The Mistress of Nothing (28 page)

And Omar, where was he? Late at night I tested my love for him, as if I was testing a wound; I probed it in order to feel it sting. It was still there, as painful as ever, no sign of it healing. I comforted myself with a series of unlikely scenarios: Omar, Abdullah, and me happily ensconced in our own rooms in the Abu Halaweh Cairo household; Omar, Abdullah, and me with one hundred
feddans
of land in the rich and fertile delta of the Nile; Omar, Abdullah, and me on a grand
dahabieh
floating gently upstream. These scenes, bright and clear for a few moments, crumbled to dust on the floor of my room in Roberto Magni’s hotel. It was an effort to conjure them, keep them vivid. And Lady Duff Gordon never featured in these stories.

Instead, she stalked my dreams. Night after night, always the same dream: my Lady and me sitting together in the French House, the warm spring sun streaming in through the shutters, me reclining half-asleep on the floor cushions, my Lady laughing and gossiping while she brushes my hair, Omar smiling at us both as he pours our mint tea. The little owl sits on the windowsill, blinking.

Then I wake up and I mourn the loss of languor and ease. I mourn the loss of that life, itself a distant dream. But most of all, I mourn the loss of my child, who is, I can’t help but believe, the natural result of that scene.

I WAITED FOUR WEEKS BEFORE I RETURNED TO OMAR’S FATHER’S
house to visit my baby. Four long and awful weeks. I resisted the strongest urge I have ever felt—stronger even than that which pulled me towards Omar in the first place—and I did not visit Abdullah at all during that time. I wanted him to settle into his new home, and I wanted to allow Mabrouka and Omar’s parents time to get to know him in their own way. I wanted my bodily connection to him, my desire to feed my baby, to have gone away. I wanted Abdullah to be loved, to be happy.

After four weeks had passed I allowed myself to make that journey through the streets to Omar’s father’s house. I went first thing in the morning, as I wanted to look fresh and to appear in control of my situation. I did not have long—Roberto Magni and his hotel continued to dominate my waking hours—but I hoped, at least, to see Abdullah for a few moments. I pulled the bell rope and the servant who opened the door recognized me immediately.

This time it was Omar’s mother who greeted me. She took both my hands into hers and smiled and welcomed me.

“Please,” I said, “I know you’ll think me very rude, but may I see Abdullah? Please?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “you must have missed him terribly. We have been waiting for you to return.”

“I wanted to give him, and you, enough time—”

“I know,” she interrupted, “you did the right thing.”

She took me straight to Mabrouka’s private quarters and knocked lightly on the the open door.

“Come in,” Mabrouka said.

We walked into the room. On the floor, taking breakfast around a low table, sat Omar’s wife Mabrouka, Yasmina on one side, my baby Abdullah on the other. He was sitting up on his own—I couldn’t believe my eyes—supported by two cushions, his hands gluey with mashed fruit. He gave his grandmother a broad smile, and then he looked at me.

I couldn’t move. I did not know what I should do.

“Peace be with you,” Mabrouka said.

“Alhamdulillah,”
I replied.

“Please, come and sit with your child. Let me pour you some coffee. Mother,” she said, her voice light but formal, “will you join us?”

And so I sat with them, and I drank coffee, and after a few minutes I took Abdullah onto my lap and he twisted around to look up at me and smiled and reached up and patted my cheek, and I have scarcely felt such bliss before; it was as though I had been in jail and this was my day of release.

“Where are you living?” Omar’s mother asked. “You did not tell us last time you came. We had no way of sending you news.”

I told them where I was living and working.

“I will give Omar your address when we see him,” Omar’s mother said.

“Omar is in Cairo?” I said, and I’m sure my face displayed my shock.

Omar’s mother and Mabrouka exchanged a look. “Yes, he is,” Omar’s mother replied. “At Boulak. He sent a message, but he has not been to see us yet; Lady Duff Gordon has been very unwell. The doctor visits twice a day.”

Omar in Cairo. Omar in Cairo. Hope rose up inside me and I forced it back down again. I couldn’t afford to think about Omar and what his presence in the city might mean for me. I had to focus on Abdullah, on these few moments I could spend with my baby. “Tell me about him,” I said, looking down at my baby. “How does he sleep?”

“He is fine,” Mabrouka said. “He is a most happy and cheerful baby,” and she gave me a warm and open smile.

The time sped by. Before it ended, Mabrouka said, “You must come to see him as often as you like.”

“I will,” I said, “if you will allow me.”

“Of course,” said Omar’s mother, “you must come every day. You are welcome at any time.”

I had no idea if they were simply being polite, but I intended to take up their offer. I would see my child, sometimes only for a few minutes, but I would see Abdullah every day.

A WEEK LATER,
I
WAS ON MY HANDS AND KNEES, SCRUBBING THE
staircase of Roberto Magni’s hotel, when I heard Omar’s voice.

“Sally?”

I heard him say my name. And again. “Sally.”

I sat back in a pool of water and looked up. I was not hallucinating. My husband was standing in front of me.

“You are working here?” Omar asked, his voice hard with anger.

“Omar,” I replied. “Omar!” I stood; my skirt was dripping. “You found me.” I couldn’t believe it. Look at me, I wanted to say: everything has changed since I left Luxor. Do you still love me?

“Why did you stay in Cairo?” Omar asked. His voice was thick; he cleared his throat. “My Lady gave you money to leave.”

I stood in the dim light of the stairwell, brushing down my dress; I could see he was shocked by my appearance. The past weeks had aged me; my face was drawn and lined with fatigue. I was thin and toughened, like a leather strap. “I went to see Hekekyan Bey,” I said, as though this was a proper explanation. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to help me find a more suitable position. Have you heard—has he returned to Egypt?”

Omar shook his head. “You should know better, Sally. Hekekyan Bey will not offer you his influence.”

I frowned. Then I read Omar’s expression, and closed my eyes. “I couldn’t leave,” I said. “Even though I was alone. How could I leave our child? It is bad enough not being able to care for him myself; how could you even think I would leave? I don’t want to work in a place like this, but how else can I survive? Omar,” I said, “I have to stay close to our child.”

“Sally,” Omar said, and I saw all the regret he had ever felt come rushing into his face. “Take this,” he said, and he emptied his purse of money, a small sum, all he was carrying. And before either of us could say another word, he took me into his arms and held me, and our long nights together in Luxor and Cairo came back to us and he pulled me closer and closer into his embrace.

I wanted to live—sleep, dream, wake—in his arms and it was as though I could feel myself growing soft and warm and generous once again, even as we stood together in that mean foyer, our feet in a puddle of filthy water.

Roberto Magni rounded a corner and saw me—his brittle and unfriendly employee—caught up in a luxurious embrace. He coughed loudly, and Omar and I fell apart, and he saw the money I was holding in one hand. “Sally,” he said, in his poor English, “who this?” When I did not reply, he continued, “There’s room upstairs you need clean.” Then he treated Omar to a knowing wink and spoke to him in equally poor Arabic, “Need a room, do you?”

Omar, angered by the man’s insinuation, quickly turned to leave. “I’ll be back,” he said to me.

That night when I had finished my duties, Roberto Magni informed me he was docking my wages because I was using the hotel to earn extra money. “I saw you and Egyptian fellow,” he said and he touched a dirty finger to the side of his dirty nose. “I surprised to see you go with Arab. I thought you’d stick with
Frangi.”

I did not reply. Roberto Magni could think whatever he liked. My child was safe. And I had seen my husband and I knew now that he still loved me.

AND SO MY LIFE CONTINUED LIKE THIS: EARLY EVERY MORNING,
I made my way to the house of Omar’s parents, to spend a few minutes with my baby. The household came to expect me; my arrival was no longer a surprise. The servant, Umm Yasin, who had been with the family for many years, opened the door to me and I walked through the internal courtyard, past the lovely ancient jasmine vine so carefully tended by Omar’s mother, and into Mabrouka’s rooms. A place was laid for me at the breakfast table, a cup of strong sweet coffee, a pastry fresh from the oven room, a ripe fig. I became part of their routine, and no routine has ever been as precious to me. Abdullah sat on my lap, happy, and we taught him to say “Mama” in English. When I entered the room he’d look up and say “Mama” and I thought I would burst from smiling.

Omar’s mother passed Omar’s news on to me. “Lady Duff Gordon’s health is improving.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Omar thinks they’ll be ready to travel to Europe soon.”

I paused. “My Lady will be pleased to be reunited with her family.”

“Omar is able to visit us most afternoons for the time being.”

I looked at Mabrouka, and she looked at me, her gaze steady. “He must be pleased to see Abdullah and Yasmina every day,” I said.

“He is,” Mabrouka replied.

I could not read her; I could not begin to guess what she was thinking.

“Tell us about where you are working,” she said.

“It’s a hotel,” I replied. “A pension.”

“Is it very grand?”

“No, it’s—well, it’s rather small. Only a few rooms. It’s not …” I wasn’t sure what to say; I didn’t know why she was asking me about Roberto Magni’s. “It’s a decent job,” I said. “I need to work.” I turned to Omar’s mother, worried; had I misread the situation all this time? “I can contribute to Abdullah’s upkeep, if you need me to. I’m sorry not to have spoken about this sooner; it did not occur to me.”

Omar’s mother looked as shocked as if I had turned and struck her face. “Daughter, no,” she said, “that’s not what Mabrouka is saying!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, more embarrassed than ever, “what are you asking me?”

Mabrouka looked at me again with that unreadable expression. Then she began to laugh. “Sally!” she said. “I’m just curious! You work in a Cairo hotel. I want to know what it’s like.”

Omar’s mother laughed as well, and so did I, with relief.

“Please,” said Mabrouka, “tell me about what you do.”

And so I told her, and from her response I realized that, although to me it was mundane drudgery, for Mabrouka I might as well be describing life in another century, it was so far removed from her experience. From then on during each of my morning visits I allowed myself to talk a little more; I made sure to bring along an anecdote or two, a story about a guest who could not pay his bill and how Roberto Magni made him give up his wedding ring, or a tale about the puzzling presence of mismatched boots left behind on the floor of a room. Mabrouka rewarded my talk with talk of her own, gossip about the neighbors who made too much noise at night, the scandal involving the daughter next door, the family’s plans for the next holiday feast, and always, endlessly fascinating stories about Abdullah and his every new trick, his every sigh.

My visits never coincided with Omar’s; when he could get away, he came during the afternoon, while my Lady was resting, crossing Cairo on foot at the hottest time of day. I was never told much about these visits, beyond the news he brought: my Lady’s daughter, Mrs. Ross, had been to visit; she was leaving for Europe without my Lady. “Leaving for Europe without my Lady,” Mabrouka said, “what kind of a daughter is she?”

“Mabrouka!” Omar’s mother said.

“Well, it’s true. Her mother is unwell, and still she cannot delay her departure a few weeks?” They looked to me for a reply.

“That’s Miss Janet,” I said. “Miss Janet never changes her mind, nor her plans.”

They were baffled by this and I could not begin to explain.

“Tell me about where you live,” Mabrouka asked another day.

“I live in Roberto Magni’s hotel. I have a small room,” I said. “There’s a European-style bed. There’s a shelf for my things.” I did not say it’s like a prison cell, there is no window, at night with the door locked it is stifling.

“Do you like living there?”

“I have no choice.”

“Will you remain there, always?”

I was not sure what to say. Omar’s mother scooped up Abdullah, who was crawling towards her across the cushions. “Look at him,” she said, “look at how this delicious boy is growing.” Mabrouka’s questions dropped away.

When I left Omar’s family’s house that day I thought about Mabrouka and Omar’s mother. Was I missing something? Were they waiting for me to ask if I could live in their house? Did they think my insistence on living in the place I worked was yet another unfathomable
Frangi
habit? Were they too polite to ask if I really did prefer it that way? How could I discover the truth? I would need to see Omar first. I would need Omar to sort out everything. I would, of course, continue to work for Roberto Magni; I would contribute to the household income, perhaps even enabling Omar’s father to work less himself. I would not need my own room; I could sleep with Abdullah; it would give me such joy to sleep with Abdullah once again, the tiniest space would do. I could be the family servant, that would also suit me, though I wouldn’t want to usurp the old family retainer, that would not be right, but I could make life easier for her in the oven room and the pantry. I could—