Angeline (3 page)

They reached Cairo on the third day. Angeline stared in horror at the confusion of people and animals on the dockside. It was even busier here than it had been in Alexandria; Cairo was obviously a great city. She allowed herself to be helped off the boat, then moved close to Father Martin and Stephen as the noise and the barrage of smells assaulted her.

“Follow me,” Zeid commanded, and led the way into a narrow alley.

Angeline ducked her head to avoid the curious stares that followed them as they passed by. They had to hurry to keep up with Zeid as he led them through twisting, winding streets that teemed with people and animals. Donkeys clattered past, forcing them to give way. Carts rumbled, pulled by the oxen-like beasts she had seen working in the fields along the river. Heavily laden camels lumbered their way through the streets. Cats, too, slunk out of doorways and lazed on piles of merchandise. More cats than she had ever seen. Vendors shouted and called to Zeid as they passed, heavy scents of spices and foods that she had never smelled before filled her nostrils. Hundreds of people pushed and shoved their way around her, competing for space with each other and with the animals. Stephen walked as one in a dream, oblivious to everything around him. Father Martin held him by the arm and guided him, else he would surely have stumbled and fallen on the uneven cobblestones.

They passed a building richly decorated with coloured stone. Angeline thought it might be a church, it was so large, but it was much more ornate than the churches of her country and it was surmounted by four tall, onion-shaped spires. She had never seen anything like it. The beauty of its outline against the deep blue sky was such that she stopped and stared.

“That is a mosque,” Zeid said. “Where we pray.” He urged her forward.

Then she saw a man sumptuously attired in a vividly coloured gown ride by on a mule. Angeline could see jewels flashing on his fingers and she could not help but turn to watch him.

“A Christian,” Zeid explained. “Probably one of the men who work for the administrators of the city. Many Christians do. They and the Jewish merchants are men of great wealth and importance. It is as I said—we live in peace together.”

Angeline looked at Father Martin but he did not seem reassured.

“Coptic Christians,” the priest muttered. “No better than heretics.”

She had no idea what he meant.

They reached a street that seemed a bit more quiet than the others. There were no shops here; the street was lined with high, mud brick walls. By now Angeline’s head was aching intolerably and her feet and ankles were covered in filth. Limp with the heat, she rubbed at her forehead. Stinging sweat ran down into her eyes. Flies were everywhere—a constant torment. Zeid led them to a doorway in one of the walls and rang a bell that hung outside. The door was opened by an elderly man—another slave, Angeline supposed—and they entered.

Inside all was in shadow. It was much cooler than the street outside. Angeline could hear the sound of falling water and as soon as the heavy door closed behind them all street noises disappeared. The street smells disappeared, too, to be replaced by a strange, pungent odour. She saw a stick burning in a dish and realized that must be where the scent was coming from. Angeline drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and wiped her sweaty hands on her shift. She braced herself for whatever was to happen next, but still she was unprepared when a veiled woman appeared and grasped her by the arm.

“Let me go!” she protested, and tried to pull away. To no avail. The woman’s grip was too strong—her fingers dug into Angeline’s flesh.

At that Stephen seemed to come to his senses.

“Angeline!” he cried.

Father Martin reached out for her, but Zeid barred his way.

“It is all right,” Angeline heard him say. “She must go. She will come to no harm.”

The words did not reassure Angeline. She struck out with her free hand, but the woman deflected her blow as easily as if she were naught but a small child, then dragged her to a curtained doorway set deep into the wall. Angeline made yet another attempt to get free, but there was no breaking the hold she was in. She cast one last despairing glance back at Stephen and Father Martin before she was hauled, stumbling, along a corridor and up a stone staircase. The floors upon which they walked were covered with deep carpets of intricate design. More such carpets hung on the walls around her. Never had Angeline seen such luxury, but it only filled her with more fear. What kind of people lived like this? They passed through a wooden screen and Angeline stared around her, speechless.

They were in a large room. Flowers were everywhere; the scent of fine perfumes mingled with their fragrance. A fountain sat in the middle of the tiled floor. Water cascaded down from it in a ceaseless flow. There were several women in the room and children played amongst them. Some of the women were lounging on cushions, two were playing what looked to be some sort of game with ivory pieces on a board. One woman plucked a kind of lute and music flowed out over all the chatter and laughter. The women were not veiled in here and the one who had accompanied Angeline unfastened her own veil as soon as the screen had shut behind them. Angeline could see now that she was older. Her face was full but creased with age. Her mouth, set in a thin line, did not look as if it had ever smiled. Angeline shrank away from her. As the woman pushed back the silken scarf that covered her head, Angeline saw that she had an abundance of thick, black hair, streaked with grey. It was pulled back from her face and fell almost to her waist, smooth and gleaming. Gold hoops swung from her ears.

The women in the room were mostly young. Some were dark-skinned, a few were as fair as Angeline herself. Some were even blonde. They were all dressed in brightly coloured, flowing gowns. Rings sparkled on their fingers, and to Angeline’s astonishment, on their toes as well. They wore light sandals, mere straps. Obviously these were not shoes to be worn in the filthy streets. Were these concubines? Angeline wondered. Did the children belong to them?

They patted the children and played with them. Some women held babies and these were passed affectionately from one to another. There were four young girls, around the same age as herself, she thought. Not as sumptuously dressed as the older women—perhaps they were slaves, too? They ran toward her as soon as they saw her. The woman who had brought Angeline here said a few words, then motioned to Angeline to follow them. Instinctively, Angeline drew away from them, but the girls only laughed, then grabbed her and pulled her down a passageway and into another room that contained a large pool of water. Before she realized what they were about, they began to strip her shift off her. She pushed their hands away, but they just laughed even harder and continued disrobing her.

“Stop!” she cried, but to no avail.

She struggled but there were four of them and only one of her. Besides, they were plump and well-fed while she was thin and weak. In a trice they had stripped off her clothes and the ragged shoes she wore, and she stood before them, completely naked, crimson with shame.

One of the girls gathered up the clothes and shoes and disappeared, holding them by two fastidious fingers as far away from herself as possible, her nose wrinkled with disgust at the smell.

There was worse to come. The girls chattered and babbled to each other in a language that Angeline could not understand, but she understood when they motioned to her to get into the pool. She could not believe it. Submerge herself in that water? Completely? She shook her head vigorously. She had splashed water on her body now and then to clean herself off, but never voluntarily ventured all the way into any river or lake. No one in possession of all their senses would do so!

One of girls grabbed and tugged at her. Angeline ripped her arm out of her grasp. Another girl pushed her toward the water. Angeline pushed her back. Scowling, the girl shoved Angeline again, harder. Then the other girls seized her. Angeline kicked and screamed and even managed to bite one on the hand. That girl slapped her; she slapped back. Between the three of them they finally managed to drag Angeline into the water, but she dragged them in with her. It gave her great satisfaction to see them floundering in their light shifts that were now soaking wet and totally transparent. They were effectively as naked as she.

Her resistance did her no good, however. She found herself being scrubbed mercilessly with a soft, sweet-smelling soap. It was nothing like the harsh stuff made out of lye that was all she had ever seen before. They even lathered her hair. The bath had turned into a battle, but eventually it was over. She was finally allowed to climb out, dripping and swearing with every evil word she had ever heard. Then they attempted to dry her. Angeline seized the cloths from them, spitting with rage, and dried herself.

The one who had taken her clothes returned with a clean, brightly coloured shift and red leather slippers. She fairly threw them at Angeline. Angeline clothed herself as quickly as she could and bent to tie the slippers on her feet. She hardly noticed the softness of the material of the shift they had given her, nor the fineness of the slippers. The girls were not finished with her yet, however. Three of them held her while the fourth took a stiff brush and began to tear at the tangles in her hair. They were as rough as they could be, deliberately, she was certain of it. Tears sprang to her eyes in spite of herself, but she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. When she realized that the more she struggled, the more painful the task would be, she forced herself to hold still and endure it.

When they were done and had released her, she whirled around to face her tormentors. She glared at them. They glared back. Then she saw what they looked like. They were still soaking wet, their hair streamed water and their shifts clung to them in dripping folds.

They look like drowned rats, Angeline thought. Before she could stop herself, she began to laugh.

It was more hysteria than mirth, but even so, it enraged the girls. With one accord, they moved toward her, their eyes blazing with fury. The laughter died in Angeline’s throat. They were about to tear her to pieces, she was sure of it.

At that moment the older woman returned. She looked at the angry girls, snapped out an order that caused them to fall back, then grasped Angeline’s arm again and pulled her out of the room. Angeline was only too pleased to be out of there, but she would take no more of being pulled by the arm. She was beyond caring if the woman slapped her or not. She wrenched herself free. Then she forgot about that annoyance as another thought surfaced.

For what purpose had she been washed and prepared? For whom? She had heard stories around the campfires of the fearsome things that women captives of the heathen were subjected to. Now they flooded her mind in a sickening wave.

The woman led Angeline down another corridor and then up a flight of stone steps. At the top she rapped on a door. A voice called from the other side. A female voice. Then the door opened.

To Angeline’s amazement a small child stood in the opening. A girl, probably about five or six years old, but tiny. She had long, dark hair that fell in ringlets about her face and over her shoulders. Her face was tiny as well, with a sharply pointed little chin. She stared with huge dark eyes at Angeline, one finger in her mouth. Her other hand still clutched the door latch.

Angeline looked past her to see the person who had called out sitting at a table by a window. She had a book open in front of her and a pile of what looked like very fine parchment beside it. Angeline felt herself pushed forward.

The woman stood up. Angeline was surprised to see how tall she was. She was obviously the child’s mother. The same dark, thick hair flowed loose upon her shoulders and she looked at Angeline with the same widely spaced, slightly tilted dark eyes. She said something in a questioning tone. Angeline had no idea what she wanted. Then the woman pointed to herself and said, “Ismi Zahra.”

Zahra. Zeid had said that was the name of the woman for whom she had been bought. The concubine. The woman repeated her question. It seemed she was saying what her name was and asking Angeline’s.

I won’t answer, Angeline thought rebelliously.

Zahra raised one eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. She waited.

Angeline could not hold out against her.

“Angeline,” she said, her voice as defiant as she could make it. “My name is Angeline.”

Zahra smiled. She pointed to the woman waiting by the doorway and said, “Samah.” Then she pointed to the small girl who still stared at Angeline. “Aza.”

As Zahra pronounced the child’s name, Aza pulled her finger from her mouth and ran to her. She clambered to be held and hid her face. Zahra pointed to the child and then to herself, gave the child a hug and said something else. Angeline supposed she must be saying that Aza was her daughter. Then Zahra laughed and held out her hand.

Angeline made no move to take it. Zahra dropped her hand, but did not seem annoyed. She motioned Angeline over to her. Angeline did not move. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut, aware that she looked sullen and stubborn. She wanted to. She wanted with every fibre of her being to defy this woman. To let her know that although she might think Angeline her slave, she was not.

No one can own me, Angeline told herself. I own myself. But again she was pushed from behind, this time not so gently. She stumbled forward.

Zahra cradled Aza with one arm and with the other, gestured toward the work on her table. Angeline could see now that she was copying from the book onto the parchment. Angeline had seen only one book before—the Holy Book that priests read from at Mass. She was astounded that a woman could possess one. And such a book! It was bound in soft leather, the pages were thin and fine. She could not read what Zahra was writing, of course, but as far as she could make out, Zahra was reproducing the strange, swirling characters on the pages of the book exactly. They looked more like beautifully drawn pictures than any writing she had ever seen. Zahra spoke to her, evidently explaining the work. Angeline kept her face blank. Zahra smiled again and gave a little shrug. Then she spoke a few words to Samah and motioned with her head for Angeline to go back to her.

Samah reached out to grasp her arm again; Angeline recoiled out of her reach. A torrent of words issued forth from Samah at that and she beckoned angrily for Angeline to follow her. It was either obey, or be hauled back down the passageway like a disobedient dog. Angeline obeyed, but she was seething with anger again.

They went back down another staircase, through a narrow passageway, and out into an open space in a covered courtyard where women were preparing food. A large mud brick oven stood in the centre and Angeline could smell bread baking over the fire beneath it. As they entered, a woman reached into the oven with a long wooden paddle and pulled out several round, flat loaves like the ones they had eaten on the journey to Cairo. Samah filled a tray with fruit and cheese, bowls of spicily scented meat, rice and beans, and rounds of the freshly baked bread. There were also small dishes of sweets and cakes. A jug of what looked to be some kind of juice sat in the middle of it all. Not the pale, yellow-coloured juice Angeline had drunk on the trip—this juice was a deep red in colour. Samah handed the tray to Angeline and spat out an order. It was not difficult to understand that she was to take it back to Zahra.

Angeline managed a quick nod and fled out of the cooking space, away from the pinching grasp of Samah’s fingers. But then a new fear surfaced: could she find her way back to Zahra’s room? The last thing she wanted was to have to return to Samah and ask, even if she could make herself understood. She looked around. Thankfully, at the end of the passageway she saw the staircase down which Samah had brought her.

At the top she hesitated again. Which way now? She plunged down the passageway leading to the right. A tapestry hanging on the wall there looked familiar. To her relief, she found herself in front of Zahra’s door. She balanced the tray with one hand and knocked.

When she went in, Zahra said something which Angeline took to be a thank you, then indicated a low table where she could place the tray. Aza pounced on it immediately and snatched up one of the sweets. Zahra dragged a pillow over to the table and lowered herself gracefully onto it. She pulled Aza down beside her, said a few words which might have been a blessing, and began to eat.

Angeline stood awkwardly, watching and not certain of what she should do. When Zahra and Aza had finished, Zahra rose and went back to her work. She waved one hand at the leftover food and gave Angeline to understand that she could help herself to it.

Angeline flushed. Just so had her mother tossed crumbs to stray dogs. She set her mouth and shook her head. In any case, her stomach was in such a knot again that she could not have forced down even a bit of bread.

Samah returned and led Aza off. Zahra continued to work in silence. Angeline crouched in a corner and waited to see what would happen next.

At sunset she heard again the call to prayer. Zahra rose from her table and stretched. She moved over to another low bench on which sat a pitcher of water. She washed her hands and splashed water onto her face, then dried herself with a cloth that lay on the bench beside the pitcher. She unrolled a small, vibrantly coloured carpet. She placed this carefully on the floor, then prostrated herself to pray.

How strange, Angeline thought. These people are heathens, but they obey their calls to prayer just as we Christians heed the pealing of our church bells. She looked out the window to the crimson and gold sky beyond. A flight of pigeons flew past, their wings breaking the call of the prayer into echoes. The anger that she had been nurturing so determinedly was suddenly gone. In its place—a longing so sharp that she drew in her breath with a gasp of pain. This was the reality of it. Never again would she hear those church bells.

“Help me, oh Lord.” She whispered. “Help me.”

Zahra began to make her preparations for the night. Angeline watched uncertainly, not knowing what she should do. Then Zahra indicated a pallet in the corner of the room. Angeline sidled over to it and sat hesitantly down on the edge. She would sleep here then, it seemed. At that, a new and embarrassing worry surfaced. Zahra seemed to be settling down to sleep, but Angeline had to relieve herself. Where should she go? How could she make her need known?

As if divining her thoughts, Zahra pointed to a screen in the opposite corner of the room. To Angeline’s relief it concealed an ornately decorated pot. She used it, then made her way back to her cot. Zahra lay in her bed; a wick burning low beside her gave the only light to the room. Angeline’s pallet lay in deep, flickering shadows. She lowered herself onto it, then lay down and curled up tightly, hands hugging her knees close to her chest.

Zahra said a few words—perhaps bidding her a good night—but Angeline knew not how to answer so she kept silent. In a short time the woman’s soft, steady breathing indicated that she slept. Angeline, however, remained tense and stiff. Her mind spun wildly.

Where were Stephen and Father Martin? What was happening with them? Were they being well treated? The questions tumbled around in her brain, over and over, but the softness of the cushions upon which she lay was seductive and she was exhausted. In spite of herself, she felt sleep creeping over her. The pallet was small but more comfortable than anything she had known. A long strand of her hair fell over one arm. Washed cleaner than ever before, it glinted golden in the flickering flame. She looked at it in wonder. She had had no idea her hair was so fair. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was that for the first time in her life she did not itch. She was not scratching and picking the vermin off her legs and arms.

She did not hear the call to prayer during the night. Zahra must have prayed then, but she did not call Angeline to attend her. She did wake Angeline with the morning prayer, however. She washed, then waved Angeline out the door—Angeline could only suppose she was to go again for food. She made her way back to the cooking area where the women had Zahra’s tray ready for her, then took it back upstairs. Once more, when Zahra had finished, she indicated that Angeline might partake of what was left over. The amount of food provided was ample and by now Angeline’s hunger proved stronger than her pride. She helped herself liberally to the rice and beans and fruit. She sipped hesitantly at the juice. Never had she seen juice so deep a crimson colour. She could not imagine what fruit it came from, but it was sweet and refreshing. She drank a brimming cupful and then, seeing that Zahra was not watching her, she made bold to pour herself another and drank that as well.

After they had finished and Angeline had returned the tray to the cooking area, Zahra began to make ready for the day. She put on a gown made of the flimsiest, lightest silk. It was embroidered all over with gold flowers and silver stars. She handed Angeline a brush. Her hair was still mussed from sleep and Angeline bridled. Did the woman really expect her to brush it for her? It seemed she did. She smiled and gestured to Angeline to begin, but when Angeline made no attempt to comply, the smile disappeared. She snapped out a command and frowned. Rebelliously, Angeline began. She almost gave in to the impulse to snag the knots roughly, then she stopped herself. This woman had power over her. Whether Angeline liked it or not, she would have to obey. She did not know what the consequences would be otherwise, but she had a feeling that they would not be pleasant.

Zahra unstoppered a small flask and dabbed a heady, fragrant oil on her wrists, between her breasts, and behind her earlobes. Angeline did not rebel any further. She helped, handed Zahra what she asked for, and watched, amazed. Never had she seen such elaborate preparations. Never had she seen such indulgence! She thought back to her own mother. Marithe was always up with the dawn, but she needed no one to help her prepare for the day. She wore the shift she slept in and a splash of water on her face was the extent of her morning ablutions. She was nearly always hard at work by the time Angeline had rubbed the sleep from her eyes. How soft this woman was!

When Zahra was ready, she motioned to Angeline to follow her. She left the room and retraced the way to the harem. There, the other concubines greeted her warmly and with great courtesy. Angeline was quick-eyed, however, and did not miss seeing two of the women exchange a sidelong glance. From the twist of their downturned mouths, Angeline surmised that Zahra was not as universally loved as they might pretend. But if Zahra noticed, she did not show it. She smiled back at them all, and allowed them to plump up cushions for her and bring her a dish of sweets dripping with honey.

The four slave girls were there and they gave Angeline sour looks when they saw her. They, at least, made no pretense of friendship. Angeline glared back at them.

At one end of the room, a tangle of children played, supervised by Samah. One of them looked up; it was Aza. Aza saw Zahra at the same time and tore herself free from her playmates. She threw herself upon her mother. Zahra hugged her and smothered her with kisses, laughing all the while.

For the rest of the morning, Zahra amused herself with the other women. Angeline stood by and did whatever Zahra asked her to do. She fumed with resentment but she hid it. More important now was to find out what had happened to Stephen.

Zahra was the only concubine who seemed to have her own slave. The four girls tended to the other women, running errands for them, fetching scarves or other necessities as was required. At one point Angeline found herself in the cooking area with one of the girls—Anka, she had heard her called. Zahra had made Angeline understand that she wished her to fetch more juice. Anka sneered at Angeline and said something to the cooking women that made them laugh. Angeline flushed. She took up the pitcher they gave her and turned to go back. At that moment Anka stuck out her foot and tripped her. Angeline went sprawling. The pitcher fell and broke, the juice spilled. Anka had done it so craftily, however, that none of the women had seen what happened. They advanced on Angeline, shouting and furious. One of them even struck her. It was only by abasing herself completely and making begging signs that Angeline managed to get them to give her another pitcher of juice. The resentment brewing within her threatened to boil over. She wouldgladly have torn Anka’s hair out by the roots, but Anka had been canny enough to take herself off.

Before the call to prayer at noon, the time when her own church would have been announcing Sext, Zahra led Angeline back to her room, taking Aza with her. After their midday meal, Zahra lay down on her couch to sleep away the hottest hours of the day, Aza beside her. She indicated that Angeline could rest, too, but there was no sleep for Angeline. Instead, she lay on the cushions which now seemed sweltering and smothering. Was this how her life was to end? A slave. A life of servitude. To Zahra, or perhaps to some other. She would have no control over what happened to her. Perhaps Zeid had spoken truly when he said that she was fortunate to be Zahra’s slave, but what if she displeased Zahra in some way? She could not understand her—it was not likely that she ever would. She could make no sense of this language at all!