intrigued her. He was a strange character, abrupt and hard, lacking in social graces despite offering to help her, but that aside, he was almost certainly someone who would be useful to know. All the noise, the celebratory clapping of hands, the deafening laughter, the readings by the poets, the music and the animated chatter—none of it could stop her from thinking about the man on the other side of the room. She decided to make an effort to enjoy the party. From time to time, she looked over in Farouk’s direction and saw him deep in conversation with other men. Their brief exchange had disturbed her. He had spoken so coldly about her husband, as though his death had been as natural to him as the sun rising. It was almost as though death and murder were nothing to him. She shivered a little.
When she and Sophie eventually decided to leave, she looked around the large room one last time to see if she could spot him, but he had vanished.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 18, 1919
I am at the Theatre Madeleine near the Tahrir Bridge. As a present for my birthday, Virginie gave me tickets to see
La Jolie Madame.
I am sitting in the sultan’s private box with two of my half sisters. I amcovered from head to foot. Over my face I am wearing my niqāb. We are accompanied by our aghas, Rachid and Tindoui. I had to ask Papa for permission to go, and, surprisingly, even though Maman is furious, he defied her and said I could.
Monsieur Alexandre is sitting in a private box next to ours with his sister. He cannot see my face, but I can feel his eyes on me. I saw him bow discreetly in my direction. He is dressed in government uniform, a dark fitted jacket and a tarboush. He has adopted the dress and the standards of our country, because, my tutor tells me, he has taken al-Qahire into his heart and considers himself one of us.
As he looks out over the stage, I stare at him, pulling my niqāb closer to my face, gripping it, my heart beating wildly. Little beads of perspiration have gathered at the base of my spine, and my belly feels as though it is hollowing out with nervous anticipation and desire. This is the first time I have seen him in weeks. I don’t know what is going to happen to us after I go to Minya. I want to be his amour. Will we be able to continue? I try not to think about this for the moment though. He wrote me a letter last week, which was delivered in the usual way, through Virginie at our lessons. I read that he has become involved in an underground branch of the Egyptian Nationalists and that he wants me to help him. He has a job for me, and this knowledge fills me with joy. He asked me in his letter to tell no one, not even Virginie. He wants me to prove to him that I am sincere in my desire to help ordinary Egyptians and wants me to go with him to a meeting of his group, out in the desert. My heart was racing as I read his words. I had withdrawn to a corner of the room to read the letter in private, and it was hard to keep my features serene and unexpressive, but I succeeded. When I finished his letter, I ripped it into little pieces, then returned to my lessons.
Madame Virginie sits very erect in her startlingly turquoise silk dress, hiding behind a beautiful ivory-coloured fan. The play is long and tedious. I cannot concentrate.
Alexandre’s attention is not on the play either. Every now and again he looks over at me, and I notice a faint smile.
The play ends. We stand. The audience applauds the actors, and then they applaud us. We bow at them and leave our private box, marched by Tindoui and Rachid to our horse-and-trap waiting for us outside. As my sisters and I prepare to step in, Virginie approaches. She pulls me aside and invites me to have supper with her at her house in Zamalek. My heart expands with excitement at the prospect.
I nod and press her hand. She says she will expect me at my convenience. I tell her that as soon as our driver has escorted the ladies
When she and Sophie eventually decided to leave, she looked around the large room one last time to see if she could spot him, but he had vanished.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, August 18, 1919
I am at the Theatre Madeleine near the Tahrir Bridge. As a present for my birthday, Virginie gave me tickets to see
La Jolie Madame.
I am sitting in the sultan’s private box with two of my half sisters. I amcovered from head to foot. Over my face I am wearing my niqāb. We are accompanied by our aghas, Rachid and Tindoui. I had to ask Papa for permission to go, and, surprisingly, even though Maman is furious, he defied her and said I could.
Monsieur Alexandre is sitting in a private box next to ours with his sister. He cannot see my face, but I can feel his eyes on me. I saw him bow discreetly in my direction. He is dressed in government uniform, a dark fitted jacket and a tarboush. He has adopted the dress and the standards of our country, because, my tutor tells me, he has taken al-Qahire into his heart and considers himself one of us.
As he looks out over the stage, I stare at him, pulling my niqāb closer to my face, gripping it, my heart beating wildly. Little beads of perspiration have gathered at the base of my spine, and my belly feels as though it is hollowing out with nervous anticipation and desire. This is the first time I have seen him in weeks. I don’t know what is going to happen to us after I go to Minya. I want to be his amour. Will we be able to continue? I try not to think about this for the moment though. He wrote me a letter last week, which was delivered in the usual way, through Virginie at our lessons. I read that he has become involved in an underground branch of the Egyptian Nationalists and that he wants me to help him. He has a job for me, and this knowledge fills me with joy. He asked me in his letter to tell no one, not even Virginie. He wants me to prove to him that I am sincere in my desire to help ordinary Egyptians and wants me to go with him to a meeting of his group, out in the desert. My heart was racing as I read his words. I had withdrawn to a corner of the room to read the letter in private, and it was hard to keep my features serene and unexpressive, but I succeeded. When I finished his letter, I ripped it into little pieces, then returned to my lessons.
Madame Virginie sits very erect in her startlingly turquoise silk dress, hiding behind a beautiful ivory-coloured fan. The play is long and tedious. I cannot concentrate.
Alexandre’s attention is not on the play either. Every now and again he looks over at me, and I notice a faint smile.
The play ends. We stand. The audience applauds the actors, and then they applaud us. We bow at them and leave our private box, marched by Tindoui and Rachid to our horse-and-trap waiting for us outside. As my sisters and I prepare to step in, Virginie approaches. She pulls me aside and invites me to have supper with her at her house in Zamalek. My heart expands with excitement at the prospect.
I nod and press her hand. She says she will expect me at my convenience. I tell her that as soon as our driver has escorted the ladies
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