Yes, he had made a name and a reputation. But he had always felt that he held himself in abeyance, as though he were negotiating a narrow mountain pa.s.s and the day would come when a road, previously unseen, would open before him. He looked at his mother, good-looking still at sixty, her skin smooth and her eyes deep and clear. She had been forty-two when his father had gone into his cloister.

'It cannot have been easy for you,' he attempts. 'You were young -'

A smile of sudden mischief lights up Zeinab Hanim's eyes. 'What are you trying to say? That I could have married? When I had a son who was a tall, broad man with mustachios? Oh, what shame!' She laughs. 'Ya Sidi, I had Layla and I had you and my family. I had what was ordained for me of this world and more. And as for you who are so anxious about me - look at yourself! You are happy with yourself like this? No son to call you father, no daughter to sit on your knee? Who is going -'

'Mother -'

'I know, I know.' She holds up her hands. 'A subject we are forbidden to open. But if you are concerned for me, it is more fitting that you should be concerned for yourself. Who is going to look for you when you grow old? All your friends are married -'

'This is what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'What?' Zeinab Hanim's eyes open wide and she leans forward and puts her hand on her son's knee. 'By the Prophet? You have come to talk to me about marriage? What should I do? Ring out a zaghruda? I have even forgotten what the sound is like. Who, ya habibi? Who do you want and I shall go right now and ask for her -'

'Listen to me, Mother.' As his mother's happiness burst forth, Sharif Basha looked more and more troubled. 'Listen to me well. I need your opinion and your advice. My thoughts have gone to someone - but the matter is full of problems.'

'Problems? What problems? Every problem has a solution.' Zeinab Hanim sits back, her eyes still wide and fixed on her son.

'She - you know her. I am thinking of Lady Anna.'

'Lady Anna? The Englishwoman?'

He nods, watching her.

She lowers her eyes and lets out a long breath. When she lifts them to his they are full of concern. 'You don't have enough problems already?'

'I told you.'

'She is English.'

'I know.'

'And she is the one you want?'

'It would seem so.' He smiles.

'You have the pick of the girls of Egypt. Any one of them would wish for you.'

'Yes, but I don't know them.'

'You get to know them during the betrothal and -'

'I am too old for that. And besides, we have had this conversation a hundred times, a thousand times -'

'Yes, ya habibi, I know, I know. But an Englishwoman ...'

Sharif Basha stands up and paces the small distance to the wall and back. 'I go round and round in the same circle. I wish she were Egyptian, French - anything but English. Then I think of her and I end up thinking, very well, so she is English, there we are, does this mean it is impossible, it cannot work? I don't know. What I know is that she has entered my heart and she refuses to leave.'

'Have you spoken to her?'

'No.' He shakes his head, sits down and leans back in his chair. But she would probably accept him. And maybe for the wrong reasons. She saw distance and pride in his demeanour and she would imagine what she wished underneath. And she was brave enough and lonely enough to fly in the face of her Establishment. Perhaps even to take pleasure in defying it - 'Ya habibi. You look so tired.'

'It is nothing.'

'Well, there is the "love" you have been waiting for. But you had to go and love an Englishwoman.'

'Mother, have mercy. Where would I have met an Egyptian woman to love her? Yes, I see them at family occasions, but to sit with one and talk to her - can this happen? Layla was lucky that Husni is her cousin. I have not been so fortunate.'

'Khalas, khalas. Don't upset yourself. You love her and you want her. May G.o.d do what brings good.'

'Shall I speak to her?'

'Do you know who her people are? Her father, her mother - '

'Yes. Her parents are dead.'

'She was married before.'

'Yes. She is a widow.'

'And you accept that?'

'Yes.'

'Then speak to her with G.o.d's blessing.'

'She might refuse me, of course, and then all the problems will be solved.'

Refuse her son, the Basha? Zeinab Hanim knows that the monkey, in his mother's eyes, is a gazelle, but this is not a mother's fondness; the whole world would agree that her son is a fine man, a true man who fills his clothes. But then, an Englishwoman to marry an Egyptian - even a Basha like him? And it is true, if she will not have him there will be no problems. And now that his thoughts have turned towards marriage, maybe - 'Wait. Don't go yet.' Zeinab Hanim puts a restraining hand on his arm as he moves to stand up. 'Let's drink a cup of coffee together while I think a little.' She calls out and orders the coffee and they sit in silence till it comes.

'Listen, my son,' she says, after the first sip. 'As you know, I have met the lady. Of course we could not speak together, but Layla also has spoken to me of her. She is beautiful, and she seems good and straight. But the problems for her will be even more than the problems for you.'

'Is that what you see?'

'Yes.' Zeinab Hanim nods. 'For her, her whole life will change. Her people will be angry with her. And the British here will shun her. And even if they soften, it will be difficult for her, as your wife, to visit them or receive visits from them. She will be torn off from her own people. Even her language she will not be able to use -'

Sharif Basha pushes back his chair but his mother holds on to his hand.

'If she feels for you as you feel for her, she will throw away the world and come to you. But if you take her -' Zeinab Hanim holds her son's hand firmly in both her own - 'you will be everything to her. If you make her unhappy, who will she go to? No mother, no sister, no friend. n.o.body. It means if she angers you, you forgive her. If she crosses you, you make it up with her. And whatever the English do, you will never burden her with the guilt of her country. She will be not only your wife and the mother of your children - Insha Allah - but she will be your guest and a stranger under your protection and if you are unjust to her G.o.d will never forgive you.'

Sharif Basha's eyes are moist as he presses his mother's hand to his lips. When he releases her she picks up his coffee cup and turns it upside down on its saucer, tilting it slightly to allow the excess liquid to trickle away.

'Back to the old superst.i.tions?' Sharif Basha says, but he smiles at his mother.

'Mabrouka!' Zeinab Hanim calls, and when her old Ethiopian maid appears she motions her to sit. 'Come and read the cup for the Basha!'

Mabrouka settles cross-legged on the floor. She tilts the cup and peeps into it, then closes it down again. 'Not yet,' she says and smiles up. 'It's been a long time, ya Sharif Basha.'

'I shall let you do it this once only for my mother's sake.' He smiles back. Mabrouka had been a gift to al-Ghamrawi Bey and he had given her to his daughter. She had been with Zeinab Hanim since they were both girls. She had been married twice but had never had children and when the anti-slavery laws came in she had shrugged them off and stayed just the same. She wore all her savings in gold on her arms and her neck and when he was small she had always matched his mother piastre for piastre in his tips for the Eid. Now she righted the cup and held it thoughtfully in her hand.

'Kheir ya Mabrouka,' Zeinab Hanim says.

'I see a path. A narrow path. It goes up and it goes down. A difficult path. I see a figure - it's a man, with a slight, slender body, and he is wearing a hat. Not a tarbush or a 'imma; a hat. But his intentions are sound. And he is waiting for you, ya Basha. You have got something he wants -' Zeinab Hanim smiles at her son and he raises his eyebrows. 'I see the path ending in a clear s.p.a.ce. A clear s.p.a.ce with a lot of light. Allah! A lot of light and joy. And I see a small - a child, it is a child coming towards you. Look!' She holds out the cup to Sharif Basha who glances at it and starts straightening his jacket and reaching for his tarbush.

'Do you see the child?' Mabrouka insists.

'The truth is I do not,' he says.

'There!' She turns the cup towards Zeinab Hanim. 'There! A child running towards the Basha.'

'And then?' Zeinab Hanim says.

'I don't know,' Mabrouka says. 'I can't see after that. It is all white. You didn't swirl the cup properly, ya Setti, before you upturned it.'

1 May, 1901 'Ya Abeih, I will always be your little sister, but now I am asking your permission to speak to you frankly.' Layla stands in his study. She has thrown off her cloak and is dressed in a beautiful costume of dark pink and blue.

'Good, you may speak. But do you have to remain standing in the middle of the room like this?' Sharif Basha motions towards the sofa.

'No.' Layla shakes her head. 'I prefer to stand. I want to talk to you about Lady Anna.'

'What about Lady Anna?' Lady Anna with whom he had talked in the moonlight as he had never talked before with a woman other than his mother and Layla. And with them he had to be careful, for they loved him too dearly to be allowed to think of him as other than strong and if not happy then at least contented - or resigned. He keeps his voice light: 'Has she been kidnapped again?'

Layla looks at him with reproach: 'She is leaving.'

'Leaving?'

'She is going home. To England.'

He turns away. Walks to the window. What had he expected? That she should stay for ever? Of course she would go back to her country. It was natural. He turns back to Layla.

'So? And then?'

'Abeih. She has been waiting for five weeks. Waiting for a word from you.'

'Ah. And how do you know that?'

'Because I am a woman.' Layla moves forward and puts her hand on his arm. 'I know. From the way she mentions you, as though in pa.s.sing, I know that her mind is occupied with you. I would have said it is better that she goes home, except that I know that you too are thinking of her -'

'And how do you know that?'

'I know it for myself - and Mama told me that you had spoken with her.'

'You women! A bean does not have time to get wet in your mouths.' Sharif Basha moves away from his sister. 'And did my mother tell you her objections? Did she tell you of the picture she painted of the lady's life if she - if she lived here?'

'Yes. She did. And of course it will not be easy for her, and if it had been anyone else I would say she would not be able to do it. But Anna is different. She has a big mind. And her life has not been happy. And ... you want her. Abeih, put your trust in her and let her decide for herself. She is not a child.'

'Layla.' Sharif Basha looks into his sister's eyes. 'Do you think I can make her happy? Do you think I could make up for what she will lose? Not for the s.p.a.ce of a month or two but for all that is left of life?'

'Yes, ya Abeih.' Layla's eyes are shining with unshed tears. 'Yes. I know that you will make her happy. And she too will bring you happiness and blessing.'

THAT WAS WHAT I SAID to him that day. I was sure of what I said, sure that I was doing the right thing, otherwise I would never have been able to gather my courage to go and speak to him like that. I know that I looked at the matter from the perspective of my own happy marriage. I know also that I did not wish to lose this new friend who had made the ordinary things of my life new to me by sharing them. But my true and overriding motive was my love for him, and my conviction that were he to allow Lady Anna to leave the country, he would remain alone for the rest of his life, his solitude adding to his bitterness day by day. And I spoke truly when I said that I believed he would make her happy. How could he not, this brother in whose love and kindness I had spent all the years of my life?

'I had thought - in the garden of St Catherine's - that you liked me.'

'It took every atom of strength that I had not to pull you into my arms.'

'Was that why you kept your hands behind your back all the time?'

'I had to. If I had let them they would have just reached out for you - like this.'

In the circle of his arms, Anna places three kisses on the line of his jaw.

'Look what I have found,' he says, 'a b.u.t.ton. And here's another. And here's treasure -' His fingers brushing her skin, he opens the locket at her throat.

'My mama.'

'It could be you. If you crimp your hair and let it loose - so pretty ...'

Anna raises her arms. She reaches behind her neck and unfastens the locket. She holds out her hand: 'Take it.'

'What? Why?'

'Because you admired it. It says in all the guidebooks if someone admires something you have to give it to them.'

'No, it does not. It says if you admire something they will give it to you -'

'Then it works the other way round too.'

'No.' He looks at her, catching the laughter in the violet eyes. 'Anna, you are teasing.'

'Please take it. I should like you to have it. Then I can be with you all the time: at work, and when you are having your manly gatherings -'

'I cannot wear it, dearest. And it shall get lost if I just carry it.'

'Why can you not wear it?'

'Because it is gold, and look at this tiny chain -'

'Then I shall change it so you can wear it -'

'Anna, Anna, I do not need it. I have you. Look: this is what I want. And this But Anna catches hold of his hand, will not let go. 'So why did you not let yourself reach out for me? You must have known I wanted you to.'

'Not that you wanted me to. I just thought you would probably let me.'

'So why didn't you?'

'Because I thought it would not be fair. There's an English answer for you.'

'Why would it not be fair?' Still holding on to the hand.