Samia Serageldin – The Naqib’s Daughter (страница 14)

Bonaparte then sat down, somewhat anticlimactically, and Shaykh Bakri followed suit, clapping his hands, at which signal half a dozen young women filed into the hall, eyes downcast, carrying lutes and castanets. The French applauded with unfeigned enthusiasm. The Mamlukas, as white female slaves were called, took turns playing the instruments and dancing: a slow, sinuous, suggestive rolling of the hips and belly, although with none of the practised lasciviousness of the almées, the professional dancing girls, whom Nicolas had seen during the parade. Two of the girls who entered the banquet hall balanced four-branched candelabras on their heads as they danced, keeping the posture of their heads and necks absolutely still as their arms and hips swayed and the candles flickered. They were comely enough, Nicolas thought, fair complexioned if somewhat too generous in form, the chief attributes of beauty in the eyes of the Oriental, he had heard.

‘Rather opulent, don’t you think?’ he murmured to Magallon, under cover of the music.

‘Indeed. But you must know that some of our countrymen have developed a taste for these Mamlukas, faute de mieux. Lepère’ – he referred to the Director of Bridges and Pavements – ‘yesterday bought a Caucasian just arrived from Constantinople for three thousand six hundred pounds.’

Nicolas grimaced at the thought of a French Republican – and an engineer, at that! – purchasing a concubine in the slave market. But he had heard that although the troops frequented the filles publiques, officers and civilians of any rank spared themselves that unappetizing and insalubrious recourse and had been known either to buy Mamlukas in the open market or more often procure them during raids on the houses of the Mamlukes. Nicolas found such proceedings distasteful, but at least, he thought, it was some consolation that the women would surely be treated better by a Frenchman than they had been by their former masters.

‘General Dugua,’ Magallon whispered, ‘has taken a Mamluka from Murad Bey’s household, Fatoum by name, a lithesome beauty, apparently. But I will wager our Bonaparte is at no risk of succumbing to the charms of an odalisque. Did you not notice that little encounter that took place under your nose this morning?’

‘This morning I noticed nothing, I confess, but the rips in my balloon and the direction of the wind.’

‘No, of course. But everyone else noted that the general was quite taken with the delicious blonde Pauline Fourès. A milliner’s apprentice from Carcassonne by trade, and the wife of a lieutenant of the 22nd Chasseurs. But since she has a reputation pour avoir la cuisse légère, and we know how urgent our general is in matters of the heart, it would not surprise me if a first assignation had been planned for this very night.’

This casual gossip on the part of a diplomat like Magallon surprised Nicolas, but the ambassador’s indiscretions, regarding matters that were more or less public knowledge, seemed to be the tactic of an astute man seeking to gain the confidence of his interlocutor. Magallon’s comment explained the unexpected good humour of the commandant that evening. It was rather amusing to imagine Bonaparte dying of ennui as he reclined by Bakri’s side, his thoughts on an entirely more pleasant prospect awaiting him in his chamber in Elfi’s palace.

Shaykh Bakri clapped his hands and the dancers filed out. Bonaparte stretched his legs and showed signs of bringing the evening to a close. But then the third act, as Nicolas thought of it, came to a startling conclusion. A last cup was to be served, apparently, at a signal from the host. A young girl of about twelve or thirteen entered, carrying a tray with cups of the honeyed concoction called almond milk, and Shaykh Bakri introduced her as his youngest daughter.

A little chubby in the cheeks and under the chin, in the manner of children, she had enormous liquid eyes, with eyebrows like a bird in flight. She gave off a strong perfume of gardenia, and no doubt had been sprinkled liberally with the essence before being sent before the guests. Intimidating as the occasion must have been for the child, she nevertheless could not resist darting curious glances at the French from under the impossibly long, thick lashes some Egyptians had. Nicolas found himself reminded of one of his own children – not his blonde and languid Madelon, not in the least, but rather irrepressible little Cola with his bold black eyes.

Bonaparte seemed aware of the compliment the shaykh paid him by bringing a member of his family out of the seclusion of the harem to greet him, and showed his pleasure accordingly. ‘What a sweet child! And I am delighted to hear she is receiving an education with Shaykh Jabarti. You are the rare enlightened man among your peers, my good Bakri, and must set a fine example, particularly when it comes to the emancipation of women. I congratulate myself on my choice of Naqib of the Prophet’s House.’

After that the confusion started. Shaykh Bakri said something to Venture du Paradis, the gist of which seemed to be that he would be honoured to have Bonaparte ally himself by marriage to the house of the Prophet, through his daughter Zeinab. He was referring, improbably as it seemed, to the bright-eyed little person who had just served them nectar and had by then returned, Nicolas presumed, to her mother.

There was some consternation among the French at table. Bonaparte protested: ‘I am sensible of the honour, my dear Bakri, very sensible, but I cannot consider it. To begin with, I am married!’

That argument, Nicolas thought, would carry no weight at all with the shaykh, who undoubtedly had more than one wife and any number of concubines, as Bonaparte must know.

‘Besides, your daughter is too young, surely?’ the commandant added.

The rather involved answer was that the girl was of marriageable age, according to her mother, but, if he wished, Bonaparte could contract the alliance now, take her into his household and only consummate the marriage when he felt the time was right, as custom allowed.

Shaykh Bakri’s expectant expression was beginning to take a grim turn, and conversation had died down at the tables all around. Magallon and Venture du Paradis wordlessly communicated their concern to the commandant. Bonaparte immediately grasped the full sensitivity of rejecting an offer of political alliance with his single most reliable collaborator in a hostile city, and, what was more, with the house of the Prophet among a people of a different faith.

‘In that case, my dear Bakri, in that case, why, it would be an honour, of course, to be allied to the house of the Prophet!’

A collective sigh of relief rose from the hall, like a hiss of steam escaping from a kettle. Everyone rose – the French bowed, the Egyptians followed suit. Nicolas headed for the door along with the other guests, attended by a host of serving boys sprinkling them with attar of roses and showering them with petals till they had crossed the courtyard and exited out of the double gates to the street.

‘What a remarkable evening!’ Nicolas exclaimed to Magallon as they erupted into the tepid night air. But no sooner had they taken a few steps towards headquarters than Bonaparte was waylaid by a grim General Dugua.

‘Bad news, Commandant. The Ottoman Sultan has just declared war on France, and declared it the duty of every Muslim to resist what he calls “the sudden and unjust attack” of the French in Egypt.’

Bonaparte took the setback in stride. ‘It was to be expected, sooner or later. We couldn’t maintain the fiction that we were in Egypt with the Grand Seigneur’s blessing for much longer. But we must be prepared to deal with the population on a hostile footing from now on; sedition must be avoided by any means necessary.’

‘It has started already, Commandant.’ Dugua handed Bonaparte a scrolled letter. ‘We have intercepted two couriers with a letter from Ibrahim Bey in Gaza addressed to the ulema – the very shaykhs we have just dined with.’

Bonaparte handed the scroll to Venture du Paradis, who scanned it and translated. ‘This is the gist of it: “Stay calm, take care of yourselves and the people. His Majesty the Sultan in Istanbul has dispatched troops to come to our aid. God willing, they will arrive soon.”’

The commandant nodded. ‘Have the two couriers beheaded, and announce that this is the punishment awaiting anyone who carries letters from the Mamlukes or to them. I mean to have five or six heads cut off in the streets of Cairo every day. So far we have dealt with them gently to counteract the terrifying reputation that preceded us. Today, on the contrary, we must take the proper tone with them to make these people obey; and for them, to obey is to fear.’

As he watched Bonaparte and the generals depart for headquarters, Nicolas could see that events had driven the incident at Shaykh Bakri’s out of the commandant’s mind entirely; whether it would have any consequences for the young girl in question, he knew too little of the culture to so much as hazard a guess.