Angeline (11 page)

“Aza is a lovely child,” Angeline said one day as she was amusing her, as usual, by drawing pictures. No more ugly pictures of Heba and Anka and the other two, though. “What will become of her?” She asked the question carelessly, not really thinking about what she was saying. “Will she be a concubine, too?”

“Never!”

She looked up at Zahra, startled by the fierceness of her reply.

“She is not a slave,” Zahra said. “Children of slaves are born free—the Emir will provide forher for life because she is his daughter, but she will be a free woman. And one day I will be free, too, and we will leave here.”

“But I thought you were happy here.” Angeline was confused. “And how will you be free? How will that happen?”

“This work that I do—the copying of books for the Emir’s library—I am working to buy my freedom.”

“You can
buy
your freedom?”

“I can. Any slave can with the Emir’s permission. It is considered to be an act of devotion for a Muslim to free a slave.”

Angeline fell silent, but her mind was on fire. A slave could buy her freedom! That meant that she could, too. She did not even stop to think about what she would do with freedom if she achieved it—it would be enough not to be a slave, not to be a servant to anyone.

She looked at Zahra. She was bent over her work once again, concentrating hard.
That
would be Angeline’s way out, too. She was good at the copying—Zahra had told her so. She would learn more, become even better—as good as Zahra.

“Would you let me do a page of your work?” she asked. “Could I help you?”

Zahra raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking, binty? I can see your mind whirling.”

“If I worked hard,” Angeline said. “If I could learn to do the work as well as you, could I work to earn my freedom, too?”

Zahra stared at Angeline thoughtfully, as if something had just occurred to her.

“It is possible,” she answered. “The Emir will have need of a copyist when I go—and Allah willing, that will not be too long from now. Here,” she said, holding out the book from which she had been copying. “Here in this book is a page that is very short. Let me see what you can do with it.”

Angeline took the page to be copied and a sheet of fresh, clean paper with trembling hands and immediately almost spilled the ink all over it. Zahra’s eyebrow rose again, but she said nothing.

Angeline worked for the rest of the day on that page. She understood nothing of what she was copying, of course, but that was of no matter. Just before Salat al-Maghrib, the call to evening prayer, sounded out, she showed it to Zahra.

“Almost good enough,” she said.

“Almost!” Angeline exclaimed. She looked at her work. She had been so proud of it.

“Yes, almost,” Zahra repeated. “Here, let me show you what needs improvement.” She beckoned Angeline to sit beside her. Angeline blushed with shame as Zahra pointed out small errors and ungraceful strokes.

“I thought you believed my work to be good!” she finally burst out. “You were proud of it. You showed it to the others.”

“And it is good,” Zahra said. “Very good, otherwise I would not for one moment encourage you to think you might one day take my place. But it is not good enough for the Emir. He demands perfection.”

Then perfection he shall have, Angeline thought grimly, and set herself to copying the page yet again.

“Zahra is teaching me to be a copyist,” Angeline proclaimed proudly when next she saw Stephen and Father Martin. “Did you know that she is working to buy her freedom that way? And if I become good enough, I could do so as well. I could buy
my
freedom!”

She was expecting enthusiasm but did not receive it.

“Do you really think that could happen?” Father Martin asked. The tone of his voice left no doubt that he was skeptical, and Stephen turned quickly away, but not before Angeline had seen the look on his face.

Angeline bit her lip. How could she not have realized what Stephen would feel? And then yet another thought struck her. What would she do if she were freed and Stephen were still a slave? What would happen then?

“Perhaps you could buy your freedom as well …?” she began, but the words sounded hollow even to her ears.

Stephen flushed. “Doing what?” he demanded. “Nurse-maiding a child?”

“But you can read and write now,” Angeline said. “And you speak Arabic well. I have heard you. Perhaps …?” Her voice trailed off.

Stephen shrugged. “I am pleased for you,” he said. “You need not worry about me.” He would say no more.

Angeline fell silent. Did she really want her freedom if Stephen had to remain bound in slavery? What would happen to the two of them then? She looked at him as he sat across from her, absorbed in his work. She could not give up the dream to escape her slavery, but neither could she imagine life without Stephen.

And her cheeks still burned at the memory of his touch.

Zahra had another table set up beside hers. She procured good quills and paper for Angeline. She sent Aza off with Samah in the afternoons so that Angeline would have time to work. But, now that Angeline was serious about submitting work to Abd’al Haseeb, Zahra was much more critical. Days passed when she did not praise Angeline at all, only found fault. At those times Angeline despaired.

“If it is too difficult for you, you may give it up,” Zahra said one afternoon when Angeline had thrown her quill down in disgust, spattering a piece of paper with ink and ruining it completely.

“Never!” Angeline snapped back and gritted her teeth. She would show her.

“Then kindly do not spoil good paper with your temper,” Zahra said.

Angeline took a deep breath and picked the quill up again. She pulled the spoiled piece of paper toward her and copied out the phrase that had defeated her. Then she copied it again. And yet again. Finally, she showed it to Zahra.

“That will do,” Zahra said. Her face was blank, but she handed Angeline a fresh paper. “Do this page as skilfully,” she said, “and I might include it with my work for the Emir to see.”

Angeline felt tears rising. She turned her head away, embarrassed, and scrubbed the back ofher hand across her eyes, then set to work again. This work would be judged by the Emir himself!

She became so immersed that when the call to Salat al-Maghrib came she looked up, shocked that so much time had passed. She tidied her materials and handed the sheets of paper she had been working on to Zahra, then held her breath.

“Very good,” Zahra said. She looked up from the papers to Angeline, and finally smiled.
“Very
good, binty. The Emir will be pleased.” She rose, stretched, and beckoned Angeline to help her make ready to wash and pray.

That night, just as she was about to fall asleep, Angeline realized something with a jolt. She had snapped at Zahra. Slaves did not snap at their mistresses. But Zahra had not rebuked her for it, only for spoiling the paper. She thought back over the day—over the past several days. Gradually, her relationship with Zahra had changed and she had not even noticed. She still ran errands for Zahra, still waited on her and helped her to dress, still slept on cushions outside the Emir’s room when Zahra went to him, but Zahra did not treat her as a slave anymore. She treated her more as a student. Almost as an equal. But she
was
still a slave, Angeline reflected bitterly. Nothing had changed that.

The weather was hot again, the brief winter over. A dry wind that Zahra told Angeline was called the “khamsin” blew steadily every day and brought in the dust from the desert. Angeline felt as if it were scratching and searing every nerve in her body. Even Zahra was often ill-tempered and out of sorts. The four slave girls—the four devils, as Angeline called them in her mind—seemed to be inspired in new ways to make her life a torment. She tried to avoid them, but it was impossible.

Stephen, too, was moody. Angeline could not help feeling that she was a good part of the cause of it now—that Stephen brooded because of her work with Zahra, her plans for gaining her freedom. She could not help feeling guilty, but that made her angry as well. She had asked him several times to go back with her to the Coptic Christian church, but he would not. As the days passed, Angeline worried more about Father Martin as well. He was so gaunt that his face looked almost like a skeleton. Never did he complain, but she often saw him wince as he rose from his desk.

“He is ill, Stephen,” she said one day after he had left them.

“I know,” Stephen agreed. “But he will do nothing about it. The Emir has skilled men of medicine, but he will not let them come near him.”

She had not seen Nusaybah again. Nor did Habib dally after his lessons anymore.

“Habib spends more time with his father now,” Stephen said. “And he sees his mother more often as well.” He smiled. “When he fell, the first person he cried for was his mother.”

Angeline was pleased to hear this, but she missed Nusaybah. The woman had intrigued her.

The khamsin subsided, then the heat set in. Heat such as Angeline had never known. No amount of juice or water could assuage her thirst, no amount of fanning could cool her. Zahra, however, who had brooded in the coolness of the winter, seemed to thrive in the summer. She worked tirelessly. Angeline could not believe that Zahra did not sweat! Drops of perspiration ran down her own face without ceasing. She had to wipe them away constantly, always fearful that she would drip onto her precious paper and mar it. Her quill was slippery in her fingers and more than once caused her to make mistakes in the intricate characters she copied. She tied her hair back but it hung heavy and darkly wet on her neck. Her daily bath in the hamman was her only respite, but even then the water was so warm that it was barely refreshing. The river water that was brought up by camels every morning was hardly cooler. Angeline found herself longing for snow. She forgot howher hands and feet had frozen, how it had felt to huddle shivering in a threadbare blanket. She could only remember the freshness of it. The coldness of it on her tongue. She found herself dreaming of the icy cold water of the mountain streams through which they had passed on their crusade, even as she tossed and turned on sweat-soaked pillows at night.

Now the Coptic church became a refuge for her. There, in the cool dimness, she could snatch a few moments of relief from the relentless, burning sun. One especially hot day, she and Stephen waited in the schoolroom in vain for Father Martin. Then a servant came with word that he was too ill to teach that day, nor would he teach the next.

“I have permission to go see Ibrahim tomorrow,” Angeline told Stephen. “It is a Friday, the Muslim holy day, and Zahra sometimes gives me leave to go then. She spends most of the day in prayer and Samah takes care of Aza. If you are not going to work with Father Martin, then come with me. Ibrahim has asked many times about you. Habib will be at the mosque with his father, Father Martin is ill—what else is there for you to do? It is cool there.” And comforting, she added silently.

Stephen looked as if he would decline as he usually did, but this time Angeline was having none of it.

“I will bother you and tease you until you agree,” she said. Her words were light, but there was iron behind them.

Stephen heard it. He surrendered. “Very well,” he said. “I will go with you.”

Elated, Angeline set off with him the next morning. It was early yet—they had the whole day ahead of them. A perfect gift. They made their way down the winding, dusty alley. Even this early in the day the heat was intense. There was not a cloud in the hard blue sky, not a breath of a breeze. The leaves on the trees hung limp and motionless. By the time they reached the church, Angeline was panting. She and Stephen had not spoken much—it was too hot to talk. Her shift clung to her body; Stephen’s tunic was dark with sweat. They walked through the arched doorway into the still darkness with relief.

Angeline sank down onto a pew and bowed her head. She would not listen to Mass in this church, but she would pray. God would listen to her here as well as anywhere else, she was certain of it. Stephen sat beside her, his head bowed, but she knew he was not praying.

There was no one else inside. Angeline wasdisappointed not to see Ibrahim, then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Welcome,” a voice whispered.

She looked up into Ibrahim’s dark eyes. As usual, he smiled. He turned to Stephen.

“It is good to see you here again, Franj. I have missed you. How have you been keeping?”

Stephen started. He had been deep in reverie and had not noticed Ibrahim standing there.

“Well …” he stuttered. “I am well.”

“Do you have time today for talk?” Ibrahim asked.

“We do,” Angeline answered before Stephen could say anything. “We have the whole day.”

Ibrahim’s smile grew wider.

“Then I have a suggestion,” he said. “Come home with me. I would like you to meet my family.”

“We could not do such a thing,” Stephen replied stiffly. “It would not be seemly. We would be imposing on your privacy.”

“Oh, Stephen,” Angeline hissed. “Be not so righteous. We would love to accompany you,” she said to Ibrahim. She was alive with curiosity to see how Ibrahim lived here in Cairo. To find out more about these Coptic Christians.

“You would not be intruding at all,” Ibrahim said. “In truth,” he added, his smile turning now into a sly grin, “my family is most intrigued by my stories of you, Franj. They greatly desire to meet you.”

Angeline leaped to her feet.

“Then let us go,” she said. “Who knows? There might not be another opportunity.”

Ibrahim turned to lead the way out; Angeline made haste to follow him. She looked back at Stephen, who was hesitating.

“Come, Stephen,” she hissed with a shake of her head.
“Come!”

He frowned. For a moment Angeline thought he would refuse, then he gave in.

Ibrahim led them out of the church. He turned down a narrow street that took them in a direction Angeline had not yet explored.

“My house is not far,” Ibrahim said. “My mother will be so pleased to see you,” he added to Angeline. “She is curious about you. About how a Christian girl manages in a Muslim household.”