Chapter 5
"Madame Chevenement?“ said Zeinab. ”But I’ve met her!”
“You have?” said Owen, astonished.
“She dresses at Jacques Griffe’s. That’s the one, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that she’s Moulin’s protegee.”
“I don’t know about Moulin,” said Zeinab, “but she’s certainly the sort of woman who would be someone’s protegee.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“She was at Samira’s. She’s been there several times in the past month.”
“Samiras!”
“What’s wrong with Samira’s?” inquired Zeinab, taking umbrage. “She may be fashionable but she is still-” Zeinab hesitated, searching for the word, and then used the French version-“ intellectuelle.”
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s a bit, well, high. Higher than I expected. Socially, I mean.”
The Princess Samira was a cousin of the Khedive’s. She had been married off at the age of twelve to an eminent official at the Ottoman court and had lived for many years in Constantinople. When her husband died the independent-minded Samira seized the opportunity to marry how she wished. Her choice fell on an elderly Bey living in Algiers. He continued to live in Algiers after their marriage; but one of the conditions of the marriage settlement was that for most of the year Samira could maintain a separate establishment in Cairo. She thus achieved both status and independence, two things difficult for a woman to achieve in an Islamic society, and was able to live her life pretty much as she pleased.
Zeinab, who wanted the same things, was impressed and instructed her father, whenever he raised the issues of marriage, to find her an elderly Bey permanently resident in Tunis; but not yet.
Nuri Pasha, one of the old, near-feudal landowners of Egypt, moved in the same society as the Princess Samira and, although Zeinab was an illegitimate daughter not even by someone in her harem but by a famous courtesan, this conferred on her something of the same standing. Samira welcomed her at her soirees, and Zeinab was glad of the opportunity to meet men, especially the intelligent, sophisticated men whose society Samira enjoyed.
Samira’s house had much the same role in Cairo society as a Parisian salon. At her soirees or afternoon teas one would meet people from the major Embassies, up-and-coming politicians, senior civil servants and interesting foreign visitors. One even, on occasion, met the Consul-General; certainly one met his bright young men. One also met members of the Khedive’s own family and entourage.
Although the criteria for being asked a second time to Samira’s were personal rather than social-Samira couldn’t stand dullness-there was a certain exclusiveness about her guests; and so Owen was a little surprised to find Madame Chevenement achieve so easy an entree.
Zeinab considered the matter.
“She is agreeable,” she said, “but not original. I don’t think Samira would have invited her for her own sake. She must be doing someone a favor.”
“I didn’t think Samira needed to do anyone a favor.”
“She doesn’t. But sometimes it is politic to do one.”
“When the person who asks is important?”
“If they are important enough.”
“You mean…?”
“I don’t mean anything,” said Zeinab. “I’m just guessing.”
“Could you try and find out?”
“Why don’t you try and find out? I’ll be there this afternoon. You could come too.”
Owen walked in past the two eunuchs, named according to custom after precious stones or flowers, across a crunching gravel courtyard where cats dozed in the shade of the palms and in through a heavy wooden outer door. When he came to the inner door which led directly into Samira’s apartment he stopped and called out “ Ya Satir — O Discoverer”-(one of the ninety-nine names of God), the conventional warning to ladies that a man is coming and they must veil. He heard scrambling inside and as he opened the door saw a female slave disappearing up the stairs to “warn” the Princess. He realized he must be the first male guest to arrive.
By the time he reached the drawing-room the ladies were already veiled. He saw Zeinab’s eyes sparkling at him from the other side of the room.
“I came early,” he explained to the Princess, “so that I could interrupt your merciless dissection of your male guests.”
“Why should you think that would interrupt it?” asked Samira. “However, I’m glad you came early. I haven’t seen you for such a long time and I want to talk to you. Come and sit beside me and make Zeinab jealous.”
The Mamur Zapt’s liaison with Zeinab was well known. In a place like Samira’s they could be a couple. When it came to entertaining within the British community, however, he was usually invited alone; which was one reason why he seldom went.
He did not remain the sole male guest for very long. First, a tall, thin, mournful-looking Egyptian arrived, the editor of the Palace “organ” and a fount of useful information which Owen meant to tap later; then two expensively dressed, rather languid Turks, who were, Samira told him, close to the Khedive. Next came a stiff young man from the French Embassy, new to these gatherings, who bent low over Samira’s hand. Samira, mischievously, introduced Owen as a great friend of France; then, as the young man began to express his very great pleasure, added: “ Le Mamur Zapt.”
The young man’s words froze in mid-flow. Samira burst out laughing and then, repenting, eased his retreat.
“But, really, my friend, it is not so funny at all,” she said, “ le pauvre Moulin! Why do you have to be so hard? Cannot you just let him go?”
“I’m not the one who’s holding him,” said Owen.
“Ah yes, but without you they would soon reach an accommodation.”
“I would be most happy for them to reach an accommodation.”
“You would? Then why…” She stopped to look in his face. “ Tu es serieux, cheri? ”
“ Absolument. ”
“Well, then, perhaps it will all work out. But you know, my dear, you do have an inhibitory effect on things. Perhaps you should go away for a few days. Take Zeinab. Go to Luxor and see the temples. Haidar has a house there. I would ask him to let you borrow it. It’s a very nice house. There are orange trees and lemon trees. You would enjoy it.”
“I am sure I would.”
“No, think about it!” She linked her arm through his and patted his hand. “Seriously!”
He promised he would. She looked at him sceptically. “You won’t, though, will you? Why so determined, my friend? Moulin is nothing to you.”
“I would be only too glad to see him restored to the bosom of his family. Or to the bosom of Madame Chevenement, which, I understand, is more appealing.”
The Princess laughed.
“ La Chevenement! ” she said with a grimace.
“I understood she was a friend of yours.”
“The friend of a friend, let us say.”
“May I ask the identity of the friend?”
The Princess withdrew her arm.
“No,” she said, “you may not.”
It was the middle of the afternoon and the Street of the Camel was unusually quiet. Most of the residents of the hotel were taking their siestas and Shepheard’s famous terrace was empty. The normally importunate street-vendors had retreated into the shade. Even the donkey-boys had been driven reluctantly back along the terrace into the shadow cast by a slender potted palm.
On the other side of the steps the arabeah-drivers dozed in the shade of their vehicles or lay stretched out on the ground beneath them. Their horses drooped in the heat. Owen and Georgiades walked along the rank to where three men were sitting together idly casting dice in the dust. They looked up as Owen and Georgiades approached.
“Hello!” they said. “We’ve been expecting you.” Georgiades dropped into a squat beside them.
“My friend,” he said, indicating Owen.
“We know you,” they said to Owen. “You’re the Mamur Zapt, aren’t you?”