Samia Serageldin - The Cairo House

The Pasha got up and started to put on the suit that was set out for him on the clotheshorse. He picked out a bow tie and matching silk pocket square. ‘What do you think of the land around the Kafr-el-Kom villages? It’s good cotton land, and there are mango orchards. It’s right next to the land your brother Zakariah has his eye on; the two of you can take turns running both estates.’

He picked up two soft, silver-backed brushes, one in each hand, and brushed his thinning dark hair with both brushes at once. ‘Do you have a particular bride in mind? No? Then I assume you’re leaving that to the women?’

‘As soon as I had settled it with you, I was going to speak to Zohra – and to Dorria too, of course,’ Shamel added, remembering his sister-in-law.

‘Good, good. You couldn’t make them happier if you offered them Solomon’s treasures. It will keep them occupied for months.’ The Pasha clearly relished the thought. ‘I swear there is nothing women enjoy as much as matchmaking.’ He buttoned up his waistcoat and pressed his tarbouche down on his head. ‘There, I’m ready. Let’s go.’

As the Pasha and Shamel opened the door, Om Khalil straightened up from her position at the keyhole. The Cairo House teemed with intrigues, what with its three sets of married brothers, the bachelor brothers, distant relatives and assorted hangers-on. The Pasha sometimes found it more of a challenge to manage the politics of his household than those of his cabinet. The thirty-odd domestics played an indispensable role in the scheme as spies and couriers. So Om Khalil did not bother to disguise or excuse her eavesdropping behind the door. She threw her head back, put her hand to her mouth and released the blood-curdling whoop of rejoicing called a zaghruta. The men groaned. They knew that in a few hours every household of their acquaintance would have been informed that the youngest of the Seif-el-Islam brothers had thrown his hat in the ring.

Shamel drove across the Kasr-el-Aini Bridge, flanked by its British stone lions, and down the Nile Corniche to his older sister Zohra’s villa on the island of Zamalek in the middle of the river at its widest point in Cairo.

‘Is Zohra Hanem home?’ Shamel asked the maid who opened the door. ‘Good, I’ll go up then. And go tell Sitt Gina that if she’s ready in twenty minutes I’ll take her out to dinner.’

There were twenty years between Shamel and his oldest sister Zohra, so that his nieces were only a few years younger than he was. Zohra had four daughters, and each of her three youngest brothers had a favorite niece whom he chaperoned and squired around to restaurants and shows. Shamel’s favorite was the oldest, Gina, not because she was the prettiest – the youngest was considered the beauty – but because she was the most intelligent and spirited.

Shamel found his sister sitting in front of her secretary desk, tallying up the household accounts. When Shamel told her the news she jumped up and hugged him. ‘Have you told anyone yet but the Pasha? Do you have anyone in mind? No? Will you leave it to me and Dorria then, to find you a bride?’

‘All right. But no cousins. There’s too much intermarriage in our family already. You know how I feel about that.’ Zohra herself was married to a cousin on her mother’s side; it had been a difficult marriage. ‘And none of these “modern” girls,’ he added. ‘I’ve known too many of them.’

‘Of course, of course. Leave it to me. These things take time, they have to be handled very delicately.’ Zohra’s eyes gleamed at the prospect. She was already weighing and dismissing various possibilities. ‘Why don’t you go see the girls? You’ve been such a stranger lately, they’ve missed their favorite uncle.’ It was obvious that Zohra could barely contain her impatience to get on the phone.

Shamel headed down the corridor towards his nieces’ rooms. It occurred to him as he caught whiffs of lemon juice and talcum powder, nail polish and hot curling irons, that four daughters in the house was something like a cottage industry. His arrival was greeted with squeals of alarm, cries of welcome and doors being pulled hastily shut. His youngest niece, Mimi, skipped down the corridor towards him. She tossed her chestnut brown plait over her shoulder and offered a plump cheek for a kiss.

‘The bath woman is here today,’ she confided. ‘They’re all getting their legs waxed with sugar wax, then smoothed with pumice stone. I’m glad I don’t have to do that yet. It hurts! Come in here.’ She pulled him by the hand into a small sitting room where a dressmaker was running up a nightgown. ‘Gina’s almost ready.’ She sat him down and perched on the arm of the chair. ‘Why is it always Gina? When are you going to take me out?’ She pouted.

‘When you’re older. And when you stop eating so much Turkish Delight. You’re turning into a piece of Turkish Delight yourself.’ He pinched her chubby pale arm.

‘Gina’s taking so long because her hair takes forever to hold a set,’ Mimi announced spitefully. ‘It’s so floppy she has to set it with beer. But Nazli’s hair is so coarse and curly, she has to straighten it with the curling tongs. She even waxes her forearms. Why –’

‘Mimi! Wait till Mama hears how you’ve been talking!’ Gina came in, smoothing the puffed skirt of her flowered-print silk dress. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Uncle Shamel,’ she gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The Romance. I haven’t taken you there yet. They have a new band, all the latest sambas and rhumbas. And Samya Gammal is the featured belly dancer for tonight. She’s back from Europe, she just finished filming a movie with Fernandel.’

Gina looked around the dance floor. The band was playing an animated ‘Mambo Americano, Hey Mambo’. She sighed. One thing her favorite uncle could not do was dance, and of course it was out of the question for her to dance with anyone else. She put down her fork. Her portion of the Chateaubriand steak for two they had ordered was daunting. She put her hand on Shamel’s arm and motioned with her head. ‘That man that just came in – I think he’s trying to catch your eye.’

Shamel looked over across the dance floor.

‘Oh, that’s Ali Tobia. He’s a good friend of mine.’ He waved to Ali, who crossed over to their table. Shamel offered him a seat and introduced him to Gina. They shook hands. It seemed to Shamel that it took Ali a heartbeat too long to muster his easy smile and that Gina turned her attention back to the dance floor a little too self-consciously. It was hard to read young girls, Shamel thought, but his friend was a different story; he knew Ali well enough to sense his momentary loss of composure. At the first opportunity he would mention that Gina was spoken for. It would avoid complications, and in any case it was true enough.

A sudden scurrying and whispering on the part of the staff was followed by an expectant hush. All eyes turned to the door as King Faruk and his retinue made their way to a table by the dance floor. The diners at the other tables stood up and applauded. The three at Shamel’s table clapped perfunctorily. The king lowered his great bulk into his chair, people took their seats and the band resumed playing. Faruk’s head turned slowly toward Shamel’s table; he stared in their direction for a moment, then turned away. Pouli, his Italian valet, whispered something to the maître d’hotel. Faruk would be informed in a minute who was responsible for this public display of disrespect.

‘I think we might as well go somewhere else,’ Shamel suggested, motioning to the waiter for the bill. He handed Ali his car keys. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and take Gina to the car? I’ll follow as soon as I’ve settled the bill.’