say?” she said. “Do you think I’m not sorry for letting you down before? How can you ever trust me again?” Her eyes flickered to the table. “I never had the courage to tell you I loved you, but I never stopped thinking about you. But would you have believed me? Whenever I open my mouth to tell you, something stops me and I can’t say it.” She looked off to the side. “I’ll never forget the day I told you there was someone else. I can’t believe I did that to you.”

  “Do you think if I’d believed you were really in love with him, even for a second, I’d be here with you now?” he said. “I know we were in a slump just then. Maybe I wasn’t the Romeo you dreamed of, the lover who brings flowers and sends poetry and love letters. When I met you I was just coming into a new stage in my life, or you could say I was trying to erase everything I used to be and start fresh by acting differently. That was why I stayed away from anything I saw as frivolous. If I had met you in the world I used to live in, I would have been the lover you dreamed of. I would have made you happy.” He sighed. “I didn’t get it then. A woman always needs to be surprised.”

  He was looking straight into her eyes. His words were arrows straight to her heart. “The day you said there was someone else, yes, I was unhappy, but I knew I was only going to miss you, not lose you. I trusted that one day you’d come back. You can’t twist someone’s arm to make them feel a certain way; you have to let people do what they need to do.”

  There was no need for an answer. All she wanted to do in that moment was hold him.

  They finished their lunch and went for a walk. Through the streets they went until they reached the river. “Now, in front of the Seine, in this place where every inch calls you to love, will you marry me?”

  She smiled. “Of course I will.”

  “What do you say to getting married right here in Paris?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here.”

  “How? What about our families? Our friends? My grandma?” She shook her head. “My grandmother has been so impatient to hear the news. It would break her heart that we got married abroad and didn’t have a wedding. And we need to get so many things ready: furniture, the dress, there’ll be so much to do!”

  “Okay,” he said. “As you’ve gotten to the bottom of that painting now, there’ll be nothing to keep you from your preparations for the wedding.”

  “Yes! I’ll be able to shop in the couple of days I have left. When does your flight leave?”

  “At eleven tomorrow morning.”

  Cairo: August 1801

  The house of Sheikh al-Bakri was shrouded in fear and sorrow. The mother was already in mourning over a fate foretold; Zeinab had lain there since Alton’s passing, neither dead nor alive. Sheikh al-Bakri was an outcast who did not dare leave his house; everyone had abandoned him after there was nothing to be gained from knowing him now he had lost his position. Napoleon had left secretly for France, Kléber had been killed, and Menou had signed the deal for the French presence to leave the country. Sheikh al-Bakri had no more standing, and the flatterers who sought their own interests no longer saw him as a revered imam, but as a base man who sold his religion and his honor. His son had been dismissed from his job, his employer cursing him and his father, the same man who had used to send his greetings to their family. His eldest daughter came back to live in her father’s house after her husband, the son of Sheikh Omar Makram, had divorced her because of her sister’s and father’s bad reputations.

  Al-Bakri did not know that there were men preparing to take vengeance against him and holding meetings to decide his fate. A representative of the Ottoman Empire met with the Wali of Egypt, Muhammad Khosrow Pasha, and several imams, and were holding a trial for him on numerous charges, foremost among which were allowing his daughter, a girl no older than sixteen, to go out with her face unveiled. On a day when the sky was lowery and filled with thick black clouds that obscured the sun, a little before sundown, galloping hooves stopped directly outside the door to the house of Sheikh al-Bakri. Several men of different ages dismounted. With angry footsteps, they strode to the door and knocked. Fatima felt a tremor run through her. The slave girl went to open the door, but Fatima stopped her. “No. Don’t open it.”

  The household, except for Zeinab, gathered in the inner courtyard, exchanging doubtful and fearful glances. The knocking on the door grew harder, escalating into hands slamming against the door and the sounds of kicking feet. No one went to open it. They were all staring at their father. It was his habit to open the door himself when he was at home: he would adjust his turban and drape the hem of his caftan over his shoulder. Then he would clear his throat and rasp out loudly, “Patience, patience!” But now he stood tongue-tied, huddling in a corner like a frightened mouse. He knew who they were and for what purpose they had come.

  The visitors broke down the door with a group of men from the neighborhood. Al-Bakri thought of escape, but it was too late. With faltering steps he went to meet his visitors. A scowling man demanded, “Where is your daughter Zeinab?”

  “Why?” he quavered. “What do you want with Zeinab?”

  “The judge has called on you both.”

  “What does the judge want with Zeinab?” Fatima screamed. “No! Zeinab isn’t going anywhere!”

  The men tromped up the wooden stairs, almost smashing it under their boots as it creaked dangerously. They crashed into the room without knocking. As soon as Zeinab saw them, she realized what was happening. A man pulled her off her bed and another flung her abaya at her, grunting brutishly, “Cover yourself.”

  She could barely walk, surrendering completely to whatever befell her. She went down the stairs, surrounded by several men. Her mother held her tight and screamed at them, “Let my daughter go! Take me instead!” She tried to pull her out of their grip, and one of them slapped her hard. Zeinab stumbled to the ground and clutched at the hem of her mother’s clothing. One of the men reached out a big hand and grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her bodily away from her mother. He threw her into the cart, where her father already sat, his fingers repeatedly adjusting his turban on his head. The people of the neighborhood gathered around the cart. Beating drums and sounding horns, they sang traditional songs of public humiliation, “Pull the turban out of shape! Under it you’ll find an ape!”

  The horse-drawn cart pushed
its way with difficulty through the milling crowd. Through the meshrabiyehs, women and girls watched the procession and poured out bowls of dirty water onto them, while children chased barefoot after the cart, pelting its occupants with pebbles and stones.

  Zeinab remembered Napoleon’s carriage that used to wait outside the door, where she used to ride in all her finery, while the same eyes that were watching from behind the meshrabiyehs longed for the honor of riding in that carriage. Why had none of these men come out back then and asked her to go back home, or made her? Or taken her to their houses and protected her from going to Napoleon? Why now, now that Napoleon was gone and the Campaign had ended, did they find their voices, speaking of honor and decency, raining foul curses upon her and her father? In times gone by, they bent to kiss his hand or the hem of his caftan, and flattered him with compliments and gifts because they knew what he meant to Napoleon, and that the general could not refuse him anything.

  They said nothing all the way. The cart stopped outside the Citadel. Zeinab looked up to see a scaffold, with hangman’s nooses already in place. There were three of them. On each of them was a decapitated head, rotting in silence, mounted in that place as a reminder. She recognized the first head: it was Halim, who had kept a shop in the market that sold tobacco. He had supplied the men of the Campaign with tobacco and liquor. He had been a friend of her father’s, and they had often spent the evening together. Her heart twisted, for now she knew the fate that awaited her. The man yanking her by the arm saw her looking up at the scaffolds. Spitting out his words, he said, “This is what happens to traitors, to everyone who had dealings with the infidel invaders.”

  He dragged her inside by the arm. They went down a long, dark corridor, lit only by pale candles in glass lanterns hanging on the sides of the high walls. Passages led onto passages like an endless labyrinth. Silence enshrouded it all, no sound but their footfall on the flagstones. At last they came to a great room with Ottoman couches. The judge sat upon one, a tray bearing fruit, dates, and sweets before him. He scrutinized her from beneath beetling black brows, asking, “Did Napoleon really take a fancy to this girl?”

  Zeinab had grown dangerously thin since Alton’s death. She was little more than a skeleton, pale and withered like an autumn leaf. “Were you Napoleon’s lover?” he asked.

  She gave no answer. The guard slapped her. The judge asked again, and the same thing happened. He repeated the question, again and again. Every time she refrained from answering, the guard slapped her until blood dripped from her mouth. Finally she slurred out, “I repent.”

  The judge asked her father, “What do you say to your daughter’s confession?”

  He stammered, “She is no daughter of mine. I had no hand in this. Do with her as you will.” The man abandoned his daughter like a sacrificial lamb, as he had previously offered her to Napoleon.

  The judge motioned to the guard, who took her away. The judge ordered her imprisoned in a cell in the Citadel until her execution.

  The guard took her through a heavy wooden door, down a long winding staircase that seemed endless. They arrived at a locked door. He knocked at it and she heard the jangling of keys. The door opened to reveal a giant of a man with a thick mustache and a wild beard down to his chest. His eyes were unbearably cruel, the whole world’s darkness in their black pupils. The guard tossed her to him. “Take good care of her. She was the general’s mistress.”

  The man looked pitilessly at her and grasped her arm hard enough to hurt her. He dragged her past cell after cell, all locked, with a tiny window in them covered by an iron grate. Eyes appeared at the grates to look at the new arrival. She looked around. Massive, impenetrable walls with no way out; only corridors leading into corridors, locked cells on either side. The jailer opened a cell at the end of the passage with one of the massive keys on his ring. He shoved her inside, then locked the door again.

  The cell was dark and cold, with a stinking pail in one corner of it as a toilet. Several women of different ages sat in the cell, each minding her own business, deep in thought. What was certain was that none of them was contemplating her future, for there was none, and their present was as dismal as it could be. They were all lost in their own pasts, perhaps remembering happier times, or looking back with regret, at sins committed, lost opportunities, roads not taken, wondering what they could have done, or not done.

  Zeinab was dying in this place that resembled a tomb. Can one be buried before dying? The cell was opened once every morning. The jailer changed the dirty pail and put out a metal dish filled with murky water and a plate bearing some pieces of dry bread. Zeinab would not eat or drink. She could not remember how long she had been there in this place, nor could she know, for there was no daylight. It seemed like an age. She shriveled even more, until she appeared more dry and brittle than the crusts of bread they gave them. Her lips chapped; her sight dimmed; she could barely see or move.

  One day, not much later, she heard the brutish footsteps of several men approaching, and knew that the moment had come when she would be free of her suffering. Their footsteps came closer and closer. She heard the shriek of the cell door opening. The men’s mutterings increased in volume and the women cried out and screamed. She could not make out their faces or see how many of them there were. All she could see was a mass of humanity. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming need to see her mother, to hold her, to weep in her arms and say goodbye.

  Her hands and feet were bound, along with the other women. They were tied at the ends of ropes behind a cart. The cart drove through the streets, the women dragged behind it over the ground, while a man beat on a brass tray so that everyone would come out and watch them. The cart drove all over the city, followed by little children, pelting the women with every piece of dirt they could get their hands on, while women let out ululations and men shouted insults. Her young once-beautiful body was dragged through the streets, cut and bruised and bleeding. It was sunset. The sun took on the color of parting. It was time for the final sentence to be carried out in a public square, to be seen and heard by everyone. Crowds poured in from everywhere, even from far-off villages and hamlets. It was time to gloat over the women who had surrendered their honor and their virtue to the French. Since Zeinab was the daughter of Sheikh al-Bakri, the gloating would be more extreme, the pleasure keener. Her body trembled in terror. The executioner, clasping his sword, took hold of her. She could see the whole world’s cruelty in his eyes, and lost all hope for a merciful death. She whispered, “Please be merciful.”

  The man laughed mockingly, preparing his tools to send her to the afterlife. She did not know the method by which she would be executed. Would she be hanged? Would she be stoned to death? Would she be disemboweled? She did not know the fate planned for her. She did not know that he had planned to sever her head from her neck.

  The man picked up a handful of dust, checking the texture. The dust should not be too moist or heavy. When the decisive moment came, he would throw dust in the eyes of the person to be executed, making them involuntarily blink and raise a hand to their eyes, at which point the sharp blade would cleave their head from their body. Her head was pounding with terror like an African drum, while every neck was craned, every eye trained on her. Everyone was running to get a better view, crowding in and jockeying for position and elbowing each other, those with a view telling those who could not see, the screams rising in one voice until the cries grew deafening: “Do it! Do it!”

  Zeinab blinked. The noise faded and all was silence. All she could see was him. Alton was standing before her, as handsome as he had ever been, smiling at her. He stepped closer. He touched her hair. He reassured her in her extremity. He motioned to her to follow.

  Her eyes fixed on the endless horizon. She never saw the man as he approached with the sharp blade, pulled her head back, and drew the sword across her neck, slitting her throat. In a few moments, her head was cleaved from her body. The head rolled across the ground with a dull thud, a fountain of blood spurti
ng out. In seconds, the body collapsed, lying peacefully next to the head.

  The crowd erupted. The women ululated, the men applauded, and the children cheered. The executioner lifted the head by the hair and held it out at arm’s length, turning left and right to display it to the crowd, who shouted out in joy and kept cheering in the shadow of death. “The whore is dead! She lost her head!”

  The bodies piled up, one on top of the other, still bleeding. A cart drawn by two horses carried them away to dump them on Muqattam Mountain, while the heads were gathered in a straw basket to be mounted on the walls of the Citadel.

  Barefoot and bare of face and hair, Zeinab’s mother ran after the cart, her features no longer visible now that she had smeared mud on her face, her gallabiya grey from where she had rolled in the dirt. She ran, crying in a barely audible rasp, “Zeinab! My girl!”

  30

  Yasmine’s research had confirmed Zeinab’s relationship to Napoleon and indicated that she had been executed after the Campaign left Egypt. A girl of sixteen, presented by her father as a gift to Napoleon, out of greed for a position as the head of the al-Azhar imams. The great historian al-Jabarti had described her in his chronicles as tall and dark, slim and fragrant. Napoleon had taken a fancy to her when he saw her. She took off her face veil and wore revealing clothes, and was seen getting into the imperial carriage to go to Napoleon’s house.

  The great historian had written in his diaries documenting the event,

  And on Tuesday, August 4, ad 1801, the daughter of Sheikh al-Bakri was brought in, having been one of the women who engaged in debauchery with the French, by two men appointed by the Vizier. They went to her mother’s house in the district of Gudariya after sundown, and brought her and her father and asked her what she did, whereupon she repented. They asked her father what he said, and he said, “She is no daughter of mine,” so they broke her neck.