The Girl with Braided Hair

Yasmine put down her coffee on the desk and sat at her laptop to resume her research. She had now grasped hold of the thread: the portrait had been painted at the time of the French Campaign in Egypt, and she was conﬁdent that the artist had been with the Campaign. All she needed to do was uncover his name, and the mystery would unravel.

She searched the names of the artists in Napoleon’s French Campaign in Egypt, and read back over the details of the Campaign:

Napoleon sailed for the East in 1798 with a ﬂeet of twenty-six warships, with thirty thousand soldiers on board, arriving twelve days later in the region of Agami, off Alexandria. The troops disembarked and continued on foot. The Campaign was accompanied by up to 150 scientists and two thousand people including artists, sculptors, carpenters, designers, craftsmen and artisans, and workmen.

How could she ﬁnd her artist among all these men? She knew that the most famous among them were Vivant Denon, Antoine Jean-Gros, Théodore Géricault, and Eugène Delacroix. She had seen their paintings in various museums around the world. She was familiar with their styles, and none of them even remotely resembled this painter: she would have recognized him immediately if that had been the case. With long experience, one acquired the ability to identify a painter by merely looking at their work; she was rarely wrong, and her intuition was rarely proved inaccurate. An artist’s brushstrokes were like ﬁngerprints to her, like a writer’s distinctive style, or a poet’s. The way one can identify a singer among a hundred voices, she was able to recognize the style of an artist that set them apart from the rest.

Three hours ﬂew by as she was absorbed in her research. Most of the artists that Napoleon had brought with him on his campaign had already been friends of his or at least known to him, and he had been in the habit of bringing them with him on all his previous campaigns. Most of the paintings were depictions of battles or portraits meant to glorify Napoleon and underscore his greatness, particularly those of Denon and Caffarelli.

At last she found a clue: on a site showing paintings of life in Egypt at that time, paintings that documented habits, customs, and fashions of the era, she found a painting titled The Mule Market in Cairo. She peered closely at it. There was a strong resemblance between the style of this painting—the brushstrokes, the way the light fell, the color composition, the sense of it—and the painting of Zeinab. She was able to zoom into a close-up of the work, which helped her see that the artist had paid attention to the most minute details and depicted clear emotions on the faces of the different carters at the market. It was clear that they were exhausted, although they were smiling. She found another painting by the same artist on that site, titled A Street in Cairo. The painting was full of a great many details: the old houses, the meshrabiyehs that covered the secret world of the women, the giant camels laden with heavy burdens that walked through the narrow alleyways, the two men engrossed in what appeared to be a long discussion, the woman selling oranges in the middle of the road, but most importantly, the work was suffused with a particular feeling: the warmth and bustle of life which made the viewer feel that they were part of the scene, if not actually a partner in creating this depiction of it.

The paintings were listed under the name of the artist: Alton Germain. She clicked on the artist’s name to see what the site had to say about him: to her surprise, the site only listed his name, date of birth, and date of death, but no other information. Art sites usually provided a fairly exhaustive biography of every artist: their birth, their study, their life, their works, and their death, but this site only had the barest of facts: name, birth, and death, as though the life he had lived had meant nothing to anyone—or had, perhaps, remained a secret.

She tried to ﬁnd him on other sites, but came up empty. She went back to the paintings by him. The site refused to let her download them, insisting she register with a foreign bank card. She picked up the phone to call Sherif, who was always buying all manner of things online and had often complained to her that online sites often didn’t ship to Egypt yet, which, he claimed, would save him time and effort.

“Yasmine,” came his sleepy voice. “Everything okay? What’s the matter?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “everything’s all right. I need your help with something.” Without waiting for an answer, she went on enthusiastically. “There’s an art site that’s asking me to become a member so I can see the paintings on it. It won’t accept my card, I think it needs a foreign—”

He cut her off curtly. “Are you kidding me? You’re calling me at three in the morning to ask me about an art site membership?”

She blinked. She had been so engrossed in her search that she had not even noticed it was three o’clock in the morning. Mortiﬁed, more so at his brusque tone, she stammered, “Three . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t notice, I lost track of time.”

“I know you’re crazy about these things, but this is ridiculous!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sherif had changed. He had never been so short with her. She remembered waking him up from sleep many times before, and he had made a joke of it, saying that not only was she on his mind during his waking hours, but she even interrupted his sleep. His love had always rolled out the red carpet for her, guaranteeing her VIP treatment; she seethed with jealousy to think that this new girl had pulled the rug out from under her.

The Mediterranean: May 1798

I found myself on a boat battling the swells of the sea, heading I knew not where. Too much talk, speculation, and guesswork became tedious after a while. The gist of almost all of them was that the campaign was headed to take over Sardinia or take control of Malta, to ensure control of the Mediterranean, while a stubborn minority insisted that we were on the way to Egypt. We were worried and tense. Finally, Napoleon came out and stood at the prow of the ship, his generals around him. He gave a speech that dispelled a great deal of our worries:

May 10, 1798

From Headquarters at Toulon

You were a wing of the army that fought Great Britain. You have fought in the mountains and valleys; you have faced siege; there is nothing before you but a naval battle.

It was a long speech, the goal of which was to raise the soldiers’ morale once more, and in that goal it largely succeeded: no sooner was it read out than everything changed. The soldiers whose faces had been awash with trepidation and disappointment quickly changed to euphoric excitement, and snatches of patriotic songs could be heard interspersed with their shouts of enthusiasm. The sails were unfurled in search of a favorable wind to start moving. At dawn on May 30, the ship set sail, and the circuitous route we sailed confounded all the sailors’ guesses: ﬁrst we sailed close to shore and they said “It is Genoa,” and then we moved away and they said, “No, we are en route to Sardinia,” but we did not stop at either. We were sailing according to the winds, with Neptune as our guardian. Finally, we approached Malta, which we saw as a long-awaited promised land, the land of legends and stories. We took advantage of the darkness of night to allow a few divisions to disembark to start, and when the Maltese saw our maneuvers, they rained down a volley of ﬁre upon us, while our soldiers amassed easy victories. After 24 hours of ﬁghting, the Maltese surrendered unconditionally, and in a scant few hours, we were the masters of an island that enjoyed a fantastic position in the sea. The beautiful, proud island was transformed in a short while into an island in mourning. The city closed its doors in our faces, and wherever we walked, we were met with gazes of hatred and resentment. The streets were ﬁlled with grief and sorrow. The women wore black; the children wailed; the men walked through the streets with their heads bowed.

I could not help but feel it odd that the soldiers were so happily celebrating their victory and clinking their glasses in toasts to victory. Why were they celebrating? We had not fought a real battle, neither proving our heroism nor winning in a test of strategy. It was a quiet city, its closed doors concealing the dreams of its peaceful, kind people, and here we were, killing their innocent dreams, and raising the ﬂag of victory over the corpse of the dream.

Napoleon had set the hearts and minds of his solders aﬂame with his speech where he promised them that they would own the earth: their hearts were ﬁlled with envy and greed to take over what they had no right to take. After we had taken Malta, the ships made ready to sail away again, and Napoleon came out to give us a second speech.

You shall make a conquest that shall have the greatest possible impact on trade and civilization in the world. It shall be the greatest strike against England before we vanquish that country with a back-breaking blow: the Mamluks, who prefer to trade only with the British, and whose tyranny has laid waste to the poor inhabitants of the land of the Nile, shall become history as soon as we arrive.

It was then that we became certain that we were on our way to Egypt, and the soldiers began to hope this would be their destination, dreaming of its women, their imaginations ﬁred by The Thousand and One Nights and Letters from Egypt and sundry tales from history. They thought that every Egyptian woman resembled their queen, Cleopatra.

I was imagining, with great excitement, this land that I had so far only heard about: would my feet really tread this ancient, eternal land, the cradle of science and art? Would I see the pyramids? The obelisks? The ruins of ancient temples? Would I walk on the rubble of the cities that had witnessed the civilizations of the pharaohs, the Greeks, and the Romans?

It was drizzling lightly when its minarets and temples appeared on the horizon. The ships dropped anchor and there was a great hullabaloo. The soldiers, scientists, and workmen disembarked, crowding the port, and began to unload the equipment. At the start, a number of Egyptian Mamluk divisions, working for the beys—the aristocrats—attacked us, on the backs of horses faster than the wind. They were richly clothed, armed with guns and pistols, plus gem-encrusted swords. Their features were beautiful but cruel, their eyes like burning coals, sparks ﬂying from their eyes. The mounted ﬁghters ﬁred upon us ﬁrst, and here the real battle between us and them started. We were greater than them in strength and numbers, and we had better knowledge of the arts of war. They were quickly vanquished, and Alexandria fell with them. But, it must be said, they fought with courage and strength to their last breath.

We set up camp, some within the city and some without. We based our center of operations in the homes of some of the great Mamluk princes of the city. Thus, in an afternoon and a night, the people of this charming and peaceful city found themselves in the midst of war. The smell of the sea changed, for now it stank of gunpowder; clouds of black smoke obscured the clear blue sky, and the fresh sea breeze now bore the stench of the bodies of the dead Mamluks. Napoleon had ten of them beheaded and their heads mounted at the entrance of the city to be an example to the others. The white seagulls that circled above were replaced by severed heads.

Before we had come, the British had put it about that the French invaders were vicious inﬁdels who would destroy the country. Napoleon, however, was intelligent enough to give the lie to their rumors, and commanded that we must show them respect, the lowliest as well as the highest-born, that we must revere their women and their religion, and preserve the sanctity of their personal belongings. This made them trust us, which was exactly what Napoleon wanted. He gave his third speech addressed to the Egyptian people. He was careful to calm and reassure them, and the people of Alexandria all came out to listen, thronging the squares and public gathering places.

From Bonaparte to the Egyptian People

For a long time, the Mamluks who rule Egypt have taken pains to humiliate the French community here and oppress their merchants. The hour of retribution is at hand; for a long time, this riffraff—for Mamluks were originally a slave class, as you know—bought from the Caucasus Mountains and Georgia have been going further and further in their oppression, imposing a rule of tyranny over the best corner of the Earth. But the Lord in His inﬁnite wisdom hath fated the end of their rule.

People of Egypt! They will tell you that I am here to destroy your religion. Do not believe them. Say to them that I have, rather, come to give you back your rights, and punish those who would wrest them from you. I revere your God, His Prophet Muhammad, and the Holy Qur’an more than the Mamluks ever did. Say to them that all people are equal before God, and that wisdom, knowledge, and virtue are the real mark that distinguishes one man from another. Where is that wisdom, knowledge, and virtue in the Mamluks, that they have laid claim to every element of a life of luxury? Every good slave, thoroughbred horse, or beautiful estate has been usurped by the Mamluks, who have laid claim to all that is good in the land.

This speech fell like an enchantment upon the ears of its hearers, and Napoleon with his cunning managed to win the people of Alexandria over to his side. After the speech was done, the looks of hate and resentment were replaced with friendly and familiar smiles, and some even cheered for Napoleon. The Bedouin, who had been ﬁghting us ﬁercely the day before, today sent us baskets of bread and gifts for the general.

I was certain that my presence in this land, with a campaign to take it by force, was in error. Thus, I left everyone to their dreams and illusions, and went out to explore this city that had been built by Alexander of Macedonia, this towering city, as towering as the heroes who once set foot upon its soil. I found its people to be strong, muscular, and tall of stature. They were of a complexion between olive-tinted and swarthy. They were almost uncovered but for some rags clothing their nakedness, with turbans upon their heads. They wore no socks nor shoes upon their feet, but walked barefoot and wild-haired. This was the poorest class of the people, working as farmers or day laborers hired by the Mamluks. The rich, on the other hand, wore loose pantaloons of silk, Moroccan slippers on their feet, large turbans gracing their heads. The men and boys of this class shaved their heads, only leaving a small tuft of hair at the top, explaining it away by saying that the Prophet Muhammad would come on the Judgment Day to pull them by this lock of hair up to Paradise. Sometimes I would see little girls and boys walking around completely naked, unable to ﬁnd clothing to cover them. The houses, similarly, were no less destitute than those who inhabited them: they were mere huts of reeds, while the food they ate was one of two things—three at most—and after meals they hurried to drink coffee and smoke water pipes. Unfortunately, in this city embraced by the sea, whose soil had been trodden by the most powerful men, and where the greatest civilizations had sprung up, this city whose library had comprised the most important books and manuscripts and which I had hoped would yield happy hours to us—we could only ﬁnd poverty and suffering.

The soldiers’ dreams were scattered to the four winds. They began to mutter that the Maltese women, ugly as they had been, were goddesses compared to the Egyptian women. Still, for all that, I saw something else in these women, something unique. Perhaps it was the sorrow buried deep inside that showed in their eyes and made them more captivating.

In my walks along the winding paths, I found a café on a corner, only a few meters from the sea. It was a simple place, simple and unassuming like the city itself. I asked the waiter, who was glaring at me with ill-concealed dislike, for a cup of coffee. He shouted at me in a tongue I did not understand, but it was clear that he did not wish to serve me my coffee: he waved a hand at the sea, telling me to go and jump in the sea.

His treatment of me did not surprise me: it was only natural, for we were the invaders who had stormed their city and upset their lifestyle, and he couldn’t have known or understood that it was no fault of mine, or that I had no weapon and was neither a ﬁghter nor an invader. All I had come with was my palette and my brushes, no more. I was here by imperial command and I was nothing but a slave to my orders.

I was preparing to go when a voice came to me, as though it was pushing through the thick winds. “Wait, don’t go!” It was the voice of an older man sitting close by me. He left his seat and came to sit at my table, then gestured to me to sit down and glared at the waiter. “Go and make us two cups of coffee,” I understood him to say.

The man appeared to be wealthy, although his clothing was not like that of the other rich men. He wore a caftan of Indian cashmere, Muscovite slippers, and a white turban, which, along with his long white beard, gave him a reassuring air. He gave me a long look. “You seem different from them. Are you a warrior?”

“No. I am a painter. I’m here with the scientiﬁc expedition.”

“Scientiﬁc expedition?”

“Yes. Napoleon brought a number of scientists and artists with him, for he plans to discover this country’s hidden treasures, and he believes that he will lift this land up out of ignorance and poverty.”

The man reached out a hand to shake mine and introduced himself. “I’m Antonio, a philosopher. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it’s enough to get in the boat coming to invade Egypt to earn her people’s hatred.”

“I knew nothing of the military campaign. Napoleon concealed it from everyone. But even if I had known, I could not have disobeyed his orders—I would have been forced to come in any case.”

The waiter brought two cups of coffee on a brass tray and slammed them down on the table, looking askance at me. I took a sip. It was sharp and bitter. I was as yet unused to the ﬂavor of Arabian coffee, and almost spat it out, but managed to choke it down. Antonio chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.” He nodded. “Careful. It’s addictive, and you may never want to stop.”

I took another sip. This time, though, it tasted less bitter.

“But,” he asked, “aren’t you afraid of being murdered? You are walking through the city alone and unarmed.” He went on, “Don’t be too impressed by the reaction to Napoleon’s speech: many people did not believe it, and only saw in it the words of an inﬁdel invader with his army.”

“I don’t fear death,” I said, “for it will come sooner or later. The idea of hiding and never venturing into this great city, a city I have heard so much about, would be foolish. I’m a painter, and I draw my inspiration from nature, from cities, from life.”

“And has Alexandria inspired you?”

“Its natural beauty is breathtaking. But the people who live here are so unfortunate. The injustice they suffer, and the discrepancy between the lifestyles of the Mamluks and the sons and daughters of this great country, who live in poverty and hunger, all of this has shocked me, I cannot but confess.”

“This city was a beacon of science and culture in bygone days,” said Antonio. “It was enough for a man to say, ‘I was educated in Alexandria.’”

I nodded, then ventured to ask him, “But your name and face are not Arab.”

“I am originally from Rome,” said Antonio. “An ancestor of mine moved here to study philosophy, astronomy, and mathematics under a famous scientist, and my family has lived here since then.” He took a sip of coffee. “One of my ancestors was a librarian at the ancient Library of Alexandria, and his sons took up the profession after him, and so on, until it burned down.”

The man kept talking without pause, then suddenly, as though he remembered something, he said, “Come, let me take you to my house.”

I trusted his intent implicitly: his appearance and conversation evoked nothing suspicious; therefore, I accepted his invitation. He got on his mule and rented one for me; I followed him through paths, alleyways, and narrow passages. We went past markets rich in fruit and vegetables, and others ﬁlled with the smell of ﬁsh. We went by the houses of rich men whose windows were adorned with golden handles, and the reed huts of the poor. There were strange faces and diverse nationalities: Armenians, Maltese, Levantines, Italians, and Moroccans. There were women who went out with their faces bare and wafted the scent of perfume, others wrapped in fabric from head to toe, monks in black habits, and old men with white beards. It was a city teeming with life: every inch of it was an inspiration for some brilliant painting. All the way, the man never stopped talking. He was like a tourist guide or some dragoman, waving his hand toward this scene or another, although most of his words were carried away by the wind.

At last he turned his mule toward a quarter where the alleyways were locked up with great wooden gates: it was the Coptic quarter, with a large brass cross hanging on its gate. The inhabitants of this quarter were forced to live with a great many restrictions and prohibitions imposed by the Mamluks: no entry or exit without permission, no wearing certain clothing and certain colors, no riding mules in front of mosques, and so on.

The alleyway branched out into several narrow paths, paved with gravel. From behind the closed doors came the sounds and scents of their inhabitants. Antonio stopped outside a two-story house with a bleached wooden door. He cleared his throat loudly and clapped his hands twice, then invited me in.

Antonio’s elderly wife came out to shake my hand. She smelled strongly of onions and spices. She smiled, chattering a great deal in Arabic. Her husband translated for me: she was telling him that dinner would be ready soon. He then took me up a wooden staircase whose creaking informed me that it was on its way to collapsing, and I crept up it with a good measure of trepidation. Upstairs, shelves of walnut—ﬁlled with books, magazines, and old papyri— lined the wide corridor. In a corner stood a chest of drawers with whatever secrets it held locked inside. The man gestured proudly at his library: “Here are the treasures of knowledge,” he said. “Books on philosophy, medicine, mathematics, astronomy, astrology, magic, and chemistry. They are my inheritance from my ancestors. The city was invaded many times, and every time it was, the library was the ﬁrst thing to be sacked by the invaders, and every conqueror’s ﬁrst evil thought is to burn it to the ground. This library is every invader’s greatest enemy, because it comprises treasure troves of knowledge and learning: it is the evidence of a wealth of civilization, and that is why he wishes to destroy such minds, doing away with their civilization. That is why invaders burn down libraries.” He smiled proudly. “My ancestors who worked in the Library of Alexandria transferred books secretly, by night, helped by the people of the neighborhood, to protect them from the hands of the conquerors. Because there are hundreds of thousands of books, though, it was hard to transfer them all, but after the ﬁre, the books that survived were moved here.”

I must admit to great shock. “What ignorant mind could burn such priceless treasures?” I found myself asking. I approached the shelves and began to look through them, book after book and volume after volume. They were all in different languages and penned by different hands. There were volumes of physics and chemistry, comprising complicated equations and long formulae; volumes of astronomy ﬁlled with diagrams of the sky, the stars, and heavenly bodies; books on the arts of architecture and construction, mosaics, volumes of graceful Arabic calligraphy, and even a manuscript painted and trimmed in pure gold lettering and another edged and embroidered with smooth silk. I could scarcely ﬁnd voice for astonishment. “These really are treasures,” I managed to say, “of knowledge and the sciences.”

By the light of ﬂickering candles in a tarnished old silver candelabrum, I took my time perusing one of the volumes. Antonio had clearly read it so many times that he knew it by heart. It was a book entitled Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, written by the world’s most famous art historian, Giorgio Vasari.

Eventually, dinner was served. When we had ﬁnished the delicious meal that Antonio’s wife had prepared, I made my excuses, for I had to leave before dark. Antonio disappeared for a moment, then came back with the priceless book and held it out to me. “A gift from me to you,” he said. “A beautiful book on the history of art.” He smiled. “I think it will be useful to you in your work.”

I was speechless. It was the most precious gift I could ever have wished for, and to have it given to me so freely! Because all the thanks in the world would never express my gratitude for the man’s favor in giving me such a book, I thought later of painting his portrait and having it sent to him. I bade him and his wife goodbye, the latter’s face reddening in pleased embarrassment when I praised her cooking. “It is the most delicious meal I have ever had in my life,” I said quite truthfully. I placed the book carefully in my coat, and the carter took me back whence I had come.

I went with a scientiﬁc expedition to the Citadel of Qaitbay. It is an ancient fortress that looks medieval in nature. The more I walked around there, the more I felt the magniﬁcence of history. I could almost hear the hooves of the horses that had galloped over its gravel. There was also Pompey’s Pillar, which reminded me of the pillar in the Place Vendôme in France. In the south was a towering obelisk, beside which lay another neglected on the ground. I sat upon it so as to feel humbled and small. One of the archaeologists told us that this had been the location of Cleopatra’s palace—the woman who had captivated Marc Antony, the most powerful man in the world, and made him sacriﬁce his empire for her. Had he truly been that naïve? Or had she truly been that powerful? Or was it love, which works miracles?

One look around us was enough to afﬁrm that we would never bring back to this people all of its bygone glories, or make all of its dreams come true.

Alexandria: July 1798

We were ordered to start moving again. The army separated into three directions: west, straight on to Damanhur, and the third along the coastline to Rosetta. I walked with one of the three divisions under the heat of the burning sun. We suffered terribly from heat, thirst, and lack of supplies. Many died. We lost one soldier after another. Finally, we arrived at Rosetta, and drank all the cold drinks we could lay our hands on, buying poor and overpriced wine from the Jewish distillers there. We rested and stored enough supplies to last us a while, then resumed our journey. And so it went, from place to place and battle to battle. We were not facing a single enemy, but three all at once: the Mamluks, the Bedouin, and the heat, the last of which was the cruelest.

We were forced to march over burning sands under the broiling sun, in addition to the privations of lack of food and water. Many soldiers despaired and fell ill, unable to bear it; suicide took several forms, and appeared to spread like a contagion. Many shot themselves. I saw with my own eyes two brothers taking hold of one another and casting themselves into the Nile. Everyone wished their suffering to end. Death, to them, was more merciful than fulﬁlling the orders of a mad general. One night, exhausted by heat and relentless fatigue, we threw ourselves down upon our packs, but no sooner had we fallen into sleep than we heard the familiar call, “To arms! To arms!” It was a massacre, a battle between us and the Mamluks. It ended quickly in our favor. Then we went on to Wardan, a region ﬁlled with watermelon patches, to which I owe my life along with the Nile, indeed, my life and that of the soldiers. This beautiful, moist, and delicious fruit quenched our thirst and made up for the weakness and frailty that had afﬂicted us. We not only ate our ﬁll of it, but threw it at each other like cannonballs, laughing hysterically, for we had been close to death or insanity, and if not for this fruit, so like a ball, we would have perished for certain and been only bodies dead upon the road.

I sat upon a high rock, carving a piece of wood with a knife in the shape of an exhausted soldier. The news spread that the general had arrived to inspect the troops. I glimpsed him from afar, walking among the ranks of the exhausted soldiers overcome with despair. He could see it as well, and realized that he would not be able to accomplish his goal with things as they were. He walked among their ranks, speaking to them and conversing with each in turn, encouraging them with phrases such as, “Just a few more days and you shall ﬁnd much of everything in the capital of Egypt! White bread, tender meats, and ﬁne wines!” Napoleon’s words worked like magic on the poor soldiers: no sooner had he spoken than they were ﬁlled with renewed life. I cannot overstate his conﬁdence, and the ease with which he infused it into those around him. His boundless enthusiasm was infectious and impossible to escape, especially in these hard times: we were like drowning men clutching at any life raft.