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.’
‘Ah! Speaking of Sitt Nafisa, Citoyen,’ Nicolas interjected. ‘I had promised my wife to report to her at the earliest opportunity on the interior of the harem, as she is most curious to know how Muslim ladies entertain chez elles. I understand Madame Magallon was one of this lady’s intimates?’
‘It is not a simple matter to arrange an invitation to the harem,’ Magallon demurred. ‘The Oriental idea of home and privacy is very different to ours.’
‘Indeed! Look around you – the houses and doors we pass remain resolutely closed in our faces,’ Geoffroy St-Hilaire gestured broadly to both sides of the street.
‘Apparently we have been preceded by the reputation of our troops for zeal in making the acquaintance of the fairer sex,’ Nicolas suggested dryly. ‘But our exemplary behaviour here will soon dispel suspicion and open hearts and hearths to us, I am persuaded.’
At that moment a fleeting motion above made him look up and he caught a glimpse, through a crack in the wooden lattice of a small balcony, of a young girl’s enormous dark eyes avid with curiosity in a round, pale face. When her eyes met his she withdrew behind the shutters like a squirrel up a tree. For some reason, Nicolas made no mention of this unique sighting to his companions.
As they headed away from the souk and along another canal, Geoffroy looked around him in despair. ‘But this city is bewildering! I will never learn my way around here!’
‘To get your bearings,’ Magallon suggested, ‘it helps to think of the Nile running on a south to north axis, with the city on the eastern bank, and Giza and the pyramids to the west. One point of reference you can see from anywhere in the city is the Citadel up on the Mokkattam hills.’ He pointed to a vast walled complex built around an ancient fort overlooking the city from the east. ‘The fort dates back to Sultan Yussef Salah al-Din, the Saladdin of the crusades. That is where our garrison is now housed.’
‘These streets are too narrow for a carriage, let alone our heavy cannon,’ Nicolas observed as they headed down another narrow, winding alley.
‘They weren’t designed for them. In fact, in some cases two persons on horseback cannot meet and pass each other without some difficulty. It used to be, when one of inferior rank became aware of a Bey or powerful figure approaching, he was obliged, out of respect and regard for his personal safety both, to take shelter in some cross lane or doorway, till the other with his numerous attendants had passed. Before our invasion, no Christian or European traveller was permitted, except by special favour, to mount horses in Cairo – only asses.’
With his military engineer’s eye, Nicolas could not help noticing other impediments to the proper circulation of troops: within the city walls, each quarter, indeed each lane and alley, seemed to have fortified gates at the entrance that were locked at night – Magallon estimated their number at seventy. Decorative as some of these gates were, their presence, along with the absence of streetlights, would hinder the circulation of French troops after nightfall, and would complicate quelling any uprising by the citizenry, should one occur. For the moment, though, the glances in their direction seemed more curious than hostile.
In another half-hour they reached the Nasiriya. ‘Aha! The Faubourg Saint-Victor! Finally!’ Geoffroy exulted. Magallon led them into a spacious mansion.
‘This is the palace of Hassan Kashif. I present to you the new location of the Institute of Egypt!’
Nicolas and Geoffroy looked around the mansion with its high ceilings, its graceful colonnaded arches and its intricate decorative woodwork. Geoffroy declared it superior to the finest academic institution in France.
‘The main salon will serve as your assembly hall –’ Magallon gestured around the arcaded hall. ‘I must tell you that it served quite a different purpose originally, as the salon for the ladies of the harem.’
‘A titillating detail that, alas, will not suffice to lend piquancy to the predictably tedious deliberations of our august commission!’ Geoffroy lamented.
Nicolas
