door, asking for arms, influence, money – all of which I politely refused.
“Your city is held by the infidel!” they exclaimed. “How long until a Frenchman violates your wife?”
“I really couldn’t say,” I replied. “How long did it take until they violated yours?”
They left, muttering against my impiety, but their comings and their goings were already being watched, and when the revolt began and the cannon fired and the heavens cracked and Napoleon himself gave the order to blast down the walls of the Great Mosque and massacre every man, woman and child who had taken refuge inside, my name was called in the round-up of the living dead amid the thunder-blasted carnage of the Cairo streets.
The teenage boy, now grown to a man, whose body I had first inhabited when I came to inspect the household of al-Mu’allim came running to me. “Master,” he exclaimed, “the French are coming for you!”
My wife stood by, silent and straight. I turned to her, said, “What should I do?” and meant the question, for to become some French officer – the obvious recourse – would in that single breath, that second of transition, end the life I had, all that I had lived to obtain. “What should I do?”
“Al-Mu’allim must not be found in this city,” she replied, and it was the first time in six years that she had looked at me, but spoken my body’s name. “If you remain, the French will take you and kill you. There are boats on the river; you have money. Leave.”
“I could return…”
“Al-Mu’allim must not be found,” she repeated, a flash of anger pushing at her voice. “My husband is too proud and lazy to run.”
It was the closest she had come to admitting my nature, for though her fingers were in mine, her breath mixed with my breath, she spoke of my body as if it were some other place.
“What about you?”
“Bonaparte wants, even now, to prove that he is just. He puts up signs across the city, which proclaim ‘Do not put your hopes in Ibrahim or Muhammad, but put your trust in he who masters empires and creates men.’”
“That doesn’t inspire me to believe in anything,” I replied.
“He will not murder a widow. Our servants, wealth and friends will protect me.”
“Or make you a target.”
“I am only in danger while al-Mu’allim remains!” she retorted, the tendons pressing against her neck as she swallowed down a shout. “If you love me – as I think you do – then go.”
“Come with me.”
“Your presence here brings me danger. Your… who you are brings me danger. If you love me, you would not bring me harm.”
“I can protect you.”
“Can you?” she replied sharply. “And who are you to protect me? Because my husband could not do so much, even if he loved me enough to try. When all this has ended, perhaps you may come back to me, in some other shape.”
“I am your husband…”
“And I your wife,” she replied. “Though never before has either of us had need to say it.”
Ayesha bint Kamal.
She stood upon the banks of the river, one hand across her belly, a blue scarf across her head, her back straight and the serving boy crying silently at her side.
I left her as Cairo thundered to the roar of infidels.
Leaving is one of the few things I am good at.
Chapter 29
In 1798 by the banks of the Nile I wore the body of a man whose life no longer interested me. The waters of the river spilt out into the long grass until you believed that the water was without end, drowning the earth.
I took al-Mu’allim south, far from the French as they battled Mameluke cavalry before the slopes of the Pyramids. My body grew thin, my nails began to yellow and I would have abandoned it then and there, for it disgusted me, a withering corpse. Then I remembered my wife, and my oath to keep her husband safe, and I clenched my fists and lowered my eyes, and kept going.
Though the French were far from the higher reaches of the Nile, yet even here their deeds
“Your city is held by the infidel!” they exclaimed. “How long until a Frenchman violates your wife?”
“I really couldn’t say,” I replied. “How long did it take until they violated yours?”
They left, muttering against my impiety, but their comings and their goings were already being watched, and when the revolt began and the cannon fired and the heavens cracked and Napoleon himself gave the order to blast down the walls of the Great Mosque and massacre every man, woman and child who had taken refuge inside, my name was called in the round-up of the living dead amid the thunder-blasted carnage of the Cairo streets.
The teenage boy, now grown to a man, whose body I had first inhabited when I came to inspect the household of al-Mu’allim came running to me. “Master,” he exclaimed, “the French are coming for you!”
My wife stood by, silent and straight. I turned to her, said, “What should I do?” and meant the question, for to become some French officer – the obvious recourse – would in that single breath, that second of transition, end the life I had, all that I had lived to obtain. “What should I do?”
“Al-Mu’allim must not be found in this city,” she replied, and it was the first time in six years that she had looked at me, but spoken my body’s name. “If you remain, the French will take you and kill you. There are boats on the river; you have money. Leave.”
“I could return…”
“Al-Mu’allim must not be found,” she repeated, a flash of anger pushing at her voice. “My husband is too proud and lazy to run.”
It was the closest she had come to admitting my nature, for though her fingers were in mine, her breath mixed with my breath, she spoke of my body as if it were some other place.
“What about you?”
“Bonaparte wants, even now, to prove that he is just. He puts up signs across the city, which proclaim ‘Do not put your hopes in Ibrahim or Muhammad, but put your trust in he who masters empires and creates men.’”
“That doesn’t inspire me to believe in anything,” I replied.
“He will not murder a widow. Our servants, wealth and friends will protect me.”
“Or make you a target.”
“I am only in danger while al-Mu’allim remains!” she retorted, the tendons pressing against her neck as she swallowed down a shout. “If you love me – as I think you do – then go.”
“Come with me.”
“Your presence here brings me danger. Your… who you are brings me danger. If you love me, you would not bring me harm.”
“I can protect you.”
“Can you?” she replied sharply. “And who are you to protect me? Because my husband could not do so much, even if he loved me enough to try. When all this has ended, perhaps you may come back to me, in some other shape.”
“I am your husband…”
“And I your wife,” she replied. “Though never before has either of us had need to say it.”
Ayesha bint Kamal.
She stood upon the banks of the river, one hand across her belly, a blue scarf across her head, her back straight and the serving boy crying silently at her side.
I left her as Cairo thundered to the roar of infidels.
Leaving is one of the few things I am good at.
Chapter 29
In 1798 by the banks of the Nile I wore the body of a man whose life no longer interested me. The waters of the river spilt out into the long grass until you believed that the water was without end, drowning the earth.
I took al-Mu’allim south, far from the French as they battled Mameluke cavalry before the slopes of the Pyramids. My body grew thin, my nails began to yellow and I would have abandoned it then and there, for it disgusted me, a withering corpse. Then I remembered my wife, and my oath to keep her husband safe, and I clenched my fists and lowered my eyes, and kept going.
Though the French were far from the higher reaches of the Nile, yet even here their deeds
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