She was barely inside before a white-haired man gave her a boisterous welcome. Uncle Tawfik, the owner’s son. He peppered her with questions. Why hadn’t he seen her in so long? How was her family? Didn’t she want to see his mother? She was herded to the kitchens—where scents of cumin and garlic wafted through the air. Tawfik’s sisters were no less effusive and querying. She endured them, until she was placed before the proprietor of Makka, Madame Aziza—a sibling of Siti’s grandmother. The stately matron sat in a chair like some Meroitic queen surveying her realm. She returned Fatma’s greetings and looked out from beneath a more traditional black hijab.
“A nice cane,” she rasped, tapping the floor with a wooden staff. “But I like mine better. Come to see my niece?”
“Siti—I mean Abla—asked me to meet her here.” Fatma was so accustomed to the nickname, she sometimes forgot to use Siti’s given name.
“Abla. That one can’t stay in one place. Like a wind blowing this way and that. Too much of her father in her.”
Fatma didn’t reply. Siti rarely spoke of her father—whom she hadn’t known. It had been some kind of scandal, from what little Fatma understood.
“There was a story in my village,” Madame Aziza went on, “of a woman who was as light as a feather. She was like that wind—and her husband couldn’t keep her in one place. So he recited poetry, and she would settle down long enough to listen. Can you recite poetry?”
Fatma opened her mouth, trying to think of an answer—and was rescued by Siti’s arrival down a set of steps. She’d exchanged the outfit of her nighttime jaunts to something more her usual style—a Nubian dress of gold and green prints tied up near her knees, over a pair of snug white breeches tucked into tall brown boots. She started up a whirlwind of chatter while tying on a red hijab, before taking Fatma’s arm.
“Yalla! If we don’t get out now, they’ll have me waiting tables all morning!”
Fatma managed some farewells as she was all but pulled from the kitchen. “Your aunt, what does she know … about us, I mean?”
“Auntie Aziza? She’s ninety. I doubt her senses are all there.”
Fatma peeked back over her shoulder, meeting that watchful gaze. They weren’t giving the old woman enough credit.
“I thought we were having breakfast?”
Siti shook her head. “No time. Merira wants to meet now.”
Now? Fatma had hoped to sit and talk. Eyeing a bowl of ful reminded her she was also hungry. “I need to eat something.”
Siti answered by taking two bundles from Uncle Tawfik, handing one to Fatma. Fresh-baked kabed, stuffed with what looked like mish. Siti was already biting into the bread and cheese, eating heartily. Fatma grumbled slightly; she would have preferred the bean stew. They walked to the main road where the accident was clearing up, and Siti waved down a wheeled carriage. Fatma fell into a cushioned seat just as they lurched off.
“I already signed up for the late day shift,” Siti complained. She usually stayed at her aunt’s restaurant when in Cairo, working tables. “My lazy cousin thinks I will take her shift too?” She sighed, then looked apologetic. “Malesh. I haven’t even told you good morning properly.” Her fingers ran down Fatma’s tie. “Or complimented this gorgeous suit!”
“It’s fine,” Fatma answered, finishing her meal. “Whenever I go home my aunts put me straight to work. Last time, I was swept into my cousin’s wedding.”
Siti made a face. “Try a Nubian wedding. They can last about a week. And the henna…”
“Not too much different. I have an aunt who does all the henna. But I’ve been her helper for as long as I can remember. Think she always thought I’d been an apprentice. Anyway, we spent half a night working on the bride.”
Siti reached to wipe a bit of mish from Fatma’s lips. “You’ll have to practice on me.” She winked, turning to look out the carriage. “Has this city grown since I was gone?”
Fatma followed her gaze to where the morning sun beat down on Cairo—a mix of towering modern buildings and factories. Newer ones went up by the day, their steel girders like bones awaiting skin, amid streets crammed with carriages, trolleys, steam cars, and more. The skyline was no less busy, traveled by speeding tram cars that left crackling electric bolts in their wake. Even higher, a blue airship hovered like a skyborne whale—six propellers pushing it toward the horizon.
“Thanks ya Jahiz,” they both said on cue. And meant it.
The carriage made its way into Old Cairo. Here, the roads were narrower and covered in paving stones. On either side loomed masjid and architecture spanning Cairo’s ages—from the Fatimids to the Ottomans.
Siti signaled for the carriage to stop, insisting on paying the fare. They stepped out along a busy thoroughfare at Al-Hussein square and followed the crowds toward a stone gate showing spandrels adorned with geometric designs. On the other side was the market of Khan-el-Khalili.
The open-air souk had been built over the centuries with no rhyme or reason to its layout. Storefronts with colorful doors lined narrow streets, outnumbered only by stalls that took up every space: coffeehouses and machinist kiosks, bookshops and alchemical fragrance peddlers, boutiques of silk and shelves stacked with boilerplate parts. Vendors shouted into the morning, while others enticed passersby with whispered promises. Amid the haggling, a hundred scents—perfumes, spices, and sizzling meats—dizzied the senses.
“Now this I missed,” Siti said, strutting the souk with confidence. She led Fatma around giant cylinders for aeronautic motors and past young men shouldering high-pressure steam urns who poured tea into fine porcelain cups. “You can get just about anything in this place. Do you know, there’s supposedly an angel somewhere down here? They say she grants miracles.”
Fatma ducked under hanging
