Authors: Ahdaf Soueif
The Map of Love (33 page)
Normally women are not admitted to her Salon, but I expressed such curiosity when I heard of it that Eugénie (Madame Rushdi) persuaded her husband to ask the Princess’s permission for me to attend. Permission duly granted, I accompanied Hussein Pasha there tonight
.
There were maybe ten gentlemen there, Hussein Pasha and a Mr Amin being the only Egyptians. Our own Mr Young was there (he recounted a most amusing story that Mabel Caitland had told him. It appears that while shopping for some necessities at Hanods on her last visit to London she had fallen into conversation with an American lady tourist. After a while the lady, understanding that her new acquaintance did not live permanently in London, asked where she was from. ‘From Egypt,’ said Miss Caitland. ‘Why, isn’t that wonderful,’ the American lady said, ‘and you not black at all!’) and also Mr Barrington, two French, two Italians, a German and a Russian. I see you frown, but since the Princess was there it was not improper, surely? She is an extraordinary lady: she wore a skirt and blouse in European fashion, her hair was coloured exceeding black, she smoked incessantly and spoke in a husky drawl in French, English, Turkish and Italian (using Arabic only to speak to the maids). She was amused by me, I think, and insisted on referring to me as ‘la petite veuve’ and ‘la veuvette’. The talk flew wildly from Feminism to the Cinématographe (of which apparently there are regular performances in Cairo and Alexandria) to the naiveté of Americans to the Boxer Rebellion to the interpretation of dreams to Karl Marx to the most recent discovery of Egyptian mummies — and heaven knows what else. And all the while the champagne corks were popping. Suddenly she calls in one of her maids (they are all dressed in the most sumptuous silk robes) and gives an order and without further ado a small ensemble is gathered of musicians with various instruments, of which the only one at all familiar to me was the lute
—
but the most important one of all was a kind of drum, held under
the arm and played with the fingers and palms of both hands. Another order and one of the maids
—
an exceedingly beautiful girl — moves to the middle of the room and starts performing an Oriental Dance. I will spare you the description but I found it a most fascinating mixture. The Egyptian gentlemen looked faintly bored, the British faintly embarrassed, but the others were very animated and the Russian and the German, not content with clapping, must needs get up and join the girl. It was a wonderful sight to see the two big bearlike men try to imitate the sinuous twists and turns of the sequined dancer
.
The dance over, more champagne is called for, and cups of Turkish coffee and Italian liqueurs, and everybody goes quiet for a while when suddenly the Princess cries, ‘Look at the little veuvette, how happy she looks! Won’t one of you Englishmen of the red blood snap her up before she falls for one of our handsome young Egyptian Nationalists with the dark eyes and the mustachios?’ And beneath the laughter I felt a certain discomfort in the room. I am sure she knew what she was doing for she looked most wickedly amused
.
I doubt I shall be going back there, for Madame Rushdi can only ask it of her husband once and I doubt I shall find another sponsor. And besides, I do not think I could befriends with the Princess — or rather I do not think she could be friends with me — I am a little too ordinary for her, I fear. Now you, my dear Caroline, would be another matter entirely —
Cairo
25 April 1901
Dear Sir Charles
,
I am so glad to receive yours of the 18th and to learn that our friends spoke well of me to you. Although I do think Sir Hedworth Lambton’s comments were more flattering than I deserve
.
I am amazed that you say you had a long conversation with him about Urabi and that he had seen him three years ago in Ceylon. When we dined here he made no mention whatsoever of that
—
which is not strange in itself, but you would not have
thought he knew him or had any Nationalist sympathies at all.
Perhaps it is not so strange. I certainly find it most difficult to speak of my Egyptian friends to my English ones here. When I mentioned having been to the Opera with Madame Rushdi, Lord Cromer went quite stiff with disapproval and Harry Boyle took me aside afterwards and said to me ‘You know she has turned Mohammedan?’ as though that placed her outside the boundaries of polite society
.
I have tried — since what they know they seem to know from hearsay only — to tell them about my experience. And they appear to listen but then resume their conversation as though I had not spoken. I tried — when two ladies were commiserating on the dreariness of having to go to yet another of their Harem visits
—
to tell them of the ladies I have met and they simply seemed annoyed, as though the women here were tiresome enough being in the Harem and would only be doubly tiresome by seeking to get out of it!
My dear Sir Charles, I understand so much more now of what I used to hear you say. I have started to believe that what we are doing is denying that Egyptians have a ‘consciousness of themselves’ — indeed that was what Mr Young said in that scene by the Pyramids I transcribed for you many months ago
—
and that by doing so we settle any qualms of conscience as to our right to be here. So long as we believe that they are like pets or small children, we can remain here to ‘guide them’ and help them ‘develop’. But if we see that they are as fully conscious of themselves and their place in the world as we are, why then the honourable thing is to pack up and go — retaining perhaps an advisory role in economic matters — which I think the Egyptians themselves would wish
.
It is all quite confusing — and, if not confusing, terrible. I wish you could be here and I could share my thoughts and experiences with you in a more immediate manner. I know it would benefit me greatly and I am sure would provide you with some interest. For the moment, though, I have to be content to be your faraway daughter
,
30 April
I am grown less and less comfortable with my British friends. Mr M and Mr W both hold sympathetic opinions, indeed the former said only yesterday that we were ‘emasculating’ the Egyptian upper classes to ensure they would be unfit to rule. He then begged my pardon — he had not meant to use such strong words. Mrs Butcher continues to be my friend but I cannot speak even to her of what I feel. For Lord Cromer, I tried to interest him in what my Egyptian friends desire for the education of women and he said that if I knew Egypt better I would know that the religious leaders would never agree to women being encouraged out of their lowly status, and he would not hear another word
.
At the mention of Cromer’s name Layla’s face grew hard and when I pressed her she said, ‘Lord Cromer is a patriot and he serves his country well. We understand that. Only he should not pretend that he is serving Egypt.’
2 May
The days pass, and the happiness I felt in the Sinai has shrunk and compacted itself into a knot of misery lodged underneath my heart. Every morning I wake to its heaviness weighing me down and then the thought: he has not written. He has not called. I believe I know now that he will not
.
5 May
They say the heat of the summer is soon to be upon us and I am thinking of returning to England. I have grown to love Layla dearly and little Ahmad also. I am also fond of the other ladies I have met through her. But English society is no longer so pleasant to me — apart from that of James, who continues to be my good friend and urged me just the other day to ‘Buck up, old girl’. But I cannot seem to shake off this restless unhappiness. I have told myself that I imagined a feeling that did not exist. That for him I was nothing more that an eccentric Englishwoman to whom he was obliged to be courteous while she was in his care. That he does not give a thought for me
.
Yet I cannot stop looking for him every time I am in the street
,
or hoping to see him every time I visit his sister, or expecting to find a note every time I come back to the Hotel Perhaps the only way to make an end of all this is to place myself far away in England. To go home
.
A knock on the door. A letter is delivered. Anna breaks open the seal:
Cairo
5 May
Madame,
I understand from my sister that your present intention is to travel; to return to England.
I have decided, after long consideration, to write to you. We have travelled together, and I hope we have become friends sufficiently to — my dear Lady Anna, let me dispense with attempts to be clever or discreet. I am in love with you. There. It is said. For many, many years I have believed it was my fate never to say these words. A long time ago I had hoped, as all young men hope — no, I had more than hoped, I had confidently
expected
to be overtaken by those feelings I had read so much about. It never happened. And now it has.
I have tried to convince myself it is an illusion. I do not really know you — perhaps can never really know you. I have told myself it is the foolishness of a man seeing his old age draw near, and afraid, afraid to have missed that which poets would have us believe is the most transforming of experiences — is the essence of life itself. But I do not believe that this is merely my fear or my fantasy fastening itself on you; it is you. You yourself, Anna, with your violet eyes, your slender wrists, your way of sitting absolutely still and listening and watching with your head held high, your frank look, your fearless questioning, the notes of your voice, the grace of your movements — but I forget myself.
I have — you may have noticed — since we came back from our journey, avoided seeing you. I will not tell you
with what difficulty and at what cost. There has not been a moment when my heart has not whispered of your whereabouts: she is visiting your sister, go to her; ride past Shepheard’s Hotel, she may be sitting on the terrace; it is Sunday, ride past the Mu’allaqah. I have resisted and would have resisted still, but that my sister came to see me. And she has led me to believe that perhaps a word from me — a letter, such as this one — would not be unwelcome.
My dearest Anna, for this you are whether you will or no, I am most sensible — I am sure you know this — of all the circumstances, all the considerations that are at work against us. I say ‘us’ before I even get your response! This will bear out whatever you may have heard of my supposed arrogance. But believe me, dear, sweet Anna, you would not find me arrogant or proud or impatient if I could truly call myself yours
Sharif al-Baroudi
PS I will ask the bearer of this letter not to wait for a reply. This is to give you time to consider your answer. I will be waiting.
And there is the hushed moment, not quite understanding, not quite believing, the hurried glance through the paper once again, the wave of joy so powerful it shakes the heart like grief, the rush to the window, the turning back:
‘Emily, Emily, run and see if that messenger is still there.’
But he is not there. True to his orders, he has gone, and now there is nothing but to pace the floor and wait for the morning, to fold the letter, then open it and read it once again, and again, and again.
‘Why, madam, whatever is the matter? You’ll make me pull your hair like this.’
‘It’s enough, Emily, you’ve brushed it enough —’ shaking her head impatiently — ‘I’ll just braid it now, and you go to bed. Oh and Emily, don’t pack any more. Let’s wait a while. Oh, and is my blue silk not packed?’
‘Not yet, madam.’
‘Good. I shall want it in the morning. Thank you, Emily. Good night.’
He loves her. Circumstances and considerations — what are those? The whole world recedes and there is room for only one thought: he loves her. She had not misunderstood him. She is not an eccentric and a burden. He has been thinking of her as she has of him. Above her bed the broad fins whirl gently; the night will pass and morning will come and he loves her.
Wandering between two worlds … one dead
The other powerless to be born.
Matthew Arnold
I sit here, holding my great-uncle’s letter in my hand. I imagine him sitting at his desk to write it. He has been standing at the window of his study in his house at Hilmiyya — the house that had stood next to ours. What is he wearing? I can only imagine him in European dress, for that is how both Anna and his sister describe him, and that is what he wears in the portrait hanging in Tawasi. Besides, I have never seen my father or my brother in the old costume of an Egyptian gentleman. I lay his letter out on the table and wonder once again at the things that survive us. He was my age when he wrote it: a man, tall and vigorous and alive, a man who filled a room when he entered, who thought and spoke and suffered and loved and — all that is gone and this piece of paper remains. The paper that he smoothed out and wrote on, fast and deliberately, with a broad-nibbed pen. The ink is brown now but you can see the strength and control in the hand: the letters upright, the strokes sharp, the words each within its definite space. I am half in love with him, I believe — with my own great-uncle.
I have heard his story from my father, who more or less worshipped him as a child, and from my mother, who never met him but heard of him from our cousins in
Ein el-Mansi. His history is there in al-Rafi and Hussein Amin and other chronicles of the times and his own writings are in
al-Ahram, al-Liwa
and, later,
al-Garidah
. In Layla’s account of him I see my own brother, and in Anna’s I find the dark, enigmatic hero
of Romance. And now it falls to me to weave all these strands together and write Sharif Basha al-Baroudi as the man I imagine he must have been.