The Naqib’s Daughter

‘Madame.’ He gave a crisp bow. ‘Eugène de Beauharnais, delighted to make your acquaintance.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, momentarily disconcerted by the sight of the man who had followed Beauharnais up the stairs: Bartholomew – or Fart Rumman, ‘pomegranate seed’, as people called him derisively in the street. She was astonished at his appearance: he wore a fur stole, a preposterous plumed red silk hat, and a new air of presumption. A Greek mercenary known for his dishonesty and brutality, he had been a simple artillery man of Elfi’s who made money on the side selling glass bottles in the souk. That the French had been ill-advised enough to choose a man of such low standing and unsavoury reputation for translator or agent did not bode well. Behind Bartholomew, her chief eunuch Barquq had taken up his post by the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Nafisa gestured to the French emissary in the direction of the banquette against the wall. ‘You are welcome in my house, sir. Please, take a seat.’ She noted that he waited for her to be seated before flipping his coat-tails to sit down, his sword clanging at his side.

She clapped her hands for the eunuchs to bring refreshments, and they appeared promptly, carrying big brass trays that they set up on folding wooden tripods. They offered the Frenchman silver goblets with a choice of syrups: almond milk, pomegranate, carob, tamarind. The emissary picked the pomegranate, lifted the goblet in her direction and sipped; an odd expression went over his face and he set it down hastily.

‘Madame, allow me to convey the compliments of Consul Magallon and most particularly of Madame Magallon, who desire to be remembered to you warmly. They speak of you as a lady of great heart and superior intellect, a person of the utmost influence in this city. In the absence of your husband and the other Mamlukes, we count on you to be our first interlocutor and intermediary.’

Though Nafisa understood enough French to follow the gist, she allowed Bartholomew to translate. She gestured to the eunuch to offer the young ambassador plates of sweetmeats: nuts, Turkish delight flavoured with rose-water, dates stuffed with almonds and preserved in syrup. He politely picked a square of the Turkish delight and tasted it, then put it down, discreetly trying to brush the powdered sugar off his fingers, swallowing and licking his dry-looking lips. Barquq immediately went to him with a pitcher of water, a basin and a napkin.

‘Ah,’ Beauharnais exclaimed in palpable relief, raising his goblet in the direction of the pitcher. The eunuch concealed his surprise at this gesture and impassively kept the basin under the guest’s hands till he understood and held his hands out to have the eunuch pour water from the pitcher over his fingers and dry them with the folded napkin.

Beauharnais’ attention was drawn to the rose faience clock in the corner and he smiled. ‘Madame, I congratulate you on your good taste.’

‘A present from Monsieur Magallon.’

‘Indeed. But does it not tell the time?’

‘Not for a long while now. The dust from the sandstorms here during the khamaseen season must have spoiled the mechanism.’

‘I am sure we can find someone in our entourage of savants who would know how to repair it; they are geniuses at everything! I must remember to send you someone.’

At last the emissary came to the purpose of his visit. ‘General Bonaparte would like to assure you, madame, that you yourself, and the wives and children of the other Beys, are in no danger for your lives or honour.’

Nafisa inclined her head. ‘Forbearance in victory is the mark of the noble. Please assure your general of our eternal gratitude.’ She embroidered on these compliments, waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it soon did.

‘Naturally, the property of the amirs, whether in houses, gardens, farms, land or goods, must be considered the property of the French State, just as we confiscated the property of our own French émigrés. All of this property will be duly inventoried and evaluated, in due course, and you may redeem part of it for your own use – one of your residences, for instance. In return for a certain sum, of course. We will consider you our privileged interlocutor, madame, in our regrettable but necessary efforts to raise a levy on the citizens of Cairo in general, each according to his station and his means. Beginning, naturally, with yourself and the wives of the Mamlukes.’

At this point Bartholomew, whom she had not invited to sit down, began unrolling what looked like a long list, but Beauharnais raised a hand. ‘Not now, my good Bartholomew, not now, surely. There will be time enough for that later. My visit today is only to reassure you, madame, of our good intentions.’

‘Thank you, sir. May I ask how I am to proceed in collecting this ransom?’

‘We leave that to your discretion, madame. But official tax collectors will be appointed and assisted by worthy gentlemen like Monsieur Bartholomew here, the new chief of police –’

Nafisa caught her breath; Fart Rumman – chief of police! Might as well set the hyena to guarding the henhouse.

Bartholomew cleared his throat. ‘Malti the Copt will be at the head of the tax collectors,’ he offered.

‘In the meantime, madame, we know we can count on you to set an example to calm the spirits of those who do not yet know the forbearance and the generosity of the French Republic. I thank you for your hospitality, madame.’ Beauharnais had risen from his seat.

‘One moment, sir. If my husband is alive – and I have had no word from him – on what terms may he hope to sue for peace?’

‘That, madame, is not within my competence to discuss. But the appropriate emissary will be sent you at the right time, I am sure. I bid you good-day.’ He bowed again.

Nafisa rose in her turn, and then on impulse twisted the yellow diamond ring off her finger and handed it to Beauharnais. ‘For your general, with my compliments, as a gauge of good faith.’

Beauharnais bowed and took his leave. Nafisa remained standing as he descended the spiral staircase, Bartholomew on his heels. She stared at the lovely rose faience clock in the corner, making a mental note that it would be the first item she would render as part of the levy the French were imposing. Then she looked at her finger where the pigeon’s egg diamond was no more. What was it that Amr, the Arab conqueror of Egypt, had said? ‘If there were no more than a thread linking me to a people, it should not break; if they tightened their grip, I would slacken, and if they slackened, I would tighten.’ Nafisa would try to keep the thread of civility between her and the French from snapping; but for how long?

And where was Murad? At least he was alive. But Elfi? Of him there had been no word.

Dusk fell for the third night since Elfi had emerged from the river, and he welcomed the respite from the relentless sun over the desert. He was riding in a north-easterly direction, away from the delta, skirting the villages and the cultivated land and sticking to the sand dunes as he headed towards the Red Sea and the Sinai.

Ibrahim Bey and his retinue were heading for Istanbul. Elfi had learned this when he traded his diamond turban pin for a horse at a village in Sharkia, the seat of the eastern provinces that had been his fief only a few days earlier. He had not been recognized in his altered state, but the diamond pin had given him away as a Mamluke, and he had not tarried beyond buying the horse and a pistol and a leather skin of water. He still felt dizzy every now and then, but the wound to his head had stopped bleeding and the cut on his thigh was healing. His right hand continued to worry him, oozing yellow pus and throbbing constantly, yet he could not risk seeking attention at one of the estates he owned, for he could not trust even his own servants.

His plan was to keep moving towards Gaza and on to Syria, and eventually regroup with those of his Mamlukes who had survived. He spurred the horse, and it picked up pace for a desultory mile. Water, he thought, licking his cracked lips; he would have to find water, and soon, for the horse was thirsty, and he had already let it lick the last drops from his water skin. He debated the risk of approaching a village or a Bedouin encampment.

In the desert dusk before him, something was shimmering like a slender column of dust in a sandstorm. Elfi blinked. If he was starting to hallucinate with thirst, it was a bad sign. He shook his head and his vision came into focus: a Bedouin woman, standing upright, quivering like a reed, her sequined veil and her silver necklaces and bangles glittering in the fading light. He spurred his horse but the animal whinnied and held back, teeth bared, as if it had seen a Jinn. The woman, if that was indeed what she was, gave no sign of having heard his approach. There was something eerie about her, as if she were in a sort of trance, her large brown eyes dilated and staring at the empty air.

Then Elfi saw what transfixed her gaze: on a mound not two feet in front of her was a large snake, half-erect, hissing, flicking its tongue, preparing to strike; in its malignant concentration it seemed as mesmerized by the woman as she was by it. If he moved fast enough, Elfi calculated, he might be able to save her; if he did nothing, the snake would strike within seconds.

Transferring the reins to his bandaged right hand, Elfi spurred the horse into a gallop, snatched the woman up with his good arm and carried her that way for a few yards before slowing his horse to a trot and setting her down.

She stood blinking up at him and shuddering as the fear released her from its grip. He could see that she was young, about fifteen, and lithe in the way of desert women.

‘What are you, a Jinniya? What are you doing out here alone? Where are your people?’ His voice rasped hoarse with thirst. Yet, thirsty as he was, he knew the wisest thing to do would be to head in the opposite direction rather than risk an unpredictable encounter with the Bedouin. Her people were more likely to kill him for his horse than offer him water for saving their daughter. He turned his horse’s head and spurred its flanks, then, changing his mind, wheeled around and came to a halt before her. In his life, Elfi thought, he had regretted acts of mercy more than those of cruelty, and he might yet live to regret saving this girl from the terrible death of thirst in the desert.

‘Are you lost? You’d better answer, my girl, for I’d just as soon leave you here to die on your own. What tribe are you? Abbadi? Muwaylih?’

The girl hesitated, then pointed east beyond the dunes.

‘All right then, come on.’ He winced as he transferred the reins to his throbbing right hand, and held out his good hand to her. She hesitated, then reached up, grasped his hand and leaped, barely tapping his foot with hers as he hoisted her into the saddle behind him. Her body settled warm and pliant against his back and he twisted round to look at her. Whatever she thought she read in his eyes made her pupils dilate as they had when she had stared at the snake. Elfi quickly clamped both her hands in a vice with his left hand; Bedouin women were taught to carry daggers, and to use them, as soon as they reached puberty. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’m thirsty enough to cut your throat just to drink your blood, but I won’t rape you.’

With his free hand he fumbled at her waist and found the dagger in her wide belt of embroidered cloth, and took it and tucked it into his sash. Then he pointed the horse towards the dunes. Another night spent under the stars, he thought; would he see the day when he could lie under the roof of his Ezbekiah palace?

THREE

The Savants of the Nasiriya

‘Cairo is an immense city. The Saint-Honoré quarter is at one end, the faubourg Saint-Victor is at the opposite end. But in this faubourg there are four Beys’ palaces side by side, and four immense gardens. This is the location we were assigned. All the French, as you can imagine, live near the General in the Saint-Honoré quarter, but they are obliged to come visit us to take part in our promenades and our delights. That is where the real Champs Élysées are!’

Geoffroy St-Hilaire, Lettres écrites d’Égypte par Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire

Zeinab stood on the terrace of her father’s house and looked across the Ezbekiah Lake – still dry in this season – at Elfi Bey’s palace on the opposite shore, looming behind its high walls. The French had crossed to the Cairo side of the Nile on Tuesday and their chief general, whom they called Bonaparte, had taken up residence in Elfi’s palace, all newly furnished as it was. Her tutor Shaykh Jabarti had remarked grimly, ‘Just as if the amir had had it built expressly for the commander of the French. Let that be a lesson for you, Zeinab,’ he added. ‘Men of understanding should not waste their efforts on the perishable things of this world.’

Jabarti and her father, Shaykh Bakri, along with the chief ulema and other city leaders, were at that very moment at Elfi Bey’s palace responding to a summons from the French commandant. Zeinab had watched her father set off in the morning, wearing his grandest turban and his best kaftan. Now she peered through the lattice of the mashrabiyya window overlooking the street side of the house, ostensibly on the lookout for her father’s return, but secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of a Frenchman; her curiosity about the Franj was insatiable.

Dada, her wet-nurse, told her that the French walked about the markets without arms and without aggression, smiling at people and offering to buy what they needed at the prices they were used to paying in their own country: one would offer to buy a chicken for a French riyal, another an egg for a silver half-penny, and in that manner they were winning the confidence of the populace.

‘The shopkeepers go out to them with stuffed pancakes, roast chicken, fried fish and the like,’ Dada reported. ‘The markets and the coffee houses have all reopened. Some dishonest bakers have even started to cheat by mixing chaff into the flour for their bread. And the Greeks have begun opening up taverns wherever the French have moved in. The Franj have taken over the houses of the amirs, not only here in the Ezbekiah but also in the Elephant Lake district, where they have seized Ibrahim Bey’s house. Today Consul Magallon took up residence in one of Murad Bey’s houses – and to think he and his wife used to be such friends of Sitt Nafisa! And if it were only the Franj! Even Bartholomew Fart Rumman has helped himself to Ismail Kashif ’s house, and what is a hundred times worse, to his wife as well. Poor Sitt Hawa! God only knows what will happen to her if Ismail Kashif ever returns.’ The wet-nurse finished braiding Zeinab’s long black tresses and rubbed a drop of almond oil between her palms to smooth the fly-away strands.

‘Dada, what manner of men are they? Are they reported to be very beautiful?’

‘Just listen to the child! Some are, some aren’t, like the sons of Adam everywhere. They shave both their beard and moustache; some leave hair on their cheeks. The barber tells me they do not shave their head or pubic hair. They have no modesty about their bodies. They mix their food and drinks. They never take their shoes off and tread with them all over precious carpets and wipe their feet on them. But you will see them soon enough, Sitt Zeinab; more and more of them are entering the city every day.’

The clanking of the gate alerted Zeinab to her father’s return and she ran to greet him in the inner courtyard. On the way she snatched the washcloth a servant was dipping in rose-water and proffered it herself to her father to wipe his face and hands. She stood by, shifting from foot to foot in her impatience, while her father took his time to sit on the wooden bench in the shade of a eucalyptus, remove his shoes, cross his legs under him, turn back the voluminous sleeves of his kaftan and perform his ablutions with the perfumed washcloth. Zeinab’s mother made her appearance, a little breathless with hurrying; she was a plump woman and easily winded.

‘Well, Shaykh Khalil?’ She offered her husband a cup of carob juice and took a seat beside him. ‘What news, inshallah? How did the French receive you?’

‘With all proper regards – even if they are a people who come to the point rather more promptly than we would think courteous. After the preliminary compliments conveyed by the translator, their commander in chief addressed us and consulted us concerning the appointment of ten shaykhs to form a diwan, a council that would govern local affairs.’

‘A diwan of clerics! God be praised.’

‘Indeed. It bodes very well that the French seem disposed to recognize our position among the people. Shaykh Sharkawi was chosen to head the diwan, as the most prominent of the ulema, and after him, I myself was nominated, along with Sadat and Mahruqi, as is proper. Three French commanders were also appointed, including their daftardar who has commandeered my house on the Elephant Lake. But no matter … It was when the affair was concluded that the trouble began.’ He paused to take a sip of juice.

‘What trouble, Father?’ Zeinab blurted.

Her father frowned. ‘Learn to control your curiosity, child, or you will be sent back to your nurse.’ He took a long drink of carob juice. ‘It was when we rose to take our leave that the chief general went to Shaykh Sharkawi and kissed him on both cheeks, then with a flourish draped a blue, red and white shawl around his neck. The shaykh immediately removed it and flung it on the ground. “I will not forfeit this world and the next,” he exclaimed. Bonaparte flushed with rage and remonstrated with him through the interpreter. “The commander in chief intends to exalt you by bestowing his attire and emblem on you. If you are distinguished by wearing it, the French soldiers and the people will honour and respect you.” Sharkawi replied: “But our good standing with God and our fellow Muslims will be lost.”’

Her father clapped his hands for his pipe. ‘This infuriated Bonaparte. I tried to soothe him and asked exemption from this measure, or at least a delay in its implementation. Bonaparte retorted: “At least you must all wear the rosette on your chest.”’

‘What is this thing they call a rosette, Father?’

‘It is an emblem made of three concentric colours of ribbon – the same blue, white and red as their flag and their shawl. As soon as the shaykhs left the council, they each in turn, starting with Shaykh Sadat – how that man loves to grandstand before the common folk! – removed the rosette and flung it on the ground, in front of the assembled crowd outside. I had no choice but to follow suit. Shaykh Jabarti told me privately that he does not himself hold that wearing such an emblem is against Islam, particularly when it is imposed and harm can result from disobedience; but he knows that the people hold it to be sacrilege. It will remain to be seen how this matter is resolved. As the proverb goes: If you wish to be obeyed, command that which is feasible.’

‘Mabruk, Shaykh Khalil, congratulations on your appointment to the diwan.’ Zeinab’s mother signalled to the servant to light the apple-scented tobacco in the small clay cup at the top of the glass hookah. ‘Having the ulema and the French on the same footing in the diwan … it’s more than the Mamlukes ever did for the clerics. When does the council meet for the first time?’

‘Next week. We have our work cut out for us in the first session: we have to appoint officials to replace the Mamlukes and their retainers in all the functions they performed. The one stipulation the French laid down was that no member of the Mamluke caste would be allowed to hold any position, official or otherwise. Jabarti told the French the common folk feared no one but the amirs, so they allowed some descendants of the ancient houses to assume certain posts. Elfi Bey’s khatkhuda, Zulfikar, was appointed to be khatkhuda to Bonaparte. But there is another matter of more immediate concern to me … an opportunity to advance my position with the French …’

‘Really, Shaykh Khalil? God be praised!’ Zeinab’s mother leaned in eagerly.

Shaykh Bakri blew rings of apple-scented smoke in the air. ‘The French commandant also announced that Omar Makram, the Naqib, who fled the city, would be replaced as chief of the syndicate of the House of the Prophet. Naturally, they will be nominating a successor …’

‘Oh! Shaykh Khalil! I see where you are going with this: you yourself are of the lineage of the Prophet. God be praised!’

‘Now don’t get ahead of yourself, wife. But I am indeed one of the most prominent, and head of the Sufi guild of the Bakris besides, so it is not out of the question.’

‘There is no one worthier!’

‘But I have many enemies among the ulema who will no doubt undermine my candidacy. If there were a way to consolidate my position with the French …’ He drew Zeinab towards him and looked at her speculatively. ‘A marriageable daughter, now… perhaps an alliance?’

Zeinab spared no more than a moment’s attention to her father’s musings. She twisted the end of her braid in her fingers, waiting for the opening to ask the questions that really piqued her curiosity: Were the commandants handsome? Were there any French ladies in sight? What did they look like? Was it true they walked about unveiled and bare-bosomed?

Nicolas Conté stopped in his tracks momentarily to listen to a street urchin singing his wares. The boy’s soprano reminded him so much of his son Pierrot’s pure soprano when he still sang in the choir that he was cut to the quick with a pang of longing for his son, for the sweet chant of choir boys, in this city where the only choir he heard was that of the muezzins chanting the call to prayers from dawn to dusk.

The urchin’s cry died away in the Cairo air and in two long strides Conté caught up with his companions in the dusty alley. He was brimming with impatience to discover Cairo, finally. Ambassador Magallon had offered to guide him and St-Hilaire to their new accommodations, the mansion commandeered for the Scientific Commission.

‘The mansion you will be occupying is in the Nasiriya district – the name means victory in Arabic – to the south-west of town,’ Ambassador Magallon was saying. ‘You will be taking the house of Hassan Kashif, and the adjoining beys’ palaces and their gardens. An excellent location, I should say, but for the disadvantage of being so far from the Ezbekiah where the generals have made Elfi Bey’s palace their headquarters.’

‘Ah! One wonders if this is entirely by chance?’ Geoffroy raised an eyebrow. ‘I heard General Bonaparte say once that scientists were much like women for gossip and rivalries and squabbling. A fine opinion our general holds of us!’

But Nicolas was absorbed in the street theatre around him. His senses were disoriented by the assault of the unfamiliar, and his eyes needed an interpreter as much as his ears. His first impression of Cairo was overwhelming. The city seemed immense, sprawling and bewildering, a maze of narrow streets and blind alleys; the houses in general – apart from the palaces and mansions of the amirs and notables – turning blind facades and cold shoulders to the street. Most were one or two storeys high, with the exception of the houses in the market, which were narrow and rose two or three storeys above the shops on the ground floor.

Nicolas had never encountered as cacophonous and mixed a city, a veritable Tower of Babel spoken on the street; the people a mixture of races and religions from all over the Ottoman empire and Europe: Turks, Circassians, Egyptians, Bedouin, Moroccans, Italians, Muslim, Copt, Greek Orthodox, Syrian Catholic, Jewish. The men seemed generally well-made and fine-figured, with skin so tanned by the sun as to resemble leather. Women were rare, and veiled in robes from head to foot.

‘There are several of these large covered markets around the city – wikalas, as they are called,’ Magallon explained. ‘Each specializes in a particular kind of trade: dates, fabric, camels, slaves … and they have done so for centuries. Sitt Nafisa’s wikala at Bab Zuweila, for instance, specializes in coffee and spices, since that is where the caravans from Arabia unload their wares.’