on, let’s go and see her.”
Nawal drags at my arm, her face lit up with excitement.
“Rachid has spoken to her and has gone to get Uluk’s approval. Habrid will not find out. The peddler is selling little bottles of ink, perfumes, and paper. I thought you would want to see her. Come on, hurry up.”
Rachid appears. I am glad he is here.
“Has Uluk agreed?” I say. “How can we be sure Habrid will not find out?” I try to sound like I am in charge, but Rachid pats me on the arm and turns to lead the way.
“Just a quick look, Mesdemoiselles,” Rachid says, laughing. “It is late and I have strict orders to send you off for your beauty sleep as soon as possible.”
Just then Anisah, my maid, appears. She is as excited as I am. We love to buy things together, and even though she is my maid, she is more like my sister. She often accompanies me when we are allowed to go on excursions to the local souks. I link arms with her and we walk together. Anisah is a pretty girl. The whites of her almond-shaped eyes contrastshockingly with their charcoal colour, and her cherubic face reminds me of that of a very small child. She is beautiful really, slender but shapely with small pert breasts that often get an admiring glance from Rachid. Sometimes I can actually admit I am a little jealous, but Rachid is not my amour, I keep reminding myself. He does not make my heart pound the way Alexandre does.
We find the peddler in the ladies’ hall. The woman stands grim-faced between two palace guards. I examine her face, her features. Peddler women are reputed to be able to read minds—to tell the truth from deceit—and I’ve been told I have a deceitful face. Perhaps the old woman has heard rumours about the Sarai and the “unsettled one” who lives within its walls and has come to examine the specimen for herself. But I try to ignore my feelings because I am eager to inspect the nibs and inks she is selling, lovely treasures, as important to me as the oxygen I breathe. I want to write about everything that happens to me.
Uluk arrives and we are allowed to approach the woman. Uluk hates Habrid, so he is glad to help us out. The peddler woman is shrouded in heavy robes. She greets us with a bow, kneels down on the floor, and lays out a swathe of silks on which she places a selection of beautiful bottles, ivory-boned nibs, and marbled papers.
I gasp in amazement at the beautiful colours: sepia, honey, rose, and dusky grey. I can hear Maman’s words in my head.
“People will talk about you even more than they do already, Hezba.”
The old woman tells us she is a peasant from the country, but she was once blessed by the khedive himself and is admired for her wisdom and her ability to recite suras from the Qur’an.
She must have been beautiful once, this peddler woman. Perhaps she is, as she says, much admired. But she looks tired now, and I feel sorry for her. I ask Rachid to bring her some refreshment.
“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” she says. “I simply ask for your help to feed my family. My wares are qualityand inexpensive. Nowhere else in all of al-Qahire will you find such beautiful things. No souk sells these goods, no other peddler. I beg you, Sayyidas, please buy whatever you want.”
I cup the little bottles in my hands and close my fingers around them, feeling the warmth of the glass. I pick up some of the paper and stroke its silky surface. I handle the bone attached to the pen nibs. Then I open a flat parcel filled with pages of different hues, a hundred pages at least, held together in a little folder of their own.
“Here,” I say, handing her more money than she needs with a little extra for baksheesh. “I will buy all of this,” I add with a sweep of my hand.
I wish I could tell her I am like her, that although I live in a palace and wear beautiful clothes and have everything I want, I am unhappy. I wish I could tell her I would gladly change places with her. I don’t
Nawal drags at my arm, her face lit up with excitement.
“Rachid has spoken to her and has gone to get Uluk’s approval. Habrid will not find out. The peddler is selling little bottles of ink, perfumes, and paper. I thought you would want to see her. Come on, hurry up.”
Rachid appears. I am glad he is here.
“Has Uluk agreed?” I say. “How can we be sure Habrid will not find out?” I try to sound like I am in charge, but Rachid pats me on the arm and turns to lead the way.
“Just a quick look, Mesdemoiselles,” Rachid says, laughing. “It is late and I have strict orders to send you off for your beauty sleep as soon as possible.”
Just then Anisah, my maid, appears. She is as excited as I am. We love to buy things together, and even though she is my maid, she is more like my sister. She often accompanies me when we are allowed to go on excursions to the local souks. I link arms with her and we walk together. Anisah is a pretty girl. The whites of her almond-shaped eyes contrastshockingly with their charcoal colour, and her cherubic face reminds me of that of a very small child. She is beautiful really, slender but shapely with small pert breasts that often get an admiring glance from Rachid. Sometimes I can actually admit I am a little jealous, but Rachid is not my amour, I keep reminding myself. He does not make my heart pound the way Alexandre does.
We find the peddler in the ladies’ hall. The woman stands grim-faced between two palace guards. I examine her face, her features. Peddler women are reputed to be able to read minds—to tell the truth from deceit—and I’ve been told I have a deceitful face. Perhaps the old woman has heard rumours about the Sarai and the “unsettled one” who lives within its walls and has come to examine the specimen for herself. But I try to ignore my feelings because I am eager to inspect the nibs and inks she is selling, lovely treasures, as important to me as the oxygen I breathe. I want to write about everything that happens to me.
Uluk arrives and we are allowed to approach the woman. Uluk hates Habrid, so he is glad to help us out. The peddler woman is shrouded in heavy robes. She greets us with a bow, kneels down on the floor, and lays out a swathe of silks on which she places a selection of beautiful bottles, ivory-boned nibs, and marbled papers.
I gasp in amazement at the beautiful colours: sepia, honey, rose, and dusky grey. I can hear Maman’s words in my head.
“People will talk about you even more than they do already, Hezba.”
The old woman tells us she is a peasant from the country, but she was once blessed by the khedive himself and is admired for her wisdom and her ability to recite suras from the Qur’an.
She must have been beautiful once, this peddler woman. Perhaps she is, as she says, much admired. But she looks tired now, and I feel sorry for her. I ask Rachid to bring her some refreshment.
“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” she says. “I simply ask for your help to feed my family. My wares are qualityand inexpensive. Nowhere else in all of al-Qahire will you find such beautiful things. No souk sells these goods, no other peddler. I beg you, Sayyidas, please buy whatever you want.”
I cup the little bottles in my hands and close my fingers around them, feeling the warmth of the glass. I pick up some of the paper and stroke its silky surface. I handle the bone attached to the pen nibs. Then I open a flat parcel filled with pages of different hues, a hundred pages at least, held together in a little folder of their own.
“Here,” I say, handing her more money than she needs with a little extra for baksheesh. “I will buy all of this,” I add with a sweep of my hand.
I wish I could tell her I am like her, that although I live in a palace and wear beautiful clothes and have everything I want, I am unhappy. I wish I could tell her I would gladly change places with her. I don’t
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