I had no reason to suspect anything.”
Farouk stood silently for a moment, watching her, thinking.
She looked so drained, so tired. At last she slumped down in one of the chairs, holding the photograph, not speaking, hardly moving.
She looked up at him. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this woman?”
Farouk walked over to the French doors and stared out through the glass. “I don’t know much really. She runs a club, as I said, in Wassa, called the el-G, a gentleman’s club, a dancing club.”
“Did you ever go with him?”
Farouk shook his head. “No, I never went with him, but I have been there and I have seen him there.”
Aimee closed her eyes and urged him to continue. Farouk watched her carefully. He saw her trembling slightly, every tiny muscle in her face contracting with some inner shock.
“Up until recently the el-G was owned by Horzog Esfahan, a Persian businessman, but I was told that this Fatima Said paid him a very handsome sum to take over the place,” he said.
She listened blindly, her body growing numb. Suddenly, she stood up, her face set. She wanted air, wanted to get away, to get outside. “Take me to this club. I want to see this woman for myself.”
He moved closer, close enough that his scent and the aroma of Turkish cigarettes—the same brand Azi had smoked—tickled her nose.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
She shot him a dark look, then turned away and ran her hands over her face. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I am. Very sure.”
They were quiet for a moment. Aimee turned to examine him, her eyes running over his taut, sculpted face, his furrowed brow, the little beads of perspiration that sparkled on the bridge of his nose.
Music was heard outside, a local moulid. Spirits were high, even at that late hour. Farouk touched her arm. “If you’re sure, I’ll take you.”
“I can’t stay here,” she said, “They might come back.”
“Can you stay with your friend?”
Aimee looked around for her purse. “Sophie? Yes, I’ll stay with her.”
Farouk watched as a mask slowly clamped into place over her features. Iron bars closing down on her soul. He nodded slowly, biting his lip.
“Come on then. We’ll go now.”
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 22, 1919
Tonight, Virginie, my tutor, is attending a costume ball at Shepheard’s, one of the great European hotels here in Cairo, a place that’s a favourite destination of the wealthy. I have written about Shepheard’s before. It is a very popular place, where the British elite come for their holidays.
She tells us all about it, as she has attended a ball there before. I’m entranced and jealous. How I would love to go. How I would love to dance like those European ladies with jewels in my hair, wearing a floor-sweeping gown, my arms and my décolletage bare. I love talking to her about things like this. For the time being, al-Shezira is on the outskirts of Cairo visiting relatives, and I decide to focus on happier things. Some government business will also hold his attention for a few days. The stars are shining on me at the moment.
When the lessons are over and the others have gone back to their apartments, she pulls me aside and hands me a red handkerchief.
I take hold of it, my heart pounding, and I feel suddenly breathless. It is from Alexandre. Our rendezvous is on. I start mentally preparing myself for my escape into the desert and walk around on air for the rest of the day as happy as can be, taking interest in every little detail of the palace, every silly domestic argument, every face that passes me. That evening, as I am imagining Virginie twirling around the ballroom at Shepheard’s, I hear Nawal shouting, “Hezba, where are you?”
I rush out of my rooms to see what the noise is all about. There are Battna, Nawal, and Amina, my half sisters, in the small corridor outside the girls’ apartments.
“A peddler woman has come to the palace. Come
Farouk stood silently for a moment, watching her, thinking.
She looked so drained, so tired. At last she slumped down in one of the chairs, holding the photograph, not speaking, hardly moving.
She looked up at him. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this woman?”
Farouk walked over to the French doors and stared out through the glass. “I don’t know much really. She runs a club, as I said, in Wassa, called the el-G, a gentleman’s club, a dancing club.”
“Did you ever go with him?”
Farouk shook his head. “No, I never went with him, but I have been there and I have seen him there.”
Aimee closed her eyes and urged him to continue. Farouk watched her carefully. He saw her trembling slightly, every tiny muscle in her face contracting with some inner shock.
“Up until recently the el-G was owned by Horzog Esfahan, a Persian businessman, but I was told that this Fatima Said paid him a very handsome sum to take over the place,” he said.
She listened blindly, her body growing numb. Suddenly, she stood up, her face set. She wanted air, wanted to get away, to get outside. “Take me to this club. I want to see this woman for myself.”
He moved closer, close enough that his scent and the aroma of Turkish cigarettes—the same brand Azi had smoked—tickled her nose.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
She shot him a dark look, then turned away and ran her hands over her face. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I am. Very sure.”
They were quiet for a moment. Aimee turned to examine him, her eyes running over his taut, sculpted face, his furrowed brow, the little beads of perspiration that sparkled on the bridge of his nose.
Music was heard outside, a local moulid. Spirits were high, even at that late hour. Farouk touched her arm. “If you’re sure, I’ll take you.”
“I can’t stay here,” she said, “They might come back.”
“Can you stay with your friend?”
Aimee looked around for her purse. “Sophie? Yes, I’ll stay with her.”
Farouk watched as a mask slowly clamped into place over her features. Iron bars closing down on her soul. He nodded slowly, biting his lip.
“Come on then. We’ll go now.”
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 22, 1919
Tonight, Virginie, my tutor, is attending a costume ball at Shepheard’s, one of the great European hotels here in Cairo, a place that’s a favourite destination of the wealthy. I have written about Shepheard’s before. It is a very popular place, where the British elite come for their holidays.
She tells us all about it, as she has attended a ball there before. I’m entranced and jealous. How I would love to go. How I would love to dance like those European ladies with jewels in my hair, wearing a floor-sweeping gown, my arms and my décolletage bare. I love talking to her about things like this. For the time being, al-Shezira is on the outskirts of Cairo visiting relatives, and I decide to focus on happier things. Some government business will also hold his attention for a few days. The stars are shining on me at the moment.
When the lessons are over and the others have gone back to their apartments, she pulls me aside and hands me a red handkerchief.
I take hold of it, my heart pounding, and I feel suddenly breathless. It is from Alexandre. Our rendezvous is on. I start mentally preparing myself for my escape into the desert and walk around on air for the rest of the day as happy as can be, taking interest in every little detail of the palace, every silly domestic argument, every face that passes me. That evening, as I am imagining Virginie twirling around the ballroom at Shepheard’s, I hear Nawal shouting, “Hezba, where are you?”
I rush out of my rooms to see what the noise is all about. There are Battna, Nawal, and Amina, my half sisters, in the small corridor outside the girls’ apartments.
“A peddler woman has come to the palace. Come
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