Eid Reunion for the Egyptian Seamstress

Alexandria, Egypt, 1847

After a solitary dinner of lentil soup on the last day of Ramadan, Hala Aziz settled into the back corner of her seamstress shop. With her were four things: her latest commissioned gown—ivory silk with a pleated skirt—a threaded needle, a brightly burning lamp, and the last letter she’d received about her son. Though she didn’t need the latter to sew—she had memorized its content—knowing the paper itself had been in proximity to Iskander made her feel less alone.

He matures into a cosmopolitan young man. He’s kind and well-mannered, curious too. Much captures his attention, but his interests are voracious, so it is not long before he is onto the next. I keep reminding him to slow down and immerse himself in a discipline in order to master it. He does not heed my advice but he is too dear to scold.

We will be in London for his tenth birthday and I have planned to make a day of it. A play at Covent Garden. An oyster supper. A festive cake.

Tomorrow was that day, Owen Iskander Malden’s tenth birthday. It had been five years since Hala left him on the steps of a cottage door in England. He would be an Earl with wealth and prestige, but that image of him as a crying little boy, with his curly hair and ruddy cheeks, would never leave Hala. It haunted her worst nightmares and her dearest dreams, for she would, at least, see him in both.

She crouched over her work, her fingers guiding the needle through the fabric with precision, each stitch tight. Perfect. Each a means to defer the tears—harness Hala’s loss into something she could control. And it was affording her success, keeping her busy. People spoke of Hala’s attention to detail, and her reputation had grown as one of the finest seamstresses in Alexandria.

It was why she did not stop working—even on the night before Eid. She would have normally done her sewing at the front of the shop, where the window was larger, the Firdaus Road lights bright till the early hours of the morning, but tonight it would be bustling with preparations for tomorrow’s celebration.

Hala didn’t feel like partaking, but someone was determined to pull her from her back corner.

When there was a light knock on the shop door, she ignored it. It grew more insistent. A rapping she knew well and could follow with its predictability.

Ta. Ta. Tumm. Tumm.

Ta tumm. Ta tumm.

‘Lady Aziza,’ came the voice. Even though she’d known it was coming, Hala’s stomach clenched to hear it. There was only one person who called her that, a feminization of her last name and a nod to her time in England.

Khalil.

‘My sister says it’s your nimble fingers we need to tie the packages if we’re to get any sleep tonight. Come, help us.’

Her best friend, Fatima, had invited her to a last-night-of-Ramadan iftar and then preparations for tomorrow’s street festival, where they’d be distributing treats to children who passed through. Hala might have agreed—she loved Fatima’s rooftop that overlooked the sea—but she would not be good company tonight. The lunar Islamic calendar was different than the solar Gregorian one and she doubted Iskander’s birth would ever coincide with Eid again as it did this year.

‘It’s Eid, Hala.’ Outside her shop door, Khalil’s words turned sterner. ‘It was your mother who started the Firdaus Road traditions, when the old owner had us by the necks. Things are better now. She would hate you working on this—’

‘Go away,’ Hala answered, then promptly pricked her finger. She pushed the gown away before any blood could stain the dress and make it less than perfect.

It was Khalil’s fault for invoking her mother. She used to insist Eid was a time for celebration no matter the circumstances. ‘They are days of eating and drinking. We must glorify the blessings of Allah in our lives, show them off with pride.’

Khalil repeated his distinctive knock two more times before Hala rose from her perch.

Her heart swelled for the man she’d known most of her life. Khalil was a good brother to Fatima and, as the only male between his widowed mother and hers, had been a good son to both of them until their deaths.

He had been there for her too, save for that one time when she’d needed him most.

Hala didn’t know how long Fatima’s task would take, but she knew Khalil would wait for her all night if he had to.

She changed into the kaftan she wore last Eid. Curious that a seamstress should not think to fashion something new for herself! She chose a rose hijab because it was her mother’s favourite colour. Hala was pleased when she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror used by her customers because she didn’t look as broken as she felt.

Khalil has a way of seeing your feelings even when you try to hide them.

Still, he would not know it was Iskander’s birthday.

Hala blew out her lamp with a heavy sigh and then opened the door, taking him by surprise.

Khalil had been leaning his forehead on the top ledge, and he had to take a step back to make room for her to pass. The top of his feathered hair followed seconds after him. When he needed a trim, Khalil could tuck it behind his ears, but when it was short, the silky black strands were constantly getting into his eyes.

His matching mustache lifted with a smile. ‘Finally, you had mercy on me.’

Khalil was much taller than she was, so Hala had to look up when she answered, ‘I didn’t want to embarrass you.’

She glanced up and down the bustling street, where their neighbours were busy hanging colourful rafters between balconies and attaching decorative fanous lanterns to anything with a hook.

He followed her eyes, his own grasping the light from the sliver of crescent moon. ‘They already call me “Majnun Layla.” But they would swallow their words if you are the beauty next to me.’

Khalil was referencing a poet of Arab lore, Qays, who, when he was prevented from marrying his beloved Layla, went mad and spent the rest of his life writing love poems. Khalil was saying Hala was his Layla.

The flirtatious ways of Egyptian men were commonplace, and Khalil had honed that particular trait. Hala might never have loved Charles, Iskander’s father, as a wife ought to a husband, but she’d appreciated his straightforward honesty and knew he would raise their son to be the same. The Earl of Warrington was a fair man who asked for what he wanted without need for false compliment.

Not that Khalil’s flirting with Hala had ever been false. He had intended for it to lead to their marriage, and she had—everyone had—believed it would. At least, before her mother died and their dreams had washed away, like a sandcastle built too close to the water.

The walk to Fatima’s home was a short one but Khalil led her the long way around, the one that would take them across the sea’s corniche. The landmark stretch of Alexandria. Hala loved the Mediterranean breeze blowing into her face, the salt of it vying with the tears constantly brimming in her eyes. Oftentimes, it would be enough to curb them. Be a kind of healing. Tonight, she wasn’t so sure, but there were enough people around to distract her.

The hantoor carriages were filled with them, their horses clopping alongside the others on foot. Everyone was either looking for last-minute supplies or enjoying each other’s company on the final night of Ramadan. Alexandria was a city which loved its nightlife, but this was especially true during Eid celebrations.

Khalil’s gait was normally quicker, but he slowed to keep pace with Hala until he spotted a boy selling jasmine flower necklaces and rushed forward. She watched him pull a coin from his galabeya pocket and buy one.

When she caught up, he held it out to her, the earnestness in Khalil’s expression shy, like he expected her to deny him. ‘I met him earlier and promised to buy on my return, if I could convince you to come. He prayed you would, but you don’t have to accept it.’

She pulled the necklace over her head and inhaled deeply. Jasmine flower was not a meek scent, but Hala hoped the perfume would make her less sad, infuse her with strength. When her eyes flew open, Khalil was staring at her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

She watched him intently as he cleared his throat and shook his head. He looked grateful when Fatima’s five-year-old daughter, Aisha, called from their building’s entryway.

Khalil waved, then swooped to life his niece over his head. He made sure she was comfortable on his shoulders. ‘You should be asleep. You need your rest before Eid and all its fun.’

Hala followed as they went up the stairwell.

‘Mama told us that Khaloo Khalil is going to play the oud,’ Aisha said.

‘Did she? Very well, then, let me play it!’ He reached one arm over to tickle her while using his other to hold her tight so she’d not fall.

‘I am no oud,’ the girl protested between giggles. He pretended not to know what the instrument was so he could continue to make her laugh.

Khalil would have been a wonderful father. Hala immediately reprimanded herself for the thought. It felt traitorous to have it at a time she should have been with her son.

The station Fatima had arranged on her rooftop was efficient. There was a bucket of halawet el-moulid, hard sesame candy sticks from the confectioner on Firdaus Road, then one of colourful spinning tops whittled by the cabinetry maker and his apprentices. The waiters who worked with Khalil at his family’s café, and would normally spend their free time playing backgammon, were there too, helping with the assembling of the bags.

Then there was also a large platter of ghorayebeh made by Fatima herself.

Seeing the cookies reminded Hala of when their mothers would start baking them days before Eid. They’d whip the yellow dough until it turned white, then shape it into uniform balls with expert precision. She and Fatima would have a contest as to who could insert the cloves fastest and straightest in the cookie centres. Once done, Khalil would hoist the trays to the baker and stay to count the minutes in the oven. Just a touch of the heat would be required; they should not change colour. All three of the children would hold their breaths as their mothers lifted the final product to judge if their collaboration had been a success. Then they’d each be allowed to sample the rewards of their labour.

Khalil set Aisha down and saw where Hala was looking. ‘Sweet clouds of cotton.’

It was the descriptor she’d come up with as a girl. ‘You didn’t forget.’

‘No.’ He smiled as she took one.

While Hala let the buttery sugar melt on her tongue, Fatima joined them. ‘Eid Sa’eed, habibti! Every year I say we should have things ready earlier, but the night-before panic has become part of the tradition.’

She locked one arm in Hala’s and led her to the end of the line, where a table and chair awaited her. The fabric she herself had contributed—scraps from her commissions were plenty—had been cut into squares and were loaded with the goodies, waiting to be tied with ribbons. Hala tsked at those already fastened and set to redo them before starting on the rest.

Fatima signaled to her husband and brother. ‘I will help Hala with these while you two go and make tea for our guests. Khalil, don’t forget the oud. Aisha’s been waiting.’

With her sleepy daughter settling in her lap, Fatima took the bags Hala tied and arranged them in the container from which they’d be distributed tomorrow. ‘I told Khalil you didn’t want to come but he said he could convince you.’

Hala heard the note in Fatima’s statement. Accusation? Frustration? They’d always been the closest of friends, but their relationship had been strained for a while now. The harmless gossip Fatima shared was less, and Hala found little to share in return.

Fatima continued, ‘Khalil hopes, waits patiently, for the joyous, proud Hala we once knew. She whose heart was bigger than her entire body. Hala who enjoyed spending time with people, who would sacrifice all she had for any who asked.’

Bitterness and loss fueled Hala’s response, ‘Would such a woman have left her son?’

‘That is exactly the kind of sacrifice she would make—Iskander’s happiness for her misery. Forgive yourself, find some joy in this life, Hala.’

‘Too much has changed.’

Fatima nodded. ‘My brother doesn’t understand that. He blames himself for not being there, thinks you’d not have left if he had. Yet, the shop owners of Firdaus Road owe our independence to Charles Malden, so Khalil can’t fault his entry into our lives either.’

Khalil was away at school in Cairo when Hala’s mother died and their landlord tried to take advantage. He was a devil of a man who’d come to collect the debt in any way his sick mind felt he deserved. If Charles hadn’t walked in when he did, and later used his Malden Trading Company connections and monies to cut the landlord’s hold on their livelihoods, Hala would have been violated.

Charles had saved her in a multitude of ways, but their marriage ended in her being disgraced anyway. She would never get over the guilt of leaving her son behind, even if she’d had no other choice.

‘You need to let Khalil go,’ Fatima said. ‘My uncle has found him a good girl.’

Hala fumbled the ribbon in hand, her fingers stiffening with an unfamiliar feeling. Jealousy? ‘I am not holding him. He’s free to marry whoever he likes.’

Before Fatima could answer, her husband returned carrying the oud while Khalil went round the volunteers, distributing the tea they’d made.

He dipped to offer her the last on his tray. ‘Made with fresh mint as you like it.’

‘What about you?’ Hala asked Khalil.

‘When you drink, it is as if I have.’

She sipped while avoiding the knowing, vindicated expression that was surely on Fatima’s face.

‘Please, khaloo, play for us now,’ his niece urged, stifling a yawn.

‘Aisha won’t sleep until you do,’ her mother added.

Khalil sat on the cushion at the farthest edge of the rooftop. He positioned the oud in his lap, and his fingers strummed the strings with skill. The song that emerged was a lullaby that clashed with the waves breaking on the rocks below.

It filled Hala’s soul with as much warmth as the tea, a salve keeping harmony with her ribbon-tying. Soon, a couple hundred of the treat bags were done, and Fatima, having returned from putting her daughter down, announced they were ready.

She bid the volunteers go home to rest for a couple of hours before the early morning Eid prayers and the festivities that would begin thereafter.

‘We would have been here all night if you hadn’t come.’ Fatima squeezed Hala’s shoulder. Whether it was an apology or encouragement to talk Khalil into proposing to another woman, she couldn’t tell.

‘I will see Hala back,’ Khalil assured his sister, but didn’t budge when they were alone on the rooftop. Next to him, the fire embers crackled in their metal cage, and his stare was intent.

‘Come,’ he invited, rising to look over the rooftop. She joined him, their elbows nearly touching, and looked out at the corniche, now all but empty of people and their lights. The night stars were on full display, diamond dust dappling the expansive sky.

Hala knew Fatima was right. She should encourage Khalil to get on with his life.

He spoke first. ‘I’ve been praying taraweeh all Ramadan at Abu al-Abbas Masjid. The shaykh’s Quranic recitation was glorious. You could get lost in it. Every time I did, I came back to here.’ Khalil pointed to the docks. ‘To watching you get off the ship from England. Remember?’

How could she forget? They’d all come to welcome her home, the shop owners of Firdaus Road, Fatima and Khalil leading the way. ‘Being back with my friends after the years of loneliness was a gift, a time to heal,’ she replied.

He picked at a chip in the cement. The sea’s humidity eroded buildings close to it so that they aged rapidly. ‘You said that then too, but till now you haven’t healed, Hala. In your heart, you’re still alone.’

Khalil was right. Fatima was right. Iskander was better off without her. He’d have a nice birthday, a wonderful life full of them.

‘You’re a lovesick fool.’ She was hurt, angry. Hala had been miserable in England, and now that she was back in Egypt, little had changed.

Khalil caught her wrist when she tried to leave. She stared at the crook in his pinkie finger, like she had that one night when they were barely adults finding themselves alone and too innocent to understand how big their feelings for one another had become. She was sixteen, he eighteen. It was the week before he left for Cairo and she was crying because she would miss him. He had vowed to come back, make her his wife one day.

‘Fatima says your uncle found you a woman. You should propose to her.’ As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back.

Khalil dropped her wrist. The line of his jaw rippled. ‘Maybe I should.’

‘Who is she?’

‘The daughter of one of his doctor friends. Rich. Pretty. She helps her father in his work, and most suitors don’t want a wife like that. Because I am educated, more understanding—’

‘You met her already?’

‘What if I did?’

‘You don’t get to ruin my Eid, Khalil. Not this one! Marry her, move to Cairo. Leave me.’

‘And you don’t get to be jealous, Hala.’ He’d never raised his voice in her presence, and that fact alone stunned her into silence, into truly listening to the speech that followed.

‘That day five years ago when I came to meet your boat, I foolishly thought you’d returned for me, that my place in your heart had prevented you from devoting it to another! But since that day you’ve ignored my devotion so that I barely believe you ever cared for me at all. I am a thirty-three-year-old man who has only ever loved one woman. Her friendly nods and small smiles are pittances I live off. If you can never heal, then how can I respect myself for waiting for you to? Would it be fair to propose to another woman in such a state? What sort of harami would I be?’

Relief and gratitude swept through Hala’s being. She caressed the necklace, the jasmine petals already wilting, unlike the love of the man who’d bought it for her. He’d kept his love for her alive in his heart. And no matter the guilt it caused her, the truth was that she’d kept her love for him alive in hers as well. ‘You’re no thief, Khalil ibn Lotfy. You’re the most faithful of men.’ Hala was tired of keeping in her burdens. She shared, ‘It’s Iskander’s birthday.’

He held her gaze. ‘I know what day it is.’

Of course, he does. She took a deep breath. ‘I will spend my life waiting for my son to return to me.’

‘I know that too. All I have ever wanted is for you to not have to wait alone.’

As Hala and Khalil walked back to her shop, the seamstress sensed that this year’s Eid would be their most special. ‘To be reunited, have another chance at a life together, Khalil? Indeed, Allah is the best of planners.’

On the horizon, the sun had begun its ascent. It was only a pale thread, but one full of promise.