Angeline (9 page)

Angeline did not answer. She busied herself with tidying up, but her thoughts were on what Zahra had told her. Zahra had once been as lonely and frightened as she. Zahra understood how she felt and was trying to be as kind to Angeline as Samah had been to her. Angeline could not believe that she would ever fit in here, but, for the first time, she felt something that was almost gratitude toward the concubine.

The next morning, Angeline was secretly pleased to see Zahra gather up some of her work to take to the harem. She felt a surge of pride that Zahra thought it good enough to show to the other women. When they reached the harem, she could hear sprightly music being played. Anka and the other three girls were dancing.

“They have been going to a dancing school for slave girls,” Zahra whispered. “And very vain about it they are, too.”

Angeline suspected that Zahra knew well what a trial those girls were to her. She had the words now to complain, but still she would not. It was a matter of pride. To her annoyance, the girls danced gracefully and beautifully—it made her feel large and clumsy just to watch them. When they finished, the women applauded and made what Angeline considered to be a very exaggerated and unwarranted fuss over them.

“Heba is to dance for the Emir himself,” the woman reclining next to Zahra announced. “It isa great honour. It might even lead to her being chosen as a concubine! What good fortune that would be for her!”

The words were flattering, but the tone beneath them was spiteful. Angeline remembered Zahra calling them “useless women” the day before. The concubines led lives of pampered luxury, but they were still jealous of each other.

The dancing over, Zahra began to show the women the writing that Angeline had done.

“Has my little slave not learned well?” she asked.

Now it was Angeline’s turn to smile. Perhaps Zahra was not as far above all the competition between the women as she had claimed. Zahra was obviously showing off her talents as a teacher as well as Angeline’s progress as her student. Then Angeline saw Zahra pull out yet another piece of paper and, to her horror, she realized it was the drawing she had made of Anka, Heba, Nabeela, and Raful. Somehow it had gotten mixed in with the others.

Zahra had not seen it before and she looked at it with astonishment, then burst into laughter as she handed it around. The woman who had praised Heba so falsely was quick to call to the slave girl and hand the drawing to her. The other three crowded to look as well. As the concubines laughed, the four turned to glare at Angeline.There was pure hate in their looks. Angeline stared back with all the arrogance she could muster, but her heart sank. They would have their revenge on her, she knew it.

But she couldn’t help noticing that, in their fury, they looked exactly as she had drawn them.

“Zahra has told me that there are to be great festivities tonight here in Cairo for our Christian celebration of Epiphany,” Angeline announced one day. “We will be able to observe the Feast of the Three Kings!”

Father Martin scowled. “They regard our holy festivals as no more than an excuse for gaiety,” he said. “It is not a true celebration.”

Angeline made a face behind his back. She had thought he might be pleased. It seemed to her that the priest was growing more short-tempered every day.

“Nevertheless, we are going to take part in it,” she said. “Zahra has promised me.”

“I will not,” Father Martin growled. “Nor will Stephen. We will observe it quietly as we did Christmas these twelve days past.”

“I do not wish to, in any case,” Stephen said quickly.

But, for just a moment, Angeline was certain she saw a look cross his face that might have been disappointment. It gave her courage. Perhaps there was hope for him yet—and she was going to enjoy the festivities despite Father Martin’s disapproval.

That night Zahra bundled up in her warmest shawl. Then she rummaged in a chest that stood beside her bed and came up with another shawl. She held it out to Angeline.

“Dah ashaanik ya binty,” she said.
For you, my little one.

Angeline reached out for it. It was made of the finest wool, a blue as clear as the Egyptian sky, shot through with golden threads. It felt so light it was as if she were holding a cloud. Never had she owned anything so fine.

“For me?” she asked, unable to believe Zahra meant it as a gift.

Zahra nodded.

“Shukran,” Angeline whispered. “Shukran, Setti.” She was so overcome she did not evenrealize that she had called Zahra “my Mistress” for the very first time.

After the evening prayer, they made ready. The days of this Egyptian winter seemed springlike to Angeline, but the nights were even colder than they had been in the hot months. Angeline drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders as Zahra led her down through the house. To Angeline’s surprise, they did not leave from the front but went instead through the small, jasmine-scented garden at the back. Instinctively, Angeline looked for Nusaybah, but she was nowhere to be seen. A servant waited to open a vine-covered door in the back wall that Angeline had not noticed before. On the other side a curtained litter filled with cushions and furs waited for them. They would be carried by the strongest of the Emir’s slaves. Aza had been put to bed in the care of Samah, wailing because she could not go. Zahra’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. Angeline realized that this outing was a special treat for her. Again, Angeline reflected that being a slave did have advantages. Never would
she
wish to be a concubine.

They were carried down to the banks of the Nile River. Angeline peered out from behind the curtains.

“All of Cairo must be here!” she exclaimed.

Zahra, face veiled, peered out beside her.

“So many people!” she said.

Music filled the air. Men and women, too, were dancing. Angeline felt her own body sway in time with it. Food stalls were set up. The smells were enticing.

“Let me go and get something for us,” Angeline begged. Truth to tell she was not so much hungry as eager to get out and be part of the festivities, but Zahra would not allow it.

“It would not be fitting.”

“I could wear a veil,” Angeline persisted. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Not even then,” Zahra replied. The tone of her voice brooked no argument, but Angeline took no note of it.

“Are you not hungry?” she demanded. In her eagerness she spoke more freely than she ever had. She caught herself and looked at Zahra warily, but Zahra seemed in too bright a mood to notice.

“You will get food, never fear,” she said.

The slaves lowered the litter to the ground and Zahra leaned out to snap her fingers at one of them. She gave a quick order and the slave disappeared into the crowd, only to reappear with hot lamb sausages wrapped in palm leaves, dumplings filled with cheese, and agrilled vegetable that Angeline was growing fond of, called eggplant. It was dripping with the oil of olives and fragrant with spices. Another slave brought oranges and dates. Zahra spread the feast out between them in the litter.

“Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem,” she murmured. The Muslim prayer before eating.
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Mercy-Giving.
She began to eat.

Angeline sat back, used to waiting until Zahra had finished, but Zahra would have none of that.

“Eat now,” she said. “Eat with me tonight.”

Angeline did not need a second invitation. She dipped her fingers into the eggplant willingly.

As they dined, they watched the revelry around them. On the shores of the Nile great torches flamed into the night. By their light, men and women ate and drank at the stalls. Musicians played music that had seemed strange to Angeline when she first came to Egypt, but which she now loved. People danced, her body swayed in time with them.

At one point, Angeline was certain she saw Ibrahim. He was with a tall man, richly dressed. His father perhaps? She renewed her resolve to find a way to introduce Stephen to him.

During the next few weeks she managed to return to the church a few times, but she did not see Ibrahim again. The church itself drew her, however, and she found herself looking forward to a few moments of peaceful prayer within whenever she was able to manage it. Although she was never there during Mass, once or twice she did catch sight of the Coptic Christian priest. He was a tall, formidable-looking man and Angeline was much too frightened to even think of approaching him. He wore a long white robe and was heavily bearded. She never mentioned these visits to Father Martin, knowing he would disapprove, but she did tell Stephen about them whenever she had the chance to speak to him out of the priest’s hearing. She was certain that, in spite of himself, he was becoming interested.

“Have you never again seen that boy, Ibrahim?” he asked one day after she had described a baptism she had witnessed there.

“No,” Angeline replied. “But I keep hoping I will.”

And then, the very next week, she did see Ibrahim again. She had left Aza at her school and wandered over to the church. No sooner had she entered its dim stillness than she heard her name whispered.

“Angeline!”

She turned to see Ibrahim kneeling in one of the back pews. He rose and came toward her.

“I have been hoping that we would meet again,” he said.

Together, they made their way out and sat on the low wall that surrounded the churchyard.

“Now,” Ibrahim said. “Tell me about yourself. How did you, a Franj, come to be a slave in the Emir Abd’al Haseeb’s house?

“It is a very long tale,” Angeline said dubiously.

“Good,” Ibrahim replied. “I love long tales. Begin!”

“Are you really interested?” Angeline asked, stalling a little. She had no idea where to start.

“I am,” Ibrahim said.

She bit her lip, still hesitant, but Ibrahim was looking at her with such friendly, lively curiosity that she was encouraged.

“My mother died …” The words came slowly at first, but then more and more quickly. Ibrahim was a good listener. He interrupted her now and then with questions, but they only showed his interest. Angeline could not believe that he was so easy to talk to. As she spoke, it was as if a dam were released within her. A flood of words. When she had finished, they sat silent for a moment, then Ibrahim spoke.

“Your friend, this Stephen, how fares he now?It must be hard for him, to lose such a dream. He must suffer terribly. Still, I cannot see that it was his fault.”

“Nor can I,” Angeline replied. “Our priest, Father Martin, believes now that it was another priest who tricked him. A priest who wanted the crusades to resume. Even our own King Philip of France thought that. He told Stephen to go home. To go back to his sheep.”

She looked up at the sun which was high overhead.

“I must go now,” she said. “It is time for Aza’s class to be over.”

“But you will come again?” Ibrahim asked.

“I will,” Angeline answered.

“Good,” Ibrahim said. “I have enjoyed listening to you.”

“I have enjoyed talking to you,” Angeline said. As she made her way back to the mosque she walked with a lighter step than ever before. How good it had been to tell everything! It was almost as if in the telling she had been able to rid herself of a heavy, heavy burden.

It was nearing the end of January and the beginning of the Muslim month of Ramadan.

“During Ramadan we do not eat or drink anything at all from sunrise to sunset,” Zahra told her. “Fasting makes us disciplined. It trains us to endure hardship. Children are excepted, so Aza can eat, but those over fifteen years must fast. You are not Muslim; you may eat if you wish.”

“I will fast,” Angeline said. She could not explain even to herself why she wished to do this, but she did. Certainly neither Father Martin nor Stephen did so.

By late afternoon of the first day, as cooking smells of the nightly meal that would break their fast began to waft through the house, she was ravenous. She persevered each day, however, determined not to give in. By the end of the week she was managing to make it through the day with little trouble. She could see that Zahra was impressed with her and she took pride in this, but when food was finally served after sundown she was famished. The hardest part of it all was watching Zahra and Aza eat. She served them and then waited for her turn, all the while trying desperately to keep her belly from rumbling too loudly.

At the end of Ramadan there was a feast. And what a feast! The women in the kitchen spent the whole day preparing food and cakes and sweets. After they had eaten, Zahra took Angeline by the hand and led her up to the roof of the house. Azadanced around them this time, wild with excitement. It was dark by then, and Angeline caught her breath as she saw all the streets and the mosques brightly lit up. Shooting streamers of fire and sparks of stars illuminated the sky, and she held her hands over her ears at the sounds of the explosions they made. Then she had to make a grab for Aza as the child nearly bounced off the roof in her enthusiasm.

Rugs had been spread for the women to lie on, and cushions. Behind them was a pigeon coop. Nearly every house in the city had a coop on its roof. Messages were sent from place to place by pigeons and the skies of Cairo were alive with the birds during the day. Now they rustled and made anxious little sounds, disturbed, no doubt, by all the unusual noise.

The women reclined there, watching the display until nearly dawn. The other concubines were there as well and their children played with Aza. The Emir’s wives, heavily veiled, sat in a curtained pagoda at one end of the roof. Angeline tried to pick out Nusaybah, but she could not be certain which one she was. None of them made any sign of recognizing her.

For the next three days they celebrated Id al-Fitr, the festival that marked the end of Ramadan. Everyone received new clothes to wear. Angeline was given a shift of the softest,brightest red cotton and golden slippers. Finally she was allowed out with Samah to go and see the celebrations that were taking place all over the city. She saw magicians and puppet shows. Minstrels and musicians played and sang on every corner. There was even an old man with a basket full of snakes that coiled and uncoiled themselves around him as he sat cross-legged in the dirt. Angeline stared in horror when he picked one up and kissed it on the nose.

Tucked away at the end of one street, a storyteller held the crowds enthralled. Angeline tugged Samah toward him and would not budge until they had listened to his story about a foolish weaver who lost all his wares and who was only saved by the son he had banished in anger. By now she could understand almost every word. To her surprise, far from objecting, stolid, rigid Samah was as spellbound by his tale as she.

It was a magical day. Angeline recounted every instant of it to Father Martin and Stephen when she saw them next. Father Martin was silent and disapproving as usual, but Stephen asked question after question, interested in spite of himself. Angeline was certain she saw a look of longing in his eyes.

Stephen is more of a slave than I am, she thought as she left to return to Zahra, her high spirits dampened. She could not help feelingannoyed. It is by his own doing, she fumed. He will not allow himself to go out and see what there is to see here. How can anybody possibly help him?

“We are going on an excursion, my little Angeline,” Zahra said on the evening of the last day of Id al-Fitr. “In two days’ time our Master is going to take us on an expedition where you will behold wonders greater than you have ever imagined.”

She would say no more, no matter how much Angeline pressed, so for the next two days Angeline lived in suspense. The whole house was in a fever of preparation. The Emir was taking two of his wives, Samah told her. The eldest refused to go because she thought the trip would be too arduous, but Nusaybah would be one of the other two.

“Where
are
we going?” Angeline demanded, but Samah, under Zahra’s strict orders, would not tell her, even though the woman had been much friendlier since their day out together during Id al-Fitr. She hadn’t yanked Angeline by the arm or pinched her for weeks.

Of the concubines, only Zahra was chosen,and Angeline was to accompany her. The jealousy in the harem when this was announced was so thick in the air that it could have been spread like honey. Yet another grievance for Anka, Heba, and the other two slave girls to hold against her, Angeline thought, but she was too caught up in the excitement to care. Aza sulked because, again, she was to stay with Samah.

“No children are permitted to accompany us,” Zahra said.

“Habib is going,” Aza answered rebelliously.

Zahra frowned at her.

“He is the son of the Emir,” she said reprovingly. “A prince can go where a slave’s child cannot.”

Aza stuck out her lower lip and flounced over to a corner of the room. For the rest of the morning she refused to play or even talk to anyone.