“Of course,” I say.
“It’s less that the Egyptian women don’t want to talk to European women, and more that European women never approach their Egyptian counterparts.”
“Ah, I see.” And I do. Most English cling to every scrap of control they have over Egypt, and yet never immerse themselves with its people. “It’s a failing I’ve encountered myself—and one I’m guilty of as well.”
“We all are to some extent.” She reassures me with a pat on my arm. “But I’ve found that Egyptian women from all walks of life are eager to share their stories with me. All I have to do is ask.”
“You’ve found women from different sort of backgrounds amenable?”
“Indeed,” she answers with a proud nod. “In fact, tomorrow I’ve been granted an audience with Madame Zaghloul.”
“Saad Zaghloul’s wife? The Mother of the Egyptians?” I use the name that the newspapers have taken to calling her as her influence continues to mount.
“The very one. In fact, I’ve just overheard a story about Madame Zaghloul involving our host. Apparently when her husband was arrested and exiled in Malta for two years, she had a startling conversation with High Commissioner Allenby. She told him that it didn’t matter if he exiled her husband because ‘You can banish the body but you cannot banish the spirit of Zaghloul. He is here as long as I am here.’”
“How very courageous of her. I’m shocked she’ll talk to you. Especially since I’ve heard the Wafd Party isn’t exactly in support of the announcement. Didn’t they reject the declaration of independence as a ruse?”
“Well,” she smiles, “I’m not English, am I?”
“Touché,” I reply with a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like this blunt, forward-thinking woman, and I quite like her.
“Would you like to come with me tomorrow, Lady Evelyn?”
“I doubt very much that Madame Zaghloul would welcome me into her home.” I practically snort at the suggestion. “Isn’t her house referred to as Beit El-Umma? The House of the Nation? I hardly think she’d like to host an aristocratic English lady there, and she may well react very negatively.”
“I cannot think she’d object to me bringing along my very quiet assistant.”
What a notion, I think,to actually meet the Mother of the Egyptians. And using subterfuge, no less. Somehow it seems more monumental to meet Madame Zaghloul than her husband, with whom I’d spent a long weekend at Highclere Castle.
“You’d do this for me? Risk your time with Madame Zaghloul by bringing me? Through deceptive means? You don’t even know me,” I ask, wondering at the magnanimity of this stranger.
“I’d be doing it forallwomen who seek understanding and connection—and who step outside societal expectations to do so. Women like you, a woman archaeologist. Women like Madame Zaghloul. Women like me.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
MARCH 3, 1922
CAIRO, EGYPT
I lie to Papa. The next morning, I tell him that I’m off to the shops to choose a special wedding gift for Catherine and Porchey. Instead, after breakfast, I leave Shepheard’s by the side entrance, and slide into the automobile where Mrs. Seton waits.
As we progress toward Qasr-El-Aini Street where the Zaghloul residence is located, I cannot quite believe my actions. Here am I, in an automobile with an American woman I’ve just met, about to interview the Mother of the Egyptians.What would Mama say?I wonder.Would she be horrified or impressed at this rare access? Am I foolish to take time away from our hunt for Hatshepsut’s tomb? More important, what would Brograve think?I imagine that he’d cheer me on, and I smile to myself at the thought.
The vehicle slows as we approach an elegant French-style mansion, surrounded by a wall with a wrought-iron gate. Armed military guards stand on both sides of the gate; and when Mrs. Seton gives her name, we are admitted. We pass through a small manicured garden with bougainvillea, pepper trees, and rubber plants. Guards patrol the perimeter and flank the front door, reminding me that this is not really a residence any longer. It is the headquarters for the nationalist movement, and I cannot quite believe I’ll be granted admittance.
The imposing black front door opens, and a lovely young woman with chocolate-brown eyes peering out from under a headscarf says, in a mixture of French and Arabic, “Welcome. The Umm El-Masriyeenwill see you now, Mrs. Seton and…” She trails off, having not been introduced to me.
“This is my assistant,” Mrs. Seton answers, careful not to use my name.
My stomach flutters at this bold deception—especially given the timing—but I proceed. Mrs. Seton and I follow the young woman into a salon decorated with multicolored Turkish carpets, framed photographs on the walls and tables, and Louis XV furniture covered in gold brocade not unlike the sort we have at Highclere. There, the similarities end.
At the center of the room sits a slender, middle-aged woman in a European-cut blue-and-tan silk dress with stylishly waved gray hair peeking out from a black silk headscarf. Around her, like the petals of a flower, sit more than a dozen women, several of whose clear, fair skin, dark eyes and hair, and beautifully symmetrical features are visible. Their attire, however, varies wildly, and some head coverings obscure their wearers’ faces, aside from their eyes. The styles range from an elegantly made-up woman wearing the latest Chanel dress and matching hat with a chin-covering of tulle to a woman in a long black shift wearing a garment I’ve heard called a yashmak, a coarse piece of black cotton cloth held in place by brass chains and a nose ring. It occurs to me that these women represent the disparate classes and belief systems of Egyptian society—pasha, Copt, fellaheen, Muslim, and everything in between. And yet, here they sit side by side, at one with Madame Zaghloul. And I wonder where Ahmed’s mother and sister and wives and daughters would fit into this assembly of women, or even if they’d support Madame Zaghloul’s cause.
Mrs. Seton and I bow in greeting. En route to Qasr-El-Aini Street, we realized that we were uncertain of the protocol, and determined this would be the safest approach. In response, Madame Zaghloul’s delicate, fair oval face lights with the smile of a kindly aunt and she says, in French, “Ladies, there is no need for such formalities among us women. Please join us.”
We take the two empty seats closest to Madame Zaghloul, and accept a cup of tea poured by the same young lady who opened the front door. Mrs. Seton and Madame Zaghloul exchange pleasantriesabout the weather and loveliness of Cairo, and then the interview begins. Mrs. Seton is a deft questioner, quickly eliciting Madame Zaghloul’s background as a prime minister’s daughter, her youthful marriage to her older husband, and her years in purdah as her husband climbed the governmental ranks. I take copious notes of their exchange, playing the part of Mrs. Seton’s assistant.
“I had no intention of ever leaving the safety of my home and my community of women friends and family before. It had been enough for me.” She describes her existence until 1919.
