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the sultan reveals even the smallest taint of emotion, the whole of Cairo will know. I don’t trust these peddler women. They have an intimate network of friends whom they confide in. Thanks to them, every love affair, every betrayal, every sordid piece of information, is silently blowing in through the harem mashrabiyya and over the terraces of the mansions and palaces. Often they exaggerate and lie.
    On the subject of gossip, I know of three notable women who are entertaining men in their salons while their husbands in the ministries are tying up the remaining threads of the war. I envy them their courage. One woman, an elderly European lady, employs little Egyptian boys to look after her. She is very wealthy and can afford to live in the greatest luxury. Her boys are kept in apartments of their own. They livelike we girls live in our harems. They must tally to her every wish, and rumour has it that she makes use of them on different nights of the week, taking her pick according to her mood and her desire. I have heard she is often seen around Cairo, goes to the theatre by herself, strolls along the Corniche, is seen with the British ladies at the women’s clubs, and takes walks around Gezira Island all by herself. This woman has the armour of old age. I believe she is about sixty years old. She is Austrian, I think, and was married to an Egyptian who is now dead. She owns one of the newspapers in Cairo that is dedicated to Egyptian women, and she has a small staff of women somewhere who produce it.
    I envy her freedom so much. I don’t envy her her boys, because that would be wrong, but I do envy her the freedom to be herself, to work, to make a difference to the lives of those around her. I want a life like that for myself. How can I make a difference to the world when I am caged in a harem and repeatedly told to be quiet and not to think? I cannot stop thinking. However, this Austrian lady must be proof that things are changing. Alexandre knows men who are challenging the age-old laws of Islam through scientific and academic enquiry. There is hope. There has to be hope.
    How wonderful to be able to live like a man, to walk among them as a woman, unveiled, with simply a hat on and a pair of gloves and a lovely fashionable dress showing off feminine curves. How wonderful to be able to take tea at the Shepheard’s Hotel and mix with all the influential and well-connected socialites that come to Cairo. For the time being, I content myself with my friend, Virginie. She is wonderful, a constant source of support and inspiration to me. I know she will take me to Shubra, to this zaar. She is allowed to accompany me on occasional excursions to the souks and salons, but only when Papa gives me permission.
    I will watch tomorrow night, but I do not plan to dance. I will watch the exorcism of the poor young girls. I will watch them denouncedas fit for nothing, possessed by the evil jinn, and watch them dance in a trancelike state in a dark room lit only by candles. I will watch the evil spirits that pollute their bodies vanish forever as they dance and twirl and throw themselves around the room. And I will not join them. To join them would be to admit that I am not pure. And I will admit no such thing. My thoughts are my own.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Shrouded in trailing black robes, seventeen-year-old Nemmat Shanti stood on the corner near Ali’s Café, waiting impatiently for Farouk to arrive. She held her chador over her mouth, her black, heavily kohled eyes scanning the crowds. Beneath her chador, she wore an exquisitely jewelled costume of Persian silk, a bodice over her pert little breasts, and voluminous trousers over her perfumed body. It was very late, hot, and sultry, and her chador was chafing her. She longed to remove it and lie with her master, Abbas, smoking cigarettes on the balcony of his Shubra apartment. But as it was, she had to wait for the newspaperman. She was glad Mehmed Abbas looked upon her so favourably. She was