And now I have a strange confession to make: I used to sit and listen to Sir Charles tell the story of the Bombardment and the Occupation. I used to finger the objects he had brought back with him: the silver filigree coffee-cup holder with its cup of almost transparent white porcelain, the fragment of wooden lattice work, brittle and dulled with age, the soft white velvet shawl ending in a silken fringe - I can see and feel them still. I would read the accounts of travellers; the letters of Lady Duff Gordon lay by my bed for several months. And imperceptibly, a conviction must have grown in my mind that if a creature of such little significance as myself can be said to have a destiny, that destiny bore, somehow, a connection to Egypt. I cannot claim that the thought formed itself in my mind with any clarity, but I know that when the conversation at the dinner table or in the drawing room turned to this country, my interest would quicken and I would listen with more than my usual attention. And when, during the illness of my dear Edward, and ordered by Mr Winthrop to take the air for an hour each day, my feet led me to the South Kensington Museum and I found those wonderful paintings by Frederick Lewis, I had, I believe, some sense of divine ordination. For it seemed as though those paintings had been placed there to cheer me and give me succour. As though they were there to remind me of Our Lord's bounty and to say to me that the world can yet be a place full of light and life and colour. And when the day came and it was deemed proper that I should travel - with the hope that distance and time and fresh and novel sights would restore me to that healthy appet.i.te without which we are incapable of being sensible to the wonderful gift of life - it seemed the most natural thing in the world that my thoughts would turn to Egypt.

And yet - I sit here in my room at Shepheard's Hotel possessed by the strangest feeling that still I am not in Egypt. I have sat on the Pyramid plateau and my eyes have wandered from the lucid blue of the sky through the blanched yellow of the desert to the dark, promising green of the fields. I have marvelled at the lines between blue and yellow and then again between yellow and green - lines drawn as though by design. I have climbed the Pyramids and danced at the Khedive's Ball. I have visited the Bazaar and the Churches and the Mosques and witnessed the processions of the Religious Orders and played croquet at the Club at Ghezirah. I know a few words of the language and I can mark many streets by the houses of people with whom I am now acquainted, but there is something at the heart of it all which eludes me - something - an intimation of which I felt in the paintings, the conversations in England, and which, now that I am here, seems far, far from my grasp.

10.

They said the stolen one was hidden

Inside a fortress grey and strong

They said the nights were monsters. Monsters,

And in every corner danger lurked.

Sabreen, 1997 Cairo, May 1997

And with that the big green journal falls silent. Or, more accurately, the next entry is dated 23 May 1901. With mounting anxiety I search through the papers, through the letters; she cannot vanish like this, disappear from my view for seventy-four days. I go back to the trunk. Is there something I have missed? And yet, why should I expect the story to be complete? Across a century and across two continents, this trunk has found me. I had not known of its existence. I had not known I had a cousin. What had I known? Nothing. The bare facts. That Lady Anna had a daughter who had married a Frenchman named Chirol. That Chirol was not keen on his wife's Egyptian connection and so, when Anna died and when Layla, my grandmother, died, the two branches of our family were severed. I had not even known that Isabel existed. And now here she is, in Cairo. And in love - although she has not said so - with my brother. When we sit and talk on my balcony we are - if I let myself be fanciful - soothing the wounds of our ancestors. But I still want the story. I empty the trunk, carefully, slowly, item by item, and there, among the tissue paper, the fabrics, the gla.s.s, is a small blue book. A prayer book, I had thought, and put it to one side. Now I try to draw it out of its leather case but it will not come out. Patience, I tell myself, patience. Under the light of the desk lamp I see the keyhole, cunningly disguised in the embossed gold decoration, and instantly I reach out for the locket lying on my dressing table and press its spring and Anna's mother smiles out at me. I ease the small key from the belly of the locket's concave lid.

12 March at 5.15 p.m.

My thoughts run mainly on my friends at the Agency and how I should prevent any word of this episode ever reaching their ears. As to consciousness of danger, I can truthfully say I have had none, nor do I have any now. Any fear I might feel is conjured up more by the imagined visage of Lord Cromer than by the actual circ.u.mstances in which I find myself I know that he will blame Mr Barrington most severely for encouraging my foolishness, and will probably insist on his dismissing poor Sabir and that will make him most unhappy. Sabir will also be deprived of both his protector and his income. I am determined not to let this happen. For myself, the thought that holds most tenor for me now is to become known in London as 'that Lady Anna Winterbourne who was abducted by the Arabs'. Even now I can see a mama bending into her daughter's ear as I pa.s.s them on my way to the Park or the Museum, the child ceasing from play and following me with wondering eyes -

I had thought to start this journal in circ.u.mstances varying to a degree from those of my ordinary days - to what degree, however, I had no way of knowing, nor could I have foretold - I set out today, as I have set out before - my plans were more ambitious, it is true, but it was not the scope of their ambition that proved their undoing. For we had not yet ventured into the desert but were barely out of the old religious quarter of Azhar and heading North and East towards the tombs of the Mamelukes when we were set upon, dragged off our horses, bundled into a closed carriage and brought here at a canter.

I write 'here', but I do not know where 'here' is. I know we are roughly twenty minutes' ride from the old Quarter, but I could not say in which direction, for the curtains were drawn close and two young Egyptian men sat facing me.

I do not know if it was they who so man-handled us off our mounts, for there was much commotion and a cloth was thrown over my head and I was only able to remove it when we were secure in the carriage. These youths could not have been far into their twenties, perhaps younger, and were remarkably similar in appearance, both being of slight build and pale complexion, with dark eyes and well-trimmed moustaches. I wondered if they might be brothers. One seemed more agitated than the other and repeatedly pushed aside the curtains by a fraction to peep cautiously outside. Sabir, who from the first has been a most conscientious, though unwilling, companion - and who would not leave my side for a moment even though, I think, the young men offered him his freedom - remonstrated with them constantly, and through his stream of Arabic I made out several times the word 'el-Lord', to which they responded with sardonic smiles.

Their first action, upon our being seated in the carriage, was to draw out clean white handkerchiefs from their breast pockets and mop their faces and their brows. Eventually one, the slightly older and more composed of the two, delivered an address to me in perfect French in which he a.s.sured me that they were neither robbers nor brigands, that their actions were prompted by political motives, and that my person, possessions and horses were safe and would be returned to me as soon as their demands were met by the Egyptian Government. I, being anxious both to conceal my true ident.i.ty - or at least my feminine ident.i.ty - and to preserve the dignity of the British Gentleman I was pretending to be, sat bolt upright, kept my eyes straight ahead and uttered not a word.

I imagine he thought I could not understand him. It was a pity for I was most curious; it was, after all, the first time I have ever been spoken to by one of the 'effendis' - and I do see Mr Boyle's point: these young men seem quite different from the Arab servants and donkey-boys one is used to dealing with. They are more like the gentlemen I observed at the Khedive's Ball, but younger and not so grand - only I do not know that they should be considered less Egyptian for that; they spoke to Sabir in the native Arabic and they did not seem to have any difficulty understanding one another. It was a great pity that I was not able to converse with them, and find out the nature of their grievance, and how they thought this wild action would bring them closer to redress. Is this event the reason I felt Fate draw me to Egypt? How odd it would be if - through me - the Egyptians got their longed-for Const.i.tution. But I am not important enough, nor will this affair reach that proportion, for I do believe that once they have found out that I am a woman and a mere visitor, they will send me on my way with courtly apologies.

I look at my last sentence and try to fathom what basis I have for this belief. At the Agency certainly they do not believe an Englishwoman should go about unchaperoned. But I have never heard of any harm befalling a lady travelling alone - and I cannot help feeling that the letters of Lady Duff Gordon give a truer glimpse into the Native mind than do all the speeches of the gentlemen of Chancery.

And yet, I had thought it safer to go abroad as a man - I would attract less attention. I had heard of a young lady who had got herself up as a syce and run barefoot before the cavalry drag to a fancy-dress ball at Ghezirah. And how this same lady decided to ride across the desert to Suez, and Lord Cromer, hearing of this, and sending a party of coast-guards on camels to pursue her, had received a report that the only person they had found was a youth on horseback. And though I did not fancy running barefoot in the streets of Cairo, dressing as a man to go on an expedition did not seem so outlandish - it is said that Lady Anne Blunt does it and other ladies besides. And I had prevailed upon James Barrington to give up his trusted Sabir to me for a few days - For the moment, though, I sit on a wooden bench with my valise at my side and a small spirit-lamp for light. If one could live on grain and seeds alone I believe I could survive in this vaulted room for the best part of a decade.

We alighted from the carriage in a vast walled courtyard. I heard clangings and rattlings, a great door in a wall swung open and I was hurried in, a hand at my arm just above the elbow. I caught a glimpse of a pleasant inner courtyard opening to my left but I was turned right into a smaller, paved yard and thence into this room, which seemed to be one of many ranged around that yard. It is a middling high room, built of stone, with slit windows high up near the vaulted roof and a stone-flagged floor, and the most part of it is taken up with wheat and grain, tied into hessian sacks and piled to the height of a man.

I think we must be in some great warehouse by the river.

7.30 p.m.

I have told Sabir, who has been sitting on the floor by the wall utterly dejected, that it would be best if he informed our captors of my true character, for I feel certain that in their eyes this will ent.i.tle me to some privileges - at the least to a bathroom and some hot water, and at the best to a more speedy release. I believe he is speaking to them now.

9.30 p.m.

Sabir returned with much shaking of the head and muttering, and from what I could make out, his revelations seem only to have made matters worse and put an end to any possibility of our being released tonight. However, he had gained permission to show me to a small cubicle, where I found a jug of cold water and made myself as clean and comfortable as I could. He then brought me to this new chamber and placed in front of me some bread and milk.

Well, they would not feed me if they intended to do me harm. Oh, how I wish I knew where I was, and how I wish it were light! For this is a room of n.o.ble proportions. I have travelled around it with my little lamp and found high windows and recessed divans, rich hangings and a tiled floor leading with dainty steps to a shallow pool, and I feel, rather than see, the presence of colour and pattern. But it is all so dark and Sabir is so unhappy and I am now so sensible of exhaustion that I can do no more than choose one of the divans, lie on it and hope, eventually, to fall into a restoring sleep.

It is, I believe, a stroke of good fortune that, since both Emily and Mr Barrington know that I am intent on an expedition of several days, it will be some time before the alarm is raised. It may be possible, if our release is secured in good time, to prevent this matter ever becoming public knowledge - and to prevent the wrath of the Lord being visited on Mr Barrington and poor Sabir, who has made me come to the door and shown me how he proposes to sleep in the corridor, stretched across the threshold for my protection.

She is so calm. I did not have Anna down as an Intrepid. But there is no note of panic here. I cannot help thinking that when she chose to step off the well-trodden paths of expatriate life, Anna must have secretly wanted something out of the ordinary to happen to her. And now it had. But Sabir had not wanted any of it. I imagine him, plunged in misery. The expedition he had been forced to go on in the first place has gone horribly wrong. The effendis outside refuse to put their minds in their heads and fear G.o.d. And his charge, this Englishwoman, kidnapped and locked into a storeroom, what does she do? She sits down and opens a book. At first he had thought she was trying to comfort herself by reading the Bible. But then she started writing. Writing! The daughter of the madwoman! Truly they must be made of a different dough - Anna does indeed fall asleep. Not so the young men, who are thrown into horrified confusion by the discovery that the young British gentleman they have kidnapped is a woman. They must have deliberated, discussed, even argued. They could not let her go, it would be foolishness, she would go straight to the Agency and the repercussions would be terrible. But they dare not simply keep her in their custody for a whole night. Yet what other course is open to them? And in the morning - if the morning should ever come - what will they do? They cannot advertise the kidnapping, send their demands to the Ministry of Justice as they had planned - their hostage is worthless to them now, for they can never say 'we are holding a woman'. At last, they send a messenger (ride quickly but without arousing suspicion) - they send a messenger to a house in the fashionable district of Hilmiyya, and if he should not find the Basha at home, he should go to his sister's house for he might be there. And he is to speak with no one, no one except the Basha or the Hanim, his sister, and tell them what has happened.

The messenger rides off into the night. The young men pace the floor. Sabir says his prayers and stretches out on the floor. Anna sleeps.

And now it is time to turn to yet another narrative: the sixty-four pages covered in close ruqa script in black ink. I have seen some of my grandmother's Arabic writings before: sc.r.a.ps of verse, sections of articles. I have read her words and taken pleasure in the elegance of her hand and her mind. I ease the grey volume open, and place a paperweight at the corner of the page to pin it down - a small, bronze Pharaonic cat that my youngest son used to take such delight in and that we bought together one sunny afternoon at the museum in Tahrir Square. I start to translate my grandmother's words for Isabel: WHEN I FIRST SAW HER she was still dressed in the clothes of a man. I saw a man lying on the diwan, curled up on himself, his hat placed so that it covered his face and hair. And even though they had told me the whole story and how they had s.n.a.t.c.hed an Englishman, then found out he was a woman - even though I knew that was the essence of the problem - it still felt strange to come upon an Englishman asleep in my mother's haramlek, and I felt so ill at ease that I turned and went back out of the door and nearly banged into the manservant who must have been standing very close behind it and now leaped away looking even more miserable than he had when I first arrived. I pushed the door to and looked at him.

'Are you sure?' I asked.

'Sure of what, ya Sett Hanim?' His eyes on the floor just in front of my feet.

'Sure that what's inside there is a woman?'

'Of course I'm sure, ya Sett Hanim: a woman and an Englishwoman and an important woman as well. My Ingelisi holds her very dear. He says her father has done him great favours and their house in England is very grand and now we've fallen into this catastrophe and how will we get out of it?'

'May G.o.d protect us,' was all I could say. I took him out on the open terrace and sat down and pointed to a spot on the floor. 'Sit down,' I said, 'and tell me everything you know.'

'I swear by G.o.d I don't know anything. By the head of our master -'

'Tell me what you know about her.'

'An Englishwoman. Her name is Lady Anna - Sett Anna, it means. She came here two or three months ago and my Ingelisi knows her and knows her people and he said look after her like your eyes - my Ingelisi speaks Arabic and he said look after her like your eyes. I looked after her - but a lady like that, her father is a good man and her people are good people, what's the need to dress in disguise and make problems? He said she wants to know your country and movement is always difficult for a woman -'

'So you've done this before?'

'Twice. Twice only, I swear by our Lord. Once we went up el-Darb el-Ahmar and she went into the old mosques, the antiquities, and once we went on the tram to the pyramids -'

'And no one suspected you?'

'Never. She rides like a man: donkeys, mules, horses, anything - and I tell people an Ingelisi who can't speak -'

'Can't speak?'

'Her voice, you'll pardon me, the voice of a woman, what can we do about that? I tell them he fell on his head and lost the power of speech. They say, may G.o.d cure him. Like this also if anyone sees the bandages under the hat -'

'She bandages her hair.'

'There's light upon you.'

'And this time, where were you going?'

'She wanted to go to Deir Sant Katrin.'

'To Sinai?' I could not hide my astonishment.

'But first she wanted to sit in the coffee shops and listen to the storytellers. I said to him - to my Ingelisi - what will she get out of this? Stories and songs in Arabic and she only knows - you'll excuse me - two words. He said, She's put it in her head to go. I said, We get her the storytellers here. She sits like this in the garden like their queen - G.o.d have mercy on her soul now - and we get her the storytellers and she can choose what she wants to hear, she can listen to Abuzeid, listen to Antar, listen to a mawwal and make of it what she can; he said no, she wants to listen in a coffee shop. And now we've gone and what's happened has happened and what shall we do now, ya Sett Hanim?'

I took off my shoes and habara and sat on the other diwan, across the room from her, with my mind going round and round and not ending except on 'May G.o.d protect us all'. The only hope I had was that my brother was due back the next day. What he would do I did not know, but he was my only hope. He had gone to take our mother to Tawasi in Minya to visit her brother and her lands, and he would come back to find, instead of one disaster, two: Husni, my husband, in jail and this Englishwoman in our father's house.

I contemplated the sleeping figure: in the dark I could make nothing of her except that her build was slight and that she slept very peacefully; she had not moved a hand or a foot. I went to my mother's room and fetched a woollen shawl which I spread over her. I said, The most important thing is when she wakes to make her feel safe and comfortable until my brother arrives to advise us. I sent orders to the young men that they should stay in the shrine with my father. They could not stay in the house, but I did not trust them not to get up to more foolishness if I let them go. I arranged some cushions for myself, covered myself with my habara, loosened my hair, and lay down with prayers in my mind for my husband and for us all.

11.

The years like great black oxen tread the world

And G.o.d the herdsman goads them on behind,

And I am broken by their pa.s.sing feet.

W. B. Yeats Cairo, 29 June 1997