The Naqib’s Daughter

This casual gossip on the part of a diplomat like Magallon surprised Nicolas, but the ambassador’s indiscretions, regarding matters that were more or less public knowledge, seemed to be the tactic of an astute man seeking to gain the confidence of his interlocutor. Magallon’s comment explained the unexpected good humour of the commandant that evening. It was rather amusing to imagine Bonaparte dying of ennui as he reclined by Bakri’s side, his thoughts on an entirely more pleasant prospect awaiting him in his chamber in Elfi’s palace.

Shaykh Bakri clapped his hands and the dancers filed out. Bonaparte stretched his legs and showed signs of bringing the evening to a close. But then the third act, as Nicolas thought of it, came to a startling conclusion. A last cup was to be served, apparently, at a signal from the host. A young girl of about twelve or thirteen entered, carrying a tray with cups of the honeyed concoction called almond milk, and Shaykh Bakri introduced her as his youngest daughter.

A little chubby in the cheeks and under the chin, in the manner of children, she had enormous liquid eyes, with eyebrows like a bird in flight. She gave off a strong perfume of gardenia, and no doubt had been sprinkled liberally with the essence before being sent before the guests. Intimidating as the occasion must have been for the child, she nevertheless could not resist darting curious glances at the French from under the impossibly long, thick lashes some Egyptians had. Nicolas found himself reminded of one of his own children – not his blonde and languid Madelon, not in the least, but rather irrepressible little Cola with his bold black eyes.

Bonaparte seemed aware of the compliment the shaykh paid him by bringing a member of his family out of the seclusion of the harem to greet him, and showed his pleasure accordingly. ‘What a sweet child! And I am delighted to hear she is receiving an education with Shaykh Jabarti. You are the rare enlightened man among your peers, my good Bakri, and must set a fine example, particularly when it comes to the emancipation of women. I congratulate myself on my choice of Naqib of the Prophet’s House.’

After that the confusion started. Shaykh Bakri said something to Venture du Paradis, the gist of which seemed to be that he would be honoured to have Bonaparte ally himself by marriage to the house of the Prophet, through his daughter Zeinab. He was referring, improbably as it seemed, to the bright-eyed little person who had just served them nectar and had by then returned, Nicolas presumed, to her mother.

There was some consternation among the French at table. Bonaparte protested: ‘I am sensible of the honour, my dear Bakri, very sensible, but I cannot consider it. To begin with, I am married!’

That argument, Nicolas thought, would carry no weight at all with the shaykh, who undoubtedly had more than one wife and any number of concubines, as Bonaparte must know.

‘Besides, your daughter is too young, surely?’ the commandant added.

The rather involved answer was that the girl was of marriageable age, according to her mother, but, if he wished, Bonaparte could contract the alliance now, take her into his household and only consummate the marriage when he felt the time was right, as custom allowed.

Shaykh Bakri’s expectant expression was beginning to take a grim turn, and conversation had died down at the tables all around. Magallon and Venture du Paradis wordlessly communicated their concern to the commandant. Bonaparte immediately grasped the full sensitivity of rejecting an offer of political alliance with his single most reliable collaborator in a hostile city, and, what was more, with the house of the Prophet among a people of a different faith.

‘In that case, my dear Bakri, in that case, why, it would be an honour, of course, to be allied to the house of the Prophet!’

A collective sigh of relief rose from the hall, like a hiss of steam escaping from a kettle. Everyone rose – the French bowed, the Egyptians followed suit. Nicolas headed for the door along with the other guests, attended by a host of serving boys sprinkling them with attar of roses and showering them with petals till they had crossed the courtyard and exited out of the double gates to the street.

‘What a remarkable evening!’ Nicolas exclaimed to Magallon as they erupted into the tepid night air. But no sooner had they taken a few steps towards headquarters than Bonaparte was waylaid by a grim General Dugua.

‘Bad news, Commandant. The Ottoman Sultan has just declared war on France, and declared it the duty of every Muslim to resist what he calls “the sudden and unjust attack” of the French in Egypt.’

Bonaparte took the setback in stride. ‘It was to be expected, sooner or later. We couldn’t maintain the fiction that we were in Egypt with the Grand Seigneur’s blessing for much longer. But we must be prepared to deal with the population on a hostile footing from now on; sedition must be avoided by any means necessary.’

‘It has started already, Commandant.’ Dugua handed Bonaparte a scrolled letter. ‘We have intercepted two couriers with a letter from Ibrahim Bey in Gaza addressed to the ulema – the very shaykhs we have just dined with.’

Bonaparte handed the scroll to Venture du Paradis, who scanned it and translated. ‘This is the gist of it: “Stay calm, take care of yourselves and the people. His Majesty the Sultan in Istanbul has dispatched troops to come to our aid. God willing, they will arrive soon.”’

The commandant nodded. ‘Have the two couriers beheaded, and announce that this is the punishment awaiting anyone who carries letters from the Mamlukes or to them. I mean to have five or six heads cut off in the streets of Cairo every day. So far we have dealt with them gently to counteract the terrifying reputation that preceded us. Today, on the contrary, we must take the proper tone with them to make these people obey; and for them, to obey is to fear.’

As he watched Bonaparte and the generals depart for headquarters, Nicolas could see that events had driven the incident at Shaykh Bakri’s out of the commandant’s mind entirely; whether it would have any consequences for the young girl in question, he knew too little of the culture to so much as hazard a guess.

SIX

The First Insurrection

‘We governed blindly a country unfamiliar to us in its customs and language.’

G. Rigault, Le Général Abdullah Menou et la dernière phase de l’expédition d’Égypte

‘Sitt Zeinab, come speak to your father, he has asked for you.’

Normally Zeinab would have obeyed such a rare summons with alacrity, but she was glued with horror to the mashrabiyya window that overlooked the street. The cortège of the new police chief wound its way along the street in the direction of French headquarters, carrying something on the ends of pikes. As they approached she was able to make it out: human heads. She spun away from the window and hid her eyes in her shawl.

‘Sitt Zeinab, did you not hear me?’ the nurse repeated, arms akimbo. ‘Shaykh Bakri himself is asking for you!’

‘Dada, I can’t bear to look! Who are they?’

‘Who are who?’ The nurse came to the window. ‘What are you watching? Oh, it is that God-forsaken Fart Rumman. God preserve us! Those poor heads! Why are you watching these horrors?’

Zeinab brought her head out from under her shawl but kept her back to the window. ‘Were they spies for the Mamlukes, Dada? Or Bedouin raiders?’

‘They don’t look like any Bedouin I’ve ever seen; nor Mamlukes either, they don’t have moustaches. They’re poor fellahin, most like. Whenever Fart Rumman is sent out on patrol to catch spies and marauders, he rounds up anyone he can find and beheads them and brings the heads back to please his French masters, and they are none the wiser. Come down now or your father will have my head if you keep him waiting.’

Zeinab found her father sitting on the bench in the inner courtyard, his hookah bubbling beside him, quill in hand, drafting a document. Her mother, reclining alongside, brought a finger to her lips in warning to Zeinab. ‘It’s a very important letter that the French have entrusted your father to write on behalf of the diwan and all the ulema of Cairo,’ she whispered. ‘It will be addressed to the Sultan in Istanbul himself, and the Sharif of Mecca! Many copies will be made of it and it will be posted all over the city.’

Zeinab tiptoed to her father and peeked over his shoulder. The French are the friends of the Ottoman Sultan and the enemies of his enemies. Coinage and Friday prayers are in his name and the rites of Islam are kept as they should be. She had time to read no more before her father leaned forward to write and the wide sleeve of his kaftan obscured her view. When he straightened up again, she read: They are Muslims respecting the Koran and the Prophet, and they have provided for the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday with such worthiness and splendour as would bring joy to believers.

Shaykh Bakri leaned back, shaking his head. ‘The French think words are enough to dampen down sedition … but I can feel it running through the streets like the precursor to the plague.’

‘I am sure your wording is inspired, Shaykh Khalil,’ his wife soothed him.

‘The drafting of it is not so difficult. Getting it signed by the other ulema will be the hardest part, and without them the letter has no credibility.’ He put down his quill. ‘But never mind that now. Come here, Zeinab, sit before me. I have great news for you, child.’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘You are to be married this month.’

‘Married, Father? Who –?’

‘It is a great honour, a very great honour. You are betrothed to the commandant of the French – Bonaparte himself.’

Zeinab felt the world spin around her, and then her mother sprinkling her face with rose-water and laughing. ‘The child is overwhelmed. Praise be to God, Zeinab! Thank your father! You are the luckiest girl in Cairo today.’

Zeinab nodded, still speechless. She was indeed the luckiest girl in Egypt. The commander of all the French! And an avowed Muslim! Even if he had been old and ugly, it would have been a great honour, but he was young and beautiful as an angel: she had peeked at him through her lashes at the banquet.

Her mother put one hand to the side of her mouth and threw back her head to ululate with rejoicing, but Shaykh Bakri stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘Not now, woman! It is not the proper time. Wait until I get this letter signed! Can you imagine if the news gets about! I have too many enemies in the diwan as it is.’

What did the happy news of her betrothal have to do with her father’s enemies in the diwan? Zeinab wondered. But only for a moment.

‘Please take a seat, Sitt Nafisa,’ Ambassador Magallon offered. ‘We are listening.’

Sitt Nafisa inclined her head and sat down, tucking her sheer yashmak more securely behind her ear. She took a deep breath as she faced the three men on the bench before her in the west courtyard of Elfi’s palace: Magallon, and the two other Frenchmen who had been appointed directors of the newly created Registry of Civil and Commercial Affairs. Malti the Copt sat beside them as legal expert, which was surprising enough in itself, for he was a tax collector by profession and entirely ignorant of Islamic law.

‘Thank you.’ She cleared her throat. She reminded herself of her vow: to maintain the ties of civility with the French at all costs. She was reluctant to put those fragile ties to the test so soon, but the suits she had come to plead could not be postponed. She began with the obligatory compliment: ‘May my request fall on the ears of justice and magnanimity. I have come today with three suits, one of which is my own, and two more on behalf of others.’ She looked at the translator, Venture du Paradis, who conveyed her meaning.

‘Proceed, madame,’ Magallon nodded.

‘As you may know – at least Ambassador Magallon knows – my sabil on Sugar Street –’

‘A charitable waterworks, with a public fountain and baths for the poor,’ Magallon explained to his colleagues.

‘Thank you, sir. Concerning my sabil, then; taxes have been imposed on the religious endowment that supports it, although all such purely charitable works – sabils, mosques, hospices, almshouses, orphanages and the like, have from time immemorial been exempt from taxes – as Ambassador Magallon, who knows our ways, can attest.’

‘Indeed, madame,’ Magallon concurred. ‘But that is not the way of the Republic.’

‘Sir, you know the poor depend on these charities, and it would mean great hardship for them if they were cut off. Not to mention the ill will that will accrue to the French as a result of these measures.’

‘Surely, madame, the revenue from your caravanserai at Bab Zuweila – the commissions the merchants pay you to use the trading floor and the store rooms, the workshops, the lodgings and baths – those revenues alone must come to a considerable sum.’

‘They did, sir, and every piaster was dedicated to support the sabil. But the income from my wikala at Bab Zuweila has plummeted since the invasion. As you know, the caravans from Mecca are disrupted, trade and pilgrimage are down to a trickle, and what little revenue there is, is entirely consumed in paying the taxes you impose.’

‘You are a very wealthy woman, madame, and I am sure you will find the means to continue to fund your charity.’ It was one of the other two Frenchmen – Tallien – who spoke. He made as if to rise.

‘Sir, you have confiscated my estates!’

‘That, madame, is the fault of your husband, Murad Bey, and of his amirs, who continue to wage war against us and lead the insurgency in the south.’ Tallien’s tone was acrimonious. ‘Will that be all?’

Nafisa took a deep breath. Clearly, she would get no sympathy for the plight of her sabil. Mindful of her pledge to herself, she knew that the wiser course would be to withdraw. But she had promised to bring two other suits, and she could not disappoint those who relied on her. She forced herself to continue with her supplication.

‘I will not trouble you much longer, sir. But I promised to speak on behalf of Sitt Adila, Ibrahim Bey’s daughter.’ She paused, looking directly at Magallon and Malti the Copt, hoping to remind them that Adila had taken the Franj and the Christians into her home for protection before the French entered Cairo. ‘Sitt Adila’s husband was killed in the Battle of Imbaba, and she is now trying to recover some of his property. But she is being told that she should have declared this inheritance within twenty-four hours of his death, and that it is too late now, the property is impounded for the benefit of the French Republic. Surely it was not possible for her to know for a certainty when her husband died in battle?’

‘We cannot take all these circumstances into consideration, and in any case the property of the renegade Mamlukes is considered forfeit, as you know. Is there anything else, madame?’ Magallon made as if to rise.

‘One last suit, sir, I beg of you. Believe me, I would not stand here before you,’ she added, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice, ‘if it were not on behalf of someone even more helpless than I. It concerns my Mamluka, Fatoum, whom I have raised since childhood. I had sent her with my chief eunuch, Barquq, to run an errand for me at my Giza estate – unwisely, I realize, in these lawless times.’ Nafisa had sent Fatoum to recover a coffer of jewellery buried under the planks of the hall at the Giza house; there had been no one but Fatoum and Barquq whom she could trust with such a task. There was no need to go into these details, however. ‘As I said, sir, on the route to Giza they were attacked by a band of soldiers and the girl was abducted. My eunuch, who was severely injured by a blow to the head but managed to return home, says the soldiers were French or belonged to a French militia. Since then I have had no news. What has become of Fatoum? I would be most grateful if you would make inquiries.’

‘We will make inquiries, madame. If the girl was injured or killed, the perpetrators will be hanged, even if they turn out to be French.’

‘Thank you, sir! I knew I would not appeal in vain to French justice. And thank you for your patience in listening to me.’ She rose, gathered her abaya about her, bowed, and exited the hall.

Did the French even realize how unpopular the measures they were taking would make them, imposing taxes on the very charities the poor relied on for shelter and water, schooling and hospice care? They should not be surprised if there were an uprising of the people.

As she rode back towards her house in the Red Quarter, her chief eunuch on the mule before her and a maid on the donkey behind her, people in the street recognized Nafisa in her white veils and greeted her with cries of, ‘God bless you, Sitt Nafisa the White.’ She nodded to Barquq to hand them a coin or two, discreetly; it pained her not to be able to give more.

The poor and the weary travellers who came to fill their jars at her fountains; how could she let these people down? But the dream that was closest to her heart was to build a school, a kuttab for orphans. God had not seen fit to give her children, so the young of the poor and abandoned would be her consolation.

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