The Sphinx is drowsy,
Her wings are furled:
Her ear is heavy,
She broods on the world.
Who’ll tell me my secret,
The ages have kept?
One morning, “dressed in our best”, we three, my mother, my cousin, and I, drove in Stone Pasha’s carriage behind those flying sais to Abdin Palace, where the General had arranged an audience with the three Princesses, the Khedive’s royal wives. Outside the entrance was a guard of black eunuchs, dreadful creatures with animal faces, dull-eyed, and gross. Inside, the lofty entrance hall was ablaze with color. We were welcomed by a group of rainbow-clad girls.
“Naharak said!” they exclaimed, “May thy day be happy!”
“Naharak leben!” we answered, “May thy day be as white as milk!”
“Accept whatever is offered; to refuse is an insult.” This had been Mahomet’s last advice, as he left us to fend for ourselves in the harem of the Khedive.
A slender brown girl with almond eyes and henna-tipped fingers handed me a jeweled cup.
“Taffadali,” she said, “I beg you to take.”
I tasted the delicious sherbet and was about to drain the cup when my odalisque hastily took it from me and handed it to my cousin; it was meant for all of us!
“May it agree with you!” said the girl, raising her hand to her head. Having forgotten the proper response, I answered at random with that useful word, “Bismillah.”
I was thankful for my few phrases of Arabic; they made the women laugh and set us all at ease!