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FIVE

The Journey Home

“Oh, my Lady Isis…I am glad you brought me home again,really I am!” OS

October, 1933. On a foggy October morning, a tearful mother and a perplexed father stood on the stone quay at Southampton looking up at a departing passenger ship, waving to their only child, who was leaving them for a doubtful and perhaps hazardous future in far-off Egypt.

The British ship blew its whistle furiously and moved slowly away from its moorings. On deck, Dorothy waved back at her parents, feeling sadness and joy, but mostly joy. She watched the quay as long as she could until the thick fog enveloped everything, and the quay and Southampton and then England itself disappeared from view.

Halfway across the English Channel the fog lifted, as though some giant hand had pulled aside a curtain, letting the sun shine gloriously through the fleecy clouds. At first the trip was uneventful as the ship steamed along the coast of French Normandy and southward into the Bay of Biscay, the large inlet of the Atlantic Ocean that carves a broad arc into the west coast of France and the northern coast of Spain.

The weather quickly turned again, as it does in the unpredictable autumn months; the ship heaved against the onslaught of ferocious, mountain-high waves and powerful winds, and the captain ordered all passengers to their cabins. By then, most everyone was seasick anyway and had already taken to their beds. But Dorothy loved the wildness and adventure of it all; she was the last one to leave the deck and seek the safety of her cabin, accompanied by one of the officers and a stern warning to obey captain’s orders.

On the way back to her cabin, the officer told her a story about this part of the Bay of Biscay. Years ago, he said, a sarcophagus containing the mummy of an Old Kingdom pharaoh had washed overboard and sunk in a terrible gale. The seamen believe there was a spell on this spot because every ship that passes close to the site of the sarcophagus is badly shaken, no matter whether the climate is normal or stormy. That night, Dorothy couldn’t sleep, fighting her own mal de mer, but also feeling terribly curious about the story of the sarcophagus and the fact of the awful turmoil outside. In the middle of the night she heard a strange groaning sound from somewhere inside the ship, then orders being shouted. If it was engine trouble, she thought, she would just have to swim to the Spanish shore.

By morning the sea had grown calm again, but the jarring mechanical sounds were louder. The now-disabled ship had managed to limp through the Straits of Gibraltar during the night. In the morning a small number of concerned passengers gathered in the dining room, and were assured by the captain that all was well. The ship was proceeding at slow speed to Marseilles, he explained, where it would dock for repairs for several days before continuing to Egypt. Most of the passengers took the news calmly, but there was one voice that would not be placated. “I must be in Port Said on Monday,” Dorothy insisted. “People will be waiting to take me to Cairo and I haven’t the slightest idea how to get there on my own.”

The captain promised her that she could not possibly lose her way from Port Said to Cairo; nonetheless, he offered to try to find separate passage for her once they reached Marseilles.

He was as good as his word. At Marseilles, Dorothy boarded the French luxury liner Esperia, along with an elderly Lebanese couple from her ship who were returning home to Beirut. This most fortunate arrangement had been accomplished between the British captain, whose French was atrocious, and the French port master whose English was no better, but who successfully negotiated with the French captain to transfer the three passengers to his ship. The Esperia, “Bride of the Mediterranean,” left port soon after.

Within a few hours the bright blue skies were again replaced by threatening weather. Not far from the Esperia an Italian troop ship was sailing eastward filled with recruits on their way to Abyssinia – part of Mussolini’s grand imperial plan to control the Horn of Africa. The young men were singing in a formidable patriotic chorus that carried across the water with the wind. As Dorothy leaned against the deck railing of the Esperia enjoying it all, the sea began to roll with 20-foot waves and she was thrown to the deck. The sympathetic crewman who helped her to her feet made a little joke about Mt. Etna flexing its power again, a sly reference to the passing troop ship and the fact that the sudden storm was coming from the direction of the Italian boot.

The tempest finally blew itself out and the sea was momentarily at peace. Dorothy glimpsed a hazy line along the southern horizon: the coast of Africa. If she could have turned herself into a hawk in that instant she would have, and soared high above the ship until she spied Egypt far to the east along that beckoning horizon.

On this same day, Imam Abdel Meguid boarded a train from Cairo bound for Port Said. Having received no recent word from Dorothy, he thought it best to go a few days early, just in case, and await her arrival. In Port Said he went directly to the office of Lloyd’s, only to be informed of the trouble with the British liner. The office had no information about Dorothy’s current whereabouts. Imam was not the kind of man who tolerated uncertainty, especially in this sort of situation; he demanded that every effort be made to locate his fiancée. Late in the afternoon the Lloyd’s office rang his hotel with news that Miss Eady would be arriving the next day on the Esperia.

As the French ship glided slowly towards the quay, a very impatient, very tall and handsome young man paced from one end to another, clutching a large bunch of flowers to his breast while the brisk wind whipped his overcoat about his legs. He scanned the ship’s main deck and promenades, hoping to pick out one beloved face from all the others. Dorothy saw him first and waved frantically.

At last the boarding steps were in place and passengers could debark. She rushed to throw herself into Imam’s arms, then pulled away and knelt to the ground, kissing it, murmuring her thanks to the gods. Imam stared and the passengers around her stared. In her excitement the flowers had slipped from her hands and Imam, completely at a loss, bent to collect them. When Dorothy stood again she saw the bewildered look on his face. “I am so sorry, Darling,” she exclaimed, “it is just so wonderful!”

Her odd behavior did not escape the sharp eyes of the customs officials. They had never witnessed such a scene, and from a well-dressed and apparently rich Englishwoman at that. Very courteously, they insisted on thoroughly searching her suitcases before letting her pass. But the mere fact that she was considered a suspicious character only added to Imam’s growing embarrassment. In all the to-do they had even forgotten to kiss. This was not the way Imam had imagined their first meeting after many months apart.

They exchanged but a few words as they sat together in the car that took them to the railway station. Imam knew she was overwhelmed by the new experience; he would give her time.

On the train Dorothy shut everything else out except for the wonders that were passing outside the windows on either side. The rail line paralleled the Suez Canal. Dorothy could see, on the far side of the canal in the direction of Sinai, a camel caravan moving in orderly procession over the golden sand. She had never seen a camel before, or Bedouins. Through the windows on the other side of the train car she was drawn into a panorama of an ancient time – ox-drawn plows, goats, a crystalline sky. Oh, my Lady Isis, she whispered to herself, this is all so very beautiful! I am glad you brought me home again, really I am!

The train made a stop in Ismailieh, a vast green park that was the administrative center of the Canal Authority, close by a row of elegantly arranged, tile-roofed villas where the canal pilots and other employees lived. An unexpected surprise awaited the couple on the station platform: George Wissa. George was too much of an old and sincere friend to refuse to accept, however reluctantly, Imam’s decision to marry Dorothy. He met the couple with red roses and the best wishes he could muster for their future happiness together. The train stayed only three minutes and was off again.

With her hand firmly in Imam’s, Dorothy sat hypnotized by the scenery around her – the donkeys loaded with grass, the waterwheels, the endless dark fields of the Black Land. Imam could only smile at her obvious joy. “Everything is taking my breath away!” she exclaimed, “I don’t feel a stranger at all!”

The train pulled to its destination in the highly ornamented 19th century Cairo central station. Model T taxis crowded the streets outside. The Cairo Dorothy was coming to was not a part of her ancient dreams and memories. Cairo in 1933 was a cosmopolitan city of no less than twenty different nationalities, European enclaves and political refugees. It was noisy and bustling. Shop signs were in French, Arabic, English, Greek, Hebrew and more. And everywhere was the pervasive presence of the British occupation.

in the house of Haj Abdel Meguid

The taxi from the station drove through the narrow streets of Old Cairo and stopped in front of the house of the family Abdel Meguid. Dorothy took one look at the gate and was stunned by its enormity. Thirty feet high and ten feet wide, it looked more like the entrance to a caravanserai, a grand inn, than an arabesque-style house. Its lower third was solid sheet steel with a stylized wrought iron sunflower in the center. And above that, an amazing tableau in wrought iron, a piece of art formed of flower motifs, trees and different types of leaves. I can attest to its beauty, having seen it myself many years ago. The artist who made that masterpiece was really a genius, because the visitor only sees the beautiful flowers, trees, etc., rather than a massive, sheet of metal. The privacy of the house was thus protected while the entrance was inviting and anything but austere. The whole family was waiting anxiously behind that gate.

Dorothy was deeply touched by the warmth of their welcome. Imam’s father, Haj Abdel Meguid (Haj is the honorary title given to any Muslim who has had the good fortune to make a pilgrimage to Mecca), was particularly openhearted in greeting his future daughter-in-law. Being especially fond of his son, Haj Abdel Meguid immediately approved of Imam’s choice, as did the rest of the family. This loving, pious, upper-middle-class Egyptian family quickly enfolded Dorothy as one of their own.

The Abdel Meguid home was in Old Cairo close to the Mukattam cliffs, in an area of the Citadel, Cairo’s highest elevation. The two-story building was arranged around a large inner courtyard with a brilliantly colored mosaic tile fountain at its center.

In families such as this, the Egyptian traditions and religion were respected, strictly followed and venerated. Imam and Dorothy had already agreed that they would be married according to Muslim religious rules. Naturally, it was left to Haj Abdel Meguid to make all the necessary arrangements. It is stipulated that the bride and groom should each have two witnesses to sign the marriage certificate and testify that it was done by common consent and in conformity with religious tenets.

Before the wedding, Imam and Dorothy slept separately in two richly furnished bedrooms. At mealtimes the whole family gathered in the vast dining room at a table that could accommodate twenty people. At the head was Haj Abdel Meguid and on his right, Imam’s mother, a woman in her early 50s, extremely distinguished and beautiful, with evident Circassian blood from some remote ancestry in the Caucasus. Imam took after his father, Dorothy thought, elegant and handsome, with the wavy dark brown hair of a movie star. Dorothy’s British beauty was appreciated in the household as well – her clear blue eyes that flashed with humor, her golden hair, and her sweet singing voice. Haj Abdel Meguid bestowed on her the affectionate nickname Bulbul, Nightingale.

In those first days in the Abdel Meguid house she woke early each morning to watch the sun rise between the slender minarets of the Mohammed Ali Pasha mosque. Often, while it was still dark, she would wake to the sonorous call of a nearby muezzin bidding the pious to perform the first prayers of the day. “The man’s serene and beautiful voice sounded like a balm to the soul,” Omm Sety said in recollection. “It endowed me with a curious interior peace that would stay with me through the day.” She was enchanted and on her best behavior, still not quite believing that she was actually here. Each morning when Dorothy came down to breakfast with the family she found a sumptuous table laid with three kinds of cheese, boiled and fried eggs, fried mashed beans, fresh butter, marmalades and other delights. Dorothy was quickly exposed to traditional Egyptian cooking and delicacies.

On her third day, Dorothy (who was now called Bulbul) went on a tour of Cairo with Imam and his mother to search among the finest shops for the wedding trousseau. Her taste was politely consulted during the expedition, but when the moment came to select the wedding dress, she knew she had best defer to a more sophisticated taste. From London, Dorothy had written to Imam: “I have never been to any wedding in all my life, either British or any other nationality, so I will leave the choice to your mother. I have no doubt she will pick the most suitable dress.” And so, in the chic showroom of the famous French-Lebanese couturiere known as Paulette, Bulbul was fitted for her custom-designed wedding dress.

In the meantime, Haj Abdel Meguid was making other arrangements. The traditional wedding must be conducted by a Maazun, a qualified sheikh authorized by the government to handle all matrimonial questions according to Muslim law. A Maazun must have completed his studies at Cairo’s Al Azhar University, a revered, 1000-year-old institution dedicated to preserving the cultural heritage of Islam.

At that time there was usually a short period of engagement during which the bride and groom could get acquainted and discuss their plans for a lifetime together. There was always a chaperone. But for educated people above the age of 20 there was never a question of chaperones. Bulbul and Imam were nearly 30 and had already had sufficient time to get to know each other well, at least in the context of London and the consuming political drama that they were both engaged in there.

In the three weeks before the wedding Bulbul attempted to share her passion for the ancient world with Imam. Bowing to Bulbul’s wishes, he agreed to visit the pyramids of Giza and Saqqara, and the Egyptian Museum. Unfortunately, he found it all a terrible bore. He was not particularly interested in the early history of Egypt, being entirely taken up with the present time and its problems; most pressing was the question of whether he would be able to find suitable housing for himself and his bride. He had no intention of staying indefinitely in his father’s house, though the subject had not come up since Bulbul’s arrival. Imam was becoming more aware of the incompatibilities between Bulbul’s bohemian character and the orderly, disciplined life of his family, even though the family seemed to accept her with great affection. It was only a matter of time before the differences would become untenable.

an Egyptian wedding

The wedding celebration was a magnificent party in the Abdel Meguid house, with a guest list that counted many highly placed officials and notables, a reflection of the family’s position in Cairo society. Many years later, sitting in her tiny village house in remote Abydos, she described the festivities: “The women, in particular, were very richly dressed in the most up-to-date fashion of the season, as imposed by La Mode Parisienne. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. There I was, accepting the compliments of all these people, like a princess. Can you imagine? Me, of all the persons present in the party – a princess…” And then she laughed at the absurdity of it.

The traditional weddings of the upper classes – before the 5-star hotel affairs with the Western rock bands – were romantic and lavish, a display of high fashion and wealth. The bride would be dressed in an expensive gown adorned with pearls or, in very rich families, sewn with diamond beads. Gold coins would be thrown over the happy couple’s shoulders and women of both families would make that curious, piercing sound with their tongues known as zaghrutto, as the bride and groom walked slowly to their bed chamber.

Bulbul’s wedding was no less elaborate. It began with a sedate ceremony in the courtyard of the house, during which the bride and groom signed the contract and pledged to accept each other according to Muslim law. Since the bride had no family with her (her parents had not yet reconciled themselves to the marriage) two of Imam’s friends who had known her in London stood as her witnesses. For Imam it was his father and uncle. The ceremony was very simple, beginning with the sheikh’s recitation of a verse from the Koran: “In the name of God, the all-merciful, the most compassionate, I open this proceeding.”

One of Bulbul’s witnesses, Ibrahim, served as an interpreter. He coached her ahead of time to nod her head as a sign of agreement or to shake her head and say plainly if she did not accept whatever the sheikh was saying. Imam and several others who knew Bulbul well held their breath that the brief contractual ceremony would go off without incident. There was the question about the dowry – in Egypt the bridegroom must pay a dowry and not the bride. The sum paid must be mentioned publicly and the bride must be satisfied. There was the question of divorce, how much money would be paid to the bride in case the husband wanted to leave the marriage. It is quite important to decide upon the sum ahead of time because it is meant to act as a deterrent to rash action. It is the bride’s right to mention in the contract that the husband would not object to his wife’s wishing to work, as long as the children were well cared for. Today, most of the marriages in Egypt put this condition in the contract.

After the ceremony, the great house rang with music and the sounds of jubilation, though several of the guests were not entirely joyful and were relieved when the ceremony was over and they could depart; those were some of Imam’s friends, including George Wissa.

Achille Groppi, the owner of the pre-eminent restaurant in Cairo, catered the dinner for the 120 guests. During the feast, an orchestra entertained the guests with a repertoire that included The Nile, by one of Egypt’s prominent composers. And then the real celebrations began, with lyre, flute, clarinet, tambourine and drum players parading into the courtyard, followed by belly dancers moving among the tables to loud singing and clapping. The reluctantly decorous bride wanted to join in, but she could only sit in the place of honor beside Imam and watch. She was proud of her restraint.

Hours later it was time for el Zaffa, when the principal belly dancer, accompanied by tambourines and drums, balanced a chandelier with seven candles atop her head and led the couple to the foot of the staircase leading to the nuptial bedroom. Because of the delay in Bulbul’s arrival in Egypt, the family had had time to decorate the room in the latest Parisian style, according to Imam’s mother’s exquisite specifications. They had kept it a secret, even from Imam. The new couple was overwhelmed. “I had never dreamed of such a beautiful bedroom,” Omm Sety told me.

After Bulbul and Imam retired, the party continued into the morning hours, and all of the people who lived in the area were invited to join the guests in an immense open banquet. The feast at the house of Haj Abdel Maguid was remembered for a very long time.

This was not the homecoming that Dorothy Eady had imagined for herself when she was a child in England dreaming of an ancient time, but Bulbul Adbel Meguid couldn’t have been happier.