A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  I retreated to a corner of the room, breathing hard, trying to regain my composure. I opened my tablet and began to sketch what I saw onto the paper. I tried to solve the riddle of the faint smiles and fixed stares. The heavy atmosphere of the hall began to constrict my breath and enter my bones, arousing in me awe and fear and pain. I kept sketching until the light faded and darkness descended.

  No one saw me pass through the corridor. My father was still seated before the unfinished painting of the monkey, banana peels strewn all around him. He looked at me, puzzled, and said, “Where did you run off to?”

  “I don’t like monkeys,” I said ambiguously.

  We went down the hill together, but found no wagon to take us to the house, so we walked a long way under squalls of fine drizzle. In the basement, after everyone had gone to sleep, I lit a small candle and turned over the pages I had filled with sketches. Where could these things have come from? And what did they stand for?

  The following day I was already waiting for my father before he awoke. I pilfered another of his tablets and stuffed more pencils into my pocket. I saw my aunt clutching her Gospel, but I hid behind my father. I rode the hay wagon with him.

  He sat before the monkey, trying to persuade it to hold still. I waited a little, until he was preoccupied, then crept off to the dim hall. I raised the blinds a bit, to admit more light, then began tremblingly to draw. I had acquainted myself somewhat with these strange forms, and I could tell that if I continued drawing like this the moment would come in which they would disclose all their secrets to me.

  Was it the largest statue talking to me? Had it been transformed into this enormous man blocking my light and wearing an impressive uniform and holding a pair of gloves in his hand, which he slapped impatiently against the other hand? Frightened, I got to my feet, the papers and pencils falling from my lap. I darted away in front of him, my feet scarcely touching the floor as I made for the door. I heard his voice behind me as he bellowed, “Wait, you little thief!”

  I ran into the butler as he passed through the corridor. My father was sitting, irritably eating a banana, while the monkey watched him in amazement. I was already sprinting over the lawn and heading down the hill as black clouds began to gather. I heard angry rumblings, but I didn’t know whether they came from the house or from the sky. I looked behind me, but saw no hunting dogs—maybe they couldn’t pursue me yet, or perhaps they were taking my father hostage in my stead.

  I didn’t go to the table to partake of our dinner of potatoes. I stayed by myself, quaking, down in the basement, listening to the sounds of their utensils clattering against the plates. I didn’t know whether my father had come home or not. Then I heard the sound of his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. I couldn’t lock the door from the inside. He was extraordinarily angry. I realized that he had lost his job at the manor, and perhaps he would not be able to get work at the nearby estates, either. Through clenched teeth he said. “I’d like to break your neck—but not tonight, because Lord Amherst wants to see you in the morning.”

  I didn’t sleep at all that night. I was sure he would drag me into the manor’s cellar and leave me to rot. But there was no escape—I had to go. The following day we climbed the hill, while I repeated the words of apology that my father dictated to me. I must confirm my guilt, then apologize fervently and sincerely, and then retreat, but without turning my back to anyone. But at the door the butler made a clear sign to my father, saying, “You wait outside.”

  I looked at him pleadingly, but my father hastily withdrew. The butler pushed me, and I went along in front of him. The corridor seemed silent, and gloomier than usual. I closed my eyes, but the scent of the old hall was slowly taking possession of me. The butler stopped and left me to go in by myself. It was crowded as ever with all its artifacts. My interrogators awaited me—they fell silent on seeing me. The lady turned a kind face to me. A tiny shaft of light fell upon her features, making them appear to radiate more good will than those of the others. Lord Amherst was sitting beside the black basalt statue. He wasn’t angry or agitated, the way he had appeared the day before. Beside the coffin embellished with paintings was a third person—a man, sitting stiffly upright, elegant, with sheets of paper spread out upon his knees. I could tell from the first, swift glance that they were the pages that bore my drawings. I continued to stand there in silence; I had forgotten all the words of apology. They kept staring at me in amazement—I didn’t know why.

  The lady said languidly, “Come forward, Howard. Let Sir Percy Newberry have a good look at you.”

  I took a small step forward, so that I was in the middle of a patch of light. I was uneasy. The man raised his head and studied me. He was slender, with piercing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thick moustache that covered his upper lip entirely. He drew a sharp breath and said, “Good Lord! He’s younger than I expected—skinnier and hungrier, too.”

  I didn’t know what game it was these gentlemen were playing. He raised the hand that held my drawing sheets, and peered at them once more. Then he stared at me superciliously, and said, “Are you sure you’re the one who made these drawings?”

  I couldn’t keep silent. “Indeed, sir,” I said.

  Sir Percy turned to address Lord Amherst, who had caught me yesterday. “My dear Amherst,” he said, “he doesn’t merely replicate all the details precisely, he invests them with new life. How did you manage to infuse life into these exanimate artifacts?”

  He directed the latter question to me, but I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what he meant, but he wasn’t waiting for an answer from me, either. He went back to examining the drawings. He spoke to me again. “Do you know where these things came from—the paintings and statues and sarcophagi and other relics that fill this hall?”

  My throat was dry. The situation was becoming increasingly awkward for me. I shook my head. Trying to take the measure of me, he asked, “And how far have you got with your instruction?”

  “Not far,” I said.

  Her Ladyship spoke again, as languidly as before. “The dear boy!” she said. “His talent’s inborn!”

  Newberry said, “They are from Egypt—it is a small piece of our vast empire, but it is packed with these objects.”

  I couldn’t keep still. I didn’t believe it possible that such objects as these could exist somewhere in profusion. I wanted to sit down, or lean against something. I said in astonishment, “Other things like these? I can’t imagine it!”

  “What may be found there surpasses anything you could imagine: dozens of temples, hundreds of statues and obelisks, the walls of the crypts decked out with paintings. Don’t bother to look around you—the things that are here are nothing by comparison with what is in Egypt. The astonishing thing is that the peasants who live amidst these splendid objects don’t know their worth.”

  At last Lord Amherst raised his voice in protest. “But, my dear Newberry, this collection was chosen with immense care.”

  I couldn’t understand what the discussion was about. I said breathlessly, “But if Egypt is a small part of our empire, why do we leave all these beautiful things to them? Why don’t we bring them all here?”

  All three of them glanced at one another and then burst out laughing. Even the scowling Lord Amherst joined in the hilarity. I looked on in confusion. I was certain of only one thing: that I was not going to be punished, and there was no need for me to recite those apologies.

  “It’s a fine idea, really,” said Lord Newberry. “But it’s impossible to carry out. Those people didn’t grasp the value of what they had—it was we who informed them of it—and now it has become difficult to appropriate the objects from them. This is in addition to there being a number of things it would be impossible to transport.”

  In an attempt to be more serious than the others, her Ladyship fixed her gaze upon me, making me aware of her radiant beauty. She said, “Would you like to go to Egypt, my dear Howard?”

  “Would my father go with me?” I
said foolishly.

  Lord Newberry turned himself altogether toward me. He made no reference to my stupidity, but spoke seriously. “No,” he said, “of course not. Your father can’t go with you everywhere. This is employment—a job—at which you will earn money, while at the same time drawing the objects you love. There is funding from the British Society for the Preservation of Egyptian Antiquities. You will go to the important sites and record all that you see. Then, even if some disaster should occur, natural or unnatural—an earthquake, flooding, a fire—and all these things should be lost, your pictures will remain; you will be the eyewitness who surveyed and saw and recorded them.”

  I didn’t understand a word of what was being said. I didn’t know why they were trying to send me to this distant land, instead of locking me up in the cellar. To rescue me from my confusion, her Ladyship said, “There is no need to answer right away, Howard. Go and talk it over with your father. Take your time.”

  How distant this moment seems, as if it belonged to some other realm. And how strange my father’s face seems, like the face of a relief carved in the wall—stiff and sad, yet unable to refuse an offer that would relieve him of one of those hungry mouths.

  At noon, I felt a man’s shadow fall on me as I was absorbed in my drawing. I thought it was Idris, bringing the day’s provisions, but it was Newberry himself, dressed in khaki. He wore short pants and on his head was an enormous hat. He was staring red-faced at my work.

  “For Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Before I could utter a syllable, he had snatched the drawing I had before me and held it up to examine it more closely. He looked at the wall to see how well my handiwork conformed to the original. Then he stared at me in consternation and said angrily, “This is certainly not what you came here for. I thought Fraser and Blackden had explained to you the procedure you are to follow for this job!”

  I had not yet met those two men, nor had it felt to me, during the preceding days, as though there was anyone but me in these tombs. But he went to a corner, picked up the roll of tracing paper and a bundle of black pencils he found there, and held them up. “What do you suppose these are for?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “The point is that you can see through them to the painting on the wall, so as to trace it exactly, retaining the same proportions and all the details. You must place the tracing paper over it and trace it directly. This is what we do with all the artwork, whatever the surface—whether concave or convex, smooth or grainy, colored or not. The important thing is to replicate them just as they are.”

  What he wanted was entirely different from what I had thought. Rapidly folding up a sheet of tracing paper, he continued, “Then we fold the paper like this before sending it to London. There they will undertake to sketch the paintings in ink and prepare them for printing. What is crucial is that your tracings be exact.”

  Listening to him, I was astounded. I had not imagined that these paintings would be handled in such a primitive fashion, or that someone I’d never seen would be inking them in—someone who hadn’t touched their soul. Why had they brought me here, then? This work didn’t require talent or passion.

  Newberry must have noted the look of despair on my face. “No need to feel disappointed,” he said. “We have before us a tremendous labor. This tomb is one of dozens that have been discovered and are yet to be discovered. We must complete them all, and if one of us were to sit here all day drawing a single bird, we’d need more than a century to finish the job.”

  Knowing discussion was futile, I said, “But at least we’d attain something of the beauty found on these walls.”

  “You’re still young and inexperienced. It is financial considerations that constrain our activities. We must complete this task before the grant money runs out. Those funds were specially earmarked for us to gather all these paintings into special volumes and preserve them within the Egypt Exploration Society. We are in a race against time, my boy.”

  I didn’t know at the time that he was a man of antiquated ideas, or that it was he who had devised this method, managed to persuade the London office, and on this basis selected all those who would work with him. He wasn’t about to let an upstart like me overturn all his convictions. He wanted to finish, in only five years, the recording of all the paintings to be found far and wide throughout Egypt, and to impress this scheme of his upon everyone with the utmost rigor.

  He left me and went to check on the other tombs, but I was hamstrung. My colored bird lay where it had been tossed upon the floor, and I felt it was worthless. I took some sheets of tracing paper, affixed them to the wall, and began outlining the paintings strictly, stripping them of life. And the dream I had cherished and for whose sake I had come to this desolate place became a nightmare.

  Working away bitterly, I was unaware of time passing. Whenever I finished with one of the tracing sheets I hung another in its place. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, so that I might have time left over to do what I loved. I stopped only when I heard the sound of raucous laughter coming from the entrance to the tomb. Two men were standing there, smoking and gesticulating in my direction. I knew them at once: George Willoughby Fraser and Marcus Blackden, my two colleagues, whose acquaintance I was late in making. I stood up from my work. They tossed their cigarettes outside the tomb, laughing. They were rather large men. The sun had burned their faces and lent them a reddish tan. They offered their rough hands for a handshake.

  Fraser, the taller and bulkier of the two, pointed to the tracing paper sheets full of sketches and said, “Evidently Newberry’s lecture made a great impression on you—you keep working even after the light fades. Do you want to lose your eyesight just to satisfy him?”

  Blackden put his hand on my shoulder and drew me outside the tomb. I must have looked like a hollow reed under his arm. The two of them sat me down between them on the riverbank amid the wild esparto plants. Blackden said, “You mustn’t waste this enchanted moment when the colors of the river change with the sunset—a thing of life and beauty in this dead place. Come, let’s enjoy it together, before the dreary darkness descends upon the land.”

  From his pocket he extracted a metal box full of tobacco and began rolling some into slender cigarettes. He did this quickly and adroitly, then offered one to me, but I politely shook my head. The sun began to sink behind the mountain upon whose flank we were sitting, and the water changed color, taking on a faint yellow tint, then the reddish purple of the cherries in Swaffham Wood, and finally a grayish hue crept in upon it. The birds, ever present above the river, soared in arrowhead formation, and on the other bank clouds of fine mist rose up among the crowns of the palm trees. I was enraptured by the sight, but I heard Fraser mutter as he puffed on his hand-rolled cigarette, “We deserve a better fate than this. We all came here to escape personal misfortunes we couldn’t endure. Each of us was dreaming of great discoveries—and look where we’ve fetched up.”

  I didn’t know how to reply. It had been a crushing day, and these words added to my despondency. The sun set quickly among the rocks, and the river lost its splendid colors.

  “Enough of this self-pity,” Blackden cried. “We’ll take the young man with us and go spend the evening on the other side of the river. We’ll go to Saft al-Khamar.”

  I said in a subdued voice, “I’m accustomed to spending the night in this place.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll end up being eaten by wolves, or losing your mind. These walls aren’t going anywhere—they’ve been here for thousands of years, and they’re staying put.”

  It was no use putting up resistance. They were overpowering, seething with boredom. I felt, too, that a part of my spirit had been torn away. They brought me down to where Idris sat waiting for them. He calmly guided the boat over the dark ripples as the wind grew cooler. The night was less oppressive on the other shore, the mud-brick houses and the little shops illuminated by torches and
lamps, and the farmers returning from the fields with their beasts in tow, weariness in their faces and their feet conspicuously bare. They stared at us without resentment, but they took care at all times to keep well out of our way. The darkness of the place was alleviated by a bonfire from which emanated the smell of manure. Children circled the fire, shouting, and women concealed their faces behind veils or velvety shawls. My companions knew their way; they must have traversed it every night.

  We proceeded to a square filled with sugarcane merchants. A row of donkeys were eating the coarse leaves. The two wandered for a long time among the unassuming creatures, until they came across three strong ones. I despaired as a young muleteer helped me climb onto the donkey he had selected for me.

  We followed Fraser’s lead as he hurried along in front. The muleteer panted with the effort to keep up with him. We set ourselves upon a route that wound through damp fields, from which rose the croaking of frogs mixed with the noise of dogs. The sky receded a little, but still teemed with stars. I was breathing hard, as if heading out on a journey with no return. All at once Blackden began to sing, an Egyptian song, surely, for its words had no meaning and its rhythm was strange. We crossed a worn wooden bridge over one of the canals, and entered fields full of cornstalks, the rustle of whose leaves sounded like hoarse muttering. I had given up, having lost my confidence since leaving the tomb. It was strange that it was the tomb I longed for, not my home so far away.

  A stand of palm trees came once more into view, from which we could deduce that a town or village must lie beneath them. “At last,” Blackden exclaimed joyfully, “Saft al-Khamar!” He was pleased, giddy as if all his happy memories reposed in this shadowy place. We didn’t enter the village streets; we steered the donkeys around them via a network of canals and ditches that surrounded them. The village didn’t detect our presence—even its dogs stayed quiet. Then, gradually, noise could be heard, increasing in volume. A stone structure appeared, light emanating from its wooden shutters. The voices kept getting louder as we got down off our donkeys. The muleteer made haste to tie them to a stake and sit down beside them.