THE NEW BRITISH PROTESTANT CEMETERY WAS A WAY out of town for Mariam, adjacent to a busy road and the train tracks that went into Misr Station. Beyond its high wall, the sounds of traffic gave way to a sense of peace. Palm trees moved gently in the breeze. The grass was manicured like the lawns of some sprawling British estate from the days of the Khedive, and the white tombstones stood erect and orderly in neat rows all evenly spaced.
It was a small party of mourners who gathered there that day to bury Edna St James. There had been some confusion as to her eventual destination: whether the body should be flown back to England for burial, and what the novelist’s wishes on the subject might have been. It was Henrietta Feebes who made the arrangements in the end, stating that Edna had loved Cairo, and often expressed a wish for her bones to be laid there, where she would always be warm. Work on the film was suspended for half the day. An air-conditioned bus took the main principals from the hotel to the cemetery. Mariam and Mona took the public bus to get there.
But it didn’t matter, Mariam thought. They were the background actors to someone else’s final act.
Henrietta Feebes wore black mirror-shades. The coffin was carried by the gaffers and grips. An English priest with a face so pale that it seemed powdered with bone dust gave a short eulogy. Henrietta spoke next.
‘She was funny, vicious, silly and wise,’ she said. ‘A keeper of secrets and a teller of tales. She lived, goddamn it. All that remains now are her words.’
The priest blanched at the curse, but he swallowed it without voicing objection. Tom Greene touched Henrietta’s shoulder, then turned to the others.
‘Let’s get to work,’ he said. ‘She would have wanted it this way.’
‘Amen,’ someone said. Mariam once again tried to swallow laughter. She didn’t know why. Death made her act strange.
The coffin was lowered into the ground. A group of girls from the nearby convent school sang a hymn. Their voices rose, the notes pure and lovely.
Mariam cried. Mona held her hand. The coffin was covered in dirt.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Henrietta Feebes said near the gates. ‘She was very fond of you, you know.’
Mariam looked at her in bemusement. She had never spoken to Mrs St James before the old lady’s demise.
‘We can give you a lift back to the hotel,’ Henrietta said. ‘Since you both came all this way.’
‘Thank you, miss,’ Mona said shyly.
They rode back to the Balmoral. At the hotel there was a small, sombre reception, with drinks and buckets of ice placed on top of a black tablecloth. Mariam felt the cloth between her fingers. She had ironed it earlier.
‘I saw you in the scene you’re in,’ a voice said. Mariam looked up, startled to find a man she’d never met before standing there. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with a big, broad open face that’d taken a knock or two in its time. ‘You were good.’
He put out his hand, smiling disarmingly. ‘Sean Doyle,’ he said. ‘I’m one of the financiers of the movie.’
‘Mr Doyle. Thank you,’ Mariam said. ‘How did you… I mean, how did you see it?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Tom showed me the dailies. I’m an old friend of Henrietta’s – of Miss Feebes’s, I should say. My business still takes me to Cairo sometimes.’
‘What is your business, Mr Doyle?’
‘Call me Sean, please.’
‘Sean.’ She felt awkward saying it.
‘And you’re Mariam, aren’t you,’ he said, not as a question.
‘How do you—?’
‘I take an interest,’ he said. ‘Putting cash into a movie, you know. It has its benefits whether the damn thing makes money or not. Piqued my interest, when Henrietta mentioned it. She’s always looking for investment opportunities for me. Lots of connections.’
‘What do you do?’ Mariam said again.
He looked at her with an easy smile. ‘I might as well level with you,’ he said. ‘I don’t get to, not too often. Not as much as I’d like. I’m trying to free my country, but to fight you need guns and guns cost money. Even when you have money, people like to keep track of where it goes and what it’s used for. So you need banks to make it all… clean.’
‘Like a laundry,’ Mariam said.
‘Exactly like that, yes. You put it in dirty and it comes out smelling of…’ He rubbed the black tablecloth between his fingers, then smelled them. ‘Rosewater?’ he said.
‘But is that legal?’ Mariam said.
‘Is it legal, or is it moral?’ Sean Doyle said. ‘Those are not the same thing. Not that banks care for either. Money only cares for money, and the Feebes family has been making it for a long time now. You wouldn’t think it to look at Henrietta, would you? So small and so demure. So classy. But she scares the shit out of me, Mariam. I might not look it, and I might do unsavoury things, but I still have principles. Henrietta wouldn’t know what one is. Be careful with her. I think she likes you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Mariam said.
‘And maybe you’ll never have to.’ He picked up his bourbon and downed it in one. ‘You’re good,’ he said. ‘There’s something sad in your eyes when the camera catches you. It’s very… natural.’
‘I don’t think I’m sad,’ Mariam said.
‘No,’ Sean Doyle said, and he shook his head quickly, ‘but you have it in you to be.’ He motioned a waiter with his glass. It was swiftly replaced. Sean took a sip and sighed.
‘I’m getting too old to be doing what I do,’ he said. ‘And the fight’s not even close to coming to an end. I don’t have a lot of sadness in me either, but when I’ve had a couple of drinks… Plus, we should feel a little sad after a funeral.’
‘Of course,’ Mariam said. ‘I am sad about poor Mrs St James. I didn’t know her very well, but it is sad.’
Sean smiled and raised his glass. ‘To feeling sad for people we didn’t know very well,’ he said.
Mariam raised her glass of water.
‘Sláinte,’ she said. Sean Doyle’s delighted laughter rolled through the room and people turned and watched them, then went back to their own drinks.
‘Now where did you pick that up?’ Sean said.
‘I saw it in a movie. Did I say it right?’
‘You made a credible attempt.’
Mariam smiled, raised her glass again and drank a sip of water.
‘I knew her secret, you know,’ Sean said.
‘She had a secret?’ Mariam said.
‘It was a sad, old secret,’ Sean said. ‘The Feebeses found out so the Feebeses owned her. It’s what they do, you know. You can make a bargain with them, but they will own you after. Something to bear in mind, perhaps… Henrietta owns Edna’s estate, you know. Fifty-plus novels, movie rights, the lot. She never sold as well as Christie, but it’s still worth a fair bit of cash.’
‘What did she do?’ Mariam said.
‘She fell pregnant to a man who forced himself on her. She killed him. The old Feebes, he was Admiral of the Fleet, he helped keep it quiet and the child was given up for adoption. Edna kept secretly sending the boy money for years after. He’s a barrister in York now, I understand.’
‘Now I do feel sad,’ Mariam said.
‘She was never married, you know,’ Sean said. ‘She changed her name to St James and called herself Mrs because it sounded more respectable. She used to tell people her husband died in the Great War.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Mariam said.
‘I’ve been around a long time,’ Sean said. ‘And like the Feebeses I also deal in secrets.’
‘It’s dirty work,’ Mariam said. ‘What my family does is more clean.’
‘What does your family do?’ Sean said.
‘We’re Zabbaleen. We collect the trash.’
‘That’s the thing about dirt,’ Sean Doyle said. ‘It doesn’t matter how much you sweep it away, there is always going to be more.’
Their glasses touched. He downed his drink. Mariam sipped her water.
She thought of colours in autumn; not of Cairo’s but those on film, like in All That Heaven Allows. She felt sorry for the old lady but Mariam was young, and had her own life to lead. She knew she would have to decide what she wanted. She couldn’t go back and she couldn’t stand still. It was not yet her time to face winter. Even her summer had not yet come. She was in her spring.
At that moment she decided she would do what it took. She would go speak to this Henrietta Feebes, and she would ask her, and if she had to she would beg. She could chart a new future, a clean one for herself.
Mona came running through the thin crowds just then, her face anxious.
‘Mariam,’ she said. ‘There’s a call for you at the desk.’
‘A call? For me?’
She had never received a call. The thought of someone asking for her here was something she couldn’t imagine. She said, ‘Excuse me,’ to Sean Doyle and followed Mona. As they reached reception she saw Dr Müller checking out. He looked to be in a hurry and when he glanced her way he blanched and looked away.
The man on the reception glared at her and said, ‘Staff do not receive calls at the desk.’ Nevertheless he handed her the receiver. Mariam pressed it to her ear.
‘Mariam! Mariam!’ It was Fuad. ‘You have to help us, we’re in the police station, they were waiting for us when we got to the necropolis—’
Dr Müller finished his business at the desk and turned to leave. His bags were packed by the door. He looked at Mariam. She looked at him.
‘So sorry,’ the doctor mumbled. It was barely audible. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
He rushed to the door. The porter picked up his bags and carried them to the taxi waiting outside.
‘Fuad, I can’t do anything,’ Mariam said, ‘I told you I can’t be involved—’
‘Mariam, please!’
‘I will ask my grandfather. He will send someone,’ she said helplessly. On the other side of the line, Fuad began to cry. The line went dead.
Mariam handed the receiver back to the taciturn man at reception.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘No more calls,’ the man said.
Mariam nodded.
No more calls, she thought.
Then she went to look for Henrietta.
*
Flavia wrote. Mariam watched the smoke from Flavia’s cigarette as it drifted towards the ceiling.
Mariam’s story seemed to her like ancient history suddenly. It was only a few years ago, yet a lifetime away. She put her hand over her belly, thinking of the unborn baby growing inside. They hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Enrique’s parents. And she had not spoken to Soraya in years. Not since their big argument, after the string of successful local films where Mariam got increasingly bigger roles, and when Henrietta, having helped her initially (a bit part in The Peacock, with Salah Zulfikar) came back into their lives. She had offered Mariam the chance to go abroad, and to star in her first big picture, a Day of the Jackal knock-off called Operazione Istanbul, which despite being set in Turkey was to be filmed on location in Malta and Milan.
Why Henrietta was still financing movies was a bit of a mystery, other than that she seemed to enjoy it. When you were as rich as Henrietta that was enough reason, or so Mariam figured. Henrietta came to the house, driven to Mokattam in a black limousine that had to be parked a few roads away. She came the rest of the way on foot.
What she made of her visit to the house, with the piles of trash rising outside, the rats and the pigs, she showed no outward sign of it. She may as well have been taking tea with the English queen. The Zabbaleen watched as she came. A small dark figure in conservative attire that no doubt cost more than the house.
Mariam watched her from a distance, framed the shot: Henrietta Feebes, picking her way confidently through the no-man’s land of trash.
When she came she smiled. She wore dark glasses. She clasped Soraya’s arm in mute acknowledgement. The two women, their shared history one Mariam could not guess at, seemed to communicate without words. Then Soraya nodded, once, and they let go of each other.
Inside the house, Soraya made tea. She brought out the best pastries. Henrietta looked Mariam over. She said, ‘Are you happy here?’
‘It’s home,’ Mariam said.
‘Home,’ Henrietta said thoughtfully. The word sounded foreign in her mouth. ‘I grew up in a boarding school in Switzerland,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell you that, did I?’
They had only had one real conversation before. Mariam made no mention of that. But she hadn’t forgotten, and she didn’t think Henrietta had either.
‘There is an opportunity for an actor like you, Mariam,’ Henrietta said. ‘I won’t pretend that the world will give you all the roles you perhaps deserve. But there are options, outside of Egypt as well as within. I could offer you a contract, right now, for three pictures. Once you make those you will have more choices. You could travel, you could see the world. It is perhaps selfish of me to make this offer. I don’t know. But I felt I should make it all the same. The decision is yours to make.’
You can make a bargain with them, Sean Doyle told her. But they will own you after. Something to bear in mind, perhaps.
Mariam understood.
‘Can I think about it?’ Mariam said. She realised she was having doubts. When the choice came at last it was overwhelming. She didn’t know what to say.
‘You can, but we start shooting in two weeks in Malta,’ Henrietta said. She stood up.
‘You have a lovely home,’ she said.
She looked not to Mariam then, but to Soraya. Who said nothing, but her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Soraya walked her outside. She was gone a while. When she came back her mouth was set in an angry line. There were no more tears.
‘It’s all decided,’ she said. ‘You will leave for Milan tomorrow.’
‘But Mama!’
‘It’s decided,’ Soraya said. ‘It’s for your own good. I will not discuss it further.’
‘I am my own woman,’ Mariam said. ‘I can make my own decisions!’
‘There is something in you, Mariam,’ Soraya said. ‘Confounding, irritating, vain. But you have something, a spark, and when the light hits you, you shine. I want you out of here.’ Her hand gestured, over the house, over the world beyond. ‘And I don’t ever want you to come back.’
‘You’re mad,’ Mariam said. Her mother’s voice was the voice of a stranger.
‘I want you to get out! Do you understand me?’ Soraya said. ‘I want you to leave!’
‘Why are you like this? What did she say to you?’ Mariam said. ‘Did she pay you? Is that it? Did she buy you off?’
‘Get out!’ Soraya said. Mariam cried. Soraya went to her, to try and hug her. Mariam pushed her away. Her mother stumbled back, almost fell. Mariam suddenly realised her mother had aged. She went to her, to hold her.
Soraya said, ‘Go.’
Mariam went out into the night. She looked back only once, saw her mother in the window, saw the ghosts that were no longer there. Her grandfather by his fire, her grandmother by his side. She searched for the ghost of her father but had no idea what he looked like. She walked away.
She never came back.
*
‘You look sad,’ Flavia said.
‘Do I?’ Mariam touched her eyes. She dabbed the corners with a handkerchief. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘This will ruin my make-up.’
‘I’ll call Yvonne back,’ Flavia said.
‘Yvonne?’
‘The make-up lady.’
‘Of course,’ Mariam said. Flavia stood. She put a comforting hand on Mariam’s shoulder.
‘Let me get her for you,’ she said.
She left. The door shut behind her. Mariam took a deep breath, held up her shoulders. She put her hand on her belly again. Another life. She looked into the mirror and her reflection looked back at her. Mariam smiled, and the reflection returned the smile to her; Mariam practised until the smile was perfect. Fuad and Fayez got five years each in Tora Prison.
Then Yvonne bustled in, tutted and fussed and fixed Mariam’s make-up. Flavia lit another cigarette and reopened her notebook in her lap. Yvonne was at last persuaded to leave. Mariam sipped water from a glass, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
Outside, people would be finishing their drinks, the last of the tickets would have been sold. The lights waited, ready to come on. The ushers moved between the seats, collecting any remaining rubbish, popcorn boxes, drinks, or gum some thoughtless prick left stuck on the underside of a chair. Enrique would be getting ready to welcome the crowds, dazzle them with his smile, shake hands and slap backs. He was good at that.
Mariam wondered what Henrietta was doing. She was in London probably, or New York. Perhaps Hong Kong. The last time Mariam saw her, Henrietta told her that they had an offer from the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation to buy Feebes Bank. Henrietta was going to accept the deal.
‘A clean break,’ she said. She didn’t say from what.
The lights waited. It was almost time. Mariam took a last sip of water. She put on her best, most genuine smile.
‘Any more questions?’ she said.