The Emerald Embrace Page 15

  The ancient palace, part of the Citadel’s original ramparts, stood on a spur of the Mokattem Hills. The Pasha’s porch had a magnificent view of Cairo.

  One, sunny morning in early July, about three weeks after he had presented me with the Emerald Embrace, I was outside gazing hungrily down at the city when I heard his brisk step.

  Not turning, I asked, “What’s that mosque down there?” I pointed. “See? The quaint-looking dome?”

  “El Amr. It’s the oldest mosque in the city. Naksh, have your Western books told you that the prophet revealed the faith of Islam in six hundred and twenty-two? Or that the faith spread like wind-driven fire? Well, no matter. In six forty-one, Cairo received the divine Word.”

  “It arrived by conquest.”

  “How else are religions spread? Take your own. Not until Christianity took up the sword did it become more than a minor Jewish sect. Anyway, that same year, the Arab commander, Amr, ordered the mosque built, generously endowing it with his name. El Amr.”

  I rested both hands on the balustrade. “It’s lovely.”

  “So are you,” he retorted dryly. “Naksh, you’re outside. You should be veiled.”

  Since I’d been in the Pasha’s apartment, the rooms had become harem, forbidden to men. The rocky slopes below were empty.

  “Nobody can see me,” I said.

  “Oh?” he said silkily. “You’ve never mentioned that American women, believing themselves unseen, parade naked outdoors.”

  “We don’t!” I snapped. “And I’m not naked.”

  “To us you are.”

  “Hiding one’s face from every male is so asinine!”

  “On South Sea islands women—and men, too—go without clothes. Doubtless they think hiding one’s body with long skirts, bodices, European stays, stockings and the like is the height of asininity. Naksh, I’ll grant you that modesty varies. Take off your trousers and bodice.”

  Losing my temper, I stormed inside. “Go back to baiting your council!”

  “That’s why I came to visit,” he said. “Certain matters were aired at this meeting. I have to leave this afternoon for about three weeks.”

  His news banished my annoyance. “Three weeks? Where are you going?”

  “Alexandria. My khedive there takes bribes not to enforce the law. I’ll have to see what I can do about him.”

  I continued to stare at the Pasha. At this close range it was impossible not to fall under his dominance, yet—as I was well aware—the minute he left his personality would blur and fade. He spent much time traveling because he had to. His presence enforced his will on government officials.

  “I’ve arranged that you’ll have an apartment in the harem,” he said.

  The harem. A weakness spread through my limbs and I thought of Ramses’ stiff little body.

  “Can’t I stay in here?” My words came out breathlessly high.

  “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me,” he said.

  “Please?”

  “Why not try asking with a little flattery? Tell me these rooms will remind you of me.”

  “Stop joking, Pasha. It wouldn’t disturb anyone if Uisha and I remain here. We don’t need the whole apartment. She’ll cook on the little brazier, as she did when I was ill. There’s no need, none at all, for other servants. If I go out on the porch I’ll wear my habarah and veil. If you want, I won’t go out at all. Let us stay. Please?” I stopped abruptly, aware I sounded urgent as a child pleading not to be sent to a dark bedroom.

  The Pasha sat on the pillow next to me. “Naksh, what is it?” He searched my face. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  For once his voice was gentle. I was ready to blurt out the story of the poison and how Uisha, fearing for my life, had returned his signet ring. But my words hung in abeyance, halted in my throat by the Pasha’s unpredictable nature. At the moment I appeared immune from his anger; however, he could well turn on Uisha with retaliatory rage.

  “I’m just not used to being locked up, that’s all.”

  “Oh?” The gray eyes continued to examine me. “Think. In the harem you’ll have ample opportunity for another escape.”

  Escape. The mocking word burst into my brain. Escape?

  This apartment, the Pasha’s residence, was the most closely guarded part of the Citadel. In order to come and go, one was challenged by a cordon of guards. It was easier by far to leave the harem. This time Ahmed won’t have me guarded, I decided. And all at once I actually saw Stephen, his deep sailor’s tan, his slightly ridged nose, his beautiful mouth, the open decency of his smile. My expression must have softened.

  The Pasha’s eyebrow arched in amusement. “Under the circumstances, I don’t have to worry about you going anywhere, do I?”

  What makes him so positive, I wondered. Why is he grinning at me in that smug, sharing way? Baffled, infuriated. I glared at him.

  “That’s better,” he said. “You look more like yourself.”

  That same afternoon, servants carried my books and cartons of my new clothes to the cream-colored palace where I had lived before. This time, however, I was housed in a splendid suite.

  There was an antechamber with a proper divan for Uisha, who had carried in a small iron cooking brazier. Our food would be bought and cooked by her.

  Three large rooms opened through archways into a private garden where an acacia tree shadowed an oval pool. Goldfish darted below green water-lily pads.

  I was in the garden when Lullah Zuleika visited me the following morning. I showed her around my new domain. She exclaimed appreciatively over the Persian vases and richly embroidered pillows, looking askance at the books.

  “Do all Frank women read so much?” she inquired. And before I had a chance to reply, she moved to a wall niche. Here I’d placed an alabaster dog, one of the several antiquities that the Pasha had given me. Lullah Zuleika’s sweet round face had paled. “God Thou art great,” she cried. “God protect us! Naksh, where did you get that?”

  “The Pasha,” I said, taking down the piece to show her. “See? The head’s a stopper. It’s an ancient perfume bottle.”

  “Naksh! Put that down! It’s from a tomb. All ancient things are. And djins of the most evil type inhabit tombs.”

  I set down the alabaster flacon. “Lullah Zuleika, that’s a superstition. You like jewelry. The old work’s magnificent. Look.” I pulled apart my little vest.

  For the first time she noticed the Emerald Embrace. With a step backward, she said, “You mustn’t wear that, Naksh. Those stones don’t look real. I’ll tell the Pasha to give you a more worthy necklace.”

  “He went to a lot of trouble buying this.”

  “At such a time? How could he?” Her sweet round face settled into a firmness I’d never seen before. “You must listen to me, child. The Pasha’s a very great man. And wise. But he wasn’t born here. Not being a true Egyptian, he can’t understand the magical power of our djins. And neither can you.” Her voice rose anxiously. “That necklace has been touched by a djin. Believe me, it has strengths you cannot imagine.”

  There was no way of calming her. I took off the Emerald Embrace.

  In the garden Uisha had set out refreshments she had bought from vendors who stopped by the harem kitchens. Lullah Zuleika, with the delicate manners of the East, used her plump right hand to separate a honeyed diamond of baclava.

  “The Pasha told me of your illness,” she said, nibbling the flaky pastry. “Now, of course, you look exceptionally well. Radiant.”

  She beamed on me with maternal fondness. What, exactly, had the Pasha told his chief wife of his slave girl’s illness? Had she knowledge of the passionate brutality in the Ceremonial Alcove? Surely, at the very least, she knew that the Pasha had taken me. Blushing crimson, I wondered at her warmth. Lullah Zuleika’s bodily passions had cooled, but she still loved her husband deeply. How could she, even with her sweet goodness, not be jealous?

  I mumbled, “I’m fully recovered.”

  She tilted her he
ad, expectant. What intimate secrets could she wish to know? I offered her another piece of baclava.

  She refused. “Naksh, the others might be a little jealous that you’ve monopolized the Pasha.”

  “Hasn’t he been here?” I asked in surprise.

  “Not since the first night you went to him. Our son, Ibraham, tells me that the Pasha was quite beside himself during the worst of your illness. He rarely left you.” She gave me that sweet, kind smile. “Child, surely you realize the Pasha’s very pleased with you. The others aren’t used to it yet, though. So, in the bathhouse this morning, sit with me.”

  Of all the people I have ever known, male or female, Islamic or Christian, Lullah Zuleika had the most generous heart.

  After she left, inertia overcame me and I stretched by the pool formulating vague schemes of attaining the sanctuary of a consulate. The sun was warm, and I fell into a deep sleep. During my convalescence I’d slept a great deal.

  It was mid-afternoon before Uisha and I started for the bathhouse. We were followed by Uisha’s stout black assistant.

  As our little group entered, a silence fell. Lullah Zuleika had left, but the others were still here. The Syrian kadines played games with three little girls, the concubines had a guest, and the princess, surrounded by her retinue, stretched in arrogant nudity.

  Uisha helped me into the gauzy bathing robe. Ignoring the whispers, I stepped into scented, lukewarm water.

  The princess eyed me while her servants oiled her long black hair. Uisha had forgotten some article she considered vital for my toilette, and she went back to our quarters to get it. Five minutes in the blood-temperatured water lasted an eternity.

  When I climbed out the princess was still watching me.

  Suddenly she turned to the servant holding the oil. With a sharp crack, she hit the vermeil bottle. The servant gave an exaggerated cry, “Ayeee!” and oil spread, glistening like a steely rainbow on intricate tilework.

  It happened very quickly.

  Unable to halt my step, I trod on oil, and both feet slipped out from under me. Flailing my arms, I shot forward. As I fell, instinctively I put both hands in front of myself, but it didn’t prevent my chin from slamming on tiles.

  The ground tilted dizzily, my heart hammered. With drunken difficulty, I sat up. My chin oozed warmth. Touching it, I saw blood on my fingers.

  Bath clogs clattered and there was a whispered conference. I heard somebody murmur, “At least explain it was an accident.”

  The princess’s loud, clear voice replied, “I don’t speak to slaves.”

  I looked up. The princess’s gaze met mine. Her eyes were assessing me, and it was obvious that she expected to see more than a cut chin. But what? All at once the answer seemed clear. She wants me to cower, I thought.

  I pushed dizzily to my feet, circling the servant who was toweling up the scented oil. Looking down at the princess, I said, “It was no accident.”

  The princess, not moving from her recumbent position, spoke to everybody in general. “My uncle, the Sultan, Allah’s shadow on earth, never would have sent me to the Pasha’s harem had he known his underling’s taste for slave wenches. It distressed him enough, giving me to an upstart.”

  I was overtaken by an unexpected loyalty—not to the Pasha, but to the brave, hungry little boy he had been. “The Pasha,” I retorted hotly, “is no underling. He permits your uncle to remain in Constantinople as a figurehead.”

  “The Ottoman sultans have ruled Islam since my great ancestor, Osman, founded the empire many centuries ago. Franks, of course, are too ignorant to know this.”

  “The sultanate has lost its power,” I said. “Islam looks to Cairo, not Constantinople.”

  The eyes under straight black brows weren’t angered but remote with aristocratic pride. I could have been an insect. “What an odd place the Frankish world must be,” she said. “Matters of highest importance are garbled by slave wenches.”

  “Slavery’s foul practice!” I cried. “The owner commits the wrong.”

  Slavery is deep-rooted in Islam. The Koran governs a master’s duty toward a slave, and a slave’s duty toward his master. These women, immured in a harem, would never have heard a single argument against it. Furthermore, many of the servants here were owned by the Pasha or his wives, and considered themselves more highly valued than if they were free. Needless to say, my words roused a storm of furious whispers.

  Realizing the spectacle I was making, blood dripping onto my wetly transparent robe, I moved shakily toward the entry. Women peered avidly at me, backing away.

  In my apartment, Uisha took one look at me, dropped a jar, and as the sweetness of attar of roses spread, an expression of horror formed on her coffee-colored face.

  “I tripped, that’s all,” I said.

  She gestured a physician’s case.

  “There’s no need for a doctor,” I said. “None.”

  Swiftly she made up the divan. As she brewed herb tea, I huddled under the Chinese quilt.

  Was it the princess who had ordered the tray of poisoned food sent to my room? Did I have other enemies?

  I couldn’t be sure. But it was in the open now. She was my mortal foe. She, the honored niece of the Sultan, the daughter of a thousand monarchs, against me, a Frank slave, despised and uncherished, an outsider. It was no contest.

  Afternoon shadows crowded menacingly into the pretty room. Tomorrow, I told myself, by hook or by crook, I’ll leave the harem.

  But the next morning my body ached in every muscle. Though the panic to escape surged through me, my mental processes seemed weak, and I couldn’t plan.

  Sixteen

  As the golden gong announced the Pasha’s return, I went to the latticework jalousie to look out. Two eunuchs bearing the prophet’s green standard preceded Ahmed, who wore a splendid tulip-shaped gold turban. He was followed by a group of liveried eunuchs weighted down with boxes.

  After a minute, the Pasha, in his usual drab brown, hurried briskly up the walk.

  He had been absent only eight days instead of the three weeks he had planned. And I’m still here, I thought bitterly.

  The fall in the bathhouse had shaken me badly, and at times I had been afflicted by those shaking spells that I had suffered during my monthly cycle—except that my near fatal accident in the Ceremonial Alcove had banished the cycle itself. I had stayed in my apartment, rousing myself only during Lullah Zuleika’s friendly daily visit. My naps had become excessive, I was always sleepy.

  The Pasha turned toward my windows. Hastily stepping back, I clenched my teeth, furious at myself. Danger aside, there was the matter of personal dignity. How could I once named Liberty, have remained here? How could I have drowsed away a week’s chance to escape?

  My hands began to tremble. A shaking spell was upon me. Not going to the party would hurt Lullah Zuleika’s feelings, but showing my weakness to the harem was impossible. Sending away Uisha with her pile of ornate clothing, I went into the garden.

  “Naksh?” said the familiar gravelly voice.

  I sat up, yawning, rubbing a hand across my eyes. Bright afternoon sunlight flooded down and the Pasha was a cutout of darkness.

  “Is the reception over?” I asked.

  “Everybody’s smoking kef,” he said. “You, I see, were in no rush to greet me.”

  I could make out his features now. His expression was carefully pruned of emotion. He sat on the blue-tasseled pillow next to me, dipping his finger in the pool, watching a goldfish dart away.

  “Sleeping,” he said, “is a good excuse, under the circumstances.”

  Circumstances? Had he heard of my fall? Had Lullah Zuleika reported that I looked ill? I touched the Herodotus, which lay open, spine down. “I was reading.”

  “You were sleeping,” he said, giving me that irritating sharing smile. “But let’s not argue the point. Under the circumstances.”

  Goaded, I burst out, “What circumstances?”

  This was exactly the reply he’d b
een angling after. With another infuriating grin, he said, “Naksh, you’ve lectured me often enough that you American women, though free in all other details, are modest about your bodies—except, of course, for veiling them from casual glances. But don’t you think you’ve carried this far enough? Don’t you think it’s stupid to be so furtive about a happy matter? At least for me it’s happy. I’m delighted about the child.”

  “Child?!”

  “Child!”

  My heart seemed to stop entirely as I recalled that terrible night and Ahmed writing at the low table. This is proof he had said, that any child born to you is the Pasha’s.

  So that’s what’s caused my lethargy, I thought. And that’s why my breasts are tight. There was another quite indelicate detail—I’d been missing my cycle.

  “Is … well … is that why I’ve been missing my—I mean … sleeping so much?” I mumbled, my face hot to my hairline.

  The Pasha stared at me, incredulous. “You mean—Naksh, are you telling me that you didn’t know you’re pregnant?”

  Unable to look at him, I shook my head.

  “Truly, beloved? You had no idea?”

  Again I shook my head.

  He began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to clasp his flat belly, and after a minute, helpless with laughter, he sprawled on the grass. Tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks.

  Pregnancy explained much more than my physical symptoms. Now it was clear why my rejections in bed hadn’t disturbed the Pasha. I understood why Lullah Zuleika had been hurt that I hadn’t discussed my condition with her. Why the women watched me with avid interest.

  The grapevine gossip of the harem had delved my intimate bodily secret and everybody had been aware of my condition—except me.

  A loud peal of the Pasha’s laughter startled a crow from the acacia branches. The bird rose, cawing. An ugly, menacing sound. I suddenly realized why the princess had spilled perfumed oil. Her intent was that my unborn baby would never draw breath.

  My baby, I thought. Mine.

  And with a sharp twinge around my heart, I realized that I hungered for this child, flesh of my flesh, with the lonely passion of an exile.