suppose her husband beats her and tortures her. I don’t suppose she has given birth to a dead baby. I don’t suppose she hates and fears her husband. But I can say none of these things, for these things are not talked about. This peddler woman thinks I am a rich princess.
“With thanks, kind Sayidda,” she says with a smile. I bow to her, leave the others to their purchases, and return to my rooms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aimee and Farouk walked together to the Wagh-el-Birka district. She had returned his jacket to him and thrown a thin scarf of dull-coloured silk around her shoulders. Loose pieces of mud fell away under her shoes as she walked. This was how she had walked with Azi through the Khan el-Khalili bazaar. Together they had tiptoed among seated fruit and tobacco sellers, basket weavers and purveyors of elaborate kilims, buoyed up by their like-mindedness, by their love, breathing in the odour of spices and hookahs, secretly holding hands, always secretly holding hands.
Now she walked with Farouk, down similar streets, inhaling the same scents of the night. It should have been Azi with her, but Azi was dead. She had to tell herself this, had to keep herself from breaking down without him.
Farouk walked protectively beside her; he knew these harets and sharias of old, having walked along them many times. He knew the faces of the locals and the traders, the women and their children. The piece of paper with its encoded messages burned in his top pocket, and he longed to study it. He felt smug about the advantage he now held over Littoni, but for the time being, the girl who walked by his side demanded all his attention. She did not walk quickly but carried herself with determination, her head held high, her eyes alert, as though she expected to see someone—theghost of her husband perhaps. Farouk did not hurry her. Up ahead, a group of soldiers lurched and fell forward towards them, swearing loudly. He steered Aimee gently past them, his hand firmly on her shoulder. Farouk’s touch made Aimee’s heart jolt strangely. A shallow breath caught in her throat and little tingles danced up and down her spine. Her reaction to his touch shocked her. He was a stranger, yet she felt drawn to him. As someone who could help her get justice for Azi, she told herself. To distract herself, she turned her gaze to the noisy cafés, still open and packed with men, playing chess, drinking coffee, smoking hookahs, and talking. She studied the occasional chador-wearing woman with a baby in her arms being ushered home by her stern-looking husband.
“You won’t like what you see at this club,” Farouk said after they had been walking for a while.
Aimee did not know how to answer him. She simply stared ahead, trying to quell the anxiety flooding through her. Her head throbbed with the thought that Azi had been having an affair. She felt so young, so inexperienced. Azi had wanted more than she had been able to give him.
“I need to see her in person,” she said quietly. “Surely you understand that?”
She felt Farouk’s hand reach for hers in the darkness, and she let him take it.
Aimee dared to look at him for a moment. His aged face softened when he met her gaze, becoming fuller, younger, as though he knew how she felt. Perhaps there had been a girl, long ago. Perhaps he understood how distraught she was, how much she had loved Azi.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked him. Farouk fumbled in his pocket, produced one, and lit it for her. He watched her mouth tremble as she took the cigarette between her lips.
“You don’t mind my smoking here in the street?” she asked him. “Azi used to hate it.”
He shook his head and grinned, pointing up the street to the maze of narrow alleys and forbidden passageways.
“The el-G is not far,” he said. “You’d better finish that before we get there.”
Aimee inhaled slowly and looked around her. Everything seemed unfamiliar now. She didn’t know this neighbourhood. Azi
“With thanks, kind Sayidda,” she says with a smile. I bow to her, leave the others to their purchases, and return to my rooms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aimee and Farouk walked together to the Wagh-el-Birka district. She had returned his jacket to him and thrown a thin scarf of dull-coloured silk around her shoulders. Loose pieces of mud fell away under her shoes as she walked. This was how she had walked with Azi through the Khan el-Khalili bazaar. Together they had tiptoed among seated fruit and tobacco sellers, basket weavers and purveyors of elaborate kilims, buoyed up by their like-mindedness, by their love, breathing in the odour of spices and hookahs, secretly holding hands, always secretly holding hands.
Now she walked with Farouk, down similar streets, inhaling the same scents of the night. It should have been Azi with her, but Azi was dead. She had to tell herself this, had to keep herself from breaking down without him.
Farouk walked protectively beside her; he knew these harets and sharias of old, having walked along them many times. He knew the faces of the locals and the traders, the women and their children. The piece of paper with its encoded messages burned in his top pocket, and he longed to study it. He felt smug about the advantage he now held over Littoni, but for the time being, the girl who walked by his side demanded all his attention. She did not walk quickly but carried herself with determination, her head held high, her eyes alert, as though she expected to see someone—theghost of her husband perhaps. Farouk did not hurry her. Up ahead, a group of soldiers lurched and fell forward towards them, swearing loudly. He steered Aimee gently past them, his hand firmly on her shoulder. Farouk’s touch made Aimee’s heart jolt strangely. A shallow breath caught in her throat and little tingles danced up and down her spine. Her reaction to his touch shocked her. He was a stranger, yet she felt drawn to him. As someone who could help her get justice for Azi, she told herself. To distract herself, she turned her gaze to the noisy cafés, still open and packed with men, playing chess, drinking coffee, smoking hookahs, and talking. She studied the occasional chador-wearing woman with a baby in her arms being ushered home by her stern-looking husband.
“You won’t like what you see at this club,” Farouk said after they had been walking for a while.
Aimee did not know how to answer him. She simply stared ahead, trying to quell the anxiety flooding through her. Her head throbbed with the thought that Azi had been having an affair. She felt so young, so inexperienced. Azi had wanted more than she had been able to give him.
“I need to see her in person,” she said quietly. “Surely you understand that?”
She felt Farouk’s hand reach for hers in the darkness, and she let him take it.
Aimee dared to look at him for a moment. His aged face softened when he met her gaze, becoming fuller, younger, as though he knew how she felt. Perhaps there had been a girl, long ago. Perhaps he understood how distraught she was, how much she had loved Azi.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked him. Farouk fumbled in his pocket, produced one, and lit it for her. He watched her mouth tremble as she took the cigarette between her lips.
“You don’t mind my smoking here in the street?” she asked him. “Azi used to hate it.”
He shook his head and grinned, pointing up the street to the maze of narrow alleys and forbidden passageways.
“The el-G is not far,” he said. “You’d better finish that before we get there.”
Aimee inhaled slowly and looked around her. Everything seemed unfamiliar now. She didn’t know this neighbourhood. Azi
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