The address on the slip of paper took them along Sha’ib El Banat. It had previously been Soliman Street, named for a French military commander under one of the old pashas. Now it carried the name of the djinn builder who had transformed modern Cairo into an industrial capital. It was also the name of a mountain range somewhere in the eastern desert, as djinn never gave their real names and used such places as monikers instead.
Hamed had expected to end up in a back alley somewhere, and not along one of the most well-known commercial centers in the city—with tall buildings reflecting a mixture of architectural styles. They stopped at a corner, before a building with a rounded front and multiple floors each supported by Corinthian columns. At the apex, a carved relief depicted pharaohs upon thrones beneath a roof capped by a white dome.
“Here we are,” he told Onsi, matching up the address. “Just as our helpful server suggested. Tell me, what did you notice about her?”
Onsi pursed his lips, mulling over the unexpected question. “She appears about my age, I suppose. Much prettier, certainly. And, there are the pants and boots. An interesting woman.”
That she certainly was, Hamed agreed. “What did you notice about her earrings?”
Onsi scrunched up his face in recollection. “Earrings? They were gold. In the likeness of an animal of some kind? Perhaps a bird?”
“A cow,” Hamed corrected. “A golden cow, with a disc between its horns. An emblem of the goddess Hathor.”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “An idolater!”
“They don’t exactly call themselves that,” Hamed pointed out. The entrance of djinn and magic into the world had changed society in some unanticipated ways. It had even sent a few seeking after Egypt’s eldest gods, whose temples and statues had remained stubbornly steadfast through time. There were probably dozens of such cults in Cairo alone. Most remained underground, as even the vaunted new religious tolerance laws offered their adherents little protection.
“Not surprising that she knows where to find practitioners of a Zār,” he continued, walking up to pull at a door latch. “Always keep your eyes sharp, Agent Onsi. Sometimes what you least expect is staring right at you.” His words died on his tongue as the door opened.
He had expected a reception area, but was greeted instead by a foyer filled with women. Dozens of women. They all chatted loudly, so busily moving to and fro that most scarcely bothered to pay the two men any mind. Hamed surveyed the walls about them, which were plastered with artwork. One featured a veiled woman with arms outstretched that read: ARISE YE WOMEN! Another a young factory girl, sitting at a loom machine with the slogan: WOMEN ARE AWAKENING! A third portrayed a woman in modern dress: EGYPT, FREE YOUR WOMEN!
His gaze traveled up a stone staircase to where a large half-moon banner hung from a balcony, displaying the familiar double-faced Hatshepsut upon a red and green background, the words Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood Office #3 inscribed across the top in golden script. He was still putting the pieces of this unexpected scene together as a figure moved to block his vision: a woman in all black, her face set into a sour expression.
“There you are!” she exclaimed without any greeting. “It’s been two full hours! Do we ask so much of you to arrive when you say you will?” He opened his mouth in protest, but the woman snapped her head upward and clicked her tongue, cutting off whatever he was going to say. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. You should be ashamed to do business as you do! Where is your self-respect and how do you expect others to have it for you?”
Hamed had taken an involuntary step back under the harangue, and he saw Onsi do the same. The woman was sturdily built and old enough to be his mother. In fact, she spoke to him as if she was his mother. She clutched her head in clear exasperation. “See here how many more of these we have to produce! If you don’t fix the machine soon we won’t have enough for the rallies planned before the vote!” He followed her gesture, only now noticing the leaflets that the other women were gathering into neat stacks against the walls. They all read: WE DEMAND THE VOTE!
Finding his wits, he finally spoke up. “Madaam, we aren’t here to fix your machine.”
She glared at him. “Then who will fix it? You expect one of us to?”
He hastily dug out his identification and brandished it like a shield. “I’m Agent Hamed and this is Agent Onsi. We’re with the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
The woman peered closely at his photo and the official seal bearing his name. She scowled beneath a set of thick eyebrows. “But we didn’t call you. We need a machinist for the printer. Why would they send us the Ministry?”
“Madaam, no one called us,” Hamed explained. This was becoming tedious. “We don’t know anything about your printer or your work. We came looking for a sheikha, and didn’t realize this was one of the Sisterhood’s headquarters. Perhaps we’ve been misled. If so, we apologize for troubling your house.”
The woman eyed them both, drawing up her shawl, then said almost dismissively, “You want Nadiyaa. She rents an office seven stairs up. The green door. We have the lift busy, so you’ll have to take the stairs.” She left as hurriedly as she had appeared, likely to find her errant machinist.
Hamed and Onsi exchanged wrung-out looks before crossing the floor through the crowd to begin the long climb up. On each floor they passed, there were more women engaged in work. Making signs, drafting petitions, even teaching chants. If there was to be a vote on the suffrage bill this week, he could understand their urgency. He noticed that among the obvious Cairenes there were also rural women from the countryside, recognizable in their simple but elaborately wrapped gallabiyahs. It seemed the Sisterhood had brought in members from all over for their rallies—a prudent move, as the early movement had struggled to make itself inclusive of more than just the urban classes.
By the time they reached the seventh floor, Hamed found he was laboring for breath. Onsi wasn’t faring much better. They stopped to rest near a great mural depicting crowds of men with djinn hidden among them. In the middle, atop a carriage, were three women, all in black dress and long white veils, one of them standing and appearing to speak.
“The Women of ’79,” Onsi remarked, naming the famous painting. This was of course only a replica. The much larger original sat at the art museum in Gezira, a dedication to the women who had taken part in the 1879 nationalist uprising against the British. Not surprising. Women, after all, had been some of al-Jahiz’s more dedicated followers. Looking past the mural, his eyes landed on a dark green door at the end of the hall.
“I think that’s where we’re meant to be,” he deduced. They walked up, and this time rapped once before opening it slowly. Inside they found two seated women working a wide brass-faced switchboard, hands moving rapidly as they spoke into headphones and plugged long black cords into copper-plated jacks.
“Good afternoon, sirs, may I be of help?” a voice slurred.
Hamed turned to another woman behind a wide black painted desk that stood on animal-shaped legs. Not a woman, he corrected, but a djinn. Her skin was a deep shade of red, the color of a dark ruby, even to her lips. A set of corded silver horns replaced hair, flowing past her shoulders and matching decorated fingernails that were long as talons. She was also, very possibly, the most beautiful being he had ever seen, with depthless eyes that sparkled like gems in moonlight. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, but he managed to stammer out a greeting and show his identification, asking after her mistress.
“Please have a seat, agents,” she answered in that slurring tone. “I’ll inquire whether the sheikha has a moment to meet with you. Would you care for some drink? Tea perhaps?”
Hamed nodded dreamily, giving his thanks. His nostrils were filled with a miasma of scents that carried from the djinn: jasmine, honey, and pungent cinnamon, to name a few—so strong he could taste them on his tongue. She gave a demure smile as she rose to go, standing a good foot above him. And he couldn’t help but notice that even in her long maroon dress she walked with a gait that was almost hypnotic.
“Quite a remarkable djinn,” Onsi commented breathlessly as they sat.
Hamed didn’t answer, still trying to clear the haze that tickled his senses. He instead took to watching the two women at the switchboard. Now that he listened close, he could hear they were taking what appeared to be orders—for people seeking the Zār. From what he made out, the calls were coming in from all over Cairo.
The callers were all women, beseeching ceremonies for every manner of thing: fever sickness, childlessness, depression, addiction, ill fortune. The list was endless, and the two operators were forced to keep up a busy pace. It was a stunning revelation, and he wondered how many thoroughly modern Cairene women were in the privacy of their homes participating in what was often publicly dismissed as backward superstition. The Ministry had obviously grossly underestimated the ceremony’s popularity.
“Agents, the sheikha will see you now,” that slurred voice came.
Hamed looked up to find a tall male djinn standing over him in maroon robes. He was as ruby-skinned as the female djinn, and had those same long silver horns that curved down his back like hair. A relation perhaps? That strong scent carried with him, too. And his black eyes held a familiar sparkle. Hamed blinked as it struck him. Why, this wasn’t another djinn, it was the same one! He stared openly, unable to catch himself, and the djinn put on a smile that was more knowing than demure.
“Your tea, agents? And if you’ll come with me.”
Hamed accepted his glass, offering the other to Onsi as they rose to follow.
“I’ve heard of this class of djinn!” the younger man leaned in to whisper. “I wonder how they prefer to be addressed? Still remarkably beautiful!”
And with that same mesmerizing walk, Hamed had to admit. They were led through another door to a small room. The djinn bid them sit and left them there, closing the door behind.
The two figures before them now were as different as could be. The first was not a woman at all, nor a djinn, but a boilerplate eunuch. Only it was of a design of which Hamed was unfamiliar. All the machine-men he’d ever encountered lacked specific anatomical features, composed of barrel-shaped torsos attached to jointed limbs. This model was decidedly not a machine-man, but instead a machine-woman: the light curves of its lithe body easily perceptible even beneath long white robes. Where boilerplate eunuchs were uniformly featureless, this one displayed a brass face carved like a statue of some ancient goddess, the light from a lamp reflecting a metallic glare off a set of prominent cheekbones. The peculiar automaton stood inert, hands folded at its middle, looking out at them from behind blank oval-shaped eyes, full lips engraved into the barest smile.
The other figure was unmistakably human, a woman in her middle years with braided hair the tint of gray ash. She sat behind a polished sandalwood desk etched throughout with interlocking circles of Sufi symbology, including a calligraphic sigil commonly used to denote al-Jahiz. That was no surprise, as the woman was Soudanese, obvious by the indigo thoub that wrapped her from ankle to head. There was a glaring red, black, and green tri-color pennant bearing a white crescent moon and spear spread out on the wall behind—the flag of the Mahdist Revolutionary People’s Republic.
Hamed greeted the sheikha, introducing both himself and Onsi. She met this with cool civility, her brown eyes inspecting them as one would a pair of vipers who’d invited themselves to your dinner table. Her fingers absently traced the intricate henna patterns that covered her other hand as they exchanged pleasantries, and he wondered what so disquieted her about their presence. He wasn’t kept wanting for an answer long.
“I expected the Ministry to make its way to my door sooner or later,” she commented in the clear accents of her home country. “But I think you must know that I cannot aid you in your endeavor.” Agent Hamed looked at her, startled. He hadn’t even made his request. Misreading his confusion, her already flat stare tightened to steel. “I won’t bow to any coercion to make me register with the Ministry. And I will tell you now, every other sheikha or kodia will resist such attempts as well—not when it means exposing women to misguided men who label what we do some baladi custom or even haram!”
It took a moment for him to take her meaning and he chided himself for his thoughtlessness. Of course she would think that two agents unexpectedly appearing at her office were here to bring the Zār under Ministry control. Given what he knew of the ceremony—with its numerous leaders and small cells—there were likely hundreds of such women throughout the city. She was probably also right. Once the Ministry learned of the extensive nature of their operations, there’d be calls for registering and sanctioning their practices. But at least he could assure her that wasn’t their current purpose.
“Sheikha Nadiyaa,” he rejoined respectfully, “I regret if we’ve caused you undue worry. But we haven’t come here to do any such thing.” At least not today, he reflected guiltily. “We’re here seeking your help, if you’ll give it.” She fixed him with a disbelieving look, and he hurriedly explained what they were after. She sat listening, her expression impenetrable. When he finished she said nothing right away, still carefully digesting his words. At the least, her fingers had ceased their tracing.
“I must confess, Agent Hamed,” she said at last, “this is not at all what I expected.” Her shoulders relaxed, more at ease as she sat back in her chair. And she took up a glass of red tea that had sat untouched. “You tell quite a story, with this possessed tram car. I have never heard of such a thing. But tell me, why haven’t you sought the aid of one of the greater djinn?” Hamed felt his moustache twitch as he grasped for a tactful reply. “Ah,” she sighed, reading his hesitation, “you suppose a sheikha comes cheaper than the rates of some high-priced Marid. Well you’re right. We aren’t trying to make wealth off the women of the city, though we ask that each give according to their kind. Unfortunately, however, I will have to disappoint you by denying your request.”
Hamed felt the wind collapse beneath his hopes. “But why?” he asked.
The sheikha took a long draught of tea before answering. “First, you misunderstand what it is we do. The Zār is not a ceremony to drive out spirits. We assess each woman to understand the nature of her affliction. It could be that the possessing djinn has been stirred by the woman’s actions or some disruptive presence. Maybe it wants something. Or brings warning. Some are just fickle. Whatever the matter may be, we work to appease the djinn, to bring the person more in harmony with the spirit so that its wants may be pacified. We are not exorcists.” She bit off the last word with clear disdain, taking another sip of tea as if to wash away its taste. “So, as you see, there is nothing we can do for your tram, which is not truly a person. And we are not in the habit of forcing djinn from where they choose to reside.”
Well, that wasn’t encouraging. Hamed mentally ran through what he knew of the Zār, which was admittedly little. The tradition was believed to have come from Abyssinia, practiced by Christians and Muslims alike. It had traveled throughout the horn then up the Nile into Soudan, Egypt, spreading beyond into the Maghreb. It was the domain of women, or at least he’d never heard of a man leading a Zār. As he understood, they dealt with lesser djinn, the kind that caused troubles and who rarely even took corporeal form. How anyone could appease such creatures was beyond him. He was wondering how to break their impasse when Onsi stepped into the awkward silence.
“Sheikha Nadiyaa,” he asked, “have you ever ridden on a tram?”
She shook her head, her face contorting. “Watching them speed along above me is dizzying enough. I appreciate the wonders of this age, but I prefer the earth firmly beneath my feet.”
“Well, that may explain your misapprehension of the matter,” Onsi replied. “Excuse me for my disagreement, sheikha, but I’m not certain the differentiation you are making between a possessed person and this tram is warranted.”
“Oh?” she asked, raising an appraising eyebrow. “Please enlighten me.”
The man seemed eager to do so. “The tram in question is a design of the djinn,” he explained. “It is endowed with a machine mind imbued with magic. The tram is thus capable of thought, which it uses to guide itself and its passengers safely. Those dizzying feats you witness are decisions made by a thinking being. Given that, I submit the tram is little different from a person who suffers an affliction and needs your help. Did not the earliest Sufi masters write that to practice generosity was foremost in achieving spiritual perfection?”
Both of the woman’s eyebrows were raised now, as were Hamed’s. “I am curious to know how a Copt is versed with the concept of futuwwa,” she said, glancing to his tattooed wrist. “You make an intriguing supposition. However, your argument only leads to another trouble. If these trams are thinking beings, as you say, then they exist in a state of slavery. And I will not aid in such an exploitative system.”
“Slavery!” Hamed exclaimed, thoroughly perplexed. “How does slavery enter into this?”
The sheikha drew herself up, and when she spoke it was with the practice of rote recitation. “Thinking beings, whether wrought by God or man, should not be bound to serve but have the right of choosing their lot. In the People’s Republic, all forms of bondage have been done away with. No man or woman may hold another as property. Neither do we allow sentient tram cars or machine-men made in our likeness to toil to our whims while we profit from their labor. Al-Jahiz himself, as you know, was a slave soldier to one of your pashas. He spoke often on the harm that enslavement does to the souls of those bound by the chain, and the souls of those who wield it. Many djinn would tell you as much, for they abhor slavery perhaps greater than all other earthly vice.”
Hamed was somewhat familiar with that history. Slavery had been abolished with the birth of an independent Egypt back in ’83. In Soudan, however, the early Mahdist movement had sought to revive the practice—until a djinn converted its leadership to Revolutionary Sufism. Still, Hamed could not help to mention the obvious which was only feet away.
“Sheikha Nadiyaa. I mean no discourtesy, but you yourself are the owner of a boilerplate eunuch.”
The sheikha turned to the machine-woman who had stood immobile all this time. “Agent Hamed, you again misunderstand. I don’t own a boilerplate eunuch. Fahima is not my property, but my assistant. Isn’t that so, Fahima?”
“Yes, Madaam,” the boilerplate eunuch affirmed. “I believe the agent has mistaken the nature of our relationship.”
Hamed almost fell out of his chair. That boilerplate eunuch had spoken! Her lips hadn’t moved, and her face remained as unchanged as a statue. But those had been her words! And not just the usual “Yes” or “No” or “How may I serve?” but a complex sentence!
“Fahima is a liberated machine,” the sheikha said, not bothering to hide her amusement at his flummoxed look. “She was a common boilerplate eunuch once, but I helped her see she was more. She began thinking for herself. Soon she chose to become the person you see now. She’s not the only one, either. There are others of her kind, and they are bringing their comrades to consciousness. You are looking at the future.”
Hamed still couldn’t stop gaping. Boilerplate eunuchs becoming people? He could already envision the chaos, as machine-men began confronting their owners, demanding wages or work they preferred. If the woman had any such concerns, it was lost behind her self-satisfied expression. You let some people read Marx . . .
“The sheikha is perhaps optimistic,” Fahima put in, tilting her head slightly. “Only a few of my kind share the innate spark to become more. Perhaps it was our particular design. Or some science we do not yet understand. Most are content with their work, and when pressed want little more than perhaps a day to themselves, or two.”
Is that all? Hamed thought sardonically.
“I don’t know that this changes anything,” Onsi interjected, appearing to have put together an argument. “Whether thinking machines can be enslaved or not makes for fascinating discourse. However, this seems a poor reason to allow Tram 015 to languish in misery. You would no more be aiding in its enslavement by curing its affliction than you would in healing an exploited laborer. The state of the distressed doesn’t negate your ethical obligation.”
The sheikha seemed taken by his words, and she looked on consideringly. Onsi pressed the opening with the skill of a chess player. “Besides, one can imagine that such an act of kindness would make Tram 015 more receptive to your message of freedom.” That made her sit up with interest. Hamed whipped his head to glare at the man. They weren’t here to start a revolution!
“What do you think of the agent’s reasoning, Fahima?” the sheikha inquired.
“I believe it has merit,” the machine-woman replied.
Sheikha Nadiyaa nodded her agreement. “I would very much like to talk proletarian dialogues and the philosophies of Sufi masters and Coptic thinkers with you one day, Agent Onsi.”
“Oh!” the man exclaimed, beaming. “I would like that very much!”
“Agent Hamed,” she addressed him sharply. “I’ll see what I can do for your tram.”
“Thank you!” he said gratefully. Though a part of him was still trying to figure out what had just happened.
“Now,” she said sternly. “Let’s talk about what you can give.”
They spent the next half of an hour listening as the sheikha put together a plan and rattled off fees. Fahima stood by dutifully with a hand-held mechanical calculator. Her tactile metal fingers moved in a blur, punching at the numbered keys that clacked as the adding machine churned out a spool of printed paper. When it was done, they presented Hamed with the lengthy bill.
He almost choked on his tea.